The World of Mañana! An open collaborative TL/Setting/Story project.

Monaco, Tuesday, March 07, 2000, Last Day of Carnival

He swims through the crowd like a shark, slipping between the flowing bodies and riding the currents of the revellers' drunken shoves. Loud laughs and screams share the air with joyous music in a caccophany of horns and whistles. Faces are concealed beneath masks; the scents of cheap booze and anonymous sex mingle like random partners. He loathes these drunken fools, these overworked and understimulated masses making a last grasp at empty sin before the penetent desolation of Lent. His smile is jovial, however. Only his eyes hold the sneer of violent contempt he carries in his heart.

A Scaramouche strolls past him, strumming a lute. He smiles his shark's grin at this lone troubadore, amused at least to see at least someone playing a part other than Harlequin's tonight. He adjusts his white hat, pulling it low over his eyes. It matches his white cotton suit, complements the black diagonally striped tie. He slips brazenly through the crowd, a modern day Brighella amidst a sea of Poirots in Harlequins' clothing. Perhaps, he thinks, I should have worn the Harlequin mask myself, for surely it is Columbina who awaits me.

He slips through the human currents, in and out of the light of lamps, over ancient cobbles, past once-glorious walls built to hold back heathen hordes, yet now stained from a thousand drunken urinations. The door he seeks is small, unobtrusive. When he finds it and knocks two quick raps a slot opens, revealling a tight, thin-lipped mouth. “May I be of service?” the mouth says. The words are Burgundian, but the accent Occitani.

He smiles his shark's grin and slips a card through to the slot to the mouth. Without a word the slot slams shut, a deadbolt clunks back, and the heavy door opens silently. He slips through the doorway and out of the caccophany of the streets. The door swings quietly shut behind him, nesting in its frame like an airlock. The soft lights and soft chamber music immediately reveals this small sanctuary to be a place of refinement and sophistication, an island of Class amid the lowly sea of Common beyond. Silk curtains part. A large Baroque ballroom is revealed. Plush carpet, art-clad walls, intimate tables, a small tastefully gilded bar…but mostly tables. Large, wooden tables topped with green felt, scattered with cards and chips, dice and drinks. Here and there a roulette wheel or Fortuna's wheel. He grabs a champaign flute from a passing waiter's tray and slips now into this slower, more refined cove.

He spots her. Impossible to miss even in this crowd. Her feral femininity is palpable from afar. Long, thin, softly curving body sheathed in tight red silk. Raven hair cascading down her soft pale shoulders in long locks, straight save for the slight curls at the ends. Nose aqualine but straight. Eyes dark and raptor-like. Lips full, red, parting slightly now to allow in the tip of a long gold cigarette holder, parting slightly again to remove the holder and exhale a long stream of blue smoke which spirals to the ceiling, curling around the stained glass shade of the table light above. She motions sensuously to the croupier with a white gloved hand. Another card is passed on the pallet.

He advances towards her now. She looks up and sees him and their eyes lock for a moment and an eternity. She tilts her head to beckon him. He advances towards her, unsure who is the hunter and who the hunted and hardly caring.

“Signoraneta,” he says, bowing to kiss her gloved fingers.

“Marcolo,” she purrs. “A pleasure.”

“Baccarat,” says the croupier, turning over his own cards and paying out the bets. Without turning her face from Marcolo's she retreives her winnings. The croupier deals out the next card, which she absentmindedly picks up. An eight. She smiles and puts it face down, signalling to hold.

“I assume Il Dottore is here?”

She laughs. “I assume you mean my husband? Really, Marcolo, the revellers outside have warped your perceptions. Yes, he is here. Sharing cigars and cognac in the back room with his business associates. A private affair.”

“Then surely I must wait to see him?”

She nonchalantly slips him a business card. “Why should the representative of a Venecian shipping magnate need wait? He is expecting you.”

She sips from her cocktail, a mix of jenever and vermouth, as he looks over the card. He smiles warmly at the cover identity she has provided. She thinks of everything. “Signoraneta Martini, I am at your service.”

