The
Porridge
King
Book Two
By
R. D. Winfrey
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2010 R.D. Winfrey
****
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. Taking it with you to a massage parlor is strictly forbidden. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. It’s like a psychotic ex-lover or a penniless in-law — no matter what you do, it’ll just keep showing up at your door. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. They will loathe you for your generosity. Highly flammable. Use with care. Keep this file away from possible ignition sources such as high-voltage power lines and statically-charged cats.
Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
We’re all trying to find him a nice home or a rather large tool shed to sleep in.
Enjoy! And thanks for all the support!
You have our sincerest apologies.
****
A Note From The Little Toad Responsible For All This Malarkey:
This is the second part of the book entitled: ‘The Porridge King.’ It is not a sequel or a prequel or a spin-off. This book starts at chapter eleven and doesn’t look back to see who might be gaining on it. There is no recap for the uninitiated. So, be advised: you’re on your own from here on out, chippy. I would certainly recommend that you read the first book of the same name so as to become familiar with the story. Failure to do so would be somewhat tragic and awfully silly ― kind of like swimming halfway across the Atlantic only to jump on a boat to finish the trip. This is a very long book in its entirety and I split it into two parts to keep from scaring the living daylights out of casual readers, possible publishers, and illiterate hillbillies (who might confuse it for a Bible).
Thank you.
****
Chapter Eleven: So the Story Mows…Lawnward and Lawnward
The Mea Culpa River starts at the base of the Pyrenees Mountains and is fed by the spring rains, run-off from the winter snows, and five fairly large mountain streams. At the start of the river is the town of Huckabuck, which is a trading hub for the entire region. From there, the Mea Culpa slowly winds through the eastern range of the Pyrenees and continues on to the Karaka Mountains. The terrain around the river is very difficult to transverse, but was made much easier after the Romans constructed a major road through the area, which greatly increased trade but also the threat of invasion.
The Mea Culpa then turns southeast and continues on that course until it comes up to the base of Valdorlok Mountain, where it makes a sweeping turn northeast around the foothills, before turning back to the southeast and past Valdorlok proper. Once past the Valdorlok Range, it gently travels through what has come to be called ‘The Mea Culpa Valley.’ Included in this region are the cities of Fouldune, Carbuckle, and Rottweillor, as well as the smaller hamlet of Timbrook. To the northeast and further away from the river is the city of Walder. Further north, past the Allegorian Mountain Range, is the land known as Allegoria; inside its confines are the cities of Poutsland, Dripplesburg, and Pooch.
Once past Carbuckle, the Mea Culpa makes another slow turn and begins to drive a winding course southward, through the Ashen Mountains and onward to the southern providences, also called the ‘Nether Regions’ which include the cities of Taylee, and Bartok.
For several centuries the valley was almost totally deserted, as passage into it was greatly hampered by the numerous geological and natural barriers that surrounded it. The barriers on the western side are the Pyrenees and Karaka ranges, which only allowed significant traffic through the area by way of the river. The northern area is enclosed by the southern arm of the dense Black Forest, as well as by the Allegorian Mountains. The northeast is not only heavily forested as well, but also contains an assortment of impenetrable methane-rich bogs and marshlands, which abruptly end at the Walder Plateau ― a line of high cliffs that rise out of the marshlands and make passage into the valley by this route nearly impossible.
To the east and southeast are the Ashen Mountain ranges, which form an unbroken line from the eastern tip of the area all the way to Valdorlok, and are passable only by way of the winding Mea Culpa.
For a thorough history of the place, we now blatantly plagiarize the writings of Pliny the Elder’s half-witted descendant, Pliny the Dimmer, who wrote an extensive history of the region after getting lost there in a large-scale dance competition.
We don’t mind replicating his work word-for-word because the copyright expired ages ago, and since he’s been dead for almost 900 years, the odds of him suing us are relatively low:
“There is an old story told about the region known as the Mea Culpa Valley that tries to explain why the residents in this one particular area of Europe seem a bit, well, different from most other regions. By different, I don’t mean that their noses are a tad bigger or smaller than other peoples’, or that their breath is any more or less vile, or that they have better or worse table manners. The truth of the matter is that the people of this region seem somewhat stranger than most Europeans, and that of course, is saying quite a lot.
The story goes that once upon a time, several townspeople at a local settlement not far from the valley grew particularly tired of a certain village idiot’s antics. Oh, sure, at first they loved it when he suddenly screamed ‘Rectum!’ or ‘I have little, red, monkey balls!’ for no apparent reason, or when he went about the town wearing soiled pants or exhibiting outrageous amounts of mucous dripping off of his chin. His behavior often made the townspeople feel better about themselves, in a sad sort of way, but after a few years of this type of silly conduct, his idiocies grew a bit thin.
After trying to teach him new things to utter like: ‘Hullo, freakshow!’ and ‘I like big butts and I cannot lie!’ proved unsuccessful, and when the ‘big booger’ costume turned out to be far less humorous than what was originally conceived, they decided to get rid of the nuisance altogether.
Being fine citizens and not prone to stoning such a poor creature to death, unlike others on this planet, they decided instead to blindfold him, take him down the Mea Culpa River, and drop him off in the vicinity of what would later become the city of Carbuckle. After throwing a few bags of food at him, they commanded him to count to ‘608,425’. They then paddled their small raft away as fast as they could.
This feat turned out quite favorable in the eyes of the townspeople, for they could not only sleep peacefully at night, but also no longer had to worry about the idiot suddenly screaming something quite odd in the middle of a quiet funeral procession, or while waiting in a crowded doctor’s office. In fact, the deed was such a success that they soon decided to send other dim-witted family members to the area as well. Soon, villages from around the region began to do the same, and promptly began shipping-off every type of slow-witted cousin or knuckle-headed in-law, as well as various brainless criminals, and more than a few lawyers and politicians as well.
The valley soon became populated with all of the area’s undesirables and assorted outcasts ― usually too simpleminded to figure out how to swim, or climb a mountain, or even the relatively brainless task of walking through a deep forest. Eventually, these intolerably dense melon-heads made the valley into their new home.
Occasionally, two of these relocated lamebrains would bump into each other, and finding the experience somewhat pleasurable, would continue to bump each other, until one of them was either knocked out, or knocked up.
