The Curse of the Rhino King - A Ripping Dr. Sir Reginald Kingsley II Adventure (Chapter 1)
For some time now - indeed, basically since the day I started this journal - I've been thinking of doing some sort of serialized text storytelling here. More lately, of course, I've been chewing over recycling some of my ridiculous old "pulp adventure" notions from a few years back. Not only do I love the sort of willfully and delightedly ignorance of the subject matter being written about by those old pulp writers from some hundred years or so ago, I find that that style of exposition comes so easily to me that indeed at times I lapse into it quite by accident. With this in mind, I've decided to give it a go.
If people enjoy this - and I go into this aknowledging that this is an experiment for me, and something I go into with a bit less than my characteristic confidence - then I can see no reason why this need not be an ongoing feature. I've already written a few chapters (one of the later ones has me positively howling with laughter, and I cannot wait to post), and have a bunch of ideas for later on if anybody else shares my enthusiasm for this bit of funny business.
I'm hoping I can keep them to the right length; too short, and the narrative suffers. Too long, and we enter 'tl;dr"/"PLEASE PUT BEHIND A CUT" territory. I think I've got a good middle-ground here.
All of which is to say that if you like it, let's have some comments, eh wot?
Now, then, without further delay...
The Curse of the Rhino King
A Ripping Dr. Sir Reginald Kingsley II Adventure
Chapter 1
From the Journals of Dr. Sir Reginald Kingsley II
June 9, 1912, Inner Oxfordfordshirewhittington, England.
From the moment that Miss Rita Elliot first entered my study, I could discern from her bearing that she was a woman whose life had not lately gone to plan. Though she was dressed in a smart and conservative manner, all well-arrayed and neat, there was nevertheless that about her which suggested an air of disarray. I could not at once put my finger on what element it was which gave rise to this impression, but it immediately put me somewhat on my guard in a manner which I would have found mildly embarrassing, had not my instincts in this regard served me so well over the years. Was it her hair? No, not that; though it was somewhat moistened with sweat, this was not unexpected in these warm summer climes. Perhaps the way that her silk-gloved hands were wringing together so nervously? No, not that either. Even the wild look in her eyes seemed only a symptom of the malady which appeared to afflict her nerves. If I had to put my finger on it, I would have to say that more than any other single thing, it was the arrow protruding from her shoulder, and the dark bloom of blood staining her shirt and jacket.
"Mister Kingsley!", she shouted as she stumbled through my study door, her voice high and feminine amidst the masculine surroundings, "Thank the good lord above I made it here in time!"
"I shall," I responded, arching an eyebrow at her presumptuous tone, "If you should do me the service of telling me what time it is that you speak of." I did not care for the notion of being told what to do in my own home. It had an air of impropriety which galled me and violated my sensibilities.
"Oh! Yes, of course", she said, pressing the back of her hand to her flushed forehead, "I'm quite sorry, of course. I fear the bloodloss may have inhibited my wits somewhat. I beg you forgive my rudeness."
"Very well," I replied, dryly, taking a puff from my pipe, "but please do not make a habit of it. In my line of work, the bleeding to death from wounds such as yours is more typically a luxury reserved for the field. To do so in a civilized home is... well, let us say, rather uncouth. Flaunting one's daring-do, you see? Here," I said, gesturing at the elephant-skin armchair across my desk from where I sat in the chair which was its twin, "why don't you have a seat and explain your business here. I shall in the mean time call for my field medic to attend to this..." I waved my hands about expressively, gesturing to her shoulder, "...'arrow' business of yours."
She took her seat, flinching somewhat as her wounded shoulder came to rest against the chair's backing. "I'm frightfully sorry, my good sir. I'm afraid I'm rather a novice at this sort of thing..."
"Yes, well, plainly," I said with a bit of a huff. I retrieved from my desk drawer a small silver bell and gave it two sharp rings, summoning my manservant, Ivan, from the servant's quarters. "I am quite familiar enough with the lifestyle to know a novice when I see one. In fact," I said, leaning forwards somewhat conspiratorially, "I was once somewhat of a novice in these affairs, too."
"You? Surely not, sir! Your reputation..."
"Yes, yes. Of course. But I was young and impertinent, once upon a time. There was a day when I would arrive up at a dinner party being held for the royal museum riddled with bullets and with a tribe of wild headmen hot on my tail, shaking their spears about and shrieking for my blood, and think it fine sport. It's all well and good at first. People will look at you and say, 'Why, look at that young Mr. Kingsley! What an exciting and glamorous life he leads!' But by the fourth or fifth such instance, their breathless excitement begins to turn to weariness. No longer do they sing your praises; rather, your arrival shall be greeted with weary groans and cries of 'Oh, there's that dratted Reginald Kingsley again. Doubtless we shall come under attack from a fusillade of cannon-balls from a pirate ship crewed by animate skeletons or some such rubbish out in the harbour and moment now. Why ever do we invite him to these functions?'" I leaned back in my chair, grimacing somewhat ruefully. "Trust me when I say that the glamour of arriving in a civilized home with an arrow lodged in your shoulder is fleeting, but the damage to one's standing in civilized circles after a few such escapades can haunt one for years. To this day, I am invited into the aviary of the Earl of Upper Westershire with only the deepest of misgivings."
"Goodness! I had no idea there was such a ... a protocol about this sort of thing! Why, the social gaffe, I don't know how ever I shall live it down!" She drew a small paper fan from her purse and began to fan herself in agitation. "I do believe I may be faint!"
"Not at all, my good woman. That's simply the oxygen leaving your brain. Not to worry, here's Ivan with his surgical kit," I said, gesturing towards the door. She turned about in her seat and gasped quietly at the sight of the man. A towering Cossack, standing nearly seven feet tall and weighing perhaps four hundred pounds, his matted and filthy black beard hung down to his belly, which - much like the rest of his hulking frame - was covered in rude animal skins and rough-hewn leather. He smiled down at her benignly, revealing a mouth full of broken and yellowed teeth, through which he grunted one of his unintelligible but amiable greetings. In one hand, he carried a burlap sack, inside of which could be heard the clanking of crude metal instruments and clay pottery.
"Best in the business, I assure you." I said, attempting to re-assure her in her moment of apparent distress. "Met him during an expedition four years ago in the Ural Mountains. Seems he sold his soul to the devil in return for secret and forbidden arts of healing, which he meant to use to keep the primitive people of his tribe fit and healthy. Little did he know that Old Scratch, that tricky old goat, had other plans for them."
"Did they... did they die in an avalanche or some such sinister fate? I've heard tales of such things..."
"Nothing of the sort, my dear woman. Don't be absurd! No, they were abducted by moon-men. We plan to mount an effort to rescue them just as soon as my men can devise a means by which my zeppelin can be made to carry us to sufficient altitudes." I turned to Ivan and smiled encouragingly at him. "Should be any year now, eh, old bean? Just you keep up the good work and we'll have them back in their savage mountain home within a decade or two!" Ivan, bless his stupid, ape-like heart, nodded his head vigorously. I hadn't the heart to tell him that I'd had his tribesmen stuffed and mounted and sold to a museum in Singapore whilst he slept off a truly legendary drunk the day after I met him, but I couldn't see as how the knowledge would benefit him.
As Ivan began unceremoniously tearing away the fabric of Miss Elliot's dress from her shoulder and rifling around in his medicine bag for the salves and ointments he would need, I leaned back in my chair and asked her "So, then. What is this urgent business which you've brought to my doorstep?"
And so she commenced the telling of her tale.
(To be continued in part two!)