“Please do hurry back, my dear friend,” she purrs, touching his arm.
He pockets the card and advances towards the back room. His fin is out now. He can feel the predatory blood flowing. All else fades into background noise. He walks to the back room door where a thin dark man, possibly a Songhai, stands guard. He hands over the card. The guard nods and opens the door.

Smoke flows through the air like a lazy pool or lost spirits. Hearty masculine laughs punctuate a half-intelligible conversation. Marcolo spies his mark: Dottore Antonio Martini, industrialist, philanthroper, aviator, gun smuggler. “And let me tell you gentlemen,” he says suggestively, “never was the whisky sweeter…or the company more appreciated!” Another bawdy laugh. “Ah,” he says, spotting Marcolo and standing, extending a hand. “You must be Signore Cordon.”

Marcolo grasps the hand tightly. “An honor, Dottore Martini,” he says, affecting a florrid demenor. “I have heard you, perhaps, needed my services?”

“Perhaps, my friend, but business can wait. Is it not Martedì Grasso? Have a seat. The cognac is Jardin and the cigars Cubano.”

“My pleasure, Dottore.”

The cigar and brandy is indeed fabulous and both go down smoothly. Their soft caresses bring to mind the soft caresses of Signoraneta Martini, likewise cockolded from this loud nuovi ricchi buffoon. Marcolo laughs dutifully at the Dottore's lame jokes, nods sagely at his plebian philosophies, all the while sniffing out his weaknesses and his blind spots. Soon, he promises himself.

The Dottore is almost charming, almost intelligent, almost likeable. It hardly matters. He has more reason to hate this man than just lust for his wife. The man is a menace, selling aircraft and arms to any pissant nation with delusions of grandeur, any old African or Asiatic state hoping to take a place at the table of nations, any revolutionary cause that catches his flippant attentions. The man has armed Lulunkono seperatists and the Kongolese airforce alike, sold seaplanes to both Floridiano militarists and Aniyunian irredentists vying for the same airspace. He is a one man destabilization and an impediment to the proper imperial order of things. But Marcolo smiles, and continues to patiently circle his prey.

Finally, the moment presents itself. “Signore Cordon,” the Dottore says finally. “Perhaps you would care to speak on the patio?” Hand on Marcolo's back, Dottore Martini leads him up some stairs and out of a door. They exit onto a spacious rooftop patio overlooking both the revelrous streets on one side and the roaring Mediterranean crashing below on the other. “Signore, as you know I am a man willing to take risks in business, and such risks require men willing to gamble with me. It also takes men who know when to keep quiet. My wife tells me you are such a man, that you have done many favors for her family over the years.”

“I can honestly say it is been my pleasure to service your wife,” Marcolo says, smiling.

“She says you have a specially modified ship for…special cargo, and a relationship with port authorities in Athena, yes?”

“Of course, Dottore. I have done many…discrete transactions with the Greeks.”

“What is your thought on the Greek situation?” Dottore Martini asks.

Marcolo smiles in the dark. This is a weighted question. The continued Ottoman occupation of the historic peninsula is a tight subject with only wrong answers. The Turks are too important as trade partners, sitting as they are astride so much of the world's petroleum. But the continued possession–some would say occupation–of the cradle of western culture remained a sticky issue. Either Martini wanted to sell arms to Greek nationalists, or he wanted to arm their enemies in some move to ingratiate himself to the Ottoman business interests. Marcolo gives the one answer he knowns is always correct in these circumstances: “I think there is money to be made either way.”

Dottore Martini laughs and slaps him on the back. “Come,” he says, leading Marcolo to the seaside rail. “I have a special delivery to make. I will set up all the contacts and details, you need merely to make the delivery. Do you think you can do it?”

Marcolo turns and grasps the Dottore on both shoulders, smiling, as if to hug him. “Why sir, I expect my job with you to be sucessful and profitable indeed!”

The white suit Marcolo wears is well cut. It conceals not only the slight bulge of his pistol, but the true size of his arms and shoulders. With little effort he lifts Dottore Martini and flings him over the rail. The Dottore falls screaming onto the jagged rocks below. Marcolo watches for a second: the Dotorre's only movements are from the crashing of the waves. If alive he will be dead in minutes from bleeding if not from drowning. Smiling his shark's smile, Marcolo marches back down into the casino.

