God help me, sirs and madams, and welcome back to the blog-about.
Again, a month has passed without discourse between us, and again I regret it very much; indeed, I wish terribly to have those long days returned to me, that I might better invest them in pastimes more proper and endeavors more preferable that those which have consumed my time as of late.
When we were last in touch, my friends, I was preparing to leave the comforts of Pemberly and embark on a transatlantic sojourn to South Carolina in the United States of America; this was necessitated, you remember, by the desultory correspondence in which I have been engaged with my associate, Sir Quincy Jones, and by the worrisome turn in his mannerisms that his words bespoke to me.
Well, I have made the journey, and I daresay, I am not glad for having undertaken it.
My personal flight into Charleston was serene, and save for the weather (for it is always raining freely in England, if you were unaware), I beheld no portent of the lunacy of the coming days, though if I had, I would had ordered the pilot to turn about at once and quit the whole thing. I was accompanied by my butler, Roland Andres, a well-bred and upstanding fellow of pronounced intelligence who has served my family for twenty-two years, and who reared me from childhood as my guardian and friend. Roland and I enjoyed a glass or two of champagne and passed the hours in amiable conversation, ruminating primarily over possible explanations for the sudden onset of idiocy exhibited by Sir Quincy. Nevertheless, for all of our rationalising, we remained woefully unprepared for the quagmire into which we were unknowingly sinking.
When we touched down at Charleston International Airport, we were picked up in a luxurious limousine by Fuser (pronounced “FOO-sehr,” for your reference), a tall, suave, Argentinian man who had been introduced to me during a prior visit as Sir Quincy's longtime servant. He was demure and always a bit out of breath, much the same as I remembered him from several years ago. He informed me graciously that Sir Quincy Jones was awaiting my arrival at his rural estate, and he said little more as he drove us out of the city; I curse him now for withholding from me the warning that might have allowed me to anticipate the severity of the situation. For you see, when the limousine arrived at Sir Quincy's plantation (one of the last remnants of that defunct economic model that once accentuated the hypocrisy of a purportedly “free” nation), I found that my associate had gone quite mad.
You may recall, ladies and gentleman, that during our last discussion I mentioned that I have never seen a real suit of armor in my life, and this, of course, was the rationale behind my being unable to bring my sword and armor, neither of which I have ever owned, to South Carolina, as per my associate's request. Well, I can no longer assert the truth of that statement, for when Sir Quincy Jones greeted me on the covered porch of his Charleston plantation, he was garbed in a shiny, steel cuirass which was indisputably a breastplate, the likes of which have not been seen in the world since the days of feudalism—my mind balks at trying to deduce where he might have found it.
It has been fully three weeks since I arrived, and not once have I seen him remove the armor.
Now is it clear to you, my dear friends, why I decry my fellow gentleman in a manner so unbecoming of my upbringing? My worst fears are realized, for I swear that I do not embellish when I tell you that Sir Quincy Jones truly believes that the tale of King Orofyld XVIII is a real, historical account, and that he is trying with all of the vigor in his heart to impose his delusions on the world as reality. He carries a billiards cue with him at all times, swinging it about wildly, as if it were a claymore, and he has already inflicted several thousand dollars of property damage upon his estate. With a billiards cue! Why, just the other day, when he was entertaining me in the sitting parlor, Fuser came in to see to our needs, and Sir Quincy flew into a sudden rage and commenced with beating the poor Argentinian man over the head with his deadly stick! Roland and I had to restrain him, for fear of the manservant's life, and when he calmed down enough to answer our alarmed questions, he apologetically replied that he had mistaken Fuser for an orc! Mild, modest Fuser, an orc! Imagine it! And then there was the disaster at the Halloween party. Such a terrible idea it was to host that event at the Jones estate in the first place, but there was no talking him out of it. Poor Margaret, she really treasured that pug of hers, too...
If I have not already made it apparent, my friends, I have endured in these past few weeks some of the most shocking and unbelievable experiences of my life, and I fear that there are many more yet to come. To think that such an enterprising and brilliant young man as Sir Quincy Jones could be driven to madness by a simple work of fiction—pitiful, unhappy man!
As I have been constantly occupied with Sir Quincy's shenanigans, I have had little time (or desire) to read this foolish king's tale; truly, the thought of discussing it is inducing feelings of nausea in me at the moment. Therefore, I will simply provide the transcribed copy of the fifth chapter, and I will offer no comment, except to say that the adventure of the Frelicton estate is splendidly humorous, and that I think you shall find it most entertaining:
I must leave you once more, sirs and madams, for Roland and Fuser find it difficult to restrain or distract Sir Quincy for very long, and his sanity seems somewhat more intact when he is conversing with me, if only slightly. I shall return to keep you informed when I have the occasion to do so—I can only imagine what will have transpired by then. Do keep me in your thoughts.
Ever yours, and ever classy,
Good Sir Darcy