The Hmmm Factor
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Despite Ludlows rather vocal protests, I decided to go off and fraternize with the other guests at the party, in the vain hope that at least one of them might want to roger me senseless.
Alas, all I seemed to meet were uptight, prissy socialites who took offence at my usual party trick whereby I pull down my trousers, unleash my Lord Palmerston, and yell: “Look, ladies! Big Ben!” One particularly sniffy woman told me that my penis was not at all reliable as a timepiece, a statement with which I took great exception, arguing that when my todger was fully erect, I knew it was precisely time for humping. She snorted and turned away, the miserable, fat sow.
One rather delectable girl did seem to be gagging for a pounding from my Palmerston. She was a young, rich heiress called Barcelona Ritz, but while she let me grope her, I soon tired of her non-stop chattering, as she warbled on about her tedious, pointless existence, and I had to go off to get more booze to help block out her awful droning.
I approached a table laden with various drinks, and began mixing myself a cocktail, not really taking note of what was going into the beverage, as I was lost deep in thought.
“You look troubled, friend,” said a voice beside me. I looked up and beheld a tall, rather striking looking gentle-man, with strong cheek bones and a large, proud forehead. I smiled politely.
“I was just lamenting the lack of willing wenches at this function,” I said, as I stirred my drink, watching as the glass was filled with a curious, bright orange colour.
“Thats an interesting looking drink youre making there, sir,” the man continued, helping himself to a glass of wine. “What do you call it?”
I took a sip, and grimaced.
“I think Ill call it the Filthy Arsehole,” I answered. “On account of the fact it tastes like shit.”
This made the man roar with laughter, and he proffered forth his hand to shake mine.
“Abraham Lincoln,” he beamed, introducing himself. “Im a Republican lawyer.”
“Lord Likely,” I shook Lincolns astonishingly large hand. “Im an aristocrat from England.”
“Likely, huh?” mused Lincoln, stroking his chin. “You must be Ludlows brother, yes?”
“You are quite absolutely and unerringly correct,” I nodded, swigging from the Filthy Arsehole again, momentarily forgetting its horrendous taste. “Do you know my brother then, Mr. Lincoln?”
“Not personally,” replied Lincoln. “I am here as a guest of his employer, Mr. William Cullen Bryant, the editor of the New-York Evening Post. Hes helping me to write a speech I am supposed to make in Kalamazoo, in Michigan, a month hence.”
“A speech, eh? What is it about, if you do not mind me asking?”
“I am campaigning to get slavery abolished in this country,” Lincoln said. “I feel very strongly that the United States of America should no longer be a home to slaves.”
“Oh, quite, quite,” I agreed. “Its high time we drove those awful Negroes from the land, eh?”
“Thatis not what I am trying to achieve,” Lincoln frowned. “I am arguing that every man in America should be a free man. God created us all equally, you know.”
“Some of us more equally than others,” I quipped, while pointing at my crotch.
“I wish for a day when the slaves are emancipated and the awful spectre of slavery that still haunts this continent is driven out,” Lincoln continued, ignoring my hilarious aside. “A spectre that your government left us with, I hasten to add.”
“Well, its not easy running a massive Empire, you know. Good help is so hard to find,” I replied. “Plus, we are notoriously lazy. Of course, we officially outlawed slavery in the British Empire some one score and two years ago.”
“Oh, one score,” Lincoln muttered, producing a notebook and pencil from his pocket. “I like that.” He jotted something in the book, then snapped it shut.
“I think it is far more the measure of a man if he can keep a fellow man in his employ when the other man has free will.” I continued. “I myself have a servant who I have managed to keep hold of for some fifteen years now, which I like to think is because I am a fair and honest master, who treats his servants with respect.”
“Oh? And where is your servant now?” Lincoln asked.
“He is upstairs, scrubbing the semen stains from my underpants with a toothbrush,” I replied.
Lincoln smiled, and we continued to talk for many hours more, discussing politics, family, and the theatre. Mr. Lincoln repeatedly returned to the topic of slavery, telling me quite terrible stories about the horrifying acts performed upon slaves, stories that even one with such a cast-iron constitution as I, found utterly sickening. Lincoln spoke with great passion, clarity and dignity, and I found myself thinking that one day, he would make for a first-rate salesman.
“I must say,” I proclaimed, as Lincoln concluded his impassioned oration, “you have opened my eyes to a hitherto unknown world of horrors.”
“Dare I ask if it has also altered your opinion of the proud, Negro race?” Lincoln asked, warily.
“Oh, rather,” I exclaimed. “I feel a tremendous sense of guilt and pity for those poor, brown bastards.”
Lincoln smiled his great big beaming smile. “Well, it is a start,” he chortled.
I was aware that the party was winding down around us, and I could scarcely believe that I had managed to go through a whole social function without