Friday, July 10, 2009

Vorpal Blades At Dawn


Thanks to everyone who contributed to the recent post calling for suggestions for post titles. Any of them would have made for something interesting, but this one spoke to me the moment I saw it — which is not to say I’m a medium or anything (especially with regard to shoes) — so thank you to the wonderful Fairyhedgehog for what follows...




The two giants eyed each other across a strip of trampled hogweed.


“You’re serious?” said Thrugo as Bottibugo swang his weapon.

“Deadly,” replied his adversary. “These are the finest vorpal blades in the Realme, and according to every Dungeons and Dragons rulebook I’ve ever read, the moment I strike, you’re dead.”

Thrugo squeezed his thumb and forefinger tight together. “But they’re matchsticks.”

“Yes — and we’re giants.”

With a howl to rival a paladin catching himself coveting a neighbour’s ass, Bottibugo tramped down the line, waving his sword like he was trying to shake out a splinter.

“Aren’t we supposed to stand back to back and mark out ten paces or something?” asked Thrugo, hand on hip.

“Those are the rules for pistols,” retorted Bottibugo, “and in the same way that humans never coexisted with dinosaurs, pistols and giants are an evolutionary no-no, even in a Fantasye Worlde...”

“There have to be boundaries, I suppose.”

Thrugo couldn’t help wondering if this whole dispute could have been better settled by a drinking contest or a few rounds of Connect 4, but Bottibugo had been insistent: stealing the last scented wet wipe was a sin punishable by death. Or, judging by the ludicrous weaponry, very very not.

Keen to get things over with so he could smoke his pipe in his shed, Thrugo decided to cheat. Bottibugo clearly believed he could win the duel with just the one stab, and Thrugo figured that if he played along with this ridiculous analysis, he could take his opponent unawares by kicking him hard in the goolies. Grinning, he threw back a shoulder to proffer his breast like a Hollywood starlet slipping out of a negligé before sex with Humphrey Bogart.

True to his word, Bottibugo struck, and though neither giant knew it, the precise spot on Bottibugo’s skin where the tip of the vorpal blade sank home was revered in a faraway universe as ‘the best place to insert a needle if your patient is suffering from stress or diarrhoea’.*

*The Oxford Manual of Acupuncture, 3rd Edn. p256

“Ooooooh,” sighed Thrugo, his muscles sagging beneath his skin like scrambled egg in a shower cap. “That was nice.”

“Nice? You’re supposed to be dead! Chopped clean in half with your kidneys whirling round your spine like the balls of an anniversary clock!”

“In a Worlde of anniversary clocks and yet, no pistols, anything is possible.”

In a petulant rage, Bottibugo sheathed his sword in the soft pad of bugbear flesh trapped between his front teeth and pulled out the instruction manual for his Blayyde. “Knew I shouldn’t have trusted that leprechaun...” he muttered.

As Bottibugo read the tiny booklet, Thrugo pulled back his sackcloth tunic and trilled through the hairs on his chest searching for his wound. When he found it, he gave himself the heartiest prick — and his knees gave way beneath him.

“Ooooooh,” he breathed, eyelids fluttering. “This is something else.”

Bottibugo looked down at him and raised an eyebrow, inadvertently pulling a lens muscle. “There’s nothing in the book about this kind of thing, but it is meant for Humans, I suppose. Written in Human, too, which is probably why I don’t understand a word of it.”

“Are you having a go, then?” asked Thrugo, filaments of sinew now oozing from his skin pores like butter through the holes in a Jacobs cream cracker.

“Beats killing you, I suppose. I’m worming the Dyre Kowwe next week and I’ll need a hand holding her down while I make with the oiled Marigolds...”

As the sun set on Hogweed Valley, the two giants lay on their backs pleasuring each other with their weapons. When their bodies began blending into the very sod, relaxed as droopy souffles served on warped Vangelis LPs, a leprechaun poked his head from behind a rock and signalled to the party of nerdy teenage adventurers gathered in their tinfoil armour on the crest of the hill...

**********

Thanks also to the rugged Scott From Oregon for this last minute teaser, which I couldn’t resist turning into a Haiku...

Carcinogenic
Doll urine washed down with Tab.
Ken, Ken — you’re a perv.

10 comments:

John Smith said...

What a great post title. Of course a monk would kill the whole lot of them while sliding down the thousand foot side of a titan's sandle.

Whirlochre said...

Thanks for dropping by, John.

Don't get me started on monk abilities...

fairyhedgehog said...

That was brilliant Whirl! I'd forgotten I'd suggested the title and no one could have guessed where you'd go with it.

I especially loved the whole Dungeons and Dragons aspect and the acupuncture.

Whirlochre said...

Makes a great hobby combo...

Aerin said...

I sort of feel like I haven't taken my zoloft...for a couple of days...you are the quintessential drug trip, Whirl.

That's a compliment.

Whirlochre said...

With compliments like that, who needs 'hey, Big Nose!' or 'your face is like a mushed pizza'?

:)

sylvia said...

You freak me out.

Geoff said...

Hey — you should try living with him.

sylvia said...

(I mean that in the nicest possible way, of course!)

Whirlochre said...

Yippee!