Orlando Baptiste Luxuskaas - the gentleman charlatan, philanthropist and amateur chemist, part one

Orlando Baptiste van Luxuskaas woke up to discover, much to his surprise, that the magic had worked. Instead of his left hand he now had an agile, fleshly lump shaped like a small cape. As he lay there in bed, gently masturbating, he drew his left arm through the air and admired how the wind took to the cape. “Magnificent”, he mused to himself. “Absolutely magnificent!”

After a lacklustre ejaculation he took a shower and delicately washed the human hand cape. “I shall call it Hugo Frantz, and it shall always be with me and keep me company, even though I know it can't speak and that technically it is just a purposely disfigured hand” he thought himself before straightening his pubic hair with an antique tong made from the spleens of Victorian street urchins.

Down in the club, he was proudly showing off his latest, well, “toy”, if you could call it that. He wasn't entirely sure what to call it himself any more (had he ever known?).
“It's a cape. Just a cape – but isn't it awesome - something quite outstanding?” he asked of his peers.

“But do tell us, good sir, what is it, exactly?” replied Les Trout, Esq., one of several members of the club who habitually smeared seal fat on his right lapel as a sign of respect and understanding, a gesture not gone unnoticed by the entire hierarchy of the club, including the president, Inspektor Numse. “Honest fellah, that Trout lad, eh? Shame about his repugnant body odours and scant regard for the etiquette of bridge” Numse had confided, rather clumsily, to a dinner date during a fund raising event for sick laps.

Exactly why Trout had chosen to show his respect in such a fashion was rather unclear. It hardly mattered, though. No one particularly cared, and those who might have were inebriated as a result of caring but trying not by drinking loads of lager.

“Well it is, since you ask, Mr Trout, a cape. A cape instead of a hand. A handcape” Luxuskaas retorted, with some disbelief in his voice such as to suggest he was no friend of Mr Trout, nor a fan thereof.
“It is a cape. Can the good gentlemen not see that with his own eyes, the very ones he uses for looking at choice venison and pictures of Algerian boudoirs?”
“Good sir”, Mr Trout quickly retorted, seemingly finding his stride, “good sir, what you have there, instead of a hand, is no more a cape than the Queen is a complimentary allen key for a self-assembly IKEA chair! No I say sir, that what you have there, is a fleshy lump looking like a bloated man boob shabbily attached to the end of your arm by some Frankensteinian physician, NOT, as you would have it, a cape, hand or otherwise”.

This last comment was met with laughter and uproar from the not inconsiderable crowd that had gathered around the two verbal combatants.
The cape was gently flapping amidst all the commotion. There had to be a draught somewhere in the room.

Unperturbed by such opposition, both in stature and wit, Luxuskaas continued his presentation with an unfaltering enthusiasm normally only observed in the infirm or especially vivacious Norwegians. “You see gentleman, despite the juvenile interjections of the good Mr Halibut (laughter), and I am sure his intentions are as good as he is dumb (even more laughter), what you have before you here tonight is nothing less than a revolution in anatomy and artistry! Behold, the handcape!” and with these words he began parading around the rooms of the club, letting the cape catch wind like a incapacitated raven inexplicably glued to his master's leathery glove.

Reactions varied from gasps of amazement to expressions of disgust and pity, followed by incredulity and a sense of powerlessness. They had seen the impossible here tonight, thanks to him. His arm began getting tired after all the mock flying, and he settled in chair and ordered a brandy.

“We're going to get on just fine, you and me, Hugo Frantz”, he whispered to his handcape whilst skilfully and discreetly dealing with a swift bout of flatulence.
“Just fine”.