Sticky Fingers: Box Set Collection 2: 36 More Deliciously Twisted Short Stories (Sticky Fingers: The Complete Box Set Collection)

by JT Lawrence

  “And I need to tell YOU something,” she said.

  The snapping and thrashing of the gharials got louder.

  Pointdexter cleared his throat. “Could we perhaps save the heart-to-heart for after the attack of the amphibians? The sun has almost set, and I feel we'll have more of a chance while we can still, well, see them."

  “Good point. Bravo. Isadora—can you swim?”

  “Of course I can.”

  “All right. Pointdexter, climb into my knapsack, I’ll strap it to my back. I’ll go in first and fight the crocodilians off. Isadora, you swim in my wake. I’ll protect you from the front.”

  Isadora whips out her pistol.

  “And I’ll protect you from the back.”

  She loaded the gun.

  “Holy Moldavia!” said The Baron. “That’s a handsome pistol. Ivory?”

  “You have a good eye, Baron. Let’s go.”

  They entered the perilous water. It was an epic battle between man and beast. The Baron wrestled seventy-six gharials on his way across the water, protected by his nori-leaf suit. Isadora shot the stragglers that wouldn’t let go. As they reached the middle of the moat, the Baron lost his strength. He found that he could no longer swim, carry Marcus Pointdexter and fight off the infernal creatures.

  “It’s okay, Baron,” said the lemur. “Leave me behind.”

  “Never!” yelled The Baron.

  “It’s the only way you’ll survive!”

  Still, The Baron refused.

  Just then, a new wave of gharials swam up to attack them, and the Baron knew, with a sinking heart, that he would not be able to fight them off. Isadora tried to shoot them, but the pistol became jammed. Marcus Pointdexter, realising that the only way to save the Baron was to dive in, executed a most elegant swan-dive into the teeming grey water. But the Baron knew that Pointdexter, despite his bravado, could not swim, so he dived in after him. Once the Baron’s nori suit was fully submerged, it turned into a merman tail. Not only was the Baron able to swim with renewed vigour, but the presence of the sparkling mermaid scales completely subdued the gharials. It was as if the crocodilians were mesmerised by the glinting sequins and their fang-filled jaws snapped shut, and stayed shut. The Baron heard the tinkling laugh of the mermaids.

  The Baron rescued Pointdexter. They reached the opposite bank and collapsed gratefully on the land. Poor Pointdexter was coughing and spluttering.

  “That was incredible,” said Isadora, panting. “What—”

  With a dangerous whistle, an arrow sheared the air and pierced the tree trunk behind her. She yelled in fright, then tucked and rolled.

  “The king’s guard,” said The Baron. “They’ve seen us.”

  Another arrow just missed them, the shaft vibrating in the air next to The Baron’s bare feet. Pointdexter gasped.

  “Follow me,” whispered Isadora. “I know the way to a secret passage.”

  They sprinted away from the attackers, running around the base of the castle wall while arrows nipped at their heels. Isadora stopped when she found what she was looking for: a small door that blended almost seamlessly into the stone wall. She desperately tried the handle, but it was locked. An arrow missed her head by less than an inch. Isadora swore and kicked the door. “It’s locked. And I no longer have the key.”

  “Stand back,” said The Baron, and tried to knock it down with his bulk, but it didn’t work. The darkening sky rained arrows all around them.

  “It’s such a strange door,” mused the lemur. “So small! As if it had been built by goblins.”

  “What did you say?”

  "Nothing. Just that it's small, it's like a goblin door."

  This gave The Baron an idea. He tore the perfect fish skeleton from the cord around his neck and slotted it into the keyhole. The skeleton key turned smoothly, and the door swung open. They rushed inside and slammed it shut behind them. Out of breath and relieved, they knew they had to keep going.

  “This castle is the size of a small independent country,” said The Baron. “How will we find the king?”

  Isadora wrenched two fire-torches from the wall and lit them, handing one to The Baron. “The king will be in his cigar lounge,” she said. “ I know the way.”

