Dwadd Peckinstabb's pot of mercury laden, oyster white, block-out face cream was near dangerously low. If he didn't have the cream, the Queen would be unseen. That would never suffice. Too many years of blotting out her Queen-ness, "Pecky"--as those who hated him called him--for he continually pecked his peter pecker where he need noted-- needed this job. Oh, poor PeckyStab is going to need a job--the other group of haters chanted. He could hear them all through the castle's halls and walls.

Wenches and mongrels all of them. For he knew each one because he dewed each one.

What is a half-bent cockney rabble babble supposed to do given this hour of need? Desperate attempts to gain his favorite mixture’s potion untimely undone. It was the eve of Queen Elizabeth’s latest, great- granddaughter’s full out State christening. The mum needed un-mumming.  Face-skin taut, eyes edgy, cheeks plucky pinky and lips lined-in full. A bottle of bewandering need ready appear.

Peckinstabb lineage went eons back: to the umpness of umpnesses. Why, clear back to a swamp in Trevoltary where the chalky, gooey mud of Sir Gowan’s stables and pastureland was found. Here, 10’s of 100’s of stallions pissed on, what became since then, consecrated earth. This Peckinstabb’s quinary times ten great uncle first trodded out the recipe when the need of a hood to cover an “all he could manage at the time” blistered-faced whence did not appear and “his need” perversely called.

A willing subject he had beneath, but an uggmisivent too tandy to randy face she did offer. Brother, what is a lad to do? So Pecky quicked zipped, ah tied it up, and ran out to grab a clump of heavy with dew, ah stallions stew, clay with which to flummox his prey. She did not mind, as he was ever so kind; even stooping to add fragrant pooping. It was this then that there commenced in being Peckinstabb’s Regal at the Ready Powder Poultice. This, a never revealed recipe but certain.

Centuries of Royals had had their dathers slathered; no one need know nothing no how. Except, our man Pecky needs a flip bottle of the goey, pissy poultice pronto; today. For four hundred and twelve years that Lizzy the first has managed to be in place of the second. Stink yes, be recognized, no. Ahhh, a wonder the royals today are gray. Betting a poultice would do a King’s plaster.