Over the next few hundred years, the population grew and grew, if not in intelligence, than at least in number. Small collections of these brainiacs ― often called ‘towns’ or ‘sewing circles’ ― began to pop up throughout the region and could easily be found by simply following the trail of stench and blood-stained thimbles. Small huts and stone igloos were soon built, as well as outhouses, lean-to’s, sheds, and even much larger structures that were made mainly out of heaping helpings of mashed potatoes and discarded footwear.
The first known leader of the region, whose name was later found etched upon a rock, was ‘Felix Hung: Lord of the Mammals’. Not much is known about him though, perhaps he was a naturalist, or a great hunter, or maybe just a man with a donkey fetish. It would appear however that he did help to construct the first city in the region, ‘Carbon-D29’ which originally sat near the area that later would become the city of Carbuckle. It was probably just a few huts and a semi-professional softball team, but it did flourish, and the pea-brained population eventually learned how to farm, and raise cattle, and distill liquor — all quite by accident, I’m sure.
It also seems that the people of this time worshipped some type of damaged wooden crate, or possibly the bits and pieces of an old chicken coop, as their god of choice. They called it ‘Harry,’ and sacrificed their sloughed flakes of skin and body hair to its benevolent glory. On Tuesdays — which they evidently considered to be a Sabbath day— they threw eggs at Harry ― a ritual many scholars believe signified ‘the eternal circle of life’, or just a horrible waste of perfectly good poultry products.
The entire area, over the next few centuries continued to prosper and develop. The population continued to multiply as well, not by an astounding rate, for human sexuality can be a very complex process, especially when compared to picking berries or wiping your rear end with a maple leaf, but at least a few of the residents appeared to have figured out the basic principles of procreation, and probably quickly realized that it had very little to do with the pancreas. The outside world, for the most part, left the area alone, and the residents happily practiced their new recreational pastime whenever they were not humping each other’s legs or attempting to set themselves on fire.
King Chilly, The Somewhat Brave, first united the entire region and built a large stronghold at Carbuckle, which at that time was still called Carbon-D29. He ruled with an iron hand, and a wooden hook in the other.
His laws were the first prescribed across the region and were focused primarily on making sure he had plenty of women to sleep with. For instance, stealing another’s person’s property was considered okay, as long as you promptly sent a few sketches of your wife, in various stages of undress, with a forwarding address, to his castle.
Sometime about the first century A.D., a nearby village rebelled against King Chilly the Somewhat Brave’s reign. Severe economic plight and outrageous taxes were most certainly the root causes of this rebellion, but were undoubtedly compounded by the fact that the surrounding areas were quickly running out of available women. The seditious villagers were soon victorious and promptly established the independent city-state of Valdorlok, and constructed a small wooden-plank bridge to the other side of the Mea Culpa, where they built a huge shrine to their god, ‘Gerald the Hedgehog, Lord of the Wiggly Nose.’
Other settlements in the area soon joined the independence craze and formed their own collective alliances. To the north was Poutsland ― named after Hasius Pout, a local cobbler and part-time boil lancer ― the residents of which, chose to worship: “Dennis the Marshmallow Cloud God: Lord of Lightning and Scalped Tickets’.
To the east were the Walder Bullwhips, who ignored political systems and theology altogether and formed a rugby league.
A great battle ensued, and King Chilly, and his 1,437 wives, aimed to retake power in the region and squelch all of the pesky rebellions. They were sorely defeated however, when they couldn’t come to a decision on what color uniforms to wear.
The deposed king and avid lingerie collector, was forced into exile in a small tool shed near the castle, where he spent his remaining days realizing that there were quite a number of implements inside that shed, and nearly all of them, for the most part, were far sharper than he.
Representatives from the four independent entities met at Carbuckle to elect a ‘Regional Supervisor’, who’s job duties would include encouraging trade between the cities, establishing peace, and equally dolling out all of King Chilly’s 1,437 wives.
This system stayed in place for several years, until the citizens of Valdorlok completed a very handsome stone bridge across the Mea Culpa River, and began to expand into the extensive valley to the north. They soon found that trade with the city of Huckabuck, just up river, proved to be a profitable enterprise, and before long established several lucrative catering contracts in the region.
King Evolver was the first true leader of the city, and one night, shortly after his coronation, while everyone was asleep, he replaced the great stone statue of “Gerald the Hedgehog, Lord of the Wiggly Nose,’ with a likeness of himself. The ruse proved to be quite successful, for no one could even tell the difference.
Walder, meanwhile, gave up the rugby league, finding that it is difficult to base laws on ‘scrumming’ and ‘conversion kicks’. The best player in the league however, Kyle Mugolo, four-time league MVP, was crowned king. Since he was totally ear-less, the crown immediately slid down to his neck. He kept it there, calling it ‘the royal choker’. He ruled for many years, until a knee injury forced him to the political sidelines. He did however, in the second half of his tenure, expand the boundaries of his kingdom to include the new village of Rottweillor. Unfortunately, when he tried to institute a new tax code based upon the length of a person’s tongue, he was called for a flagrant foul and quickly ejected from power.
Carbuckle came under the rule of several warlords and ineffective technocrats, which fought back and forth over the region between Rottweillor and Valdorlok. While Poutsland, a bit separated from all of this turmoil by the rugged Allegorian Mountain range, elected a well-trained horse as its ‘Chief Hay-Eater in Charge’ and based most of their important decisions on how many times he stomped his hoof.
Everything changed in the region when the Romans, disguised as Italian Health Inspectors, invaded the city of Valdorlok and took control of the entire area.
Soon, General Abius Schmabius, had constructed huge walls and gates to protect the city, and prepared great armies for the march through the valley. A road was built, connecting a landline to the city of Huckabuck, which significantly increased trade, the population, and the area’s relationship with the outside world. He also made the language of the region Latin, but finding that no one could figure out the complicated verbs and pronouns, ‘dumbed’ it down to the more popular ‘Pig-Latin’. Ich-whay was okay ith-way the itizens-cay.
A few months later, the Romans sacked Fouldune and Carbuckle. They later sent a legion of soldiers to Timbrook, but many came down with dysentery and the mumps during the journey, and it was soon decided that it was best to just leave well enough alone.
