If you would like to hear "Fighting Trousers" by Professor Elemental, the song this story is based on, click on the link above.

Professor Beerthump's liver spotted hand ripped down a pair of paisley trousers from their hanger.

"No, damn it."

A pair of purple ones with silver stars landed on the floor next. 

"Where the bloody hell are they?"

More trousers were pushed aside before the hand grabbed a light grey and teal pinstripe pair with a mumbled finally and de-hangered it with a flourish before slamming the wardrobe door shut. 

"Oh, Reginald, must you really?" 

The professor turned to find his wife standing in the doorway of his dressing room shaking her head. One hand caressed her velvet corset in dismay. 

"Of course, I must. That scoundrel will rue the day he was born!" The fact that the professor was naked from the waist down, his knobby, hairy knees and slab-like feet on full display under his flapping shirt tail did nothing to diminish the picture of anger and defiance he presented. "Rue the day, Harriet!" 

"I was referring to you throwing your trousers onto the floor as if you were five. You are not five, Reginald, you are sixty-two. Pick them up, please."

Professor Beerthump looked down at the chaotic clump of textiles as if it had materialised there without him noticing. "They were in my way. Baxter can do it."

"No, Baxter cannot do it. Baxter is engaged cleaning out your hookah pipe, then refitting the vacuum tubes in the radio and then he must fetch the flowers from Ringernathy's for the downstair parlour at three. Baxter doesn't have time for your silly moods." 

The professor huffed and busied himself unfolding the trousers in his hand.

Harriet's gaze made a closer inspection of the trouser pile. "Are those your tea-drinking trousers? And...goodness, what are your seaweed-scrapbooking trousers doing on the floor. Oh, Reginald. What would Emily say if she knew. She sewed those herself" 

The professor flapped the pair of trousers in his hand irritatedly at his wife in lieu of a petulant stomp. 

"Emily will never know! Harriet, this is important. That insolent excuse for an academic is at it again. Well, no more! I shall not stand idly by and allow him to publicly sully my work and add a giggle to the honourable name of Beerthump! I'm going to put THESE on!"

He brandished the trousers triumphantly in the air like Perseus with the head of the Medusa.  

"What are you talking about?"   

"What do you mean, what am I talking about? Clankingbrain and his attacks on my latest diorama is what I'm talking about! His imbecilic response letter was in The Journal of Mouse Taxidermy that arrived with the first post this morning."

"Oh, has Mr Clankingworth not approved of your costuming choices again?"

"Clankingbrain! And what does he know about it? He's specialised in kitten taxidermy, of all the preposterous things to spend one's time on." 

"Reginald, your blood pressure."  

Professor Beerthump flapped his trousers again and shouted: "He won't get away with it! These are my FIGHTING TROUSERS, Harriet! It's serious business when a man puts out his fighting trousers."

"So they are. No wonder I didn't recognise them. You haven't had those on since that hoaxster down in Brighton claimed no one could eat more raw oysters in an hour than he could."

"Ha! And I proved him wrong."

"And virtually lived in the loo for a fortnight. Hang them back up, Reggie. It's not worth it."

"The hell it isn't! I shall challenge Clankingbrain to a duel to the death, Oxbridge rules! We shall see once and for all who the last gentleman standing on the Olympus of the taxidermy world is."

Harriet shook her head again. "Then do me courtesy of one small favour."

"And what's that?" asked the professor, stepping into his trousers.

"Put your underwear on first." 

With one hand, Professor Beerthump pulled up his shirt tail for a look...and stepped out of his fighting trousers. 

"Good thinking," he mumbled in the direction of the doorway. 

But his wife had already gone. 

* * *

Ten minutes later, sitting at his desk in the study on the second floor, tongue poking out the side of his mouth under his waxed, white moustache, Professor Beerthump deliberated the subtle difference between the words nincompoop and dumbbell. They were both applicable to that infuriating scallywag, but which was more concise? Which indeed, was the most worthy of his fighting trousers?

Leaning forward until his lips almost touched the curved speaking tube of the automatic type-o-set machine, he said loudly and distinctly..."only a DUMBBELL with the most scant of schoolbook knowledge would dare posit that a flared ruff was not in use in 1587, but only appeared in the late summer of 1588. Further, Mr Clankingbrain fails to note that..."    

Metal keys leapt up and punched his words into the paper as he spoke them, the roll bar inching the draft up when it came to the end of a line.

Beerthump paused again. Was that scathing enough, or should he be more virulent? 

The typo-o-set waited, humming softly, for him to decide.

"Oh damn it," he said and ripped the paper from the machine before it had time to bang the last two words out. The crumpled draft landed with a hollow tonk next to the other failed attempts that decorated the dark floorboards around the professors house slippers like so many puffy clouds scattered over a stormy night sky.