  They scampered through the secret passages until they reached a trapdoor in the low ceiling. Isadora handed her weapon to the Baron.

  “You go ahead,” she said. “I’ll get the others.”

  They nodded at each other, and The Baron touched her cheek before she disappeared back down the passage, towards the gharials and the deadly maze, and Comrade Bandito.

  The Baron smashed the trapdoor open and hauled himself up into the lounge with a flourish. King Zam, dressed in opulent gold silks, dropped his cigar in shock.

  “What in the name of—”

  The Baron pointed Isadora’s pistol at him. “King Zam, I take it?”

  “King Zam, I am.”

  "I'm the Baron of Balaclavia. You're the ruthless, reckless King of Moldavia. You starve your people, and you paint your streets with their blood. I wasn’t expecting you to be so short.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  The Baron lifted the ivory-handled gun. “You deny it?”

  “Wholeheartedly!”

  “Well, then, sir, you are both a rapscallion and a liar!”

  “Your majesty is my preferred title.”

  “There is nothing majestic about the starving peasants I have come across, the ruined farms, the high taxes.”

  “High taxes? Hungry people? Hang on … now that you mention it, it does sound a little familiar.”

  "Am I to believe that you know nothing of the absolutely appalling state of your kingdom?”

  "Well, I … ah … just assumed that if something were wrong, someone would tell me."

  “Well, I am here to tell you that this is a revolution. A coup d’etat. Consider yourself … overthrown.”

  “This is all a bit sudden,” said the king. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “You’re not going to try to fight?”

  “Absolutely not. You’re five times the size of me.”

  “Ah, okay. Good. That’s very civilised of you.”

  The Baron pocketed the firearm.

  “Hold on just a moment,” said King Zam. “I recognise that. Where did you get that ivory-handled pistol?”

  Just then, Isadora levered her body up, out of the trapdoor. She straightened her back and puffed out her chest. “Where do you think he got it, Zam?”

  “My queen!” exclaimed Zam, arms open. “My love! My dearest wife! I thought I’d lost you forever!”

  Marcus Pointdexter was quite taken aback. “My queen?”

  “I left you years ago,” said Isadora. “I am no longer your queen.”

  “You’ll always be my queen.”

  The Baron was as puzzled as the lemur. “Isadora … You wanted us to overthrow your own kingdom? Your own … husband?”

  “I had no choice. It was the only way to get him to listen. We have a duty to protect the people of the kingdom.”

  “I’m listening now! I’m listening! What needs to change?”

  Isadora retrieved a roll of parchment from her pocket and unspooled it. “There are a hundred things on this list. The most pressing being your economic policy on agriculture.”

  “I’ll do it!”

  “You will? You don’t feel the need to try to hang on to your disgustingly high taxes, only to be ousted in your ridiculous golden silk pyjamas by our rebel army?”

  King Zam looked hurt. “I quite like these pyjamas.”

  “They do bring out your eyes,” said The Baron.

  “My mother used to say that my eyes were like sapphires,” said the king. “Hang on, did you say ‘rebel army’?”

  They heard yelling and gunshots in the distance.

  "They're right outside. They'll be in here any moment. Would you prefer execution by snickerberries, gharials, or your trusty golden guillotine?"

 
The king threw himself at Isadora’s feet. “Help me! Save me! I don’t want to die!”

  "Sign this document, and you will be spared!"

  The lemur handed him a pen, and the king scribbled his signature on the parchment.

  “Good. We will start implementing these changes immediately.”

  The king hugged Isadora and came away, looking shocked.

  “Isadora? You have a big belly. Where did that come from? It’s not … You’re not … you can’t be —”

  “I’m with child.”

  “It’s impossible! I haven’t seen you in years! It’s some kind of wonder! Some immaculate conception! A miracle! You’ve always been a magical woman.”

  “The baby belongs to the Baron. And so do I.”

  The Baron looked at Isadora in wonder, but the moment was spoilt when King Zam lost his temper.

  “The Baron? This baron? You village muck! You Scaramouche! You won’t get out of here alive!”