Moments later he is back by his Signoraneta's side at the Baccarat table. Her stash of chips has grown considerably. “It is done, my love,” he says.
She smiles, hawk-like. “And you know we can no longer see one another, yes?”

“An unavoidable tragedy, my dear,” he says. “But your memory will be firm in my heart for years to come.”

She kisses his cheek warmly and slips a trio of 10,000 ducat chips into his pocket. She has reason to be generous: she has just inherited several hundred million ducats from her late husband, after all. Marcolo bows low to kiss her hand, then turns and heads to the cashier to convert chips into voucher and then heads for the exit. Between the Signoraneta's generous payment and the much larger sum he'll received from the Danes he can live quite extravegantly for some time to come. Perhaps he can even say he'd made the world a safer and more orderly place.

But in truth, he'd have willingly done the job for free just for the pleasent sight of that pompus ass Martini broken on the rocks of the Monaco shore.
 
Welcome...to the World of Mañana!!

parrot_tattoo_photosculpture-p15322462652351148435xz_400.jpg


Tropical islands, palm trees, flying boats…and the soft thump of a silenced pistol in the night. This is the World of Mañana, a place of lazy relaxation coupled with deadly intrigue, of patient, persistant progess into A Glorious Future, of sociopolitical and ethnic diversity emerging from the dying remains of the grand empires of old. Imagine, if you will, Bogart's Casablanca writ large, the naïve self-assuredness of the summer of 1914, the laissez-faire attitude of a cafe in Nice contrasted with the frightful panic of a deadly chase through the crowded city streets of Cairo, a gorgeous sunny seascape with a looming shadow just at the edge of your vision. Set in the present day in a world not our own, Mañana is a world of contrasts and amalgamations. Retrofuturistic Super Trains share the stage with “old fashioned” flying boats and airships [1]. Baroque-tinged Great Power politics faces up against radical futurist ideologies, emerging global corporations, and the burgeoning nationalism of a thousand composite cultures our world never saw. Old decaying empires fight for continued hegemony and try their best to patch the growing cracks in their imperial façade, but the center can not hold. It all gives a guy or dame a lot to think about while sipping that rum as the large tropical sun slips quietly beneath the tropical waters in a pool of warm crimson.

And it needs YOUR HELP!

This thread is the launch vehicle for the Timeline...a fully collaborative timeline, of the World of Mañana, and that means you. Shurik, wolf_brother, and I devised a rough low-resolution timeline framework, but we need volunteers, contributors, and constructive helpful criticism to make this a reality. The end result is to be an online shared world for writers, artists, fans, and others to help build something together. In this, Shurik, wolf, and I will fulfill the role of continuity control, moderators, and organizers.

We three will post overviews and snippets for comment from our rough TL, but we invite anyone to create actual entries (we three will act as editors for continuity with the Canon TL framework). We have a rough TL framework we want to follow to establish the "Parrotpunkish" ;) kind of world we envision, but the details are maleable. And if one of our plot points is ASB, don't just hate...create! give us a more plausible or interesting alternative that still meets the necessary TL goals.

Note: Plausibility is negotiable. We want to avoid total ASB, but we have no intentions to follow the most plausible path. Hell, OTL never did, so why should we? :D

So, without further ado, let the party begin!


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1 - Yea...airships; we went there! :p
 
It is as impossible to predict how and where a rumor may develop as it is impossible to predict where it will travel once born. Such is the chaotic world of human interaction where spite, exaggeration, politics, and favor may sway thoughts along entirely new paths, and so sway the course of history. Like the wayward snowflake that sets off the avalanche, the whims of small events can have drastic consequences.

