Chapter Three: A Plunge Deep into the African Bush

Sir Chesterhill and his party wander the Sahara desert and have a most inconvenient encounter with the locals...

Chapter Three: A Plunge Deep into the African Bush

As we picked our way through the African bush, Mr. Betherford was clearly stricken as he was the most youthful, but the least robust, of our party.  Magistrate Templeton remained particularly neurotic and kept not a shred of his sanity as he had tested the potency of his remaining bottles of ether over the course of the following three days since our expulsion from the Hartford Estate; with a chair and whip, he attempted to tame the lion that was ether with little success.  Several times he went missing, only to be found high in a tree, snarling, covered in feces, needing desperately to be coaxed down with a crumb of cheese.  I knew the Magistrate would handle himself as well as any British gentleman upon his return to civilization, but my concern was with Charles Betherford.  

Endeavouring through the wilderness without so much as a single servant was nearly intolerable for Mr. Betherford as the Magistrate and I were accustomed to droughts of civility due to our service to His Majesty’s Kingdom in British Punjab during the Sepoy Mutiny;  Betherford had not such experience and his only contest were the whorehouses of Whitechapel.  In one instance, it was with great dread that he was forced to disrobe and bathe himself in a river, only to emerge covered in leeches which were none to compassionate when it came to his gluteal cleft.  The events scarred him and following the incident, he became overly aggressive whilst nude!

With no guide, we wandered the wilderness gorging ourselves on the fine Saharan cuisine of feculence inducing berries and insects.  I must admit, dear reader, several of those days are lost to me, as we had blanched in the harsh African sun wandering from one muddy hole in the earth to the next.  We encountered no other souls and most of our apparel was disheveled and torn.

Finally, we encountered a small village of natives whom had recently discovered the loin cloth and were quite taken aback at the sight of three British gentlemen strolling through their bivouacs twirling walking sticks.  As a delirious deviant, the good Magistrate stormed the nearest grass hut and quickly found himself waist deep in a large native woman with a sour disposition.  Mr. Betherford made for a nearby rack of elephant meat that was drying in the sun, screaming and such, scattering the startled natives.  Myself, I noticed a shrine to the local deities and immediately raided it of any valuable diamonds and artifacts, all whilst shouting obscenities relating to the Church of England, may the Lord sit upon the immortal throne of mankind, breathing fire and shooting high voltage electricity from his fingertips and what not.

The natives, being utterly thankful of my attempt to save their souls, gathered in great numbers with spear and shield, shouting their affirmations to their new Lord.  It was this moment, dear reader, that the first spear sailed at me, catching but a corner of what remained of my tattered petticoat, tearing it asunder.  I decided it might be best to grab one last handful of the relics and make leave so the indigenes might worship in peace.  

I dashed from the village and Mr. Betherfood soon followed with gullet full of the beastial meat.  Magistrate Templeton was delayed in making his departure from the grass hut, which thus far was quite full of activity.  Once again, his small porcine shape fled from the hut with natives on his heel.  He was poked several times with spears in the tender regions as he fled.  The Magistrate and I dashed into the bushes but Mr. Betherford was no where to be found.

Peering through the brush, I located the good Charles Betherford, The Deviant of Whitechapel, and discovered he had been impaled by several spears of the newly pious natives.  As was my primary concern, Mr. Betherford was utterly novice when it came to negotiations with the natives of the dark continent and as such, they surrounded him and repeatedly cleaved his body, paying special attention to his various penetralia.  The poor sod never stood a chance and before long, his body was hoisted up and carried into the village never to be seen again.

The Magistrate and I continued to flee and several bands of war parties now combed the foliage looking for our chapped and sun baked fundaments.  Once we eluded capture, we located a river where we promptly voided our bowels and licked our wounds.  The next several days were spent reflecting on our predicament over a hearty course of psychoactive frogs that inhabited the area in great numbers.

Author's Note

Bully!

Reviews

[Magistrate Templeton]

Oh my! It seems that I recall the demise of good fellow Betherford, although, given my state of mind at the time, I cant properly form the memories quite like how you have told them in this splendid memoir. For yours truly this time was full of color, hateful feminine sprites with serene wings, and attempts to leap into space from many a tree. Those psychoactive frogs were probably what did me in the most since after exposing my tongue to their slime covered backs, I remember brandishing my cane as a sword and charging back towards where good fellow Betherford had fallen in an attempt to smite those dark skinned natives. It wasn't until later that I realized I must have looked quite a fright, with wig disheveled and belly protruding from lacerated clothing. Any man would be scared unto death when faced with how mad I must have appeared, and rightly so since poor Betherford deserved to be avenged. By god! I think I shall begin planning a new tour back to that desolite region so that I may extinguish the life of every member of that native tribe to bring peace to the soul of our dear friend. Long will he be remembered.

Keep your mustache clean

Magistrate Templeton
In remembrance of Mr. Charles Betherford, may he find solace inside the soft womanly chambers of our mother Mary, mother of Christ.