Years passed and the bridge between Valdorlok and the rest of the valley was greatly upgraded, as well as the road that led around Valdorlok and through the treacherous Ashen Mountains. This thoroughfare ran parallel to the Mea Culpa and was finally connected to Carbuckle by means of a massive stone bridge. Abius set up his new headquarters in that city, and soon began construction of a large fortress to guard both the river and the bridge.
For many years the area was totally dominated by Roman rule and laws, but after bringing years of peace and cheap wine into the area, the restless Romans finally decided that they had suffered long enough. Abius’ bastard son, Pox Romanius, promptly began construction of a road that ran southward, which would allow easy access ― and a quick escape route ― for his troops into the Southern Mea Culpa Valley, and the rich cities of Taylee and Bartok.
Pox left behind a Regional Governor by the name of Darius Malarius to rule over the area, and to protect the supply lines of his army and road workers. He also left implicit instructions that the new ruler was to initiate innovative laws that would prohibit such ancient regional traditions as ‘circumcision by fruit bat’ and ‘Sabbath Day bulimia festivals’.
By the year 490 A.D., the Romans had either retreated back to Italy or to the nearest bathhouse, and political turmoil and strife rose once again. In Valdorlok, the citizens instituted a policy that elected the tallest man in the kingdom to rule over them, but after the eleven foot high, Mingus Ahlibra fell over during his coronation and was discovered to not truly be one very tall man, but actually three rather short men sitting on each other’s shoulders underneath a very long trench-coat, the people drew straws and crowned Lucy Squalor as their new queen. She celebrated the promotion by forcing her subjects to suck upon her toes while they hummed ‘The William Tell Overture’.
Various wars, peasant uprisings, and steel-cage-death-matches soon swept across the region. Numerous warlords and soccer punks fought with each other for total control. This would continue for centuries, until Hooska Jools, a former muscle man for the ‘Union of Cow Milkers Local 491’ united the cities of Poutsland and Dripplesburg.
Before long, the entire northern region came under his control, for he was a wise man and knew how to cook a mean tuna casserole, which he often used to bribe the citizens into despising him. The entire northern areas, long separated by the Allegorian Mountains, were called, after a week or so of uninspired deliberations: ‘Allegoria’. Hooska used his powers to establish a communal system of government that awarded various social and economic privileges based solely upon the number of moles a person had upon their body.
However, like a fat man that has just eaten a very large pizza, there were loud rumblings emanating from the lower regions. A new ruler had taken control of the lands to the southeast, near the headwaters of the Mea Culpa, and his name was Vas Deferen.
He was large, muscular, and thick skinned, and that was just his head. The rest of him followed much the same pattern, except for his ankles, which were very tiny, and seemed rather out of place on a man of his audacity and pot-bellied girth. He quickly made his way up the Mea Culpa River after conquering the cities of Tumoria and Huckabuck in quick order.
Straight up the Roman road, his amazingly vast and almost totally bald army marched, carrying with them many assorted garden tools, which they openly brandished and often licked into razor sharpness.
A large-scale siege of Valdorlok took place and lasted for several weeks, until Vas Deferen finally found the key to the city’s gate, which he had mindlessly left on his nightstand ― right next to his wallet ― in his villa outside Huckabuck. The key was a gift by the Lord Hubbahebba of Valdorlok and was presented to Vas Deferen several months before, during a ribbon-cutting ceremony for one of Vas Deferen’s chain of male-grooming salons, called ‘Vas Cuts.’
The mighty gate to Valdorlok was finally opened, and Lord Hubbahebba, a local despot and admitted aloe addict, cursed his own public relations abilities and progressive policies toward small business owners. He promptly mailed a large letter to Vas Deferen, which humbly asked if he could have the key back. Vas Deferen, who had a very well-trimmed beard around his jaw line and several runes carved into the nape of his neck, graciously declined, and after a large tug-of-war with the local militia ― which Deferen’s army won quite handily (Ha!), he crowned himself ‘King of Valdorlok and Lord of the Flat-Top with Pork Chop Sideburns Combo-Package.’
Seeing that the entire Mea Culpa valley now lay before him, for the inhabitants were all fast asleep after a prolonged ‘Summer Solstice Celebration’, Vas Deferen quickly marched his army ― now sporting fancy Mohawks ― across Valdorlok Bridge and soon took over the lands up to the city of Carbuckle. He began diplomatic talks with the King of Carbuckle, whose name was Fortuitus Gamete, by way of two large tin cans connected with an extensive line of string.
After promising King Gamete that he would provide him with a lifetime supply of easily molested sheep ― which had been expertly trained into becoming compliant little beasts by missionaries in the dark hills of Alabamia ― the King of Carbuckle loudly declared surrender with a long, drawn-out ‘Baaaa….’
King Vas Deferen, who now referred to himself as ‘The Great’, because he liked the way it looked on the recruitment posters, soon conquered the cities of Rottweillor and Walder, and set his beady little orbs on the northern valley of Allegoria.
His great army, swollen by the influx of new recruits and numerous hair-stylists from Milan, crossed the treacherous Allegorian Pass with expertly trimmed ‘shag’ and ‘mullet’ haircuts, and looked like an exceptionally large hair-metal band. The people of Poutsland, seeing the great horde of hairspray-drenched warriors marching towards them, gave up without a fight, in fear that the monstrous army would at any second, start playing a ‘Motley Crüe’ song.
The Lord of Allegoria, Hooska Jools, was quite angry at this, and after coloring his army’s hair in several different colors and using large amounts of hair gel, horse glue, and marmoset spinal fluid to spike their follicles up nice and high, he sent his punk rock wanna-be’s toward Poutsland to retake his lands, and to make the world safe again for the comb-over.
A great battle ensued on the finely cared for, lush courses of the ‘Strawberry Ridge Country Club’, which made the recently contracted landscaping company of ‘Jason and the Grass-o-nauts’ extremely displeased, and they soon joined the fray as well, wielding many large hedge-clippers and edge-trimmers into battle. They were sorely beaten back however, when their manual push-mowers proved to be ineffective against the well-armored feet of Vas Deferen’s infantry.
