Baron Von Schnitzel. The lying maniacal puddle of sputum. 

In recent reports you may have come across a story. A story that was said to be the origin of the Baron. This story has been fabricated using the highest quality bullshit, extracted directly from the anus of a cow who claims to be Beyoncé. Fiction. Fiction. Fiction. Nothing but purest fiction. 

Now let me tell you what really happened. 

Okay … I lied. It is all true. Well … except for the part about my steely blue-grey eyes. They are clearly cobalt blue, not steely blue-grey. 

I offer to you all my most humble apologies. I knew Baron Von Schnitzel when he was simply Herbertó. Silly Spanish name. Never did like it. You know, I think things would have turned out very differently if he’d had a less silly name … like Pablo Santiago or something. 

The story you know is that I saved Herbertó from execution at the hands of the British Army and whisked him away to a cabin for mysterious and unknown reasons. There we stayed and our friendship blossomed into something special. We lived together, we dined together, we laughed together. We danced the dance that only lovers dance. Fate had entangled us like two bearded men at a party who pass out on each other only to wake up and realise their beards have entangled. 

Then, with seemingly no cause, I abruptly left scathing young Herbertó with a venomous taunt.  

Thus, it is by my own hand that I find myself on the battlefield today. 

The truth of the matter is this: I knew Herbertó long before he knew me. For a brief period of time I was contracted by the Military and found myself standing shoulder to shoulder with the likes of MI6. My brief service there involved a rather uninspiring mission to Moscow where I killed a Russian and kidnapped a few kids … Really, this is the boring part of the story. 

During the mission I became rather friendly with a young spy by the name of Melissa Thorpe. Her specialty was information and shepherd’s pie. In her few years as a young agent at MI6 she had extracted information that could bring the world to its roughed up knees if she wanted it to – and her shepherd’s pie was second to none. 

After a quick dead Russian (also a cocktail) and a job well done, we found ourselves sitting next to each other on our flight back to London. Melissa and I shared a few dead Russians (with a couple of Corrupted politicians thrown in for the road) and started swapping stories. 

You see, the problem with dead Russians is that they contain enough Vodka to kill a Russian – hence the name. So two of them and you’ll find yourself waking up in Cardiff with no legs and wallet full of someone else’s poo. 

So the conversation got liberal. 

Melissa started telling me amazing information. She told me how cheese is altering our atomic weight, how tracking chips were implanted into the populous via meningococcal vaccinations, and how the government had discovered the ability to use a certain type of human hair as a devastating explosive device. She went on to tell me that this explosive gene, codenamed BOOMFRO, was obscenely rare and could only be found in one lineage. To make matters even more tricky, there was only one known living member of that family tree: Herberto “Herbie” Fuents. 

Now if there is one thing I know, it’s military. If there are two things: military and government. If there are three things: military and government and how to make the perfect waffle. 

As soon as Melissa told me about Herbie I knew what would happen to him if he were ever caught by our government. Hideous experiments and tests all to harvest his BOOMFRO. Luckily, Herbie was in Spain. If the British were to enter Spain and extract a citizen with no just cause, it would be considered and act of war. So for the time being, Herbie was safe. 

Then came the winter of 1980. Nothing happened. 

Then came the winter of 1981. Everything happened. 

I watched the news reports of Spain’s coup. It was a bloodied mess of moustaches and Spaniards, and in amongst them stood Herbie. Tall and proud, fighting for his country clad in the precious hair that made him a target.

It was his eyes that drew me in. They were not the eyes of a fighter or a warrior or a killer of puppies. They were the eyes of a man who knew who he was. They were the eyes of a man who knew right from wrong, good from evil, ketchup from tomato sauce. 

I knew, in my heart of hearts, that if he were to perish in this coup it would be for the best: his family tree would perish with him, and the governments of the world would never be able to run their fingers through his BOOMFRO. 

