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.