Thursdays With Uncle Boom #60

I was having an early breakfast with my good friend Rory Spufnal a delightful fellow despite having a face like a Himalayan vagina cake. He was telling me about a dinner he had attended with the MP for Rotherham. Apparently, he had put on quite a spread.

Rory was in the midst of regaling me with the tales of excess and rambunctiousness from the night when he mentioned something that made my ears twitch like a Budgerigar's penis smelling a whelk.

And above the table hung the most extraordinary portrait, old chap, Most extraordinary!

I slopped some more rum in our glasses.

Extraordinary you say, how so?

Well, you know that painting of Wellington at Waterloo, smiting the peons around him with his sword?

I nodded whilst lighting my pipe.

He had gone and gotten some artist chap to recreate the scene only with himself in the saddle cutting the peons down like chaff. It's quite bloody marvellous if I do say so myself.

I leaned back in my chair and took a great big draw of my pipe as if I were a peasant being given free air.

Hmm, that does indeed sound quite the thing. I don't suppose you would happen to know the name of this 'Artist?'

I strode into the Artist's parlour swishing my cane back and forth like a wet pair of trousers. Behind me trailed a grubby vagabond I had lured in from the street with the promise of free pies. He stood nervously behind me wringing his cloth cap.

The Artist was standing at a canvas, holding his brush up to the light and peering at it closely.

You, Soapy-Tit-Wank. Are you the Artist that knocked up the portrait of the MP for Rotherham?

The young gib lowered his brush, looking at me incredulously as if I were an empty toilet roll holder.

The right honourable gentleman did commission me to do a piece, yes. May I ask, are you seeking to commision something similar?

I made a snumphing sound.

Yes, yes I am. I need something for my office. Something grand. How long does it take?

The Artist sniffed disdainfully.

One cannot hurry art milord. That particular piece you refer to took several weeks.

Pishflaps. I will give you three hours.

The Artist gasped as if his goose was being gandered.

Milord, that is just not possible. Why at the very minimum I would require several sessions of two to three hours over a number of days. What you ask, I simply cannot give!

The grubby vagabond behind me cleared his throat.

Milord, you did say there would be free pies?

Oh for fuck sake. You...

I stabbed a finger out at the Artist.

Find this beggar a fucking pie would you? And hurry back, you have a painting to be getting on with.

I... I don't have pies?

I took a step toward the Artist, my cane lowered menacingly at him.

You don't have any pies? What kind of Artist are you?

The Artist puffed up his chest in indignation like a Guinea pig denied lettuce.

I sir, am an Artist. I am not a purveyor of pies!

But milord, you said he 'ad pies.

Whined the grubby vagabond.

Oh for fuck sake.

I sighed.

I turned on the vagabond and proceeded to give him a sound thrashing with my cane till he slumped into a defensive, quivering heap on the floor. I kneeled down over him and sent him shuffling off to his maker with a quick stab of my little knife Mathilda to his neck.

I gave a self-satisfied chuckle as the blood pooled out around his head into quite the artful puddle.

I whipped around and pointed Mathilda at the Artist whose hands were clasped over his open mouth which was issuing odd squeaking noises.

Right, are you ready?

He gulped and nodded quickly.

Hang on then. I have a certain something in mind.

I pulled my pipe out. I had a new baccy I was keen to try, Springheeled Black. It was very dark and pungent. I loaded my pipe, lit it and took a puff.

Ah, perfect. Now, how about this?

I placed a foot on the chest of the vagabond, blood still burbling merrily from his neck. I leaned on my cane with one hand. The other holding my pipe imperiously before me.

The Artist shook violently, his eyes glued to the ever-spreading puddle of blood around me. Then as he raised his head to catch my eye, he flinched and started scratching at the canvas before him with his brush.

Some hours later he put his brush down.

It is finished, milord... I hope you... like it?

I stepped off the dead wretch on the floor and approached the Artist. My little knife Mathilda gleamed in my hand.

I hope for your sake that I do young pompatom. If I don't you might find yourself joining your pie-munching friend on the floor.

What little colour in the Artist's face drained away and he swayed like a baby goat in a storm.

I approached the canvas. It was a rough work to be sure but I was pleased, it was very... red. I raised Mathilda up and gently scraped her down my own cheek.

Hmm...

I uttered softly.

You like it, Milord?

The Artist's voice was a hoarse pleading whisper.

I smiled wide and took a step closer to him.

Like it? Why, I couldn't possibly say...

I placed my free hand on his shoulder and pulled him in against me. He made a muffled mmmf noise.

After all...