Sentence The Sixhundredandfortyfourth
Sir Parlane MacFarlane luxuriated in the hot bath; both he and Dominic Doubleday had been granted amnesty by his descendant, the grande fromage, Donald 'Duck' Trumpet-Trousers, now POTUS and issuing Executive Orders for the benefit of his friends and family, as was only right, thought MacFarlane – what is the point of being Supreme Leader if a man didn't reward those who had helped him or might, in future, be in positions to do so? all right, Duck with his strange wig may be a
struwwelpeter, lampooned by the muckrakers of the Gutter Press as one who thought only of his own advantage, but was that so very different from his ancestor? oh, Parlane had no conceit of himself, he knew exactly what he was and what he did, but reasoned he was no different from any man who, peradventure found himself with the opportunity to do exactly what he wanted to do and with little or no likelihood of suffering unwelcome consequences, be he Saint or Scholar, Politician or Priest, Lawyer or Layabout: give a man the chance of a fuck without responsibility and, he thought, he would do it, no remorse, no guilt; we are all the same, and with that last thought he rang the bell for the pretty little Mexican housemaid who would bring him towels and dry him off, after he had pulled
her into the tub – there seemed to be a never-ending supply of these little girls, he had three different ones yesterday and a new one was here to serve him this morning; he had to admit that while Duck was certainly a conceited, rather infantile, self-aggrandising boor, bore and bully, he had fine taste in serving wenches, not perhaps quite so young as he, Parlane, would have chosen but, what's the saying? beggars can't be choosers, and unfortunately, cut adrift in this rather too Bright New World, with no access to the fortune at his disposal in his own time – though Duck had promised to see about getting that sorted out – he needs must live off others and if that meant accepting of their taste in wenches, well, he never let principle stand in the way of a good poke!
struwwelpeter, lampooned by the muckrakers of the Gutter Press as one who thought only of his own advantage, but was that so very different from his ancestor? oh, Parlane had no conceit of himself, he knew exactly what he was and what he did, but reasoned he was no different from any man who, peradventure found himself with the opportunity to do exactly what he wanted to do and with little or no likelihood of suffering unwelcome consequences, be he Saint or Scholar, Politician or Priest, Lawyer or Layabout: give a man the chance of a fuck without responsibility and, he thought, he would do it, no remorse, no guilt; we are all the same, and with that last thought he rang the bell for the pretty little Mexican housemaid who would bring him towels and dry him off, after he had pulled her into the tub – there seemed to be a never-ending supply of these little girls, he had three different ones yesterday and a new one was here to serve him this morning; he had to admit that while Duck was certainly a conceited, rather infantile, self-aggrandising boor, bore and bully, he had fine taste in serving wenches, not perhaps quite so young as he, Parlane, would have chosen but, what's the saying? beggars can't be choosers, and unfortunately, cut adrift in this rather too Bright New World, with no access to the fortune at his disposal in his own time – though Duck had promised to see about getting that sorted out – he needs must live off others and if that meant accepting of their taste in wenches, well, he never let principle stand in the way of a good poke! 
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