Sir Reginald's History Of The World Stops When You Were Born

[benchilada]

“Do you have anything to declare,” asked the customs agent.

“Is it too much of a cliché for me to say ‘Just that I’m devilishly handsome?’” asked Sir Reginald, immediately after which he was tackled by a half-dozen Homeland Security agents. He tried to say something witty from under the mound of people, but all that came out was blood and a tooth.

Forty-five minutes later, when they had him stripped naked and waiting in a freezing cold cell, he finally spoke.

“Don’t I get a phone call?”

The stoic guard, a 45 caliber pistol in his right hand, said nothing.

“Don’t I get a pair of pants?”

The guard did not respond, just subconsciously stroked his gun barrel.

“You know, I could say something about the way you’re subconsciously stroking your gun barrel—”

“But you won’t,” said a voice as the door opened, “will you, Reginald?”

Sir Reginald, aware of the potential for unwanted social commentary, did not say “Balls,” when he saw the face of Special Agent Paul Morgan peek into the room.

“I say, Sir Reginald,” Morgan grinned, showing an impossible number of teeth, “don’t tell me they took your clothes! How humiliating! Let’s see if we can do something about that!”

The agent stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. He then stared at the wall for a bit, scratched behind his ear, and cleared his throat.

“Sorry, Reg, but it seems like the answer is no.”

“Do they pay you to be an terrible little hemorrhoid, Paul, or do you do that for free?”

“Oh, a little of both, Reginald. So…” his voice trailed off as he looked down at the massive folder in his hands. “May I sit down and have a little chat with you?”

“Sit in Santa’s lap and he’ll tell you what you’re getting for Christmas.”

“I think I’ll just grab this other chair here. Oh, and guard?”

The thuggish man with the gun stared at his superior.

“If he makes anything resembling a move to escape, or hurt me, or even if you decide you’re tired of looking at him, shoot him in the calf.”

“Sir?”

“I’m just kidding,” Morgan laughed. “Go for the thigh.”

“Sir?”

“Will it matter if I tell you that I’m still kidding?”

“Sir?”

“Right, back to your gun barrel,” he said with a sigh.

“Reginald, Reginald, REG-inald!” continued Morgan as he flipped through the ream of paper, post-it notes overflowing between the pages, “It seems like you’ve really put your wand up the wrong hole this time.”

“I’m certain that I have no idea what you’re talking about. And I find that wand comment to be sexually degrading. Guard, please take note of the sexual harassment I have just undergone.”

“Don’t play the fool with me, Sir Reginald! I’ve been on your ass—shut up!—for a decade now, but you’ve always used your voodoo and Jedi mind tricks to escape! But not this time, no, not this time! Did you enjoy the cavity search?”

“Well, he did offer to buy me a beer first…”

“You see, we’ve well and truly got you this time, you slippery fuck. All of that circumstantial evidence I’ve collected so far?” he tapped on the sheaf of papers. “Well, it’s all right here, along with the latest and most incriminating evidence to date!”

“If this is about those naked pictures, I was poor and trying to put myself through university.”

“Oh, we’ve got all the naked pictures of you that anybody could ever want, Reg,” the agent practically giggled, as he pointed at the half-dozen cameras around the room.

“No, I’m talking about this,” said Morgan as he pulled the top sheet from the pile. “This is an inventory of all the luggage you had on this flight.”

He cleared his throat again before starting.

“One squid, red, in a jar.”

“Scientific sample. I have the papers.”

“It has human lips and keeps mouthing obscenities.”

“Yes, well—”

“Eight skulls, each combining the morphic traits of both lizard and man,”

“Ah, those were a gift from David Icke.”

“Sixteen pieces of green crystal—”

“Nothing conspiratorial there!”

“…which caused the eyebrows of the officer who handled them to burst into flames.”

“I blame poor grooming habits.”

“One fetus of unknown origin, apparently dead, wrapped in greasy fish and chips paper.”

“It feeds through its skin.”

“It’s a fucking fetus, Reginald! That alone would be enough to put you away, but allow me to continue! One stick, gnarled, suspected of being a warlock’s magic wand,”

“It’s just a stick, Special Agent.”

“I’ll have the experts decide that, thank you very much! One sword, Indian, circa 1550, still wet with blood.”

“Oh, that never dries, it’s cursed.”

“You see! See how readily you admit your courtings with the dark arts!”

“I was joking, Agent Morgan. There’s no such thing as a curse! I think you’re coming unhinged.”

“One box, medium-sized, filled with miscellaneous animal teeth.”

“Make sure you don’t prick yourself with any of them, scratch. Whoops, mixed up my words.”

“One book, apparently bound in human flesh, detailing hundreds of spells of necromantic origin, with notes—such as “Doesn’t work” and “Make ABSOLUTELY sure it’s a virgin”—scribbled in the margins in YOUR handwriting.”

“Magic spells? You have gone mad.”

“And last but not least,” Morgan said, reaching into his pocket, “one tooth from the mouth of a poxy magician who’s going to spend the rest of his life in a secret prison in Guam!” He dropped it in the middle of the table, where it briefly clattered across the surface.

“Go on,” the agent smiled, “we’ve x-rayed it, so you can put it back in if you want. Hell, I’ll help, if you’d like. We’ve a hammer in the next room over…”

“You’re a sick man, Morgan. All these strange, baseless charges, and now you’re telling me to stick a tooth that YOUR men broke off back into my mouth? Disgusting,” said Reginald, pressing his thumb on the bicuspid. “Besides, this is a traveling tooth..."

“A tooth you only wear when you’re traveling?” asked Morgan. “And you call ME unhinged!”

“I’m only being sensible! I mean, what if I bit into a particularly crunchy digestive biscuit with this in my mouth! The last thing I want is a gob full of zombie powder…” Sir Reginald said as he ground his thumb downward.

“Guard!” shouted Morgan, but it was too late. Reginald had already taken a deep breath and blown a cloud of the white dust into the air. Morgan and the guard began coughing and retching, both gripping at their chests.

“No worries, gentlemen, no worries. This is scarcely potent enough to cause any lasting damage to either of you, simply strong enough to put you under my sway for a bit. Guard, go to sleep.”

The guard did exactly that.

“Morgan?”

“Munnh,” came the limp-lipped answer.

“You came so terribly close this time. Pass me the folder.”

Special Agent Paul Morgan pushed the stack of papers across the small table, and Sir Reginald tucked them under his arm.

“Call your men, tell them I’m free to go and that I can have all of my things back.”

Morgan punched a few numbers into his cell phone, slurred the orders, and turned his glassy eyes back towards his momentary master.

“And last but not least,” Sir Reginald smiled, “Be a good lad and loan me your pants…”

benjamin lee sTone
Who drank almost a pint of rum as he watched A SCANNER DARKLY, and loved both of them...