Over To You - The Frog Who Went Funky

It’s time once again to let someone else nudge the direction of this blog, although probably not in the way that they were expecting (and almost certainly not in the way I was expecting when I started out. Today’s effort comes courtesy of Phil and you can see what the prompts were at the end of the post...


The Frog Who Went Funky

Editor’s Note:- As most of you probably don’t recall, I am, amongst other things, the curator of the Greater Kirkian Archive; that body of work which includes the various scribbling, daubings and witterings of my ancestor Squire Kirk The Elder (a curated selection of his writings can be found somewhere over here). In these recent lockdown times, I’ve had occasion to revisit some of the less catalogued boxes of the collection and came across this particular piece which hasn’t seen the light of day before. Presented here then (unedited as always) is a hitherto undiscovered tale of the Squire’s past.


The day had started as many a day was wont to do - with your humble narrator safe within the embrace of his usual seat within the Actonian Gentleman’s Club; cigar in one hand and refreshing alcoholic libation in the other. There may be a finer way to start the day but, until I happen upon it, this will more than suffice. My smoke and booze fueled indolence was not to last, however, as the grim spectre of Andrews the decrepit footman loomed into view .

“Mmuuhhhuurr mnnnuhhurr hmmurr nmmuurr?” mumbled the Grim Reaper’s representative on Earth. Fortunately, I speak a little codger and took this to mean that there was a visitor to see me. With the gentlest of cuffs round the ear, I bade him convey my guest to me.

My heart sank as the portly figure of none other than Arbuthnot “Fatty” Furlough hoved its way into view. It was a rare occasion that a visit from Furlough brought news of a pleaing variety and I suspected this was not to be one of those occasions.

As he drew nearer, I could already sense that something was amiss. The other members of the club seemed to be drawing away from him and, as his approach came within nostril range, I began to sense a distinctly unwelcome olfactory presence making itself known. I would not have expected this from Furlough - he was a man fastidious in his appearance and cleanliness and not one given to niffs of a nasty nature.

As he sat opposite me and the pungent whiff began to make the eyes water a little, I could sense that the assault upon the nostrils was not being caused by Furlough himself but by the small box that he had cupped within his surprisingly delicate hands. I smoothed my facial topiary and fixed him with a look.

“Furlough, old chap,” said I, “this really isn’t the done thing, you know. Coming into a gentleman’s club and trailing the most dreadful funk in with you. What’s all this about?”

Furlough furrowed his forlorn features and fixed me with a fearful flash of the eyes. “Hugest of apologies, old thing,” said he, “but I didn't know where else to turn. It’s been a rum old day and no mistake and I thought to myself, “Furlough, old bean, when things get rum, who’s the likeliest coe that you know who always finds himself in a rum do?” And only the one name sprung to mind.

I can tell you that I should have affronted at such a suggestion but, as the pathways of my life often lead me to the odd and the uncanny, I couldn’t really say much.

“Go on, Fa- uh, Furlough, old fruit, let me know what the trouble is.”

Pausing only to motion to Andrews and avail himself of a snifter, Furlough ploughed on. “It all started this morning. I had ventured south of the river at the insistence of a good chum of mine. He had been the previous week to the latest excitement to grace the the area - a certain Professor Pandaemonium’s Curiosity Of Phantasmagorical Wonderment, which proclaimed that ‘Deptford had never seen the likes of such a spectacle’. Hardly a ringing endorsement, I agree but he seemed much taken with it and I could not dissuade him.”

Furlough paused for a quick whetting of the whistle. “There were the usual sights you would expect at such a carnival - siamese triplets, the Bearded Man, the Incredible Smoking Woman - but my eye was drawn but a small stall tucked away behind the main attractions, selling oddities, trinkets and gewgaws; a pair of binoculars, jewel encrusted canes, holy relics, that sort of thing. You know me, old thing, I’m a man of discerning taste, not one for cut price fripperies, so I wasn’t to be distracted by the stuff on show for the riff raff.”

Inwardly, I rolled my eyes. Furlough was well known for being easily parted from his money.

“After some initial reluctance, the wizened old stallholder could clearly see that I was a man of business and went to the special stock out the back, returning with this.”

Furlough opened the box. The noisome funk immediately increased. Inside, looking tired and forlorn, was a small and dull-coloured frog. Conscious of the glares of the other members, Furlough quickly shut the lid.

“The Great Wazoonian Money Frog. Guaranteed to bring you fortune and good luck. Of course, he tried to change his mind and keep it from me but I managed to bargain him up to a good price. What he did not tell me - and did not become apparent until I was some distance away - is just how much of a stench the little blighter puts out.”

This time I groaned audibly. “I hate to break it to you but that’s not a Money Frog, old sock.”

Furlough’s face crumpled. “It’s not?”

“Afraid not, chum. What you have there is the Little Whampton Clinging Stink Frog. Very hard to get rid of. Notoriously so. Once they’ve marked you with their scent. That’s usually your lot.”

Furlough’s bottom lip quivered. “Oh dear.”

I sighed. I’d been looking forward to a nice quiet in the club but it appeared that was not to be.

“Look, I can help you but it’s not going to be easy. You’re going to have to trust me. We’re going to a carriage, some string, a fresh vial of bat’s urine, the details of a good cobbler...and a priest plus a fresh pair of garters.”

Furlough looked perplexed but knew better than to question your humble narrator. At a reasonable frog-funk avoiding distance, we made our way from the club. How we removed the curse from old Furlough (a story involving mistaken identity, a police chase through darkened streets, a very irate bat and one count of blasphemy) is a tale for another time…

Editor’s Note:- Sadly, so far no other fragment has been found to date which contains the concluding part of the Squire’s tale.


The Prompt
Here is what I had to work with courtesy of Phil:-
Story title - The Frog Who Went Funky
Character name - Fatty Furlough
Object - A pair of binoculars
Line of dialogue - “Deptford had never seen the likes of such a spectacle”