By Todd McKie
Sorry to spoil your beauty sleep, ladies. Saddle up and do your Queen proud! One last look in your pocket mirrors, lads. Blouses tucked? Sanitary napkins in place, girls? Legs and underarms shaved clean, gentlemen?
Mount your steeds, you God-forsaken deviants! Mount your steed Sergeant Jepperson—quit off interfering with Lieutenant Newsome’s private parts! A bad hair day, Williams? Put away the comb and mount your horse. That’s a direct order, sir. You there, Holmes, shall we postpone the battle whilst you do your nails? What’s it to be lassie, your cuticles or the future of the British Empire? Brassieres and bonnets lashed on tight, men?
Right then, you wretched pederasts, close ranks. Gunderson, urge your horse forward, girl. What seems to be the problem, Corporal Parker? Has your monthly begun? Oh, you just don’t feel like it this morning. Well, adjust your panties, Missy, and sit up straight. That’s more like it, lad.
Sound the trumpet, Captain Edgerley—and none of your damned show tunes!
For God, Victoria, and England! Charge!
Todd McKie is an artist and writer. His stories have appeared in PANK, Twelve Stories, Pure Slush, McSweeney’s Internet Tendency, Conclave, and elsewhere. Todd lives in Boston.