No one can guess where the 1572 rumor that would so plague one Don Gomez Suarez de Figueroa of Cordova, 5th Count of Feria, ambassador for Phillip II of Spain to the Queen of England, first got started, but like the seed of a dandelion finding newly tilled soil the rumor found fertile ground among the whispers of the court of England. And with great haste this seed did sprout and grow until able to dispatch seeds of its own, and thus did propagate a thousand whispers and muted gasps until the entire court was abuzz with the word that King Phillip's ambassador had questioned the queen's very right to the throne. It is hard to say the rumor did not have some basis in reality. It was certainly no secret that the crown of Spain was less than enamored with the ascension of Henry's second daughter Elizabeth to the throne of England just over a decade before, particularly after the promise shown by her elder sister Mary's reign. Similarly, the Count of Feria was notably insulted by his current on-the-town lodgings after earlier being housed in the royal palace under Mary. Yet it seems difficult to imagine one of Feria's notable experience and tact openly expressing doubts to the Queen's legitimacy.

By the time Feria arrived at court the whispers had devolved greatly: “the Count has questioned the Queen's legitimacy”…“he has said that [her mother] Anne was nothing but a petty mistress and a whore”…“would you believe he called Her Majesty a bastard unfit to rule?” There can be little doubt such whisperings had made it to the ears of the Queen herself. The stares, averted eyes, and shocked murmurings that preceded Feria's appearance in court undoubtedly took their toll on his patience as he walked the halls towards the throne chamber. When his arrival before the Queen was announced we might imagine that the royal announcer's voice held a timber of strain. We know from the diaries of several courtiers that the Queen's visage was most coldly formal and harsh upon his arrival.

It is perhaps a good mark on the count's professionalism that he held his thoughts in check as he greeted the Queen formally. He most certainly endeavored to put forth his most diplomatic face as he bade Her Highness the proper salutations and got to the business at hand, which for that day was an airing of King Phillip's distress at the continued English harboring of the Dutch Calvinist pirates known as the Watergeuzen or “Sea Beggars”. He reiterated that His Majesty found these pirates a continued nuisance, and that it would be most certainly in the interest of the two nations' continued friendship if Her Majesty would turn them away.

Elizabeth expressed reticence, expressing Her nation's openness to shipping of all nations, including His Excellency's own.

Feria responded with insistence that these particular ships were a burden and hardly proper shipping.

Her Majesty talked of rumors and burden of proof.

As the conversation continued the subtle tensions of the atmosphere began to creep in, raising voices, sharpening the corners of smooth words, shortening retorts and tempers. Whether the conversation degenerated from Elizabeth's stubborn disrespect, as Feria maintains, or due to a sudden and spiteful outburst by Feria, as Sir Francis Walsingham maintains, remains the subject of an unresolved historical debate.

By all accounts Feria's was certainly a diplomatically reasonable request , and reflected a growing strain in the diplomatic ties between the nations since Herny VIII first split from Queen Catherine. Had it been levied under a more amicable atmosphere there is anecdotal evidence to support that the Queen might readily have acquiesced. Yet it would be incorrect to say that her adamant refusal to turn away the Geuzen was born only of personal pique. The continued violent Hapsburg suppression of Dutch Calvinists across the channel in Batavia was considered by many in the English court to be of direct threat to England's own religious and political liberty and a strong anti-Spanish faction remained in positions of influence close to the Queen's ear. There was no doubt that Spain's growing world hegemony was a threat to English interests in general. And given earlier English privateering efforts against the Spanish it's not unfathomable that she may have always planned to continue support for the Geuzen.

We may never know if Her Majesty would have turned away the Geuzen had circumstances been different [1], and historians remain divided on the issue. That this seeming act of whim has been used maliciously over the centuries by so many proponents of the so-called “Monstrous Regimen” theory [2] certainly clouds the history of the event. It is also impossible to predict what might have happened had the Geuzen been turned away, though speculations abound from their travelling to Denmark or the Germanies to their returning to Batavia to cause further difficulty to the Spanish suppression of the rebellion. Historian Dr. Jans Albrect goes as far as to propose that their presence might have been the spark to reignite the smoldering Dutch rebellion, only barely under control at that point [3], though it is hard to imagine how much damage a few hundred sailors could do with the Tercios astride much of the land.

If this event had any major repercussions it was most likely in the later diplomacy between the two nations, diplomacy already strained by religious and political concerns. The Protestant factions of Europe would celebrate the move as a victory. The Catholic nations would see the event as another heretic insult. Certainly relations between England and Spain would continue to deteriorate after this diplomatic impasse, and while it is impossible to guess how improved things might have been had things gone differently, it is hard to imagine that conflict between the old master and the young upstart was anything but inevitable.

