The ending throway joke will be much funnier (or just funny at all, even in the slightest) if you read this first.
The four Hanoverian Georges sit in a half-circle. George IV is taking snuff; a glass of claret sits by his side. George III is restrained in a frighteningly durable-looking straitjacket. George I and II look mean and obscure, respectively.
"So what's the trouble, Five, my dear old thing?" George IV still sounds like a dandy; the past hundred or so years have changed him little, beyond allowing him to work back down to his strapping Hugh Laurie looks of the early days.
"Well..." George V shifts uncomfortably. "I need you to go to France."
"What, all of us?" George II looks flabbergasted. "Surely we'll be recognized at once!"
"Honestly, Two, I don't think that's going to be as big a problem as you think it is."
"We'll be incognito," whispers George III, conspiratorially to nobody in particular. He slowly rocks from side to side.
"Quite so, quite so," says George V. He dearly wishes he had a cigar, but it's hard to smoke when you don't breathe.
"You vant us to be your spies? Against the Germans?" George I's accent is particularly strong this evening.
"If it's not a bother, of course."
"Ach, no, heavens no. To think that Hanover's no longer a duchy! I could spit."
"We'll Culloden the lot of them."
"Culloden 'em, dear fella? We'll Trafalgar 'em."
"I should say we'd...Waterloo them?" George IV waits for laughter, and then remembers there's not a fawning courtier for at least three sub-basements.
"Vell, why ever for?"
"It turns out that the Germans can replicate a fellow, fully formed. Cloning they call it. Mercifully, they don't use it for much other than making more spies, and we keep catching the blighters, but we can't keep up with our spies unless we stop researching things. A lot of science talk, really. Also, Baldwin says it would be an awful lot of money to fund resistance movements in France if it falls. Jolly old nuisance, really."
"Und you want us to do what, exactly?"
"You're going be dropped into France, dressed as civilians. You're going to be doing one thing and one thing only: killing Nazis. As long as it's cricket, I mean."
The original four Georges confer. Then, in unison: "We'll do it."
RAF De Haviland Hertfordshire [Flamingo] Transport, Somewhere over German-occupied France, August 22, 1941
The other three Georges have already made the jump. George IV stands dramatically in the open doorway of the aircraft, his stylish leggings the only concession to 19th-century fashion, a tommy gun clenched in his hands.
GEORGE IV: [dramatically] When George the Forth to Earth descends, the Nazi reign in France ENDS! [he jumps.] HALOOOoooooooooooOOOOooOoooooo!
"Mankind has only one science. It is the science of discontent." -- Count Hasimir Fenring The Führer Goes Nuts! (and he's contagious) - An utterly nonsensical HoI 3 AAR. Danse Macabre - A Victoria: Revolutions / Hearts of Iron III / World of Darkness crossover.
Updates on both AARs resuming in May
[The Deathless King-Emperor George V rules over his subjects with a benign and rather dull hand---unless you're some sort of bloody protestor in one of the more remote colonies or something, in which case you just watch yourself---but the UK's nascent Fascist movement prays to whatever heathen Hun gods they worship that he'll kick the bucket so that his wastrel son Edward can take the throne and make some mischief.]
The King-Emperor is visiting the latest addition to his multifarious armed forces, the King's Royal Rocket Corps. A small tent city has erupted overnight upon the placid moors of Yorkshire, and about two dozen stubby little Gloster Titmouse flying bombs on their mobile launchers exude an air of lumpy, porridge-filled menace. Little does His Deathless Majesty know that he's being stalked by agents of the sinister Japanophile Baron Sempill (incidentally, a real life Japanese sympathizer investigated by MI5), who intend to knock off his Serene Bufferness first chance they get.
The King makes awkward small talk with the officers of the KRRC. He can't but dimly feel, in the recesses of his Icke-ian reptile brain, that these men in their grease stained coveralls might not be the Right Sort.
"So," says King George, "these bombs...fly?"
Suitably awed by the Royal Presence (and doubtless disconcerted by the fact that the Royal heart hasn't beaten even once since 20 January 1936), Lieutenant Bryant of the KRRC can only nod mutely.
"I have often thought that bombs could merely...fall," says the King, struggling to make small talk with a lower social order, "but now I see this is no longer the case." If only Albert Frederick were here! He always had the common touch. Pity about that bloody stammer, though.
"Quite so, your Majesty."
HRH and Lieutenant Bryant are spared the agony of further conversation as a sabotaged Titmouse goes roaring off the launch rail, straight for the King. Bryant barely has time to shout "bugg-" before it hits.
The smoke clears. George V stands unscathed, except for a bit of soot blackening. As for the unfortunate Bryant, there is no sign.
"My goodness," mumurs the King. "That was exciting."
Sorry chaps, I've been meaning to keep this updated, but I'm working my tail off on my grad school applications. Who knows! If you're in Leeds or Baltimore or Madison or god save us Eastern Illinois or some other even more unsavory place, maybe we'll be neighbors in a year!
If I finish this bloody essay on the Indian Ocean raid, anyway.