All Hail Hunchmausen!

The Tipsy Kitten is a small inn in Gelderland, standing upon the road to Fenwick. It is an unremarkable place: even the kitten in question isn't actually an alchoholic, but is instead just a bad-tempered feline with a thing against balls of wool. In a corner by the window, three strangers sit deep in conversation. Moving closer, we can see that the three consist of Graf Petr Peiper-Pickderpeck, Lord of Pickelpeipers, the Gelderland Royal Chamberlain; Count Matthias von Sachsenblaus: Gelderland's Minister for War and Strudels; and Graf Wernar von Wormer. The last of these was once the Gelderland royal treasurer under King Wilhelm's predecessor, Vlad. He has now been appointed by King and Emperor George as a Fenwickian minister, George believing that Wormer's experience will make him a valuable advisor in the coming months.

Graf Petr seems to be finishing a long speech of some kind.

' .. and so we are now allies: your friends are our friends; your enemies are our enemies; your awkward social encounters are our awkward social encounters; your embarrassing blackouts or painfully swollen private par ...'
'Well', says Wormer, 'that's all very nice gentlemen; I think I get the picture. Now, I have called you here incognito to resolve a number of questions informally that have a bearing on future Fenwick-Gelderland relations. Since my master George is not yet officially crowned as king of Gelderland, I'm relying on you both to resolve some immediate issues in ways that suit our, ah, mutual interests. Unless you have a problem with that?'

'No, no, no, no' says Petr quickly.

'That's a big "nope" from me, as well' says Count Matthias.

'Excellent', says Wormer. 'By the way, how did King ... that is, ex-King, Wilhelm take it when it was announced that he was deposed?'
Graf Petr looks at Count Matthias, and then says 'He was very sad. He was moved, indeed, to declare a month of national morning'.
'You mean "mourning"', says Wormer.
'No, "morning". - he just wanted to eat breakfast all day. And then came the problem of dessertification'.

Wormer nods. 'Well, yes - they do say that over-intensive agricultural production is in danger of ...'
'No, no -  "dessertification": the process by which more and more of Wilhelm's diet comprised of puddings'.
'Did he put on more weight?'
'Putting on weight, sir?' interjects Count Matthias. 'The phrase "putting on weight" is appropriate to a matron that has perhaps been consuming a slice of two more cake than is good for her. Wilhelm underwent something altogether more significant. Not so much gaining weight as ... transforming ... metamorphosing ...'
Wormer shrugs. 'But it's not size that matters, it's what's within'.
'Well, believe me, Wormer - it was really quite far within, then'.

'Well, it could have been worse', says Wormer, philosophically.

'It did get worse, remember: he died, after accidently becoming trapped under a door that then accidentally became covered with some really very heavy boulders'.

'Yes', says Graf Petr sadly, 'who'd have thought that such a thing was possible?'

 'And Adolpho, Don Pajero de Penguino: Wilhelm's confidante?' asks Wormer.

'Fled', replies Graf Petr. 'Although he left his trousers behind'.



Wormer nods and then waggles his finger. 'So, gentlemen, we must tackle the main reason for  my calling you to this little exchange of views. We must start embedding a sympathetic post-war peace. The first item - Duke Baltazar of Nussholz-Pomme-Lesia died in the recent war. Since he was childless, we must replace him with someone conducive to our now joint Fenwickian-Gelderland interests'.

'Childless?' says Petr. 'Didn't his wife have nine children by him? Wasn't he known widely as "Big, Bonking Baltazar, Baron of the Boudoir"'? 

Wormer pulls a sad face. 'Alas, sadly, all of his offspring are too tall to be considered legitimate issue'.

'Too tall? Is that really a thing?'

'Oh, yes', says Matthias, catching Wormer's eye. 'I definitely remember seeing official documents with that in. I can certainly find them. I'll just need some time. And some ink'.

Wormer nods. 'Good man. So we need a new duke. We need someone pliable. So we also need someone lazy, greedy, and amoral: someone who deals with the ethical quandries involved with getting blood on their hands by deciding to wear bigger gloves'.
'This is Mittelheim' replies Graf Petr. 'Mostly everyone that we know would fit that description'.
'Yes, but I mean even more so. And also, and this is particularly important, we need someone of low intellect. And when I say "low intellect", I don't just mean someone who isn't that quick on the uptake: I mean someone who is genuinely as thick as an Albanian moustache; someone, for example, who thinks that the phrase "low intellect" just refers to thinking done by short people. Some one, dare I say, who literally doesn't know his arse from his elbow'.