After outflanking Lord Hooska’s Shetland Pony Cavalry and quickly making mince-meat out of his pie-throwing ‘31st Banana Cream Corp’, Vas Deferen the Great then unleashed his infamous regiment of bloodthirsty, armored chimps, which rode into battle on the backs of jackals and were heavily equipped with bronze-plated Swiss Army knives. The conflict was over within minutes and Vas Deferen the Great captured Lord Hooska Jools and assigned him a job sweeping up the floors at his newest hair salon, which had just opened in Outer Mongolia.
After conquering the entire region, the Great King took a long nap, and after forty days and forty nights ― for he was exceptionally tired ― he turned his adventurous spirit to the south and immediately packed up his great war machine and briskly marched through Carbuckle Pass and into the Ashen Mountains.
Upon word of Vas Deferen’s imminent arrival, the southern city of Taylee tried disguising itself as a large juniper bush. But, they were found out, when a general in Vas Deferen’s army attempted to eat one of the shrub’s huge berries and quickly realized that it was actually a ten-year old street urchin trapped inside a large red, rubber ball. A siege was immediately called and the great green city was quickly sacked and turned into an enormous Christmas wreath ― with many great tidings of comfort and joy.
Then, Vas Deferen the Great, always the extrovert and willing to do anything but stay at home and cook frankfurters with his girlfriend, whose name was ‘Lollapalooza’ and who also happened to be his next of kin, turned his massive army south and came upon the armies of Bartok, which were commanded by King Eddie the Bug-Eyed. The two huge armies met on the banks of Wet Lake and after a great deal of obscene finger gesturing and flashing of naughty bits one to another, a battle eventually erupted.
King Eddie’s troops fought valiantly but were done in by Vas Deferen the Great’s superior military strategy and unashamed use of armored chimpanzees, which scared the dickens out of the Bartokian defenders, for they thought the vicious little apes had invaded their lands to steal all of their tricycles and diapers.
When Vas Deferen sent his cavalry of ostrich-riding dragoons into the fray, the conflict was quickly ended.
A great celebration took place in the large halls of Bartok Castle, as King Eddie the Bug-Eyed was deposed and exiled to the island of Elba, where he became a world-famous checker player and part-time necrophiliac.
Vas Deferen the Great ruled for a few months and had many parties commemorating the size of his ear lobes and his fondness for espresso. He built many monuments to himself, like the great statue at Taylee, which was made entirely of dried macaroni shells and wallpaper paste. It stood nearly fifty feet high and showed the great king blowing through a kazoo while caressing his left nipple.
During one of his excursions through the capital city of Bartok, he came upon the Mausoleum of Slorsh, where a great many priests lived and worshipped; often sacrificing farm-raised sea anemones to the gods in between their normal off-track betting enterprises. It was at that time that Vas Deferen the Great found out about the amazing ‘vision stone’, which has also been called by some, ‘the dung stone’.
It was rumored that being in close proximity to the stone allowed a person to see many visions from the past, as well as the present and the future. The great king, being extremely egotistical and overly sure of himself, proudly strutted into the temple and promptly grabbed hold of the strangely-shaped artifact. He wiggled about a few minutes like a worm on a hook, before collapsing, and subsequently elapsing, into a deep coma. He never awoke from this state of delirium again except to occasionally scream ‘Mission accomplished!’ or ‘I’m a uniter, not a divider!’ And on a couple of occasions he awoke and loudly sang: ‘Plop, plop fizz, fizz…oh what a relief it is!’
After a lengthy tirade about someone called Charles the Rash, the king grew silent and stared at a small glass orb ― that when shook vigorously, depicted snow falling upon the Acropolis— a tacky souvenir given to him for winning a Greek bikini-waxing competition. He ultimately whispered ‘…rosebud’ and promptly died.
Following the demise of Vas Deferen the Great, the area again split apart. The Allegorian region was controlled by several warlords, until united under the rule of Alphius Davenport, who passed away under tragic circumstances two days after being crowned king. It appears that while celebrating his coronation, and the defeat of his many enemies, he decided ― in a rather deranged bit of reverie ― to dress himself up as a colorful piñata. Unfortunately, he was brutally beaten to death by a group of local elementary school students visiting the castle on a field trip. The worst thing about the horrible incident was that when his body finally broke in half ― no candy fell out.
Leadership over the entire region was bestowed upon the slumped shoulders of his son, who would later be called ‘King Piddy the Fair’. This pseudonym was not given to him because he deeply believed in justice and equality — because he didn’t — but was most certainly a comment upon his complexion, which ― him being an albino ― was probably quite pale.
King Piddy the Fair, however, was, if not well-liked by his subjects, at least tolerated by them, and he showed that his economic prowess was unmatched by any of the other rulers in the area.
After defeating Garish Canhunter near the town of Rottweillor, he took control of the lands from the Carbuckle Mountains all the way south to Valdorlok. Trade was very important to his administration and he immediately set up long-term alliances with not only the city of Valdorlok, but also the Cornswallow holdings to the north. Peace reigned throughout the region for nearly forty years as the alliances held firm.
Duke Heimlich, King Piddy’s brother-in-law, and infamous lounge lizard, ran the region from Rottweillor to Valdorlok, while the king himself, spending most of his time in Dripplesburg, ran the Allegorian region and kept a close eye on his many dog-racing enterprises.
He put a local power monger by the name of Templeton Vacuous in charge of the region encompassing Poutsland and Pooch by promoting him to governor. This proved to be a bad decision on King Piddy’s part, for the thrill of power went straight to Governor Vacuous’ rather empty head and he began to be an oppressor of the worst sort. He instituted a perpetual draft of all the people under his control and began to secretly build a large army.
Two years after his being awarded the governorship of the area, Templeton Vacuous crowned himself King of Allegoria, and began marching his troops toward the city of Dripplesburg ― determined to de-throne King Piddy’s reign in his own hometown and to steal his extensive commemorative plate collection.
A great battle took place in a large field with an enormous mound in its center, and because it was often used by local cattlemen for grazing, had been labeled ‘Cow-Pie Knoll’. After little more than an hour of conflict, King Vacuous’ reign was brutally ended by King Piddy’s well-trained troops. The defeated tyrant took refuge in a small fortress outside of Pooch, but his last stronghold was quickly breached. He was eventually captured and leisurely beheaded with a dull staple-puller.
