RANSOM - Artist, Lover, Adventurer - Part One

         

Flintlock Dueling Pistols

          Ransom Ichabod Peabody, on the verge of waking up, trying desperately to continue on with his dream muttered, "Not yet, damn it!" The tavern maid in his wondrous, semiconscious state was naked and his hands were filled with her voluptuous flesh, soft breasts the size of watermelons bouncing in his face as they thrashed about on a huge bed covered in cerulean satin sheets and matching thick pillows.

            Waking up he shouted, "Ahh!"

           "Hmm... that was jolly good. Nothing like a wet dream to start the day."

           As Ransom lay on his cot, a tiny shaft of sunlight glinting through a small and the only window and illuminating his dreary room, thoughts of Rosy the tavern maid, his dream come true fading into the dark spider-webbed corners, he dreaded the idea of getting up and facing the day. Memories of the past evening, drinking himself into a drunken stupor foremost in his thoughts, he recalled the events which occurred, which would most likely be the cause of his death.

          Sitting up, a sharp pain searing through his muddled head, he hoped his hangover would soon clear up because if he was to survive this day, he was indeed in need of a clear head. Noticing a crumpled cigarette butt sitting on the edge of a small beat-up wooden table next to his cot, he grabbed it and stuck it in the corner of his mouth. Striking a match, he waited for a flame and then lit the cigarette, a lung full of smoke was in order, help take the edge off his worried thoughts. Now, if he only had a drink. A wine bottle that was lying on its side was his only hope and as he reached for it, he noticed his shaky hands. This was at least a good sign because he wasn't, like beforehand on several occasions, seeing pink hippopotamuses wearing purple tutus that looked like overweight ballerinas spinning on their stubby toes. The bottle was dark, opaque as a stone, so he was unable to see if it contained any wine. Tilting it almost upright he sipped the last swig. Noticing a soft lump in his mouth, he dribbled the red wine into his open hand, which yielded a big black fly doing the backstroke. Flicking it onto the dirt floor with a finger, he then lapped up the wine, licked his fingers and said, "I can see this is going to be one of those days when I should have just stayed in bed."

          Ransom was as common as muck. While a boy, his family had been poor and now as a grown man, he was equally poor. However, despite being poverty stricken, he was a very good artist, had an abundant of natural talent. And that was how he survived. A well-known artist Maurice Creston who was busy with commissions from the church and the nobility gave him room and board, plus a few coins, a mere pittance in exchange as his assistant. Ransom was so good that his patron barely added anymore than his signature to the paintings he produced, of which there were many.

          Strolling through the studio, Ransom stopped in front of an easel and looked at a portrait that he was working on. The painting depicted a beautiful young wife of an aging duke. She was dressed in a low-cut, white satin gown, adorned with white lace and a string of emeralds matching her green eyes were strung around her dainty throat. Although the whiteness of her skin glowed like alabaster and made her appear cold, she was anything but as he recalled ravishing her during a posing session - their sexual frivolity actually flattening his cot.

          His head was still pounding as hard as a blacksmith's sledge hammer when he looked at himself in a broken mirror, that was  missing a few shards of glass and hanging on the wall near the easel. Although his eyes were bloodshot and his long black hair was very disheveled, he was still a handsome man. His boyish good looks combined with his artistic charms, a silver-tongued devil, turned many a maiden's eye and shed many a gown. He had fallen asleep, most likely passed out on the cot with his clothes on after his drinking spree last evening and had somehow lost one of the two straps holding up his pants. He looked like hell and as he tried straightening himself out, combing his long hair and tying a tattered ribbon to keep it in place, he recollected the events of last night that would most likely end his life at exactly 4:00 pm.

          As per usual, he spent the majority of the evening in the Horse and Dog Tavern with some friends and a well-to-do aristocrat who simply pulled up a chair and ordered a round of ale. Nobody knew the portly, well-dressed gentleman with the white-coiffed wig, but free ale was free ale and nobody contested his presence. He seemed pleasant enough, his round red face getting redder and redder with each ale he imbibed of which there were many. However, it was late into the evening, almost "last call gentlemen", when Rosy the tavern maid leaned over while placing full mugs of ale on the table, her ample bosoms almost touching the gentleman's face. As if he was entitled, he gave one of them a squeeze.

          Rosy was quite taken aback, not because some of the patrons occasionally tried to take advantage of her womanly charms but from someone who obviously had a position and wealth, his actions were highly unusual. The richer men generally treated her with respect while she was serving them and then just before the tavern closed, would ask how much she would charge for a private visit. As odd as it seemed, highly unusual in fact for a young woman in her position, although Rosy was a flirty wench and very playful, knowing full well the potential of her feminine charms, she was still a virgin. However, although she could not read or write, she was smart enough to know that if she gave it away or for money, she would have a harder time to marry and a family of her own is what she greatly desired. 

          The gentleman had barely touched Rosy's breast when Ransom leaned across the table and slapped him across the face yelling, "That's no way to treat a lady sir!"

          To which the aristocrat heatedly replied, "She's no lady! She's just a common maid. And you, you're just a commoner too and since you took it upon yourself to strike someone of my status, I therefore challenge you to a duel!"