The three men stare out of the window as a horseman stops in front of the inn. The fellow halts his horse and then emits a mighty groan. 

'Bloody hell!' the rider says painfully to no one in particular. 'What a long, long journey!' He rubs his backside gingerly. 'Oooh, my elbow is in agony!'
The three ministers look at each other slowly. Wormer raises an eyebrow.

Power!

Revelling in his new power, there remains one other thing that King and Emperor George of Gelderland Fenwick feels he must do: rub everyone else's noses in it! To this end, it seems like the appropriate time for a splendid military parade! To make things even more memorable, George has commissioned at the entrance to his capital, Pogelswood, a mighty edifice memorialising his extraordinary victory in the latest war. The building of this proceeded with the usual sort of difficulties. George's early references to the building were his desire, not for 'a mighty edifice', but for 'a mighty erection' of stone. This being Fenwick, several of those present literally killed themselves fnarring and snurtling. Others were saved only by shooting them. Nevertheless, the monument has been quickly constructed, helped by the fact that it is constructed from cardboard (below).



Sadly, the new building was rather smaller than anticipated. George had wanted something sufficiently large that it wouldn't look out of place as a gate, or similar, at a place like Brandenburg. The usual mix-ups in the differences between inches and thumbs resulted in something that was not quite Brandenburg Gate and a little more Brandenburg Cat Flap. All in all, though, it hasn't turned out too badly, especially given that the architect believed initially that the new 'gate' was intended for a garden fence or such like. However, the Pogelswood Gate is sufficiently large that troops can march past it without feeling embarrassed - or at least any more embarrassed than they should be, given the state of their marching drill.

(Below) Keen to avoid the ravages of the plague, King and Emperor George isn't foolish enough to turn up in person for the parade. Instead, he has sent a stand-in. Taking the salute is the Fenwickian commander, Marshal Ignacio Grace-a-Dieu Cavandish: a useful replacement for George given that, if the general does have to take to his bed with the plague, he really doesn't have far to go. There is a general air of jollity and levity in the air that is rare in Mittelheim. Normally, these are drowned by the stench of the actual air. Reflecting this positive atmosphere, Cavandish has washed his nightgown and he has even put it back on again. As the troops tramp by, the marshal's staff officer, Captain Fabius Nitzwitz, engages him in conversation.

'Splendid, sir, splendid! What a splendid day! The war is well and truly over. I suppose my lord, that you will soon be retiring?'

Cavandish nods. 'I should say so, Nitzwitz - it's almost two in the afternoon and so well passed my bed time'.

'No sir - I mean that, with peace now reigning, you will be able to resign your command and return to your estates'.

'Meh', says the marshal. 'I don't think so. I find things there too confining'.

'Yes', nods the captain, 'peacetime social mores'.

'No, captain -  they make me wear trousers. It's damned unfortunate. The higher I have risen in society, the more clothes I'm expected to wear in company. It's not right'.

There are few townspeople present at the march past, the fear of the plague and accidental double entendres keeping most away. George himself doesn't mind, believing that there are few social occasions that can't be improved by having fewer poor people there.

As he finishes looking through his telescope at the last of the troops marching by, George turns to Herzog Franz, his brother.

'Excellent! Now, with Fenwickian control established over Gelderland, the name of Fenwick surely will be known throughout Europe; possibly even the world!'
Franz shrugs. 'I think that it is already'.
'What, really?'
'Well, what I mean, dear brother is that the name 'Fenwick' isn't that unusual. There's lots of Fenwicks'.
George narrows his eyes. 'What?'
'Well, as it turns out, amost every imaginary 18th century state is called Fenwick'.
'But', says George gesturing expansively out of the window, 'we're real. Nothing this disappointing could be imaginary'.
'Of course, sire, of course. I too would imagine something a lot nicer than this. Nevertheless, there are Fenwicks everywhere. All over the place'. 
'This is unacceptable', says George, striking a table with the telescope. 'Ours is the real Fenwick, not some imaginary German state. We must assert our authority. All the other Fenwicks must understand that we are preeminent!'
'Well, I could send them a strongly worded letter'.
'Yes. And henceforth, to mark our new and glorius period of Mittelheim ascendancy, we shall be known not just as Fenwick, but as the Empire of All the Fenwicks! All of the other Fenwicks will bow before us. They must tremble! Or at the very least jiggle a bit!'
'I could send the letter on headed note paper'.
'Yes, good: and use red ink!'

The Peace of Streng!

Once again, the representatives of the states of Mittelheim meet upon the conclusion of war to hammer out a peace settlement that will - definitely this time, without a doubt, would I lie to you, pinky swear -  herald a new age of eternal peace. In the village of Streng, the protagonists thrash out a settlement.