Alas, perish he did not. In fact he was doing extraordinarily well for a man who up until that point had been a goat farmer. A little too well. Liberation was imminent and the British military was being called in. My heart sank. I knew that with the military invited into Spain they would surely take the opportunity to covertly seize Herbie and start the experiments. 

I leapt from the couch and ran out the door. Then ran back in the door, got dressed, and ran back out, apologising to my neighbors along the way. I went to HQ and called in every favour, pulled every string, and fondled every buttock to get myself in the platoon being sent to Spain. 

On arrival in Spain I grew a moustache, then found Herbie and whisked him away, informing my superiors that I was ‘following up a lead and certainly not harbouring a dangerous and wanted revolutionist’. They bought the story and never once questioned it. 

Days, months, years passed as Herbie and I shared out time together in the cabin. 

Honestly, as with any relationship, there were trying times. Our differences in opinion on the world of olives was always an issue, as was Herbie’s inability to appreciate a fine whiskey without sodomising it with cola. These were the sort of mild frictions found betwixt any two people living in such close quarters, and they were not the catalyst of our demise. 

The catalyst was a phone call I received on a Wednesday in June. 

I was fishing when my Shoe Phone started to ring. It was MI6. Melissa Thorpe. She explained to me that MI6 got tired of explaining to people that, ‘no, James Bond doesn’t work here’, and finally started focusing on proper missions. Mission BOOMFRO BOOMTOWN was ready to launch. MI6 had analysed footage of the coup and identified Herbie as the man with the BOOMFRO. They’d then cut a deal with the Spanish government: in return for their assistance with the revolutionists, MI6 had permission to seek out the man with the BOOMFRO and extract him for whatever purpose they saw fit. Melissa said my services had been contracted to MI6. My orders were to track, capture and extract Herbie and deliver him to the British Government. 

I couldn’t do it. I wouldn’t do it. But I also couldn’t refuse because refusal would lead to questions, questions would lead to investigations and investigation would surely lead everyone straight to the BOOMFRO. 

I knew what I had to do. 

I returned home where Herbie was waiting with a fresh meal. Herbie thought himself a great cook. Truthfully: average at best. I’d been sneaking salt, pepper, spices, condiments, even very small cheeseburgers into his meals the entire time we’d been staying together. But on this day, I made it obvious. 

I honestly thought that dumping an entire bottle of BBQ sauce onto the meal would enrage him, force him to attack me and leave, never looking back. Instead, he cried like a little girl begging for my love and forgiveness. 

My plan wasn’t working.  I didn’t want to, but I knew it would have to be me who left, scolding him enough that he would not come looking for me. So I told him I could never love someone as hairy as he. 

Making him believe his hair was the catalyst to our separation caused him to loathe his own body hair and remove it at all cost. If Herbie continuously removed his hair he would eventually become useless to the government and would be able to conceal himself. 

I spent another year in Spain pretending to seek out the BOOMFRO, hoping that my path would not cross with Herbie’s, and then transferred back to England. After three more years of half-heartedly searching for BOOMFRO MI6 decided to drop the investigation, suggesting that the target was killed in the coup all those years ago. 

Four weeks after the investigation was closed I was back on the battlefield fighting Russians in Alaska. 

Somewhere along the line, Herbie transformed into the Baron Von Schnitzel we know today. I set those wheels in motion and now they are running at full speed toward self destruction. 

This is why I have dedicated my life to stopping Baron Von Scnhitzel. I created him. I must destroy him. 

If I don’t … I’ll probably just become an accountant or something boring like that. 
Well … thanks a lot Herb for forcing me to share those painful memories with all my soldiers. That sure was a lot of fun. My favourite warhound died as well, shall we chat about that? 


I am mentally and physically exhausted now, so I’m going to slink into a warm and comfy leather armchair, pour myself a glass of whiskey that’s older than I am, and drink until I forget where my arms are. 


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My Moustache Brings All the Boys To The Yard
PS: You’re probably wondering how I survived the tainted cookies? The answer is really quite simple: sugar cane. You put that puzzle together and I’ll get you knighted.