The battle at Cow-Pie Knoll became famous not for the actual battle itself, but because it was the last large scale conflict that broke out in the region for many years.
Peace and prosperity ruled alongside the alliance that King Piddy the Fair, King Hector Cornswallow, and King Pavlov Delecroix had sworn to. These years of tepidity saw a great influx of agricultural and manufactured products as well as an increase in trade goods. The area began to truly prosper. Some parts better than others. Duke Heimlich was never able to fully control the thievery that seemed to surround the Fouldune area, and river traffic was always under constant threat. The Cornswallows meanwhile, spent too much of their economic surplus on building a great military, while Valdorlok, on the other hand, seemed to spend too little, and relied far too heavily on their fortified position as their sole deterrent against the repeated attempts at invasion by outsiders.
The days of peace ended, when King Hector Cornswallow, without any warning, apparently sent his son, Crown Prince Vespius Cornswallow, along with a very large army, south from Walder and sacked the city of Rottweillor, thus declaring war upon King Piddy the Fair.”
Chapter Twelve: Knee-Deep in Rubber and Dripping with Chrome
Sergeant Woolsely marched into Gravy Acklander’s office, and stoically stood in front of his desk. He clicked his heels, snapped a perfect salute and bellowed: “Sergeant Woolsely reporting as requested, sir!”
Gravy looked up from his desk with an amazed expression. The contingent of the Royal Guard in Fouldune had been very busy the last few days — patrolling the streets in full parade dress, marching with snap precision and constantly whistling the tune from ‘A Bridge on the River Kwai.’
When not marching or hanging up recruitment posters (a fine drawing of a Royal Guardsman on horseback with his sword drawn and the words: ‘The Royal Guard Wants Ye!’), they were working very hard on a small barracks and fort overlooking the docks of Fouldune. Even with all of this activity ― and no matter what the temperature was in the hot sun ― Sergeant Woolsely always looked impeccable. He was persistently seen in full, regulation dress, and always wore a large black beret ― perfectly tilted at a 45-degree angle across his brow. The only thing unusual about the sergeant was his enormous mustache, which looked as if a longhaired Persian cat had chosen his upper lip as a nice place to take a nap.
Gravy slowly rose from behind his desk. Strewn about the top were maps and legal papers, but Gravy was quite illiterate, so most of it didn’t make any sense, hence the reason there was no organization. “Sgt. Woolsely, I need your men…”
“Sir?” Sgt. Woolsely interrupted, “Pardon the interruption, sir, but may I discontinue my saluting position?”
“What?” Gravy asked. Sergeant Woolsely stood still — straight and stiff as a two-by-four ― his hand still pressed tightly to his brow in salute.
“Sir, the proper term is ‘at ease’.”
“Oh, yes, uh…at ease, sergeant,” Gravy said in an overly dramatic voice.
Sgt. Woolsely relaxed, which was really just a matter of him widening his stance a little and putting his hands behind his waist. “Yes, sir,” he replied.
“Sergeant, I need your men to go to the city of Timbrook and enforce the…uh, law…yes, the law there,” Gravy stammered. He frowned, and felt rather uncomfortable with all the formalities of being governor.
“Sir, if I may…are they rioting?”
“Well, I wouldn’t exactly call it a riot, but they did abuse one of my men and possibly kill another.”
“Sir, have they disavowed or in any way disparaged the king’s right to rule this land?”
Gravy groaned, “Well, not directly, no…”
“I’m very sorry sir, but that does not coincide with the mission statement of the Cornswallow Royal Guard and its affiliated organizations.”
“What do you mean?” Gravy asked. He slowly walked back to his desk with a puzzled look upon his grizzly melon.
“Sir, all procedures regarding the Cornswallow Royal Guard and its affiliates, as well as its support organizations, are strictly governed by the Cornswallow Royal Guard Leadership Council and overseen by the Viceroy of Military Affairs, Commander Herbert Jefferson, sir.”
What?”
“However, sir, if I may be so bold, all guidelines are prescribed within the ‘Trusty Handbook of the Cornswallow Royal Guard: Proper Procedures and Conduct.’ Sergeant Woolsely then pulled a small, red bound book from his inner vest pocket and held it out for the Governor to see. Gravy, if he could have read, would have noticed that on its cover, in gold lettering were the words:
‘The Trusty Handbook
of the Cornswallow Royal Guard:
Proper Procedures and Conduct.’
And in a slightly smaller font:
‘Including Several
Motivational Hymns,
Maps, Mission Statement,
and Command Structure Flowcharts.’
It was a few hundred pages, and Sergeant Woolsely had it entirely committed to memory.
“Sir, section 12, paragraph 2, firmly states: ‘the Royal Guard is not to be used against sovereign entities unless: a) a group or groups of people proclaim their allegiance to another king, leader or other(s); (b) that a group or groups of citizens declare, by action, petition or by assembly, that they do plan, or are planning, an armed insurrection, or other activities of a rebellious nature…”
Gravy stared at the Sergeant in total disbelief. He interrupted the man’s memorization skills by saying, “So, you can’t go into Timbrook, under my orders?”
Sgt. Woolsely, a bit perturbed at the interruption, simply stated, “No.” He paused briefly before adding, “The Cornswallow Royal Guard only answers to: a) the Viceroy of Military Affairs, (b) The King or authorized representatives of the Royal Court, i.e. the Crown Prince, the Duke of Homeland Security, or the…”
“So, I can’t tell you to take care of those people in Timbrook? Even though I’m the governor of this region?”
Sgt. Woolsely sighed, having been interrupted twice now. He stiffened his chin and barked: “Only with expressed written consent of the Viceroy of Military Affairs, or by an authorized representative of the King.”
“Okay, how do I do that?”
“Sir, Section 14, paragraph 3, states that you must, and I quote: ‘fill out ‘Military Allocation and Vested Powers Act #24: Surrogate Military Authorization Form’.”
“What?”