From Times of Trouble, Religious and Political Upheval in Post-Lutheran Europe by Professor Julio de Santa Maria de Paranhos, University of Oporto, 1932

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1 - This is the POD. OTL Bess turned away the Sea Beggars in 1572.

2 - This comes from The First Blast of the Trumpet Against the Monstrous Regimen of Women by the Scottish Reformer John Knox, published in 1558, which maintained that women were far too fragile and emotional to run a nation (safe to say NOW does not look to kindly on this work). Written at the end of the reign of Bloody Mary it found a fertile audience at first. OTL Elizabeth I's Golden Age blew this theory out of the water. ATL…not so much.

3 - OTL the Sea Beggars travelled south to the Dutch city of Brielle on April 1st, which was completley unguarded by the Spanish at the time. They captured the city with ease, reigniting the rebellion which at this point had been largely subdued by the Spanish. ATL they remain a thorn in the Spanish side, but little more.
 
I just realized, this is going to be competition to my solo project. Why did I do this to myself!? ;) :D Looks great so far, of course, and I can't wait to see someone outside of our initial trio to throw their hat into the ring.
 
Letter to the Editor, March of Time Periodical:

Dear Editor:

I am writing to express my severe displeasure at Dr. Vanderwaald's recent article “Orange Empire: the Batavian Hegemony that Never Was”. While I respect Dr. Vanderwaald and his previous work on the economic drivers of Dutch Calvinism in Spanish Batavia, I really feel he has pushed past the credibility bounds in his hypothetical “Dutch Republic”.

To begin, his premise of an independent Dutch Republic arising after a successful 1568 revolt is simply not feasible given the conditions of the time. Simply put, even with an overtly independence-minded William of Orange as a hypothetical organizer, the Calvinist factions were simply too scattered and disorganized of a group. A quick look at the ground conditions reveals the simple truth: even before the arrival of Alba the “uprising” was hardly more than semi-organized vandalism of church icons spurred by firebrand preachers. Margaret of Parma had already taken much of the wind out of the “rebellion's” sails by her attempts at compromise. And once Alba arrived with 10,000 trained Spanish soldiers, the remaining “Beggars”, as Berlaymont so called them, were scattered into the wind. Those who put up resistance met with terrible fates. William's half-hearted assault–which it should be reiterated was done nominally in the name of the Spanish sovereign against Alba–never had much hope of even temporarily displacing the tercios [1]. In fact, Alba's tercios had proven so effective and the staadts left so pacified, that he felt secure enough to completely abandon several northern cities [2] and move his armies south to react to a French border threat.

Now, as to the long-term ramifications of this hypothetical “Dutch Republic”, with all due respect to the industrious Batavian people I simply cannot buy Dr. Vanderwaald's theory that the ensuing federation of staadts could ever hope to achieve half of what the Danes–his obvious historical model–did. Yes, Dutch Calvanist refugees in Denmark did indeed have a noteworthy impact on the development of Dano-Norwegian banking and industry, but to claim retaining these expatriates would give the republic the tools for a maritime empire spanning the globe by 1750 is just not realistic. Geopolitical realities simply made such a small republic with so few natural barriers and so many expansionistic foes and neighbors simply unable to defend itself, and the hypothetical riches of this “Dutch Orient Company” would just further invite conquest, if not by the Hapsburgs then by the French, Danes, or even English, assuming this last somehow survived Elizabeth's continued antagonizing of the Spanish.

To be perfectly blunt, it is fanciful, hastily-researched things like this that make me so despise “contrahistorical” exercises like these. And while I shall continue to admire Dr. Vanderwaald's work in more mainstream historical pursuits I shall be most put off if your periodical continues to sully its well-deserved reputation with such populist tripe as this.

Respectfully,

Jans Gottland, Malmö, Danmark

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1 - OTL so far, if more than a little opinionated.

2 - Among these near-empty cities was one city of Brielle, which OTL fell to the recently-ejected-from-England Sea Beggars, reigniting the simmering revolt OTL. ATL, the Beggars remain comfortably in England, and the “Revolt of 1568” is effectively pacified…for the moment.




