[font=Times New Roman]No doubt many Bretonians will be shame-faced and scandalised should my rambunctious records of my later criminal career ever be unsealed by Her Majesty's secretive censors.
I had been pulling political strings and other stiffer things in an avid attempt to convince the aged Admiralty of the wisdom of boldly backing my innovative idea for a Special Operations Executive - a fast strike force equipped to thrust vigorously at the vile yellow intruder behind his slanty frontlines.
Kusari had a native population of terse troublemakers, rebellious halfwits and ne'er-do-wells who with the right encouragment (i.e. a flogging, Brinkley-style) would take arms against their ball-less Emperor and his cat-eating cronies.
The infrastructure and men for such an operation existed already. Some background: you may recall the energetic efforts of the Abolitionists to secure Bretonian backing for their hugely humanitarian efforts to abolish salacious slavery.
A tangent: now I admire social structures involving serfdom as much as the next man, but one must admit that the practice of slavery is downright silly. I mean to say, if you enslave everyone, then who will we have to maintain the pretence of a liberal democracy? It will be guillotines at Gateshead again if the proles don't believe they have some say in which palaces of the mighty should be accessible to them and their oafish wives on Bank Holidays for one of their flatulent family outings.
Anyway, young Wilberforce had expended his measly inheritance patronising his cause, and had managed to bend the ear of several politicans and part of the Admiralty to support him. Most people will be aware of the ill-fated Preventitive Squadron established to harass the haulers of slaves. These cheeky chaps endured some of the cruellest conditions of any Bretonian servicemen. Disease, privation and starvation were commonplace. In certain circumstances, the lack of supplies meant they were forced to contemplate eating potatoes.
What few of these chaps that survived the demobilisation of the Squadron found their way into the ranks of Stuart's Privateers, a pot pourri of roguish rapscallions who had penetrated Kusari's rear and were rogering trade with a vigour that would make a Cretan whore blush.
These would form the backbone of the S.O.E.
But, lo! My personal involvement could not be guaranteed sitting on the Derby drooling into cups of milky tea and waiting for my six o'clock sponge-bath. Retirement would be busy for me in Bretonia, as my social calendar was packed. I had to extricate myself.
So, during a secretive operation requiring the level of orchestration of a Baroque concerto in a coal-mine, my demise was faked. I beheld the funeral ceremony with tears in my eyes. And, it must be said, a kind of resentment. They believed I was in ill-health? Egad, I was as healthy as a war-horse! I had in fact been terrorising the dormitories of the Military Academies only that week in my Stag outfit on one of my famed Rogering Raids!
Nevertheless, I slipped away across the border in the company of some devilishly nubile Chrysanthemum ladies (they prefer leaves to tea-bags, oddly enough) and rendezvoused with the Privateer Fleet in the Taus. Adventure of a different kind awaited.
Stuart had vanished, most likely stuck between two obese tarts in some poxy Kusari brothel playing "Hide the Weasel" or somesuch.