The Sergeant leaned in slightly, “It is over there in your ‘Important Royal Guard Documents and Forms’ box.” He then pointed to a very nicely made group of wooden boxes attached to the wall. It was a large square that was composed of a smaller group of squares arranged in a five by five set, with a small stack of papers in each cubicle.
“As per regulations, it is attached to a wall space in the governor’s, or City Headquarters’ building, that is unencumbered and easy to access, sir”
Gravy went over to the box and peered at it, while Sgt. Woolsely said, “It is exactly as specified in ‘The Trusty Handbook of the Cornswallow Royal Guard: Proper Procedures and Conduct’,” he held the opened book toward Gravy’s face and pointed to a diagram that showed detailed instructions on how the box was to be constructed.
Once Gravy had glanced upon the page, Sgt. Woolsely quickly closed the book, stuck his chin out and said: “As specified in section 8, paragraph 12, each square has been engraved with the proper inscription and has a generous allowance of the documents specified, also, the document you require is contained in box ‘F’, which by my inspection…” he leaned forward slightly and took a good look at the box, “…is in complete compliance with all regulations.”
“So, I need to fill out this form, and then you’ll order your men to Timbrook,” Gravy asked, holding the paper in the air.
Sgt. Woolsely smirked. “Uh, no sir, that form needs to be filled out, approved by a commanding officer, namely me, then sent to the Counsel of Military Affairs, for further review and approval, and after that, signed and notarized by the Viceroy of Military Affairs, or by an authorized representative of the King, as I have previously mentioned.”
“So, how long will that take?”
“Three or four weeks, sir, depending upon travel time and the vacation schedules of those people involved with the review process.”
“I can’t wait that long.”
“Doesn’t matter sir, they wouldn’t approve it anyway…” Sergeant Woolsely replied matter-of-factly.
“Why not?”
“Because the residents of Timbrook have not shown any rebellious or seditious acts towards the king, sir.”
“My men were killed and abused!”
“That’s as maybe, sir, but The Royal Guard is not a law enforcement entity. We are a military organization and uniformed representatives of the king and his court.”
Gravy slapped himself in the head, and soon after sat down at his desk and began pounding it against the stacks of papers. As he was busy doing this, in walked Narlog, the royal secretary, who had been spending most of his stay in Fouldune at ‘Vera’s’, and quite enjoying the company of the women that worked there. He walked in with a huge smile on his face — a rather unusual occurrence for him.
“Hello, gentlemen…Sergeant…Governor.”
“Hello, Secretary Narlog.”
“Hmmpf,” was all he got out of Gravy.
Narlog looked at the sergeant, who turned and whispered: “He’s not very good with this governing business, sir.” He gave him a quick wink, before resuming his strict posture.
“Narlog, can you order the Royal Guard to go into Timbrook and enforce my laws, and bring those…murderers to justice?” The governor asked, before pounding his fist upon his desk as an exclamation point.
“Uh, no sir, not my jurisdiction,” Narlog politely replied.
Gravy rubbed his face in total frustration. “All I want is for the guards stationed here to follow my men into Timbrook, so that I can find out who shot two of my men out of a catapult and into the swamps. Is that so much to ask for?”
Woolsely stared at the ceiling. Narlog rubbed his chin a bit before answering in a very steady voice. “Well, Governor, there are a lot of extenuating circumstances to that particular request…”
“Like what?”
“Well, for one, when did these actions occur?” Narlog asked.
Gravy looked about. “A, uh…few days ago.”
Narlog nodded his head slowly, “Before you were governor?”
“Yes,” Gravy unhappily answered.
Both Narlog and the Sergeant chuckled. “So, these two private citizens, under orders from another private citizen, namely, you, went into Timbrook to…”
“Look for two fugitives.”
“Look for two other private citizens, who were not under any type of official investigation…”
Gravy frowned — he knew where this going.
“Without any uniform or banner signifying the entity that they represented, as well as invading those people’s sovereignty without any type of authorization from any territorial or royal official…and were subsequently accosted. Am I correct?”
Gravy sat back down in a huff. “Yes, I suppose.”
Narlog smiled, glanced over at Sergeant Woolsely and softly said: “Sir, the first thing you need to do, is send an official police force in there to investigate the circumstances…a uniformed police force with banners and such designating them as officers of the royally-appointed governor.”
Gravy frowned for several seconds before finally jumping out of his chair. He stood there smiling broadly while pointing his finger at the two, and shouted: “Taxes!” He followed that with a small laugh.
Both Narlog and Woolsely answered: “What?”
“The people of Timbrook have not ever paid taxes! Now, from what I understand, one of the Royal Guard’s responsibilities is to enforce the payment of the king’s taxes, right?”
Narlog smiled again, and held out his left hand to Sgt. Woolsely, “Sergeant, do you have your ‘Trusty Handbook of the Cornswallow Royal Guard: Proper Procedures and Conduct’?”
“Of course, sir.”
Narlog opened the small red book to a page in the back, which folded out into a nice-sized map. He then laid the map in front of Gravy and proceeded to explain. “See, the problem with that argument is that Timbrook, though certainly a settlement, but with an as of now, unknown population, has never been classified as a township or municipality, as you can see on this map, it is nowhere to be found.”
“So?”
“Well, because it is not a classified urban center, it falls under the ‘Agriculture and Agricultural-Producing Settlement Act,’ which, under the jurisdiction of the Earl of the Interior, is exempt from any tax collection on any products produced for immediate and/or timely consumption.”
“What?”
“Well, in a nutshell, because it has been delineated as primarily an agricultural or agricultural-producing area, those products are tax exempt, except for any surplus that may be sold or traded at an official city or town site. Basically, as long as they eat what they produce, under the ‘A.A.P.S. Act’ they are not liable for taxes unless they bring the surplus and sell, or trade it…here in Fouldune, for instance. This was all part of Prince Vespius’ ‘Farmer Tax Credit Initiative’ of last year, and has been very popular amongst the farming constituency.”
Gravy dropped his head to the desk. He mumbled pitifully, “So, why is the Royal Guard here if I can’t get them to do anything?”
“Sir, would you like me to recite our mission statement?” Sgt. Woolsely asked.
“No.”