  The king launched himself at The Baron and the two men scuffled in the castle hall. There was pushing and punching, gasping and groaning. The King had his emerald-studded scimitar to the Baron's throat, who, in turn, had Isadora’s ivory pistol buried in the King’s belly.

  “I’ve got you by the balls, now, you scoundrel!”

  “Well, technically, you have me by the throat,” whispered the Baron. “My balls are located in another place entirely.”

  The rebel army, having defeated the castle guards, stormed into the room. Comrade Bandito aimed his weapon at the king. “Hands off my brother, King Zam!”

  The Baron stared at Bandito as he pulled off his mask. “Dash?”

  “Yes, it’s me. And you’d better drop that scimitar now, King, or I’ll blow you full of holes with this flintlock and feed what’s left of you to your scaly beasts.”

  “Alright, alright,” said Zam, lowering his scimitar and taking a few steps backwards.

  Dash looked at his soldiers. “Tie him up.”

  “Be gentle with him,” said Isadora.

  “We have done it, men,” announced Dash. “We have saved the people of the Kingdom of Moldavia!”

  The Rebel army cheered, and The Baron swept Isadora up into a long and passionate kiss.

  A few moons later, we find ourselves in a castle bedroom, decorated by the raven-post the Baron had sent his mother while he had been on his grand adventure. She had brought them with her when she had been summoned and had decorated the prince's nursery with them. They were surrounded by, amongst other things: an adder stone; a whitewood bonsai sapling; a pouch of cumin incense; an abandoned starling’s nest with a single speckled egg inside; a hairbrush made of purple pine needles; a fistful of golden pomegranate jewels; a rapid-polished rock; a bunch of lavender; a pretty fossil; an old kidney bean engraved with a heart. In short, they were surrounded by love. Also, on the shelf, was the Baron’s favourite childhood book: “The Baron of Balaclavia’s Tales of His Fantastic Journeys and Fabulous Adventures.”

  Isadora is screaming blue murder—

  “You can do it, Isadora, you can do it,” says the midwife with baseball mitts for hands. “Let’s have one more push. Give it all you’ve got.”

  The Baron mops the perspiration from his queen’s brow. “You have never looked more beautiful.”

  Isadora strains and screams as she uses all the strength in her body to push. I daresay that you would be screaming too if you were giving birth to an infant as buxom as The Baron's baby.

  “His head is out!” shouts the midwife. “One more push, love.”

  The baby makes his bloody appearance and gives a healthy yell.

  “It’s a boy!”

  “He’s beautiful,” says Isadora. “Isn’t he beautiful? He has his father’s handsome chin!”

  The midwife nods enthusiastically. “I’ve never seen a more beautiful baby. And he’s a record-breaker, by the looks of it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He weighs 68 pebblestone!” She wraps the infant in a soft muslin receiving blanket that had seen dozens of babes before him. The midwife had boiled it in sweet streamwater with dandelion flowers and let it dry in the shade. “He’s a big boy, that’s for sure.”

  “Yes. Yes, he is,” Isadora and The Baron coo as the midwife hands the baby over. “He’s destined for big things.”

  7

  Slashpurse

  The courtroom was writhing with rabble. All the people in town had come to witness the trial of Suzie Slashpurse: crossdresser, madam, and thief. When Susan strode through the cobbled streets of 17th century London—her pet mastiff at her heels—people would step out of her way. She had glittering eyes and the air of a pirate, smoked like a chimney, and was known as the Queen of Pickpockets. As a girl she'd been a boisterous tomboy, bored by common girls' pursuits, going as far as calling her embroidery sheet a shroud. Suzie preferred boys' company—the rougher, the better. She was a rumpscuttle who could not think quietly and would not be tamed.

  When Slashpurse entered the courtroom, it was to an anthem of cheers and hisses. She was wearing her customary men's clothing; all that was missing was her smoking pipe and the curse words that usually shot out of her mouth like stones from a catapult. Most of her loyal friends and supporters were locked outside; they had caused enough trouble leaning into the prosecutor and constable as they had walked into court that day.

