Public Relations, and a History of Alcohol Abuse

[Koolmo]

Notworthy sits in the recently replaced command chair of the Liverpool Packet, and opened his letter. Creamy parchment, closed with a wax seal usable by one woman in the whole of the universe.

My very dear Reginald,
We had hoped it wouldn't come to this, but there are some within the House of Lords who've taken this opportunity to attack you. We're sorry, but it way in the end turn out for the best. Your peerage has been stipped from you, and shall either be returned to you on your return to the realm, after paying restitution for the damages you've caused in our name, or to your son, on his doing the same. Your lands shall be used to house prisoners of war, as well as hospitals for our wounded troops. We are assured that your family heirlooms have been removed, and are stored safely, awaiting your return. Although we know that this is a charade you've undertaken in our name, and for our Realm, we have been outmanuvered by your opponents in the Lords. We must admit, however, that your sullying of relations with the Golden Chrysamthemums have rather made things more difficult for our fleet in Leeds. Do try to control yourself in the future Reggie, you shall have to return to society eventually.

Fight well, my champion. This war has dragged on long enough, we must turn the tide.

-Carina

Ex-Lord Sir Reginald Notworthy the Third stared at the paper, and sniffed.

"Balderdash! Damn it! I don't want a bloody gang of nips and commoners roaming around my lands! Who do they think they are over there? I'm a bloody Notworthy!"

Standing, he wanders back to the cargo hold, where his crew was putting a rather large dent into a bottle of Lamb's Navy Rum, and discussing the relative fighting value of a haddock or a pair of Kusari-made pistols.

"Oy, Junior! D'you want my peerage then?" Reginald inquired of his son, Reginald Notworthy the Fourth.

"What? No, I don't bloody want it, it's yours! What in the blazes happened, eh?"

"Oh, apparently some blighter in the Lords decided that it looked bad for me to have it while doing the Queen's work out here. First one to go back into the fold gets it, what!"

"Hurhurhur! Rawther silly of them, eh? I assume you'll be slipping a sabre into his guts soonish, then?"

"Quite, old son, Quite. Now, the rest of youse! How's the old 'Scouse looking then?

The Cox'n, Edward MacInnes, turned to the other three and inqired with a slight twitch of a carefully groomed eyebrow. Leading Gunners Mate Jimmy "Guns" Campbell, Warrant Officer Jeph "Sticks" Thurl, and Privateer Andrew "Cutlass Boy" Kell either nodded, grunted, or spat on the deck, indicating a generally state of either readiness or indigestion.

"G'har Sah! Are going to be chopping some more of them rice-eaters into catfood sharpish then sah?" inquired Kell, waving a large, and extremely rustly cutlass. He was also armed with a positive menagerie of pistols, two bottles of gin, and a smouldering cigar.

"Rawther! Set course for Kyushu, m'boys! We're going to make them rue the day they ever messed with a Notworthy!"

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<span style="color:#FFFF00">&quot;General Solo, is your strike team assembled?&quot;
&quot;Barely, they're pretty drunk.&quot; </span>
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I can picture in my mind a world without war, a world without hate. And I can picture us attacking that world, because they'd never expect it.