“Sir, if I may,” the sergeant eagerly asserted, “You’ll find in receptacle ‘J’ of your “Important Royal Guard Documents and Forms’ box, a very nicely made, and concise pamphlet that provides a basic overview of our duties.”
Gravy looked up into Sergeant Woolsely smiling face. “Thank you both.” He then waved them away.
Three minutes later, he looked up from his desk and Narlog had left, but Sergeant Woolsely was still standing there, stoic and staring towards the back wall of the office. He looked down at the governor and whispered out of the corner of his mouth: “The proper command is ‘dismissed’, sir.”
Gravy rubbed his temples. “Dismissed, Sergeant.”
“Thank you, sir.” He clicked his heels, performed a tight 180-degree turn, stomped his right foot, and next began to march briskly out of the office. Once in the street, he performed a precise 90-degree turn and continued marching down the road.
“Oh, lord,” Gravy moaned, “And they say pimping ain’t easy…”
*****
Oldsmobill had spent the last couple of days exploring Rottweillor City, and was rather enjoying himself. He wandered around the market and watched as many of the craftsmen there worked upon their wares. He especially paid close attention to the woodwright shops. He went around asking questions, without drawing too much attention to himself, but had been unsuccessful in finding the four carpenters that would fulfill the first part of his quest.
He did discover that he was being watched, though.
While looking at a few swords in a little blacksmith shop, he noticed a man peeking around the corner at him, then dart back behind a wall. Oldsmobill held up a very shiny and turned it slightly, as if admiring its craftsmanship, but he was actually using it as a mirror, and he watched as the dark figure stared at him from the shadows.
Olds continued to notice him as he passed through the market, catching fleeting glimpses of the man. The figure wore a dark cloak, which concealed his eyes, and he had a long, dark beard, and a fairly long and crooked nose.
The day after Oldsmobill had arrived in Rottweillor, Prince Vespius invited him to a large breakfast in the royal hall with him. They spent a few minutes examining some of Bishop Lamprey’s writings. The pages were very confusing, and Oldsmobill didn’t really learn much from them that Vespius hadn’t already spoken of during their trip. He left that little meeting with a very uneasy feeling, for the truth of the matter was, there was nothing in the writings that Vespius had allowed him to see, that made the name of ‘Oldsmobill’ stand out any more than a hundred or so other names, and after the strange dream that Olds had during his first night at the castle, he had far more questions than answers. He was almost certain however that the figure in the dream was Bishop Lamprey, but did not have a clue as to the whereabouts of the old sage. He did not mention anything about the dream to Vespius. He knew that the prince was holding back on quite a bit of information, but until he could find out what Vespius knew, and why he would not share those secrets with him, Olds felt it best to play his own hand close to his vest.
Vespius was, however, kind enough to set Oldsmobill up in a very luxurious suite in the castle’s guest wing, which just goes to show that every clod has a silver lining. He also gave Olds a bag of gold for ‘personal expenses’ during his stay in Rottweillor. Since the first breakfast meeting, however, he hadn’t seen the prince, who left Rottweillor later that same day with a large contingent of men and a hefty wagon that held a rather odd-looking wooden structure on the back. It was in the shape of a pyramid, and obviously made of wood, but appeared to have a grayish-silver layer of paint covering it. As Oldsmobill watched the procession from atop the castle gate, he became overwhelmed with a bad feeling, a mixture of dread and fear, but he couldn’t quite grasp the meaning behind those emotions. He slowly walked down the stairs to the gate’s entrance and toward the marketplace in the hope that it would change his mood.
Olds thought of perhaps buying some new armor, but the prince had supplied him with the standard issue uniform of the regular army: the Cornswallow Army Corps. Their armor was not as nice as the Royal Guard’s, but Oldsmobill thought it would certainly do for the time being. Dressed in a chain mail shirt that draped just below his waist, as well as dark-tan leather jerkins and his own scratched-up, armored boots, he was feeling like he was slowly getting back to where he had started, when he had first set out upon his quest.
A thin, white tunic covered his chain mail and came down to his upper thighs. It was a short-sleeved garment, and didn’t have the normal Cornswallow insignia embroidered on the front, but was instead plain and rather ordinary looking. He didn’t like wearing the chain mail hood, or the helmet though, as they became too hot in the sun.
In his uniform, and still carrying the sword he had gotten from one of the bandits in Fouldune, he felt adequately clothed for what little he did while at Rottweillor, which was mainly just walk around the market and enjoy all the entertainment that took place there.
It rained the entire third day, so he stayed inside and hung out in the billiard room and played bumper pool with the guards and a group of elderly patients from a local retirement hovel on their weekly field trip to the castle.
The next day he awoke early, and ran down to the docks to see if Cap’n Kidneybean’s boat had arrived. As he ran down to the riverside he saw the craft tied to a pier. Ishmael and Sloop, with the help of a few dockworkers, were busy unloading the boat’s cargo onto a horse-drawn wagon.
“Sloop! Ishmael!” he yelled out, and the two old sea dogs, quickly sat a slab of marble down and waved back. He shook both their hands and Sloop gave him a light punch to the arm.
“There he is, Olds the sailor!” Sloop laughed, “Come back to join the crew?”
Ishmael smiled but didn’t say a word.
“It’s good to see you dogs made it here in one piece,” Olds exclaimed.
“Ya, easy trip past Carbuckle. ‘Course, if any bandits were thinking of offing us, a glance at them two Royal Guards would’ve made ‘em think differently,” he replied.
“They weren’t good company, though,” Ishmael peeped.
“Ya, grim duo,” Sloop added.
“So, where are the Cap’n, and Johann?”
“Cap’n is in that shack signing papers and getting’ his money,” Sloop said.
“Johann didn’t come,” Ishmael somberly added.
“What?” Olds asked in a very surprised voice.
“Naw, we haven’t seen him since the banquet. Figured he’s went with you.” Sloop replied.
Oldsmobill looked about puzzled. “What? Did he leave any message or…”
“Nope. Not a peep or a beep.” Sloop smiled, while Oldsmobill kept looking around the dock as if this was some kind of a joke.
“But…” Olds pitifully replied.
“Aye, you know how them womens is…” Sloop laughed a deep laugh, but it didn’t cheer Olds’ spirit any. “He’s probably already moved in wit that fine lassie he met at the banquet. Ha…she was quite a looker!”
