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Jeeves and the Deliberate Badfic

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Readers - there is nothing that can make one believe all is oojah-cum-spiff with the world more than a topping start to the day. Sleeping in, a corking plate of e. and b., a restorative concoction, and of course the smashing figure of your valet bunging said substances before you, what?

But all was not oojah-cum-spiff with the world on this morning. As per u., I awoke late, and was greeted with the saintly figure of Jeeves carrying the breakfast tray and a restorative to reverse the effects of too much Drones debauchery. What the young master was not expecting was the stack of papers which served as a terrible reminder of the night prior to lay cradled betwixt the Jeevesian arm and side.

"I say!" I attempted to I-say. Instead, a stream of rummy, phlegm-y noises trickled forth from the Wooster lips. I scrambled into a much more vertical posish, cleared the throat, and attempted to elucidate. "By Jeeve, Joves! That is - what I mean to say is," Not unlike a rather ill cat hacking up a furball, I coughed again. "By Jove, Jeeves!"

"Sir?" he said, a completely unreadable expression on his face. Then the blighter leaned forward and, out of completely bally nowhere, gave the Wooster map a tender bit of the old labial press. This was cut short rather abruptly by Bertram having another roopy coughing fit directly into his mouth. Now, I know what most of you might be thinking - canoodling with the young master like a pair of teenagers isn't exactly regular valet duties, is it? To that I must say - tchah! If the heroes of those drippy Rosie M. Banks novels (if one can even call them novels) can engage in a bit of the old tender pash with their housemaids and cooks, then B.W.W can do much the same with his valet, dash it! Back to the matter at hand, Jeeves had managed to drag himself away from me after his unexpected moment of feudal-spirit-be-damned, and continued to display that rummy sort of look which I couldn't decipher for the life of me.

I cleared my throat. "I say, Jeeves, the sudden affection is all rather corking - you know you're the light of my life, the newt to my Fink-Nottle, the most specific of dream rabbits, and what not, but - dash it - you didn't read those papers, did you?" The pit of dread in the Wooster stomach began to grow as he placed the papers on the tray in front of me along with breakfast. The words 'Bertie Goes To Horny Jail' stared up at me from the pages, a drop of spilled brandy smudging them slightly. Various words - most misspelled, all very much non-representative of the Wooster body of work, lay under the title.

You see, readers, I had written these absolutely horrific tales whilst severely sozzled at the Drones last night. I had been engaging in a bit of the old comradery with a few of the more open-minded, invert-leaning Drones who were in the know about the situation re. me and Jeeves. Tired of being asked questions about our domestic life, I decided to toddle over to the rarely-used typewriter and bung out a few loony tales about me and my man to make the blighters laugh. Not only did I do just that - but I decided to write the first tale from the perspective of Jeeves himself. Why I would do such a blasted thing, I shall never know. Now, despite being a few loaves short of the bakery, this Wooster takes pride in his writing. I had been rather excellent in the subject at Oxford, and - well - considering you've most likely read some of my published works, you'd know it's one of the subjects the old bean is capable of processing. But these tales were to literature what Forty-Seven Ginger Headed Sailors is to music. Great fun to laugh at with your chums - but certainly not fit for the Jeevesian gaze in the slightest.

I locked eyes with said manservant, willing him with what little mental strength I had to say he hadn't so much as glanced at the title. But he simply broke eye contact and said "I did take the liberty of reading them, Sir, if you will forgive me." Then, in a most un-Jeevesian way, he reddened almost imperceptibly. In any other circumstance I would've found this break in his usual mask to be impossibly endearing. But this was life or death. For our gentleman's agreement, that is.

"Well! As your master I say ignore it, forget you ever read that bally rot. It was nothing more than the product of a sluiced Bertram attempting to make some not-too-bright chappies laugh. I'm all too aware it isn't up to your Shakespearean standards, what? Purposefully bad, I say, purposefully bad." I asservated.

"Sir," he started, reddening further. "This is the most emotionally moving piece of literature I have ever read. To undermine this is to blaspheme against the Muses themselves. I must confess I have never felt so touched." Then the left corner of his lips moved almost imperceptibly upwards. I sat there, gaping at him like a fish about to be dropped into the soup pot. This expression, to those who knew Jeeves well, was rarer than a day in Chez Wooster passing by with no telegrams. In that moment I swore La Bassett was standing before me in place of my man, for he wore the expression of the soppiest Gawd-help-us in London. I searched, shocked, for any indication that he was joking, the slightest hint of soup to his face, but found absolutely none.

"Reggie, not a bally word in the blasted stack of papers is spelled correctly! You are feeling alright, aren't you, old fruit? Shall I take you to see Sir Glossop?" To my flabbergasted surprise, his already rummy expression became ever-so-slightly bashful.

He began to flip through the pages. "This first chapter, written in my point of view, Bertram... I had no idea you understood me so well. You must care for me so very deeply to be able to portray my psyche in words so completely," As he flipped, he stopped at a page and pointed at a sentence which had been underlined in ink. "This line, here - '"SIR" i screamed then i walked over to the telephone "i loveyou sir but im so sorry i have to do this for your own good"'. I am not a man prone to crying, Bertram, but as I read this I began to sob. The bittersweet romantic tragedy of these few paragraphs rivals 'Romeo and Juliet' - no, it rivals 'Only a Factory Girl'!"

I was stunned into silence - surely this was a dream? Of course all is oojah-cum-spiff when my paragon of paragons is happy - but I found myself unsure I could believe this was said p. of p.'s, not when he was acting so un-Jeevesian. "...."

"And here, sir, in chapter two, from your point of view - 'SHHHHH i shsushed him "i have it all under bally control ejevees," i said then i was so manly and corking and i dipped him and i kissed him really sloppily and messily and wetly and gayly'. I find most self-proclaimed writers tend to describe the act of the kiss in a very unsuitable manner. However, sir, this was poignant, erotic, beautiful. I had not realised you wished to take control, to dominate like this. I must confess I would find this power exchange to be immensely satisfactory."

I coughed again, rather awkwardly. "I say! I wouldn't mind that at all. But, Reg, surely you don't actually enjoy THESE stories, do you? Surely a cove who eats as much fish as you do realises they're not the peak of literature, what?"

"On the contrary, sir," The stuffed frog mask was put back up just the tiniest fraction at my suggestion. "I intend to change the names and take this to your publisher. It is a crime to keep this art from the world."

At this I spluttered, taken aback. "Well, Reggie, uh, that is to say, wouldn't it we best if we kept these between us? As a sort of, intimate thingummy of our tender love and all?" This, I hoped, would stop him from soiling the Wooster name by spreading those drunken bits of rannygazoo to the whole of the metrop.

"Ah. Very good, sir." said my man, the Bassett-ness about him beginning to dissipate, leaving a pleasant, yet still Jeevesian, softness on his map.

This Wooster couldn't help but reach out and grasp that strong hand of it, stroking a thumb over it soothingly. "Better it stays in our inner circle than be spread freely to some sort of inter-net fiction archive thingummy where any sort of odd johnnie can read about us, what?"

He coughed, not unlike a sheep on a distant hillside clearing its throat of a blade of grass. "Most certainly, sir."