“Prêt? Allez!”

Breeches fell, swords were drawn from soft scabbards, and they met - thrust, parry, thrust!

Porthos’ purple point grazed Aramis’. Grips tightened, drawn together, corps-à-corps. Lips mashed, moustaches tangled. Their duelling pink épées wrestled in their fist-sheath.

D’Artagnan watched from his knees at Athos’ feet, polishing his own weapon.

Flesh-muskets erupted, pearl strings fit to adorn the Queen streaming over both barrels .

“Nettoie-les!” Athos commanded.

Obediently, d’Artagnan released the cock in his mouth with a pop and crawled, naked, to clean up his new companions, thinking, I’m going to enjoy being a musketeer!