Thursdays With Uncle Boom #55

I teased open my tobacco pouch and examined within as if I were peering into the brackish depths of a lady's fundament.

What in the dowdiest of fucks? I was almost out of baccy. I looked around my office suspiciously but there didn't seem to be a peon in the vicinity that needed caning for thievery.

Oh well. I suppose I should visit the local Gentleman's Tobacconist, Ashers and stock up. It was an exclusive little place and one I was rather fond of. It was there that I first sampled such delights as Harry's Fanny and the markedly pungent but joyous Sapphic Surstrom.

I shouted at my man-thing assistant Stibble and told him to hold my calls for the rest of the day and set off.

It would have been rude of course, to not stop in at the club for some Whisky. Whilst there I bumped into an old trader friend, Artur Willoughby. A doughty old dog and a good friend despite having a face like shat-out cabbage.

He was drinking a splendid 30-year-old Balvenie and after a couple of bottles I couldn't help but join him in a rousing sea shanty, Moira's Rift.

... And she thanked the Afanc by giving it a wank!
Oh... She thanked the Afanc with gleeeeeeee!!

The few Gentlemen not singing with us clapped loudly, one of them shouting for A Hoarse to ride.

So Artur, I am heading to the tobacconist, would you care to join me? They have varieties that would make a man seep at the old Jenny.

Tobacconist!! Damn it. Be plain man, do you mean stroke the cat's ear of a lady or two?

I gave him an affectionate punch in the arm.

It's not all about prostitutes old fellow! I mean proper tobacco, from a splendid little place I know called Ashers!

His face broke out in a grin.

Ah, proper tobacco! Well, it's the next best thing. Lead on, Boomy!

I stared at the exterior of what was Ashers with outright hostility. Something appeared to have happened to it. Gone was the dark mahogany exterior with the small window displaying exotic smokable wares and handcrafted pipes.

Gone was the exquisitely wrought oak and iron door.

Gone was the amusing hand-painted sign, Uninvited peons will be taken out back and set on fire.

Instead, the entire front was floor to ceiling glass. Behind it, cheap white plastic displays peddled strange metal devices and glass phials of liquid.

A large pinkish-purple neon sign hung in the window.

I looked at Artur, he looked as thunderstruck as I.

This is Ashers, old chap?

He said dubiously.

I took a very deep breath.

No. It. Is. Not.

I seethed.

Something in me was spitting and hissing like a cat in a hot oven. I marched into the shop.

There were a few miscreants browsing the gaudy shelves and a couple of members of staff wearing t-shirts behind a counter at the back wall.

WHO THE BLOODY HELL IS IN CHARGE OF THIS FARCE?

I bellowed, swishing my cane above my head.

Oi Gerry, look at the state of this cunt. He on something?

Said the firstT-Shirt to the other who must have been Gerry.

For a moment I feared my eyes had popped clean out of my skull such was the blackness that descended on my vision.

I heard Artur chortle.

Oops lads, you might have made a booboo there!

He called to the T-Shirted peons.

I snorted and lowered my head like a Rhino caught stealing from its mother's purse. My bulging eyes caught sight of a roped-off display to my left. I thrust my cane at Artur and tugged the rope free. It was thick and red with a fine knot at the end of its two-foot length.

I whipped it back and forth.

Oh yes, you will do just fine.

I whispered.

The first peon shopper squealed in terror as the rope slashed through the air and caught him on the side of the head.

Get out! Get out!!

I screamed in a righteous rage, laying about me with the rope. The shoppers screamed, running for the door and I whipped at them as they ran past.

The T-Shirted peons at the back quailed behind the counter. I grabbed it in a fury and overturned it, the till spewing coins as it crashed upon the floor.

The T-Shirts cringed on the floor before me.

Please, please, take the money, take anything. Just please, don't kill us!

Shouted the Gerry one staring at the wicked little knife that had materialised in my free hand.

Kill you? Whatever gives you that idea? Could it be Mathilda?

I waggled the wicked little knife, Mathilda back and forth.

Eh, Artur, what do you think gives them that idea?

Artur guffawed and locked the door of the shop.

I have no idea Boomy and if I did... Well...