The Virginia Times, Culture Section, Recent Bestseller Reviews… (Contributed by Shurik)

“R.H. Amundsen’s recently released The Dutch Revolts is bland. However, the same can be said of any of his works. Yet despite the monotonous writing he has become infamous for, The Dutch Revolts offers an unprecedented analysis of the 16th century as it relates to the Dutch. If one can wade though the unending rhetoric of anti-Spanish sentiment so prevalent in his writing, Amundsen brings an amazing amount of research to the table when discussing such controversial subjects as the emigrations to Denmark-Netherland, Hamburg, and even to Virginia herself. In The Dutch Revolts, he attacks head-on the long held belief that the Spanish forced individuals of non-Catholic views from their home country. Similarly, he offers one of the most in-depth portraits of the controversial William of Orange, from his birth in Germany, to his imprisonment in Amsterdam, and amazing new evidence that his death during the violent Revolt of the Roses may not have been at the hands of those seeking to free him after all. Unfortunately, this remains the only high point in the massive text: his so-called ‘recent revelations’ of early communications between Dutch Revoltists and English protagonists will leave the only moderately well-educated historian falling asleep, as the subject matter is a near duplication of Farrar’s comprehensive text on the matter; some 10 years ago. Overall, the book is hardly worth the 19 shilling asking price, and is rated at a mere 2 stars.”
 
Okay, so far we have Elizabeth not booting out the Sea Beggars and thereby not reigniting the Dutch Rebellion. The assumption is that for the moment the Dutch Calvinists are repressed and Parma's armies are in occupation mode rather than full on anti-insurgency mode.

Any objections/thoughts/comments/interest?
170+ views...anyone? Buhler?
 
Hi. Can I just say SQUEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE or has someone already said that?

Anyhow, this idea is (pardon mon francais) fucking awesome! I really, REALLY want to help out with this and am sort of tempted to abandon the side project I'm working on right now to work on this. Give me like a day and I'll come up with something useful to add.
 
Hi. Can I just say SQUEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE or has someone already said that?

Anyhow, this idea is (pardon mon francais) fucking awesome! I really, REALLY want to help out with this and am sort of tempted to abandon the side project I'm working on right now to work on this. Give me like a day and I'll come up with something useful to add.

Thanks and welcome! What area(s) would interest you for addition?
 
I'd be good with Indochina and/or Africa. I'm afraid that it'd feature some major native wankery, though, if that's all right.
 
Now, with Parma firmy in control in Batavia (or so it seems ;)) Philly 2 of Spain needs to fulfil his deep-seeted childhood need for daddy's affection by enforcing Christ's eternal love and forgiveness via steel and fire somewhere (God's benevolence doesn't impose itself, after all). First he tramps down the Heretics rising in the Rhineland (as OTL), but that's hardly a speed bump for God's Steamroller. He needs a miracle...

Wait, what's this? Glory halleluhjah His will be done, a civil war in France!!

How can we make an ugly religious-themed civil war even uglier? Send in the Tertios!

Vive l'Mort!

It's a story that can only be told by drunken Scotsmen over a pint or twelve.

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The Ballad of the Three Henries (Scottish traditional)

Back in the Year of Our Lord, fifteen-hundred eighty three
There was room in God's Creation for but a single Hen-a-ri,
And he watched the world go by
From his throne so way-up high...

And the last thing he expected was a second Hen-a-ri!

[guitar interlude]

But his rascal little brother, Francis, Duke of Alençon
Went and caught a nasty sickness and by summer he was gone,
So ol' Henri checked his list
And the new heir left him pissed...

For that rubber-faced Navaresse was the Henri that was on!

Refrain:

Three, three Henries...
Three Henries in Francay!
Three, three Henries...
Each looks a different way!

Valois, Bourbon, and Guise
All waitin' in the lee...

But only one arse can fit the throne on any given day!

[guitar interlude]

Now ol' Henri number three was none too pleased to see the name,
For that troublemaking Hugeunot, he played a tricky game,
But the Salic law was clear
And Bourbon inheritance was near...