The professor angrily screwed another leaf of paper into the machine, took a deep breath and spoke into the pipe: Dear Sirs, I must vehemently refute the dastardly accusations...

A little bird twittered sweetly outside.

Creamy golden light poured in from the window roundel, casting its glow over the professor and illuminating the shelves upon shelves of mouse dioramas.

All of his beloved, favourite pieces. 

Two white mice in boxing shorts and gloves faced off with each other in a miniature ring. A group of multi-sized mice in business suits and bowler hats stood waiting for the number 9 omnibus. A grey mouse dressed as a Roman senator in a toga addressed a crowd with one paw on his chest and the other raised in a fist. And then there was his coup de grâce, his masterpiece, his magnum opus...a mouse nativity scene with no less than 35 different mouse characters, plus cows, plus sheep, plus goats. 

It had been the featured diorama in the December issue of The Journal of Mouse Taxidermy some two years previously, but Harriet still refused to allow him to bring it down to the front salon at Christmas where visitors could appreciate it. 

She claimed it would only cause incidences. 

Whatever that meant.   

But it was after that issue Clankingbrain began the attacks, calling the professor's scenes sentimental and laughable and historically unfounded and trite and... the professor, red-faced and scowling, ripped yet another botched draft from the type-o-set and threw it on the floor.

"Concentrate!" he bellowed. "Fighting trousers at the ready!" And reached for a new leaf of paper. 

* * *

Two hours later, Beerthump emerged from his study, a fully-proofed,  fact-righting, three-page poison-pen response letter clutched in one hand. 

He wanted to read it aloud to Harriet, but she was nowhere to be found. 

Neither was Baxter. 

Grumbling, the professor climbed the stairs again to his study to rummage for an envelope and address it to the editor of The Journal of Mouse Taxidermy, one Mr Jeremy Smythe, with whom he had corresponded before. 

He was a seemingly decent chap, although his penchant for printing the opinions of nincompoops - would nincompoop have been a better choice? Too late now - did somewhat sully the overall impression.

Letter in envelope, Beerthump considered having Cook make him a sandwich. He was peckish after all the mental effort, but realised he was still too cranked up and decided not to wait for Baxter, but walk down to the end of the road and post the letter himself.  

And then have a sandwich. 

And perhaps a nice cup of tea. 

And some biscuits, if any with the almonds were left. 

But who knows what a man still in his fighting trousers is really likely to do?

Reaching the postal pilar at the end of the road, Beerthump simply walked past it, surprising even himself.  

Continuing onward, he strolled for blocks and blocks, trousers leading the way,  until he found himself standing in front of number 27 Seahorse Court, walking cane planted on paving stone and out of breath from the having taken more exercise that morning than in the last three years.

His fighting trousers, however, were only getting started, and after a few minutes of recovery, he mounted the stairs to the office of The Journal of Mouse Taxidermy if not with a bound, then with a fairly aggressive hop. 

The Journal, as he had learnt from studying the brass plate at the entrance, was located on the third floor and shared space with some preposterous rags entitled The Seahorse Breeder's Monthly and Ballooning for Pensioners. 

After a breather on the the third floor landing, he rapped on the plain door with his walking stick and entered without waiting for an answer. 

The five men in the office were clearly not expecting visitors. Two of them sat playing at cards by a window, another was reading the morning paper with his boots propped upon his desk, one looked as if he was arranging pencils in a pattern only he could fathom, and one sat smoking and staring blankly at the type-o-set on his desk.  

Above their heads, the cogs of the ceiling ventilator clicked, swirling the artificial scent of daisies through the room. 

"Good day, gentlemen," Beerthump announced as he removed his top hat and gloves. "I wish to see Mr Jeremy Smythe."

Four pairs of eyes swivelled to the man smoking at his desk.

Beerthump wasted no time. Pulling the envelope from his coat pocket, he strode over to the editor of The Journal and extend it out for him to take.

"Post for you, sir."

Mr Smythe eyed the envelope, then its bearer. "From whom?"

"From me, sir."

"And you are?"

"Professor Reginald Beerthump. Eight-year subscriber and frequent contributor toThe Journal of Mouse Taxidermy."  

The professor thought he heard a mumbled oh here we go from somewhere, perhaps from the man with the morning paper, but he couldn't be sure. 

Mr Smythe leaned forward, plucked the envelope from Beerthump's hand, sliced it open with an ivory letter opener in the shape of a very sharp-backed mermaid, and withdrew the letter. After reading the first paragraph, he looked up at the professor. 

"Clankingbrain?"

"That's the man's name, I believe. Is it not?"

