Ker-chump ... kerrr-chump ... ker-chump.
Below the waistband of Sir Richard’s much-loved-yet-little-washed cardigan swing the chapped tips of hideously elongated nipples – distorted as a result of a near lifetime’s pursuit of unsuccessfully nursing orphaned squirrels; the parents of which he had murdered with a catapult, so he could fulfill his unusual desire.
The fetish had spread from Sir Richard’s early youth and into his teenage years, twenties, thirties, forties and fifties, before ending abruptly after a terrible nightmare, in which a fearsome squirrel God screeched a warning in squirrel language, which he understood in the dream but could not recall when awake. Something to do with nuts, anyway.
His nipple tips shouldn’t be there, swinging so, but they have escaped the confines of his bro-ssiere once again.
Sir Richard is quite breathless by the time he reaches the club’s entrance, where he flops forward, slaps his hands upon his knees and farts unexpectedly. It is as loud as an aeroplane’s foghorn. Inbreeding, so rife within the elite, can cause a great many mental and physical disorders, and excessive flatulence is one cross among countless others Sir Richard must bear.
Sir Richard springs upright and grimaces, when he hears a muffled sniggering coming through a vent above the door. He curses under his breath – “women!” – opens the door and forces a smile, which fades more promptly than it had grown, once he sees who stands on the step with a suitcase resting at either side of their brogue’d feet.
“Ah! Sir Martin” – Sir Richard remarks, with more than a hint of disappointment.
“And Martin!” – a figure pipes up, cheerfully, while emerging from behind Sir Martin.
“And Martin too” – Sir Richard sighs. “What a surprise.”
“Well. Let me help you with your baggage” – Sir Richard suggests, while stepping forward and grasping a suitcase handle in each hand.
He hoists their considerable weight in defiance of gravity, farts, and pirouettes on one heel.
Having miscalculated the amount of effort required to perform an about-turn, he spins on one heel for quite some time – with the suitcases at arm’s length at either side of him – until he arrives at a halt, when he throws a slipper’d foot forward and begins to march through the club’s grand entrée towards a wide staircase. Sir Richard’s metronomic gait is punctuated by the sound of the suitcases crashing to the ground .
Ker ... thump ... chump ... kerrr ... thump ... chump ... ker ... thump ... chump.
With the buttons but useless adornments, having popped open during his gymnastic baggage handling, Sir Richard’s cardigan swings open, as if curtains announcing a stage production, presenting a pair of curiously elongated nipples with painful-looking chapped tips, which hop up and down and jiggle to and fro, as though attempting to write a message in mid-air – to say they have been flung from a bro-ssiere and wish to be placed back there.
Sir Martin and Martin grimace every time a suitcase lands on the floor, and imagine increasingly numerous objects being destroyed by Sir Richard’s careless hosting. A loud, almost deafening fart erupts from Sir Richard, as though the sound has fallen through the ceiling and landed on him.
Sir Martin and Martin trail along behind Sir Richard, crouching together in silent conspiracy, with their hands covering their mouths in an effort to muffle their laughter, for they know they should not mock Sir Richard openly, since, despite his excessive flatulence and unfortunate physical appearance, defined by the aforementioned and other factors – such as Sir Richard’s teeth being somewhat green and pointy, and the flattened crown of his head reaching no further than one’s midriff – Sir Richard’s intelligence, biting wit, sarcasm and ‘I art greater than thou’ manner are forces to be reckoned with, and Sir Martin and Martin do not wish to get on his wrong side during their stay at The Imperialist Club for Gentlemen.