Hello, there. I am Milton Milton Bradley, licensed fool, professional buffoon, and jongleur regal.
My debauched poetry can (and will) cut down kings, humble queens, and royally confuse visiting dignitaries.
My second-filthiest ode has seen my name on Julius’ papal decree as excommunicated from the Catholic Church. Twice. My most infamous drinking song was responsible for the Elder Henry King of Cadwaladr becoming a teetotaler. My juggling has brought a Florentine cortigiana to blush, faint, contract distemper, and ultimately be put down. I am a child of the rather young School of Night, the premier son of the Old Aragonian King’s Camarilla, and the éminence grise of the French King Louis of Orléans. Truthfully, I’ve never tried entertaining for the Imperial Circles of the Holy Roman Empire — they’re just too, well, German.
While a trickster, I’ve employed no chicanery to achieve my station; I come by my talent naturally. I was born in 1487 to Archibald Bradley, a travelling one-man opera, who unfortunately perished while trying to harmonize with a foot-operated bagpipe, and Henrietta Stanley, an ex-Benedictine Nun who discarded her vows to join the second armada of Pedro Cabral under Captain Diogo Dias for the 1500 expedition of the Cape of Good Hope; she is feared to have be eaten by pirates somewhere in the Red Sea.
On my twelfth birthday, I began to apprentice under an Arabic herbalist, who released me from his charge exactly three years later for “too often sampling of the potions brewed”; during my employ, however, I devised a most ingenious distillation of ale, which kept me in a fairly perpetual haze. In my sixteenth year, my mind blurred dull with my own tonic, I stumbled across a discarded contraption on the side of the road. It was almost certainly the spirits I’d consumed, but I witnessed a smoky djinni erupt from the bauble and begin to sing, jest, spin tales, pose riddles, juggle, eat fire, and perform feats of pure magic. It was at this point I knew two things: first, my lot in life was to become the highest type of fool, whose name would roll off of the most important tongues with a lyrical chuckle, and second, I need to lay off the sauce. I’m doing pretty well with the first one.
Some people ask where the “Mad Pierrot” title comes from. I didn’t receive that epithet until I’d entertained a pirate crew, the Raiders of Kromm, who so wholly appreciated my work, that they accepted me as one of their ilk, and bestowed unto me the piratical nom-de-guerre: The Mad Pierrot. It is a combination of the fact that I belong in a mad-house and that I am a Pierrot, who is, as you well know, a zanni — a stock character — of the Commedia d’el Arte theatre-style which now sees burgeoning popularity throughout Tuscany and its surrounding regions. The Pierrot character, much like myself, is a fool. Personally, I think I am a mix of the pomposity of Harlequin, the wit of Scaramouche, and the buffoonery of Pierrot, but one wouldn’t expect pirates to be such frequenters of fine theatre as to appreciate the subtlety of the characters therein.
Bear this in mind, reader — my every inkling is filthy, debased, debauched, and offensive: quite intentionally so. You see, all are equal in the eyes of the Jester. And, that’s me: I am the Jester. I don’t care if you are royalty or peasantry, you will be skewered, and your very soul immersed in the darkest wretches of human imagination. I do this because it’s fun — it’s fun for you, it’s fun for me, and if you’re wont to disagree, then take stock, my pious friend, you may be the only one not enjoying themselves. So, take a breath, loosen thy sphincter, and belly-laugh with us at the insidiously macabre and raucously inappropriate musings of a licensed fool.