Post by Romio Julian Rosselini on Sept 3, 2014 16:21:48 GMT -8
Seattle, State of Washington
The Colonies
After some sage advice that I received in 1907, I began looking into the acquisition of local businesses, and funding what I believed to be the next leap in technology and social connections that these crazy Colonial chaps were about to make: travel, by horseless carriage, and by aeroplane. I can just see the face of my old regiment leader, his walrus mustache twitching like a broken kite in a fierce wind, his lips sputtering flecks of astounded spittle as he would try to assuage me from the mere notion of a man travelling through the air like God in his chariot.
"Jumping Jehosaphat!" He would likely cry, shaking a fist at me from the ground. " You ain't no bloody sodding Elijah!"
Well, I never said I would fly in the damned things. But for those who were foolhardy enough to actually strap themselves into a tin can and watch their lives pass them by at speeds of- well, actually, how fast do they go? - I can only say this: I'd be laughing all the way to the bank. And laugh I did, as the small fortune I invested in a German company called Benz, and an American company called Ford began to pay off. Madame's clothes were taken care of, as were her multiple houses, the estate, and anything else we had a notion of purchasing. I began to pay more attention to the production and sale of Liquor, and invested yet more money in two aeroplane manufacturers,the Lockheed Corporation and the Boeing Company, which had the added benefit of being local. Little did I know how much those two investments would pay off later on.
Prohibition came roaring into Seattle in 1920, and with it came a whole new set of issues and conflicts. Bars that I had long been a silent partner in began to close up, and bootlegging became a common occurrence. After unsuccessfully lobbying to fight Prohibition, I realized that the only way to beat them at the game was to join the bootleggers, and for a while, I became one of them. I developed an elaborate ruse using theatrical wigs and makeup, and was at one time not only financially backing three separate stills, but was literally in competition with myself. Ahh, those were the days. I can honestly say that to this day, I still miss the smell of shoe leather freshly splashed with moonshine.
In 1926, I became introduced to one of the most unscrupulous and monstrous individuals I have ever had the misfortune of dealing with: a local Bobby, by the name of William Harvey Thompson. He not only caused a lot of trouble with the spirit-swilling establishments, he also gave the Seattle Municipal Police Department ( I do so love the quaint names they come up with here in the Colonies) a whole new black eye in the form of a violent cop with little regard for rules or ethics. This blaggard frequently beat patrons of ill-reputed establishments over the head with a cosh, and enjoyed humiliating them in public in front of their peers and friends. I understand all too well the need for a good policeman, and I respect their chosen profession even if I cannot in good conscience respect an individual Bobby's behavior.
But Thompson; this foul firebrand of a man once beat a 12 year old child with his cosh, then his mother (who was intervening to save her child), and finally the boy's one-legged father. I was present, and I can say that were it not for the attentions of two other armed police officers at the scene, I would have ended Thompson's abuse once and for all right there. But I had my Lady to think of, of course. And no life was more important to save than Madame's. Old Thompson's violence finally caught up with him though: he was sent to a scene where a drunk couple were arguing in their car, and he made as if to beat them with his familiar cosh, but the driver of the car shot him dead before he could react. Naturally I was never near that scene, of course. I had absolutely nothing to do with Thompson being sent there by his duty officer. And I most certainly was not driving that car. No sir.
By the time the Second World War happened, the Madame and I were well established in Seattle, and the money was rolling in, even through the Great Depression. I had convinced my Lady that it was prudent of us to take care of many of the poor, for in time, they and their children would take care of her (and us). While she was, of course, too royal of blood to actually get down in the trenches and help, I made sure that her donations went to the needy and destitute, and more than once I volunteered in the soup kitchens, ladling out bowls of porridge and stew for the unfortunate souls whose only transgression seemed to be that they had been born too soon, or too late, to have missed this terrible period in history.
World War II; now there's a memory. Even before it started, I could see from world events that a spectacularly terrible conflict was looming. If I had been in England, I would have joined up with the local fly-boys and gone parachuting into Germany for a chance to punch the old Kraut-father in the nose faster than you could say "Bob's your uncle". But I was here, and the Madame needed me just as much as ever, and by Odin's beard there was a mess of chores to be taken care of, and silver to polish, and finances to manage. Sadly, and I'm not proud to admit it, I was able to keep from being drafted by feigning a severe limp. Perhaps my mother birthed me too near that theatre, now that I think about it.
I looked up from the veritable novel I was writing, and sniffed the air in a sudden panic; GOOD GOD! I had left the muffins in too long!
