It is 1533, a more civil era successive to an eponymous War of the Roses; soon after a time when provincial England set out to relentlessly usurp unwanted thrones, ravage scurvy harlots and partake in sexually repulsive behaviour which by tradition was assumed to be the birthright of English aristocracy (as is evident through numerous historical references). Queen Elizabeth I has just been injunctioned to the throne The venue is set in a deceptive and vile Elizabethan colony of putrefaction in West England; and the stage is set for an intense throttle of bloodbath and gore.
The townspeople have gathered around to witness one of the greatest executions in English history. Five counts - stand aligned, one next to the other, waiting for their heads to be severed by order of the Queen of England. The checklist for the evening contain the following names of nobility soon to die by decapitation -
Count Fenny of Pembrokshire
Count Nathaniel of Appleby
Count Ponsenby of Spinstershire
Count Cuthbert of Stokeshire
Count Farrow of Trannyside
The reason for the passing of such a capital judgement is best known to a select few of the royal house, including courtiers, senior members of the clergy and worthless nobility. Word has it that the accused were amassing unusually large sums of gold and other forms of wealth through clandestine bargains with the French - lascivious corsets and young Parisian eunuchs in exchange for English camomile.
The Queen's carriage draws in ostensibly, just in time in front of the crowd that has now come to assemble itself around the executioner's podium to view the bloody spectacle. The hooded, dark cloaked slaughterer is whetting his blade as the Queen and her royal entourage make their way to the Sovereign Seat. Once they reach, the Queen hastily sits down without waiting to address the crowd as is usually customary of her at such riveting proceedings . Apparently she's been having her own share of bloody cramps for the past three days.
"Tell me again, Henry, but why are the counts getting executed? Isn't it normal to make unaccounted for earnings when you're part of nobility?" enquired Lord Lindbergh, Duke of Essex as he addressed his man Friday.
"Yes, m'Lord so it has been till now. As of the recent edict by Her Majesty, everyone, rich or poor must surrender a sixth of all their earnings in gold or kind to the treasury to acknowledge that England will prevail on no outside elements for aid or assistance in times of unforeseen ill-happenings."
"And our counts here failed to pay up?"
"Its a little more intense than that m'Lord. They have even failed to disclose the whereabouts of their treasure troves. None have come forward to speak up and confess to the location. It is rumored that they are all part of some evil society set upon supreme world domination and have positioned themselves amongst us to infect our minds with vile thoughts. They have been acclaimed to converse with witches and are said to be disciples of Beelzebub himself. "
"Yes...well no chance for a raise in pay wages this year too, I suppose."
"No m'Lord!"
"Hmmm...so who's the executioner?"
"Your man-servant m'Lord, Baldrick."
"What? Are you out of your mind Henry? Baldrick; that smelly, worthless cretin? That little dung whalloper with a putrid sense of cooking which amounts to a fraction better than arsenic mixed with cowpat from the devil's own satanic herd of cattle?
"Yes, m'Lord."
"So what's the plan? How does he propose to kill them? Make them smell his pants?"
"Well, he claims to have a long lineage of executioners including his father - Sodoff Balders."
"Henry, the only pride Balders can place in his ancestral line would be for the shamefully tiny fortune they made out of selling sodding fertiliser to near Europeans on the claim of French face extract."
The crowd suddenly goes silent...dead silent. The executioner approaches the first victim, Count Fenny. As he raises his axe, the gleam of the blade swims over the sea of onlookers before it deals a massive blow to the back of the neck.
THUD!!!
The audience bob back from the fatality of the scene as the executioner gets ready to approach his next victim. Baldrick begins to grin as he takes notice of the yellow puddle forming near the count's feet.
"Just a couple of moments for a prayer and maybe a song to take your mind of things," jokes Balders as he raises the axe once again. This time the head rolls off the podium onto the floor below. The body twitches for a few seconds before it finally gives in and meets its maker.
Count Ponsenby begins wailing on about something he has forgotten to tell the officials about. The clicks of his chains chatter away as his feet tremble violently. Aclicketyclacketychimpanzee...!
Soon, Baldrick makes sure the clicking stops. And once again, the crowd goes silent after brief shrieks and screams, just to gather themselves.
Cuthbert stands tall and faces the audience with a renewed violence in his eyes. He was always one to denounce any knowledge of anything, once captured. Although such confidence is purely a waste at such a critical juncture. Once more, the head rolls out but not before a throat vein gets severed and squirts blood.
Lindbergh stares on silently as the crowd looks on in raw amazement at the sight of the last peron to lose head. But something is unusual this time round.
"Is something wrong, Lord?" enquires Henry, sensing the concern.
"Something is always wrong, Henry. The fact that I am not a millionaire aristocrat with the sexual capacity of a rutting rhino is a constant niggle....but right now that isn't what bothers me."
As Balders lifts his blade to complete his final errand for the day, he notices how Farrow is almost shivering from the view in front of them. The already decapitated heads lying before him has already twisted stomachs and people around have come to terms within a brief moment of vomit.
Suddenly, a cry out from the podium trails out all across the square. Farrow yields to pressure.
"Wait!!! I know where the gold is hidden. I'll talk! Please spare me..."
Lindbergh knows Balders. The man would wrestle his own mother for an hour extra in bed, and certainly wouldn't halt an execution of his own accord if he could save his siesta schedules, even though it meant imminent fortune; unless it were not a direct order from Her Majesty. The order arrives, but only a second too late. As the messenger yells out, "Hold the axe!" The executioner has already crossed the point of no return, completing his final task.
The crowd including the queen gasps as the head rolls slowly across the planks of wood.
"Hahahaha..." laughs Lindbergh as the show is now finally over and people are now preparing to disperse.