And that troublemaking heathen on top could bring but war and shame!

[guitar interlude]

But the fun was only starting 'cause a third Henri appeared
In his latest, greatest Guise as a Papist loud and clear,
A man of book and sword
Fond of murder for the Lord...

With a hankerin' to place that Navarrese head high up on a spear!

Refrain:

Three, three Henries...
Three Henries in Francay!
Three, three Henries...
Each looks a different way!

Valois, Bourbon, and Guise
All fighting for the keys...

But only one arse can fit the throne on any given day!

[guitar interlude]

Now the Papists and Idolaters went at it left and right
And hardly any heads were left attached on any night,
And the smell it drifted low
To Castillian lands below...

To the nostrils of King Phillip who was drooling for a fight!

[guitar interlude]

Now King Phillip took his armies down from up there on their shelf
To prop up the Guise-ie Henri's claim in name (but really help himself),
For to dominate the Frenchies
Meant more Hapsburg ascend-ancy...

And what else but that could guarante the Papacy's good health?

Refrain:

Three, three Henries...
Three Henries in Francay!
Three, three Henries...
Each looks a different way!

Valois, Bourbon, and Guise
Add some Hapsburgs, if you please...

But only one arse can fit the throne on any given day!

[guitar interlude]

But Phillie's armies proved as welcome as a boil on the arse
And soon all of Phillie's Tercios found the welcome rather sparse,
And ol' Henri number Three
Turned to Mister Navaree...

And said "Tis time for an arrangement before things get any warse!"

[guitar interlude]

Now the Henries met in secret, old Navarre would get the crown
And they had to play together before France burned to the ground,
And they shook each other's hand
And cemented the new plan...

To build a France with room for more than just one church to go around!

Refrain:

Three, three Henries...
Three Henries in Francay!
Three, three Henries...
Each looks a different way!

Valois, Bourbon, and Guise
Don't forget conspiracies...

But only one arse can fit the throne on any given day!

[guitar interlude]

But ol' Guise proved more than happy to accept some Spanish aid
And another pact of partners in the darkness now was made,
For a proper Papal pounding
On the new alliance's founding...

Could put ol' Guise-ie Henri on the throne of old Francay!

[guitar interlude]

Now the fightin' kept on goin' until Fifteen Ninety-Six
And the armies all were weary and the nation mighty sick,
So with no winner clear
And the vultures circ'lin' near...

The white flag went a wavin' and they talked about a fix!

Refrain:

Three, three Henries...
Three Henries in Francay!
Three, three Henries...
Each looks a different way!

Valois, Bourbon, and Guise
Pass the sherry, if you please...

But only one arse can fit the throne on any given day!

[guitar interlude]

But neither side was budgin' and the wine was gettin' light
So all three Henries retired and they went and bid "goodnight",
And Lady France got splintered
By the middle of that winter...

Leaving three new Baby Frances suckling on the teats of spite!

[guitar interlude]

Now ol' Henri Guise claimed Paris by the might of Spanish guns
And ol' Henries three and four scooped up the south and central run,
And ol' Provence in the corner
Was left with no clear owner...

So the Papal claim on Avignion expaned just a ton!

Refrain:

Three, three Henries...
Three Henries in Francay!
Three, three Henries...
Each looks a different way!

Valois, Bourbon, and Guise
Now Aldobrandini...

But only one arse can fit the throne on any given day!

[guitar interlude]

Now the borders shifted here and there, but none could slip a cheek
Into the golden Throne of France, for all were left to weak,
With no one side a'leadin'
And the peaople sick of bleedin'...

So Three Frances were left standin' with Reunion lookin' bleak!

[guitar interlude]

So if having one Francay was good then 'tis better having three
And a sleepy peace descended for a few minutes at least,
And with France all torn asunder
And the mercs all fat with plunder...

No one in God's Creation danced as gaily as The Beast!

Refrain:

Three, three Henries...
Three Henries in Francay!
Three, three Henries...
Each looks a different way!

Valois, Bourbon, and Guise
With less room now to squeeze...

Any one arse into the throne of old Lady Francay!

[guitar interlude, downtempo]

No single arse can fit the throne of old Lady Francay!
 
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