As is customary, representing the Burgravate of Nabstria is His Excellency Reinhardt, the Bishop of Munschrugge; Rotenburg continues to rely for the defence of its interests on the shrewd Austrian, Wilhelm, the Baron Woffeltop. Representing the Empire of Fenwick is the Emperor's younger brother, Franz; Saukopf-Bachscuttel places its trust in the scholar-pig farmer, Baron Albrecht Steinhagen, although he is accompanied by a deputy, the grand chamberlain, Leopold Von Fecklenburg. New to these traditional post-war assemblages are Prince Karl von Porckenstauffen, heir to the Margravate of Badwurst-Wurstburp, who is here to try and limit the losses to his state; and also Lucas von Feratu und Osterberg, brother to Voivode Dmitri of Vulgaria.

For the defeated states of the Spasmodic Sanction, the word 'negotiation' is hardly appropriate for what ensues: 'a rough beating behind the tavern' would probably be more applicable. The chief casualty is King Wilhelm Penwick-Fuppet of Gelderland. Wilhelm was placed upon the throne by Emperor George of Fenwick at the Peace of Minde, after the Cod War. But he has proved to be a lamentable vehicle for Fenwickian interests. So, exercising the power that he has accrued through the recent war, George, Wilhem's second cousin, twice removed, makes him third removed and has him deposed. Though the peace settlement makes provision for a pension and a small estate, in the event these are not required. Wilhelm, as it turns out, dies soon after in a terrible accident that involves him putting a very heavy door upon himself and then loading it up with large boulders. George announces his intention to become both imperial and royal, kaiserlich und königlich, by ascending to the throne of Gelderland as well.

For Saukopf-Bachscuttel, the usual humiliation occurs at the hands of Rotenburg. Having already lost the area of Lowenfaht, the palatinate must now also surrender the region of Suckhofen. Prince Rupprecht also losses his position as Bishop of Schrote. Things are hardly better for Nabstria. With the pleasing duckpond of Nottelbad long ago lost, Burgrave Falco must now bear the sting of the loss of the villages of the region of Krapfenberg, which are ceded to Fenwick. The Margravate of Wurstburp suffers no territorial losses, because its lands are so lamentably poor and uninteresting. But it is forced to pay a substantial sum to Fenwick.

  
There is some bad news for Vlad IX, Count of Roldova and Baron of Herzo-Carpathia, whose ejection from Roldova and Herzo-Carpathia were the proximate causes of the latest war. In an anteroom, Fecklenberg bows politely to Vlad, and then breaks the bad news.

'We've had to make some compromises', he says delicately.
Vlad frowns, his bushy eyebrows coming together like amorous caterpillars. 'What sort?', he asks with trepidation.
Fecklenburg shrugs helplessly. 'Well, you. Prince Dmitri is confirmed as Voivode; and it is he who is now also Count of Roldova and Baron of Herzo-Carpathia. You can drop your crown off on the table by the door as you leave'.
'What? You can't leave me at the mercy of Dmitri and his Vulgarian stooges! They'll come for me! You can't comprehend the appalling things that they will be able to do to me given time and a full set of cutlery!'
'Calm down, calm down, my good count! We came to an arrangement with the Vulgarians. You won't leave these negotiations empty-handed'.
'You mean I'll get a pension and a palace?'
'No, you'll get a twenty minute head start'.

Rumination!

And so, the War of the Spasmodic Sanction grinds to a halt like a wheezing sloth with a hangover and an empty diary. The various armies disperse to winter quarters, except for Wurstburp, where their army is simply dug up and reburied a bit nearer home. Now, with peace negotiations imminent, it is incumbent upon the governments of the various protagonists to consider carefully their strategies for the forthcoming diplomatic battle.

(Above) At Schloss Tanvaund, Leopold Von Fecklenburg, Prince Rupprecht's Grand Chamberlain stares over the battlements, ruminating on the current situation. For the states that comprised the Spasmodic Sanction, these are troubling times. Now defeated, it is likely that they will be sorely punished by their recent adversaries, the forces of the Vulgarian Convention. The chamberlain has decided, with due trepidation, that there is nothing for it but to try and discuss with Prince Rupprecht the plan of action to inform the peace discussions that will soon begin in the Gelderland village of Streng.

Truthfully, there are worse places to be in the Palatinate of Saukopf-Bachscuttel than Schloss Tanvaund. The hunting lodge does at least have a bath, a facility so little used by others that it often affords the chamberlain some much needed privacy. In that vein, the lodge also sports the very latest in indoor comforts - a drop garderobe (above). Prince Rupprecht spends much of his time here, since it combines for him the functions of water closet, filing cabinet, and evening entertainment.

