Manticore Rampant

Ch 6 - Creature Resources

"Boodop, boodop!"

Pudgy features breaking into a child-like grin, Lord Hirschnopple spun his custom-made executive dragonhide chair away from his penthouse's expansive view of Quollo's skyline, snatched up the just-installed, state-of-the-art speaking tube from his massive marble and gold desk, and snapped an eager, "Yes?"

"Boodop, bood-...erm, it's Lubkin here, my lord. You know, your valet. In the front parlour."

"Yes, I know it's you, Lubkin." Grin fading, Hirschnopple sighed. "Given this tube has two ends, and I'm at one end of it and you're at the other, there's weally nobody else it could be. And for the thousandth time, man, you're no longer my valet. You're now my executive assistant. And like I keep telling you, it's not the fwont parlour anymore, either—it's the weception woom."

The young lord was a great believer in the merits of modernisation—in doing away with the archaic and inefficient habits and customs of yesteryear. And as far as he was concerned, habits and customs of yesteryear didn't come much more archaic and inefficient than the monarchy. Which meant, of course, it was nothing less than his civic duty to do everything in his power to put an end to the whole wretched institution. And, naturally, if it happened that in doing so the kingdom was left in need of a dynamic, dashing and, most of all, modern new leader, well then, that was a burden he would just have to bear.

"Also," he added, "it's 'boodoop, boodoop'."

"My lord?"

"The incoming message sound we decided on for the tube. It's boodoop, not boodop."

"Boodoop, my lord?"

"Boodoop, Lubkin. I know we flirted with 'oi, oi' and 'hey, you!' but I think this is much more cultured and contempowawy. Don't you?"

"Er, yes, my lord. Boodoop, it is."

"Good show, man. Now, what were you calling about?"

"My lord?"

Hirschnopple rolled his eyes. He was beginning to suspect the ability to fold an immaculate cravat or polish shoes to a mirror finish did not necessarily correlate with higher-order administrative skills.

"Why did you boodoop me, you dolt?"

"Oh, yes. There's a goblin here to see you, my lord, by the name of Wonda Wraithclaw. Says she has an appointment."

"Ah, excellent." Hirschnopple's grin returned in full force. "Send her thwough."

"Yes, my lord, right away. And what shall I do about the ogre?"

"Ogre? What ogre?"

"The one taking up half the front par-...er, that is to say, half the reception room, my lord. He says he's from CR."

"C what?"

"CR, my lord."

"And what in the name of Olifat's bum-hole is CR?"

 "I believe it stands for Creature Resources, my lord."

"Cweature Wes-...? Wait, this isn't that nonsense Lady Feluka's been cawwying on about, is it? All that widiculous palaver about wecognising servants' wights and having to wowwy about their...their...feelings, and so on?"

"I'm afraid so, my lord."

The lady in question, a fellow member of the High Council, had recently discovered a heretofore deeply buried and completely unsuspected—both by herself and anybody who'd ever had the slightest dealings with her—streak of compassion and empathy for her fellow Irmish. This had manifested as a determined campaign for improved staff conditions, the ostensible trigger for which was the recent, widely circulated tale of the page boy forced to spend a week as a toilet-roll holder for Lord Womp while his bathroom was being re-tiled. Personally, Hirschnopple hadn't seen what all the fuss was about—the lad was provided with a clothes peg and relieved occasionally by the gardener, after all—however a little digging had revealed the page was in fact the nephew of Lady Feluka's pool-boy. And, perhaps more to the point, said pool-boy—a strapping young former lumberjack fresh from the lushly forested foothills of Mt Whoa—was withholding any and all extra-curricular, non-aquatic services until his mistress (in more than one sense of the word) got off her highly manicured arse and did something to improve the lot of downtrodden and frankly traumatised people such as little Binko.