I am attempting a polar expedition utilizing the new dirigible America. We will succeed where others have frozen solid, in traversing the frozen north until we come upon the pole of the Earth. To this end, I am asking for a meager 75,000$ in gold to secure the necessary provisions and film-cameras for our crew. Remember, it will be with great renown that we will land and advertise any business who invests in this venture at the pole itself.
Please be informed that I have just today returned safely from just such a trip. The account of my exploits is to be published in the upcoming book, “How I Was The First Person To Cross the North Pole In A Dirigible, and other tales”. The subject of the book is how awesome I am.
My dearest Bartleby,
Damn you! It confounds me how you manage to be as the proverbial thorn in my side at every literal turn. Confess to having never made such a voyage at once or I shall invoke the power of the Aeronautical Constabulary of Paris.
I have dispatched a gang of thugs to your publisher’s to destroy the manuscript and if not possible then the presses themselves. I thing you will find me a more contendable adversary than previously considered.
Love to your wife and darling daughter,
Dear old fool,
I believe you shall find that the presses have taken to the air! Even as we speak, my fleet of dirigibles hovers over the Thames, stocked full of printing presses, awaiting my order to blanket the cities and country-side with pamphlets announcing my success. They are also ordered to fire-bomb your estate.
My good Bartleby,
You are a man-loving servant to a fish monger’s indenture! You have left me no recourse and as you read this dispatch I will be approaching your dirigible-fleet in my personal, one manned balloon Revenge armed with fire-arrows. The only thing your presses will be producing is rust at the bottom to the Thames!
I am also sure that it will be to your chagrin when you realize my estate is carved out of solid granite, and fire-bombing will naught but kill all my livestock and servants. Hah! Also, thanks to my being friends with the 2nd Sea Lord (I once took blame for a horrid smell he had created while waiting in the vestibule of St. James’s whilst waiting for the Queen), the ironclad frigate Yeoman will be waiting in the Thames to kill any of your thugs who might survive the fall.
May your failures be great in magnitude and frequency,
A thousand curses upon your hairless, top-hatted head! As I dance among the flames of my plummeting airflagship, I use my dying breath to give the order to drop my steam-powered nuclear bomb! Prepare to kiss your Cornish arse good-bye!
To the builder of the nonfunctioning, steam-spewing ₤50,000 cannonball currently falling into central London,
It is with honor and glory that I accept your curses. I shall commission a funeral dirge from the finest Prussian cellist for you. The title will be “Ode to Dirigible-Death”.
And for your information my mother makes the best Cornish Arse in all of England, which is eaten so quickly there is never any left over to kiss good-bye.
Epilogue: The French invaded, rendering the entire conflict moot.