(Below) Having run out of good reasons to linger, Fecklenburg with a sigh finally begins the short walk to the prince's chambers. Surprisingly, once there the chamberlain finds Rupprecht animated and thoughtful. Defeated in war, with vultures circling his kingdom, Prince Rupprecht is busy considering long and hard a pressing problem.
'Should I have sausage or bacon for breakfast' he asks his chamberlain as he arrives.
Fecklenburg sighs. 'I am moved lord that you should trust me so much that you would seek my guidance for so weighty a question', he says.

'What am I talking about!' continues the prince. 'It's a ridiculous question under the cirumstances!'
'I must agree, my lord, given our defeat and ...'
'I'm the prince!' chortles Rupprecht. 'I'll just have both!'

The chamberlain is forced to wait as the prince works his way through his breakfast.

'Look at this!' says Rupprecht. He points to something long and spiral on his plate. It looks a little bit like the prince is eating a snake, a conclusion that, this being Mittelheim, is only probably not true.

The prince points. 'It is English, Fecklenburg - it is known as a Cumberland sausage'. 
The chamberlain pulls a face. 'English food - is that wise sir?'
'There must be some things about England that you like, chamberlain'.
'Yes, sir - leaving'.
'Well your suspicions here are unwarranted. See: a huge sausage covered with lots of bacon. What's not to like. It's pork, taken to the limit. I love it'.
'Indeed, sir - I can see your lardon'.

In relation to the defeat of Bachscuttel in the latest war, Rupprecht has already gone through the seven stages of grief: denial; pain; blame; cakes; sausage rolls; opera; and executions. He is therefore surprisingly phlegmatic in his view on the forthcoming diplomacy.

'Have you the arrangements for the congress?' he asks.
'Indeed, sir: we are to meet in the Gelderland  village of Streng, where negotiations will begin'.
'And you are clear about our objectives?'
'Indeed sir. To quote my instructions from you: "It was all Nabstria's fault. Punish them instead"'.
'What are we likely to lose?'
'I fear, my lord, that Rotenburg will take another bite out of us'.
'Where will they bite us?'
'Our eastern nether regions, I'm afraid'.
'That's fine. They are all halfwits and drunkards'.
'It is your family's ancestral homeland, sir. And we'll also lose the Bishopric of Schrote. Reperations also are inevitable'.
'As long as they keep their hands off my porkers'.
'I think that to be highly likely, sir, whatever they turn out to be'.
'And I want that war criminal'.
'Herr Plugg, sir, the Gelderland engineer?'
'Yes - I want him executed for war crimes. The detonation of pigs must surely be against the laws of God and man'.

Finishing his sausages and bacon and moving onto coffee, the prince relaxes (below).



'And what of Emperor George?' asks Rupprecht.
The chamberlain considers this matter carefully. 'Rotenburg and Vulgaria are easy enough to guess, my lord. But George of Fenwick is more difficult. He is an enigmatic man, sir. A riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside a rudely shaped pie. Rumour has it, though, that he will seek to unseat King Wilhelm of Gelderland, a man who has proven to be anything but pliable. I suspect that he intends to abdicate the throne of Fenwick in favour of his son, Joachim, and to become King of Gelderland himself!'.
'Choke my chipolatas! Batter my bratwurst! Can it be so? When have we seen such a thing!'
Indeed, sir, it is nothing short of a revolution ...'
'I'll say - look! This is tea not coffee!'
He looks on dispiritedly as Rupprecht pants, red-faced, licking his napkin furiously.
'Holy hotdogs, let as have no more change such as this!' gasps the prince.
'Are we talking sausages or high politics, my lord? Because it's often so difficult for me to tell'.
Rupprecht slowly considers this. 'Both, I think. We need to take radical action. First, beat my chef. Second, we must respond to this challenge to the balance of power in Mittelheim. With George in control of both Gelderland and Fenwick, he will be unstoppable! He will be able to bully, threaten, steal, nip, tweak, jiggle and slap the rest of us as much as he likes!'
'My thoughts also, sir. We must find allies! We must balance! Deter!'
'What? No. We must ingratiate! Wheedle! Oil! Lubricate! We need to get right behind George - with an ally like him, there will be no end to the small-minded cruelties that we can inflict on the weak and incapacitated!'
Fecklenburg nods. 'I am always uplifted, sir, by the scale and breadth of your vision for our country'.