The Colonies
After some sage advice that I received in 1907, I began looking into the acquisition of local businesses, and funding what I believed to be the next leap in technology and social connections that these crazy Colonial chaps were about to make: travel, by horseless carriage, and by aeroplane. I can just see the face of my old regiment leader, his walrus mustache twitching like a broken kite in a fierce wind, his lips sputtering flecks of astounded spittle as he would try to assuage me from the mere notion of a man travelling through the air like God in his chariot.
"Jumping Jehosaphat!" He would likely cry, shaking a fist at me from the ground. " You ain't no bloody sodding Elijah!"
Well, I never said I would fly in the damned things. But for those who were foolhardy enough to actually strap themselves into a tin can and watch their lives pass them by at speeds of- well, actually, how fast do they go? - I can only say this: I'd be laughing all the way to the bank. And laugh I did, as the small fortune I invested in a German company called Benz, and an American company called Ford began to pay off. Madame's clothes were taken care of, as were her multiple houses, the estate, and anything else we had a notion of purchasing. I began to pay more attention to the production and sale of Liquor, and invested yet more money in two aeroplane manufacturers,the Lockheed Corporation and the Boeing Company, which had the added benefit of being local. Little did I know how much those two investments would pay off later on.
Prohibition came roaring into Seattle in 1920, and with it came a whole new set of issues and conflicts. Bars that I had long been a silent partner in began to close up, and bootlegging became a common occurrence. After unsuccessfully lobbying to fight Prohibition, I realized that the only way to beat them at the game was to join the bootleggers, and for a while, I became one of them. I developed an elaborate ruse using theatrical wigs and makeup, and was at one time not only financially backing three separate stills, but was literally in competition with myself. Ahh, those were the days. I can honestly say that to this day, I still miss the smell of shoe leather freshly splashed with moonshine.
In 1926, I became introduced to one of the most unscrupulous and monstrous individuals I have ever had the misfortune of dealing with: a local Bobby, by the name of William Harvey Thompson. He not only caused a lot of trouble with the spirit-swilling establishments, he also gave the Seattle Municipal Police Department ( I do so love the quaint names they come up with here in the Colonies) a whole new black eye in the form of a violent cop with little regard for rules or ethics. This blaggard frequently beat patrons of ill-reputed establishments over the head with a cosh, and enjoyed humiliating them in public in front of their peers and friends. I understand all too well the need for a good policeman, and I respect their chosen profession even if I cannot in good conscience respect an individual Bobby's behavior.
But Thompson; this foul firebrand of a man once beat a 12 year old child with his cosh, then his mother (who was intervening to save her child), and finally the boy's one-legged father. I was present, and I can say that were it not for the attentions of two other armed police officers at the scene, I would have ended Thompson's abuse once and for all right there. But I had my Lady to think of, of course. And no life was more important to save than Madame's. Old Thompson's violence finally caught up with him though: he was sent to a scene where a drunk couple were arguing in their car, and he made as if to beat them with his familiar cosh, but the driver of the car shot him dead before he could react. Naturally I was never near that scene, of course. I had absolutely nothing to do with Thompson being sent there by his duty officer. And I most certainly was not driving that car. No sir.
By the time the Second World War happened, the Madame and I were well established in Seattle, and the money was rolling in, even through the Great Depression. I had convinced my Lady that it was prudent of us to take care of many of the poor, for in time, they and their children would take care of her (and us). While she was, of course, too royal of blood to actually get down in the trenches and help, I made sure that her donations went to the needy and destitute, and more than once I volunteered in the soup kitchens, ladling out bowls of porridge and stew for the unfortunate souls whose only transgression seemed to be that they had been born too soon, or too late, to have missed this terrible period in history.
World War II; now there's a memory. Even before it started, I could see from world events that a spectacularly terrible conflict was looming. If I had been in England, I would have joined up with the local fly-boys and gone parachuting into Germany for a chance to punch the old Kraut-father in the nose faster than you could say "Bob's your uncle". But I was here, and the Madame needed me just as much as ever, and by Odin's beard there was a mess of chores to be taken care of, and silver to polish, and finances to manage. Sadly, and I'm not proud to admit it, I was able to keep from being drafted by feigning a severe limp. Perhaps my mother birthed me too near that theatre, now that I think about it.
I looked up from the veritable novel I was writing, and sniffed the air in a sudden panic; GOOD GOD! I had left the muffins in too long!
