CHAPTER ONE (England)
Disillusioned, angry and feeling like whoring, Rothschild Cape stood outside the publishing house of Byron and Shakespeare, rejected manuscript under his arm. He watched a lady riding sidesaddle eating grapes but holding her nose as she passed the horse-drawn night-cart that ought to have been off the streets at that time of day.
Roth loved whores but so many of them here in London were diseased with pocked-faces. Perhaps he should sail for America where the skies were blue, the women clean and the streets of New York were paved with gold?
Yeah why not, he thought, throwing his manuscript at the engraved profile of the Bard, smashing the window. Two constables rushed up, truncheons at the ready. Roth pointed to the drunken night-cart man sleeping and the hapless grimy man was carried away, protesting.
Resting in a pub, drinking finest ale that reminded Roth of old rainwater tasting of cyanobacteria, he waved aside whores inviting him to a hairy munch. He thought perhaps this might be the final year of his young life at thirty-two. It was being widely predicted the sky could fall in ten months' hence on 1st of January 1800, turn of the new century.
Angrily he thought of those two old farts of editors whom he now despised. The elder one Mr Tomlinson had said it was insane for Mr Cape to expect readers to accept that women liked to fornicate and ridiculous that they would lovingly suck a gentleman's penis. His college Mr Pepys agreed and said it would be at least 200 years before a woman might think of that being acceptable behavior and try to enjoy it.
"You write of it as women doing it like clockwork," he'd said.
Roth said he'd chosen to set his fantasy novel in the twentieth century so perhaps he was on target after all as cockwork would be popular by then. Mr Pepys chose to ignore that.
Mr Tomlinson said equally preposterous was the thought of a man being with two naked women simultaneously and licking their you-know-whats. "At that I almost drowned my fob watch in vomit. I say sir, get out of our respectable office and take that revolting rubbish you dare call a manuscript with you. The only place fit for you is America or a tidal dudgeon."
Leaving the pub hours later, not at all unsteady on his feet and that making Roth even more suspicious he'd been buying tankards of old rainwater he was set upon, not by prostitutes as one would expect, this being London, but by sailors ordered by their captain to go on a recruitment spree. He was coshed unconscious and thrown into an abandoned night-cart the sailors had found outside what was widely known as the sanctimonious publishing house of Byron and Shakespeare. Roth joined two comely but pock-marked wenches and three riff-raff males floating in swill.
With a full ship's complement, the Jolly Good Show set sail down the Thames but it took five days to reach the Channel because Captain Horatio Smith insisted on stopping off at every pub. Finally pirate Smith set a course for the Caribbean, eager to plunder French, Irish and American trading ships, English ones too if there were no other vessels around to act as witnesses.
On the seventh day out Roth was on his hands and knees polishing the heads of nails on the decking where the captain liked to strut. He said, "Barometer's dropping capt'n."
"What's a barometer – we don't have one?"
"Storm's coming from sou-sou-east."
"What direction is that?"
Roth pointed.
"That's where the only sunny patch is. Stop wasting my time."
"As you say capt'n. May I polish your boots while I'm doing this?"
"Why not? You have a fine ass young man."
When Roth had finished licking and polishing the captain's boots, the captain absentmindedly drumming his fingers on Roth's ass, Horatio said, "Give this man eight measures of rum." He turned to look at the fine patch to the sou-sou-east and crapped his white breeches. A towering thunderhead, as black a tar, filled that quadrant, scores of lightening bolts flashing from it.
"Oh mummy," cried the fiercest scoundrel in piracy of those times (they were a dying breed because so many of them died young).
"You mother is no help out here capt'n unless she's below mating with the crew."
"No, she's at home. Please help me out Jack."
"It's Roth sir."
"Help me out quickly – I need to change my pants."
"Head in that direction capt'n. It's our fastest point of sailing and will allow us to just slide past the edge of the storm. Beside that's the direction of the West Indies."
"Oh I say. Jolly good show. Do what our new first mate says, helmsman."
"I'm the coxswain capt'n, the regular helmsman has the crabs."
Accepting the responsibility of being first mate, Roth said, "Old man if you have the helm you are helmsman. Turn to the west eight degrees."
"Aye, aye sir. What are eight degrees?"
Thanks to first mate Roth the good ship Jolly Good Show got to the Gulf of Mexico a week ahead of schedule.
Captain Smith went with half the crew ashore to a small town in Miami to whore, drink and fight but not necessarily in that order. He returned and Roth took the other half of the crew to raise mayhem but he stole a horse and rode off. It couldn't be called jumping ship because he'd been unlawfully press-ganged aboard and so the colonization of America by Roth and his descendent was off to an auspicious start (the owner thought his horse had strayed rather than been rustled).
Fortunately for the Cape family the sky didn't fall in on 1900 and 2000. Roth spent his evenings seducing women as he worked up the east coast and some of his lusty descendants had capes named after them. Outside of a town in South Carolina Roth swapped his horse for a fine young filly called Rosie North. She beget a son during their travels, by then turning west, to establish what became known as the North-Cape branch of the family.
CHAPTER 2 (NORTH-CAPES FROM YEAR 2000)
Seb (Sebastian) North-Cape unknowingly took up his distant predecessor' interests in writing about whores but he did not knowingly cohabit with them. It's very difficult to identify whores because many look like average moms and those charging the earth often looked like models or TV weather presenters or female attorneys.
Seb's father worked secretly pirated software while his mom owned and operated a guesthouse that all locals were aware was a front for the best brothel in the city. How Seb had missed becoming morally contaminated was a mystery because both sets of grandparents had been punished at law for sex offences. Seb wrote his sleazy novel on hearsay, his mother and grandparents being primes sources of basic information and descriptive recalls of disgusting exhibitions. He'd worn out two pairs of shoes attempting to find a publisher.
When holidaying in Louisiana Seb luckily met an East-Cape member of the extended family, so far removed they were practically unrelated. She was a prim school teacher called Marion, unmarried and barely touched but being in her annual cycle that required her to be seduced she touched Seb many times until it was practically bursting from his pants.
"Marion," he slurred, as she ordered two more Martinis as their hotel bar. "Unaccustomed as I am, all this touching is making me feel randy."
"Oooh," she said, attempting unsuccessfully to pull down her top down.