  The judge smoothed down his whiskers as he watched the accused being led to the stand. The crowd hushed up to listen to the charges being read out by a sonorous-voiced court official.

  “Susan Newgate is accused of the theft of a golden pocket watch of which she was caught in possession, it being displayed in the window of her residence in London town.”

  “I plead not guilty,” said Slashpurse, hands bound by steel cuffs. The bawdy onlookers booed and cheered.

  The prosecutor wore a dirty wig and a scowl that would make a rabid bitch self-conscious.

  “Ms. Newgate,” he said. “Is it not true that you were arrested in August 1601 for stealing someone’s handbag at Clerkenwell in London? A crime for which you confessed?”

  “I was found not guilty,” said Slashpurse.

  “You confessed to the crime.”

  “And I was acquitted.”

  “Two years later you were prosecuted for taking a purse of twenty-five shillings.”

  Susan Newgate stared at the man as if he had challenged her to a duel right there and then, in the churning courtroom.

  "In fact," said the man. "Your uncle, a respected man of the cloth, arranged for you to board a ship to the New World so that you could start a new life for yourself. But you jumped overboard and swam back."

  “Where is the crime?” asked Susan. “Besides, my uncle is a frightful man.”

  “Isn’t it true,” said the prosecutor, “that you have had your hands burned a total of four times for your grubbing and thievery?”

  "I was a lost soul," she said. "But now, I am found."

  There are sniggers from the gallery, and Slashpurse fights the pulling up of her own lips.

  The prosecutor is not deterred. “Eight years later, at the behest of King James, you were sent to Bridewell Prison for your inappropriate dress.”

  Slashpurse snorts. “Inappropriate?”

  “Women should not dress as men,” he said. “It’s a rude inclination.”

  “You’d like to see me in a skirt, then?” she asked, raising an eyebrow in a provocative way. The onlookers slapped their knees and laughed.

  "I don't want to see you in trousers," he said. "It's uncomely and indecent."

  "Oh, dear," she mused. "I wouldn't want to be perceived as uncomely. It just so happens that I don’t like to see you in trousers, either. Does that mean you’ll take them off?”

  Whistling and clapping made the prosecutor blush a deep shade of raspberry preserve; he spent a moment recovering.

  "Will you please get to the point?" asked Judge Fairfax, pinching the bridge of his nose. He'd had en
ough of the banter between prosecutor and prisoner. He reached for his water.

  "The point is, your honour," said the glowering man, "that Susan Newgate is a highwaywoman and career criminal who will continue to steal unless she is locked up for good. She is a festering boil on the rump of the people."

  The judge spat out his water. The guard offered him a handkerchief, but he waved it away. He looked directly at the accused. “What say you, Susan Newgate?”

  What could she say? No one had expected Susan Newgate to turn out as she had, with the niftiest fingers in the business. Certainly not her honest parents, of whom she was the sole daughter. Her father had been a humble cobbler who lived near the Barbican at the upper end of Aldersgate Street. Her parents adored her—even though she was hard to handle—but they passed away when she was a child. Suzie had grown into the most famous purse-picker in London, going as far as training other young sneak-thieves how to cut purse strings and snatch bags with minimal interference. For this—and other things—she had a long and loyal following.

  “I would be happy to serve the sentence,” said Suzie, “if the crime can be proven.”

  Judge Fairfax seemed to accept this and turned his attention back to the prosecutor, who ground his teeth.

  "It came to my attention, Ms. Newgate, that you've been using your home as a brothel and hiring out ladies of ill repute."

  “Now, how would you come by this kind of information?” asked Susan.

  He ignored her, but she could tell by the second blushing of his cheeks that he had heard the question.

  “And if that crime isn’t heinous enough,” he said—he didn’t have proof of her as a whoremistress—“It came to my attention also that you have been displaying stolen items in the front window of your primary residence on Fleet Street.”

  “Stolen?” asked Newgate. “Nonsense. They were gifts from my friends.”

  “Your pickpocket friends,” said the prosecutor. “In fact, am I correct in saying that you act as a fence in selling the previously mentioned items?”