The Interloper's Tale

“you can do that and—wait, why did I start talking weirdly?”

“Shut up,” said The Interloper, “I’m about to tell a story. Ooo, look at that, my voice has gotten all bendy and I only had three pints!”

There was once a river known as the River Thames. It was located in a magical land called London, which was once the seat of a glourious Empire that existed to keep the darkies in place.

“Jesus Christ!” shouted The Traveler.

“You take His Name in vain,” said The Interloper, “and I’ll kill you.”

Well, our story takes place a long time after the darkies got uppity and tossed the rightful rulers—my people, the British—out of their dark, spider-infested parts of the world. Now, in London, there was a man named Uncle Timothy FitzWilliam Patrick. We will call him Timothy for brevity’s sake. Timothy looked around him at the state of the world and didn’t like it one bit. Why, just last week, a curry shop opened up where there was once a good, God-fearing British pub called The Empire. Every day, Timothy would wake from his flat—owned by the money-grubbing Jews, he well knew—and despair.

One day, he was strolling down the Embankment—he didn’t have a job since the Indians snatched it away from him—and thinking about what retribution he and his friends in the God-fearing BNP could enact against the darkies. This was his daily routine. He would wake at eight o’clock, have some good, British Earl Grey tea, put in the good, British whole milk, put in some good, British cane sugar, and enjoy his breakfast of good, British fried eggs.  Then, he would read the only paper worth reading, The Daily Mail, and go for a walk down The Embankment, glaring at the people who, by divine mandate, should have been British subjects instead of that cheapened word: citizens.

Today, he passed a certain place in The Embankment walk where there was a ladder leading into the Thames. He assumed that it was there for some sort of maintenance project or some sort, but, as he would soon find out, he was dreadfully—and yet awesomely, supremely, and fantastically wrong.

“What in the Hell does that mean?” asked The Writer.

The Interloper leapt up from his chair and swung a fist at The Writer. He dodged. “Next time I’ll knock your fuckin kike nose in!”

As he walked by, he noticed a part of the river bubbling. “Well this is right odd, then,” he thought to himself. “Good British river like the Thames shouldn’t be bubbling like that.”

And then, bursting out of the water like some fish or something that bursts out of water, a submarine burst out of the water! It was the grandest thing Timothy had ever seen. Painted up like the Union Jack, flying the Union Jack at the top of whatever it is that pops up out of a submarine and from whence people come up and go, “Hello” at you. Out of the top bit, a man wearing a Royal Navy uniform popped out and went, “Hello!” at Timothy.

Timothy, doing the only thing he knew would be right proper, clicked his heels and said, “Hello!” right back at the man.

“Right!” said the man, whose name, it came out through conversation, was Captain Reginald St. Reginald Smythe. “We’re down a man, First Officer Turpington being shot out of the torpedo bay for saying that the Indians might not be so bad. How would you, citizen, like to come aboard and serve your country?”

Timothy didn’t need to think at all. “Sir, to refuse service would be nothing more than to spit in the face of the Queen, and I am no traitor, sir!”

“Jolly good!” said Captain Reginald St. Reginald Smythe. “Come aboard spit-spot and we’ll set you up with all the bits and bobs you need to be a proper submariner!”

And so Timothy climbed up the top bit of the submarine, climbed down the ladder after the Captain and beheld the most glourious sight he had ever seen. The interior of the submarine was completely painted up with murals of glourious British victories throughout the history of the Empire. From the Battle of Bunker Hill—where the British slaughtered the Yanks with not even a casualty—to the Siege of Delhi—where the British busted down the walls of that city just by thinking “God Save the Queen” at it—to the time where, graciously, the British gave up its Colonies to the undeserving darkies, even though it hurt the British.

“God save the Queen!” shouted The Interloper for no apparent reason. He then took a shot of Beefeater dry gin before continuing.

“Attention!” shouted the Captain, removing his hat and revealing his clean, chiseled, handsome British countenance. “We have a new mate aboard!”

“Righty-o!” shouted the rest of the crew, all chiseled handsome British faces, and not a lick of a homosexual among them.

“Pluffles!” shouted the Captain.

A shorter man, six-five—for all of the crew were between six-five and six-ten, all being proper examples of military men—strode up with confidence, saluted and said, “Yes, sir!”

“Pluffles,” said the Captain, “this here is First Officer Timothy FitzWilliam Patrick. He will be in charge of hunting down the darkie submarines in the Thames, and will be your immediate superior officer.”

Pluffles saluted the Captain, clicked his heels, turned, and saluted Timothy. “God save the Queen!”

“God save the Queen!” roared Timothy. This was, easily, the proudest moment of his life. It beat out the birth of his son by a long shot.

Within an hour, First Officer Timothy was in full military parade regalia—for the officers of the HMS Awesome did not dress in anything other than the best and most impressive uniforms.

“The HMS Awesome?” asked The Drunkard.

“Shut your bloody pie-hole, you Colonial bastard!” The Interloper shouted in such a shrill, loud voice that the pub was silenced for a good three minutes.

The first sign of action came in half an hour when, while cruising the Thames near Big Ben, Sonarman Copperpot noticed an American submarine blaring hideous rock music through the water. First Officer Timothy, duly enraged by the Colonials’ audacity, shouted a string of obscenities not fit for common usage, and said to Pluffles, “Pluffles, I order you to blow those Yankee-doodle-dandies out of the water!”

Just then, the HMS Awesome received a radio transmission from the American ship, USS Queerboat. It ran as follows, “Please, Mr. Strong British Man, don’t kill us, for we are all American fairies and cannot defend ourselves.”

“NO MERCY, MR. PLUFFLES!” First Officer Timothy shouted.

“Aye aye, sir!”

The Americans were then killed to the very last one. The crew of the Awesome celebrated by drinking standard-issue Navy Rum.

Not half an hour later, the Awesome was on the other side of the Thames and spotted a Nazi U-Boat that was thought to be sunk in 1944, but, due to them being sneaky Kraut bastards, had been loitering in the Thames the entire time, taking up space that belonged to the British. “Well, well, well,” said First Officer Timothy.

The Germans then hailed the Awesome. “Vell hello, English svine,” their captain said.

“You bastards,” responded Captain Smythe.

“Vee are here to take avay your precious London, you Jewish svine!”

“They dare call us Jews?!” shouted Timothy. “KILL THE FILTHY JERRY ROTTERS!”

Then they blew the U-Boat out of the water, sending it flying back to Godless Germany. They celebrated by drinking standard-issue Navy Rum.