Prose: 'The Baron Blows The House Down' (short)

Miraculously, all this demolition had given me an idea. Breaking social rules had not worked. Acting like a crazy homeless person had not worked. I had somehow to convince the town I was now high-ruler or that my past-history had been forged. That my castle was counterfeit, just a movie-set, hollow on the inside.

The simplest way to do this was to plow the thing down.

It was a grand decision to make, and the power that came with making it was exhilarating.

That castle was my family’s past. I was playing with fire; but I had forgotten all my other aspirations for the present. All I wanted was to be able to spit in public. I had forgotten reason, I had forgotten the traditional virtues, I had primarily forgotten my family’s quest to carry on the line. But this was not haunting me yet.

The next day I walked around the castle, choosing ten possessions from everything I owned to save from the “natural disaster” about to befall Spangler Manor. I did not have many left to choose from, since Olivia had expunged most of them. She took apart my Decorative Poisons Rack, tore up my banned literature and dismembered my armament cabinet. All my antique rifles, bayonets, grenades, even my prized canon, one of the first ever constructed, were deposited at the local tip one day when I was away at the university. I did not even get the chance to get marvellously richer out of them – who knows what my cannon might have retrieved at a private auction, or how many potential bidders it might have taken out, cannonball-style. She also had my Ned Kelly helmet removed from the castle – I never found out where it went either. It was an original. It came with a signed picture of its original occupant and a declaration of ownership from said bushranger which ran:

I Ned Kelly do solemnly swear that this is the original helmet I wore during all that bushranging I did including the one I was shot down in and hung in. Signed, Ned Kelly.

Though it was considerably less articulate. I’m sure Ned, wherever he is, will thank me for socio-economically improving upon his articulation. Anyway, of my remaining possessions, I rescued these:

1. My 16mm print of Frankenstein.
2. My projector.
3. My copies of Tristram Shandy, The Great Gatsby, Ragtime, The Bible – all others, to the bulldozer.
4. My mother and father.
5. Of my staff: Gran, Mortimer and Head chef Marion the Faithful. All others, to the bulldozer.
6. My claw-footed sponge bath
7. The wall chart of the forms of address my father had given me.
8. The skeleton key to the whole manor, which I’d taken charge of when I relegated my folks to the dungeon. I fixed it to a necklace and wore it round my neck, with fond remembrance.
9. The urn of my wife, just to be sure she never escaped again.
10. My autographed copy of The Social Code, in case it ever came in handy.

(There is another story, but I shouldn't tell it here, as I'll forget the present one...)

At 10:46 the next day, on the great hill where Spangler Manor had stood in all its glory and acres of surrounding dead land, was nothing but rubble, and dead land.

Maddeningly, high society loved me for it. In the new air of the 70’s, it was as if I was saying “down with the old,” or “down with the establishment” by pulling down my old digs. I was taken up by everyone. The working classes took me for a working-class hero, since they recognized the tractors, bulldozers and workmen and associated me with them; the lower classes thought I was allying myself with them, since now we had a lack of a home in common; and high society found everything amusing, and loved how eventful my action was. I had given them something to talk about, so they heralded me for it. Literally. Instead of actually talking about me, they would say: “yes, but you have to admire the man, look at the excitement he’s given us all. Look at what he’s given us to talk about.” So they would end up not getting around to scorning me, because everyone would take up the call of saying how much they had to talk about. The bourgeoisie, at least, were the only ones not impressed.

Everyone else, though, embarrassed me to tears when they began carrying placards saying what a top bloke I was – I had unified what was usually a properly stratified society. Then, predictably, as soon as the bourgeoisie saw everyone else doing something, they had to get in on the action.

“Down with the castles!” “Down with the old!” “Spangler forever!” “We Love Spangler!”

“Hertfordshire is the new Spangler Manor.” “Spanglerland!” “Spangler for King!”
King, eh?

I wrote a letter to the Queen that requested the recession of Hamphertfordshire from the monarchy, and requested Hamphertforshire to be recognised as its own monarchy and empire, with Baron Spangler as King and Lord High Ruler.

The note was rejected, but I didn’t tell anyone that.

I had Mortimer erect signs outside town saying “You are now entering the monarchy of Spanglerland.” And “You are now leaving Spanglerland.” I also set up toll-booths and passport checks on the border, and had an airport built, not to reinforce the point too much.

I was so occupied with my new duties of being a monarch that I forgot my quest. I kept wanting to be ejected from society, but everything I seemed to do only raised me higher up its ladder. I hoped, deeply, that the old adage was true: the higher they rise, the harder they fall.

When all else had failed me, and my wife and I stood on the wreck-site like Buster Keaton and
his girl next to the railroad tracks where a train had just demolished their portable home, I kissed Marjorine longingly, lovingly. When we broke away, she stared into my eyes, confused but happy.

“You know, my dear,” I said to her, “I think I did care for you after all.”

She grinned, but suddenly felt cold in her chest. She put a hand there. “Suddenly I don’t feel…” she started to say.

“But you know, dear, I simply can’t have anyone thinking they control me. I mean…”

Her face started to go green.

“I’ve let this go on for a while now – through my ruling a university, a fun-park, a town, and now a realm. But now…”

Her face was contorted. “I feel bad,” she said.

“And so you should, my dear,” I told her. “But I forgive you.”

She collapsed on the ground at my feet.

I had had an arsenic capsule on my tongue. A special design, designed for a kiss of death.