The knight-errant began to slowly walk away from the dock. After a few slow steps, he turned and said: “Nice seeing you guys are okay…”
“Ya, hey, Olds, come have a drink with us,” Sloop called out.
“Yea, I will…I just…”
“Yea, have a drink,” Ishmael cheeped.
“I just…have to take care of some business. You guys staying long?”
“A couple of days.”
“I’ll be back in a little while,” Olds said, but nothing made his mood change. He slowly walked back to the castle. A look of sadness covered his pouting face. His shoulders were slumped, and as he walked dejectedly up the road, he unenthusiastically kicked a rusty can ahead of him with each step.
Off the main feasting hall of Rottweillor Castle was an extensive library. Hundreds of scrolls as well as a large collection of books were kept neatly organized on numerous shelves. There were several very comfortable chairs scattered about the room, and plenty of light was allowed in through two large stained-windows. One window was decorated with a rendition of the crucifixion of Jesus, and the other was of Lord Pylon Cornswallow, the great grandfather of Hector, and the first Cornswallow to come to power in the northern lands of Walder. In beautiful, multi-colored shards of glass, the legendary ruler was depicted on a white stallion, holding a large sword in one hand and a spatula in the other. Olds pondered the possible significance of the representation. Was Lord Pylon ready to flip some pancakes? Or perhaps making the world safe again for scrambled eggs?
As he stared at both of the colorful windows. He noticed that their styles were quite different, and wondered what image was in the window before Cornswallow had taken over Rottweillor. He sighed deeply.
He was still depressed, and just couldn’t believe that Johann would abandon the mission for a woman he had only just met.
At first, he was saddened by this turn of events, then he became angry, but after a while, he began to feel a bit guilty. He suddenly realized that he didn’t own Johann, and his friend certainly didn’t owe him anything. If the truth were told, Olds still felt like he was indebted to Johann for saving his life, for if it hadn’t been for him, he might still be wandering around the swamps outside of Timbrook.
Olds started to finally smile, feeling a bit of pride in himself for convincing Johann to at least leave the swamps and his home in Timbrook and see a little of the world. And if Johann was happy with his newfound love, then that made Oldsmobill happy as well. He was still disappointed that Johann wouldn’t be accompanying him on his mission, but perhaps the ‘great hunter’ had found what he was actually looking for nonetheless.
In the quiet of the library, Olds began to study the titles of the books upon the shelves. He noticed that a large portion of the books were concerned with the history of the region, and in particular, the history of the mysterious dung stone. As he walked along the shelves, pulling out scrolls, and glancing at very old and brittle parchments, he began to understand how much time Vespius at put into researching the strange artifact. He began to wonder if anyone else in the world knew even half as much about its history, its legend, and its power, then the crown prince.
Noticing a large blue book on one of the shelves, he went over and picked it up. He stood there a few seconds while admiring the craftsmanship inherent in its embossed cover detail and binding. He slowly opened it and began to read “The Legend of the Dung Stone,” compiled and edited by Verga DeLuge:
“The oldest story of the Dung Stone is told by the Gaelic Priest Astoliax, who said that the stories had been passed down from generation to generation from the ‘Elderlings’, an ancient race of man-like hominids that first inhabited the European continent. These tales made their way through time in the form of songs mainly, and one such ballad told the story of ‘Ain,’ a warrior who battled a great dragon in the depths of the earth.
In one particular ballad, Ain defeated the dragon and sliced off three of its toes, and was prepared to kill the beast when it pleaded for its life. Ain, as the legend tells, was a just and righteous man, and didn’t wish to kill the beast, but the dragon had been damaging his tribal lands and injuring his people. So, he made a bargain with the beast, that if it could provide a large enough bounty, he would allow it to live.
But, contrary to other legends told of dragons, this particular beast did not collect or horde gold, so it had nothing to give to Ain. And as Ain raised his stone axe, the beast cried out that it did have a stone, a great stone, that could tell a man everything about the future and the past, and that if a man had this stone, he could rule the world.
Now, Ain was intrigued, but he said: “Let me see this stone, or I will surely slice thee most horizontally and expose all ye giblets.”
But the beast withdrew deep into its cave and came back with a beautiful blue gem like none that had ever been seen. To look inside this gem was to see a thousand stars that sparkled and glimmered like a clear night sky. Ain felt a strangeness come over him and he suddenly saw many bizarre and wonderful things. But, feeling his mind slipping from him, he took his axe blade and did slice his own thigh, so that the pain of his wound would cause the visions to cease. But, Ain’s mind was still covered in madness. And he said to the beast: “I will slay you dragon and take this stone as my own!”
It was then that the beast ate the stone and swallowed it into his gullet. Ain raised his axe, but his anger had made him clumsy and he swung at the beast like a madman. He wounded the beast again, but the beast swung his claws and sliced Ain deep to his core. The once great warrior fell there dead.
The dragon then wept, for he could not retrieve the stone from his gullet, and it had been a gift to him from his father’s father’s father. For he was the last of his kind, and was left here to watch over the earth and to await his kind’s return. So the stone was ruined, and when several days later he expelled it, he left it in the cave, and flew away from that place, for his den had been discovered, and found another place to hide in the distant mountains.
And a search party found the Dung Stone and took it and the body of Ain to Califalix, where they both lay for many years.”
That afternoon, Oldsmobill ran down to the docks in search of the crew, and after roaming around a while, heard a familiar voice bellowing from inside a nearby bar.
“Aargh! If it isn’t me ol’ jalopy, Oldsmobill! Aargh! Come hither me buddy, and have a drink with an ol’ sailor and his vicious crew!” The rather inebriated captain barked, while slapping Olds repeatedly on his back as he sat down at the table. On the other side of him was Sloop, his arm still bandaged up, slurping down a large jug of root beer, and already unable to walk. Next to him was Ishmael, sipping from a brandy glass and looking upon everybody with his large chicken-like eyes. A couple of other men sat around the table as well, one was called Fatty Matty, though he was more husky than fat, and a rather strange looking man named Hobble, who, for some odd reason was wearing a spittoon upon his head.