With Really Sincere Apologies to Alexandre Dumas
As the more literary of my readers will know, in 1831 a young French judge named Alexis De Tocqueville went on a journey through the United States. He wrote about his travels in the now famous Democracy in America. What many of you don't know, however, is that Alexis was in America based on a bet. You see, like many a young French aristocrat Alexis used to spend quite a few evenings engaged with ladies of ill repute around the salons and back alleys of Paris. He'd often do this with his good friend, André Baudelaire. "Bawdy by name, Bawdy by nature", Alexis' wife, Mary, an English lady not scared of a good time, used to comment.
One night over a young whore Alexis and André were contemplating the meaning of life. (Only the French can contemplate the meaning of life whilst fucking a whore.) They decided that to capture their moment in time they should write books based on their adventures. They were, however, in disagreement over what sort of book they should write. "I know", Alexis said with the wisdom of Solomon, "we'll toss a coin. The winner has to enjoy the company of 500 women, documenting the good and the bad about each one in a book. The loser has to travel to America and write a book about its political, legal and sociological institutions." They tossed, Alexis lost, and off to America he went.
André, meanwhile, stayed in Paris and 100 nights later completed his now totally forgotten A Guide to the Whores of Paris.
It was with this in mind that I decided, during a lull in fighting duties, to embark on my own travels and write a book about my journey. It would certainly be interesting, I thought, to write an update on Tocqueville's work in the current political climate - Cronyism in America perhaps? But then I thought, fuck it, doesn't sound like a holiday to me. So off I went to Paris to update André's classic.
Now my friends found this a hilarious plan, so much so that my old mate George offered to take me over the pond in his classic 100-foot sailing yacht. Not one to pass up the chance, I gladly stepped aboard. Inspecting the yacht with George, I came across a lovely lass cleaning my toilet, Monique. This little French filly put a fair bit of lead in the old pencil. "I'll have to come across her again," I thought, "as she's cleaning something else".
Sure enough, the old Garr charm worked wonders and within hours Monique had become a regular in my bed, bathroom, wardrobe, the galley, wheelhouse, deck, crow's nest, that netting at the stern...
Now Garr's not one to fall in love, but this Monique had something special about her. Petite little thing, underarm hair like the French girls do but even that I found sexy. Would bite your head off angry and bite your head off happy. Wild like a racehorse. I spent every waking and sleeping minute with her.
Unfortunately, this pissed off one of the other occupants of the boat. As those of you with $20 million sailing ships are well aware, piracy is rife so it's important to have security on board. George being cheap had invested in a team of Ghurkas, crazy little Nepalese bastards who are always walking around with bloody big knives. Fernand, one of these fellas, it turned out had been fucking Monique before my arrival and decided I must die...or at least be tortured pretty badly.
I didn't find this out, of course, until I was up on the deck one evening after another of my nightly workouts. Dick D. Devlin had provided me with the new Montecristo Edmundo, named after Edmundo of course from Alexandre Dumas' Count of Monte Cristo. I was really looking forward to trying it. I cut it, lit it and went to put it to my lips when all of a sudden a knife came flying at me and narrowly avoided my head, splitting my cigar in half. I looked over and there was that crazy little Ghurka bastard coming at me. "I don't mind you attacking me", I roared, "but no one fucks with my cigars!" Out of nowhere another one popped out, the two of them closing in on me like gays around the last Kylie Minogue concert ticket. I grabbed an oar from a lifeboat to defend myself, but the little bastards were too quick. Before I knew it they had floored me and were on top of me, like Lilliputians on Gulliver.
"A Montecristo Edmundo, Colonel Garr", Fernand said. "You know, back in army training the Count of Monte Cristo was our favourite book. Perhaps we should offer you the same fate, only in this story there is no escape." Bugger that, I thought. I've got fucking to do, I don't have fourteen years to spend in some prison and all the rest of the shit that went down in that book. "Fuck 'em", I decided, "it's time for action".
My dear readers, those of you who are big action movie fans and watch James Bond or the others fighting will know what I should have done at this stage is thrown the two off me, then proceeded to enter into a clean fist-fight with each of them until they had fallen dead around me, suprisingly with no blood. Unfortunately, those of you who get in real fights will know this sort of strategy will only end one way: me being dead. No, the reality is the only way to beat two guys on one is to fight dirty and escalate immediately.
I grabbed my lighter, put it on Fernand's balls and lit them on fire. This freed my other hand to sink my fingers into the other one's eyeballs. It actually popped out and went rolling down the deck. By this stage Fernand had put the fire out and was advancing again, but slid on the eyeball and went flying off the deck into the water. His mate was so disoriented I easily wacked him with the oar and sent him to the sharks as well.
With that, I marched into their cabin, grabbed Fernand's copy of The Count, and used it to light my Montecristo. A very nice smoke.
Upon our landing in France, Monique had started to grate on me. As Alfie said, "Whenever you meet a beautiful woman, just remember somewhere there's a man who's sick of shagging her." I ditched her, said my thank-yous to George (and apologies for killing his Ghurkas) and went in search of whores. 100 nights later I was sore, happy and probably diseased but had finished my masterpierce. I wandered back down to the port where George was meeting me, my notes in hand to show him. As I walked to the boat, however, that little bastard Fernand came out of nowhere, this time wearing an Ermenegildo Zegna suit with Monique on his arm. He wasn't spoiling for a fight, but was acting like a gentleman. A little crazy Nepalese bastard gentlemen, but a gentlemen nonetheless. "It was me who survived, Colonel Garr", he boasted. "I am the Count of Monte Cristo after all." With that, he snatched my notes away and used them to light his cigar.