"Why do you laugh m'Lord?" Henry asks, perlexed.
"Hahaha...Henry...the Queen should begin to learn from the Greeks," sniggers the nobleman.
"What is that m'Lord?"
"Don't hatchet your counts before they chicken."
The townspeople have gathered around to witness one of the greatest executions in English history. Five counts - stand aligned, one next to the other, waiting for their heads to be severed by order of the Queen of England. The checklist for the evening contain the following names of nobility soon to die by decapitation -
Count Fenny of Pembrokshire
Count Nathaniel of Appleby
Count Ponsenby of Spinstershire
Count Cuthbert of Stokeshire
Count Farrow of Trannyside
The reason for the passing of such a capital judgement is best known to a select few of the royal house, including courtiers, senior members of the clergy and worthless nobility. Word has it that the accused were amassing unusually large sums of gold and other forms of wealth through clandestine bargains with the French - lascivious corsets and young Parisian eunuchs in exchange for English camomile.
The Queen's carriage draws in ostensibly, just in time in front of the crowd that has now come to assemble itself around the executioner's podium to view the bloody spectacle. The hooded, dark cloaked slaughterer is whetting his blade as the Queen and her royal entourage make their way to the Sovereign Seat. Once they reach, the Queen hastily sits down without waiting to address the crowd as is usually customary of her at such riveting proceedings . Apparently she's been having her own share of bloody cramps for the past three days.
"Tell me again, Henry, but why are the counts getting executed? Isn't it normal to make unaccounted for earnings when you're part of nobility?" enquired Lord Lindbergh, Duke of Essex as he addressed his man Friday.
"Yes, m'Lord so it has been till now. As of the recent edict by Her Majesty, everyone, rich or poor must surrender a sixth of all their earnings in gold or kind to the treasury to acknowledge that England will prevail on no outside elements for aid or assistance in times of unforeseen ill-happenings."
"And our counts here failed to pay up?"
"Its a little more intense than that m'Lord. They have even failed to disclose the whereabouts of their treasure troves. None have come forward to speak up and confess to the location. It is rumored that they are all part of some evil society set upon supreme world domination and have positioned themselves amongst us to infect our minds with vile thoughts. They have been acclaimed to converse with witches and are said to be disciples of Beelzebub himself. "
"Yes...well no chance for a raise in pay wages this year too, I suppose."
"No m'Lord!"
"Hmmm...so who's the executioner?"
"Your man-servant m'Lord, Baldrick."
"What? Are you out of your mind Henry? Baldrick; that smelly, worthless cretin? That little dung whalloper with a putrid sense of cooking which amounts to a fraction better than arsenic mixed with cowpat from the devil's own satanic herd of cattle?
"Yes, m'Lord."
"So what's the plan? How does he propose to kill them? Make them smell his pants?"
"Well, he claims to have a long lineage of executioners including his father - Sodoff Balders."
"Henry, the only pride Balders can place in his ancestral line would be for the shamefully tiny fortune they made out of selling sodding fertiliser to near Europeans on the claim of French face extract."
The crowd suddenly goes silent...dead silent. The executioner approaches the first victim, Count Fenny. As he raises his axe, the gleam of the blade swims over the sea of onlookers before it deals a massive blow to the back of the neck.
THUD!!!
The audience bob back from the fatality of the scene as the executioner gets ready to approach his next victim. Baldrick begins to grin as he takes notice of the yellow puddle forming near the count's feet.
"Just a couple of moments for a prayer and maybe a song to take your mind of things," jokes Balders as he raises the axe once again. This time the head rolls off the podium onto the floor below. The body twitches for a few seconds before it finally gives in and meets its maker.
Count Ponsenby begins wailing on about something he has forgotten to tell the officials about. The clicks of his chains chatter away as his feet tremble violently. Aclicketyclacketychimpanzee...!
Soon, Baldrick makes sure the clicking stops. And once again, the crowd goes silent after brief shrieks and screams, just to gather themselves.
Cuthbert stands tall and faces the audience with a renewed violence in his eyes. He was always one to denounce any knowledge of anything, once captured. Although such confidence is purely a waste at such a critical juncture. Once more, the head rolls out but not before a throat vein gets severed and squirts blood.
Lindbergh stares on silently as the crowd looks on in raw amazement at the sight of the last peron to lose head. But something is unusual this time round.
"Is something wrong, Lord?" enquires Henry, sensing the concern.
"Something is always wrong, Henry. The fact that I am not a millionaire aristocrat with the sexual capacity of a rutting rhino is a constant niggle....but right now that isn't what bothers me."
As Balders lifts his blade to complete his final errand for the day, he notices how Farrow is almost shivering from the view in front of them. The already decapitated heads lying before him has already twisted stomachs and people around have come to terms within a brief moment of vomit.
Suddenly, a cry out from the podium trails out all across the square. Farrow yields to pressure.
"Wait!!! I know where the gold is hidden. I'll talk! Please spare me..."
Lindbergh knows Balders. The man would wrestle his own mother for an hour extra in bed, and certainly wouldn't halt an execution of his own accord if he could save his siesta schedules, even though it meant imminent fortune; unless it were not a direct order from Her Majesty. The order arrives, but only a second too late. As the messenger yells out, "Hold the axe!" The executioner has already crossed the point of no return, completing his final task.
The crowd including the queen gasps as the head rolls slowly across the planks of wood.
"Hahahaha..." laughs Lindbergh as the show is now finally over and people are now preparing to disperse.
"Why do you laugh m'Lord?" Henry asks, perlexed.
"Hahaha...Henry...the Queen should begin to learn from the Greeks," sniggers the nobleman.
"What is that m'Lord?"
"Don't hatchet your counts before they chicken."