"Clankingworth, actually."

"Is that so? How fascinating, considering the fact that there's nothing worthy about the twit."  

This time, Beerthump was sure he heard a suppressed giggle from somewhere in the room. 

With a sharp glance, he looked around but couldn't locate it. The man with the newspaper had set his feet on the floor, and the two men playing at cards had halted in their game, not even trying to hide the fact they were raptly following the entire conversation.

"Thank you, Professor," said Mr Smythe with a smile as he folded the pages and stuffed them back in the envelope. "We truly and honestly appreciate your continued support and interest in the subject of mouse taxidermy. Your letter shall be read and considered for publication in the next issue."

Lightning flashed in Beerthumps eyes and thunder crashed in his moustache.

"Considered, Mr Smythe? Considered? That misbegotten dunce has had the cheek to launch repeated attacks on my dioramas, and you, sir, still publish his rants! I demand the right to publicly set the scoundrel straight."

"Which you shall have, Professor, which you shall have. Is there anything else, I can help you with today, or will that be all?"

"Isn't that enough? I demand publication."

"Without having read your letter in its entirety, I cannot--"

"Yes, yes, alright. But one thing, sir. If these attacks continue, I shall have no recourse but to challenge Clankingworth to a gentleman's duel to settle the matter once and for all. And YOU shall carry the responsibility, Mr Smythe, for any grave injury or death. For had you not printed his scandalous letters, AND continue to do so!, then I should not be forced to these ends. Good day, sir."

Beerthump turned about on his heel and made for the door.

Before he got there, it opened and two young men in waistcoats and bowler hats entered, the first one talking over his shoulder to the one following. 

"...and just to make it really ridiculous, I even gave the season. I said the summer of 1588 and that that particular shade of velvet was a much later invention as it was made from pig bladder dyes. Went to post yesterday, so I bet he's popping his buttons right now over it. I mean, I would like--"

Beerthump's fighting trousers roared and leapt into the fray.

"Clankingbrain!" the professor screamed and aimed his walking stick at the young man's heart like a rapier. "How dare you publicly insult my dioramas, sir! You are nothing more than an ignorant buffoon! A nitwit of the most base kind!" 

The two young men stopped dead in their tracks, staring pop-eyed and gape-mouthed at the snarling vision before them. 

"Now, Professor..." said Mr Smythe in a calming voice, as he came around his desk. "Let me explain."

But he had not reckoned with Beerthump's fighting trousers. "Explain? Explain what? That this is Clankingbrain? Why, he's already admitted as much himself!" said the professor as he looked the young man up and down in the same manner he might have examined a particularly hideous toad.

"Good Lord, you're Beerthump!" exclaimed the young man, breaking into a grin.

"PROFESSOR Beerthump to you! Can't even get that right can you, you...you...kitten fancier!"

"I absolutely adore your dioramas, sir!" the young man cried. "Always have. Big, big fan. What an honour to meet you." 

He dodged the professors walking stick which was still aimed to stab, grabbed his free left hand and pumped it up and down in a one-sided handshake. 

The professor stared at the young man in horror.

"Unhand me, sir! I demand satisfaction!" The professor jerked his hand away, reached into his coat pocket, drew out one of his gloves and backhanded the young man across the face with it.

"A duel, sir! Oxbridge rules! Right here, right now. En garde!" 

"He's just hit Benny!" exclaimed the journalist with the pencils, stumbling forward to pull the surprised young man out of the range of Beerthump's dangerously swinging walking stick. The other young man who had entered with Benny grabbed a thick folder from a nearby desk, and stood in front of his co-worker, brandishing  the file like a shield.

After five minutes of utter mayhem- papers strewn everywhere and a file-o-max machine laying dented on the floor - the fight was over. 

The struggle had been fierce, but Professor Beerthump had finally not only been convinced to put down his weapon, but also that young Benny had meant no serious harm.

And that his name was actually Blankenworth.

And that he did not know the first thing about kitten taxidermy. 

Of all the absurd notions.

The response letters had been faked to create drama in the mouse taxidermy community and, it was hoped, drive up subscriptions by giving the readers something juicy to look forward to each month. And it had worked. The scathing letters were a huge success. 

"Ballooning for Pensioners hasn't been doing very well recently, you see," said Mr Smythe with an apologetic shrug. "We had to do something."

* * *

When Harriet returned home that afternoon, she found her husband in the salon having tea and biscuits while pouring over past issues of The Journal of Mouse Taxidermy, giggling and mumbling to himself why did I not see that and what an imagination that lad has.  

He was no longer wearing his fighting trousers. 

Harriet sighed with relief, pulled the hat pins from her bonnet and went upstairs to change, thankful that Reginald had finally seen sense.