As I wandered through the black woods, an evil unlike any I had known before slinked unto me, stopping my person dead in it's tracks. "Be gone, foul beast," I cried out, only to have my frightened ramblings cloaked by a growl of unforseen intensity. "Away with ye, or give me yer puddin, and ye shall pass." I began to protest to the beast, claiming that the pudding which was bequeathed unto me had a special purpose. "For it is to save the fair virgin maiden, beastly beast. She is the most pure and wholesome in all the land." The beast snickered and stepped out of the shadow. "Beast, are you who I think you are?" The beast replied, "And who might I be to you?"
I could only answer him with stern eyes and a solid hand ready to unsheath my blade. "For you seem to be Bill Cosby, popular comedian and star of the Jello Pudding commercials." The beast (Bill Cosby) looked back at me. "Aye, for I am Bill Cosby. Not a fortnight had passed since me first Jello commercial before I realized I was addicted to the cursed curdled dairy product. I hunt for my sweet butterscotch love every night. And every so often, a lady of value, your virgin, comes down my mountain path and I take her for me own self."
I quivered with fear. "Are you telling me that you turned my fair virgin Beatrice into pudding?" So downtrodded I was that the beast's answer actually suprised me. "Nay, young knight. I sold the virgin to a dairy farmer in exchange for new pudding, boysenberry tart. New flavors are not the most easy feat to come by, ever since Lord Duflannahannan began curdling his own flavors and darkness took the land." He was right!!! Bill Cosby had taught me the path of my knightly knighthood. I had to find and destroy the evil Lord Duflannahannanannan. Then, spirits guiding me, I should have the path to the fair virgin maiden Beatrice set before me. Avast ye and farewell to Bill Cosby, comedian and woodland monster.
CHAPTER TWO COMING SOON. Wait. Now it is here.
CHAPTER 2:
Sunless days had passed since my encounter with the Cosby-beast. As I grew weak and weary from lack of rest, and pudding, the thoughts of poor virgin Beatrice would nigh escape my mind. Was she comfortable? Hungry? Hairy? Had evil Lord Duflannahannan killed her? Was my quest in vain? Should I have listened to Bill Cosby? If I left Nashville headed for Toronto at 2pm going 63 miles per hour, and a fellow knight left Vancouver for Buffalo at 2:27pm going 74 miles per hour, at what time will we arrive at our separate destinations, and at which point would we intersect, shall we at all? These questions would soon be answered...
...actually, they were not answered. I apologize in advance to any sage or bard transcribing my quest, but that epic lead-in did not consummate itself into an orgy of literary brilliance. I walked for days more, with nothing to feast on save the marrow of elven corpses I came across on the mountain path. Their bone milk was lean and their hair was still long and blond, but the meager sustenance allowed my eyes to remain focused on my quest, staving off pitiful dilapidation for at least several more hours. As the 9th rounding of the moon came forth into my eye-space, the path I traveled upon reached a thick, prickly, purple bush-land, and disappeared into the dense thicket. I perched upon a mossy rock, tears welling, amazed at the sheer futility of the situation. I fell into a hazy sleep, the crickets dancing around my mouth like the foam of a rabid beast.
I slipped into dreamscape and night-fancy, my eyes darting to and fro beneath heavy lids, thickly encrusted with the dense residue of a valiant act of love gone wrong. Retrospectively, and dream-detectively, I had pressed onward for near a fortnight searching for my lost maiden, and not one positive event had occurred. A sherpa had been assigned to my quest by the elder's council, yet he was not like any sherpa I had seen before. He kept silence in Kraft Priory, and was feared among the children and single women who did not claim a hairy man for their own protection. His skin was think as a griffin's, and he was the keeper of countless sexual diseases to which he valued as a fearful currency among the aforementioned single women. We rode out of the village together, through the iron gates and past the stone wall, not speaking yet mutually understanding the quest at hand. He had no obligation to my maiden Beatrice and yet he assisted me with the verisimilitude of a domesticated warthog. We captured an ostrich that evening for supper, and following our meal, and coffee, my sherpa (I still had never heard his name) said one thing to me, or maybe two things, and I shant not never forget it.
"Our time on this planet is brief, young friend, and what love you seek from this woman is something that I hope you are the recipient of. I am just a plain being, a Sherpa, and have lived this life in quiet watchfulness of others. People are born, grow, age, love, hate, and eventually become the dust upon which we make our path. Choose your path carefully."
This had gotten heavy. I was waiting for my pudding to curdle under the warmth of the flaming hearth, and Sherpa dropped this on me.
"Do not think this to be heavy," he stated, obviously reading my thoughts. "I can read your thoughts, and I shall teach you this cheap parlor trick once you tell me one thing: What is it about young Beatrice that makes you quest so valiantly? And to wager your pudding so selflessly? Tell me boy!"
Not one syllable had escaped my pursed lips before the brush before us creaked and crowed. Sharp teeth glistened in the moonbeams. Slobber dripped, drooped, slipped and slooped onto toes. This fierce brow before me was none other that the Farfnarn, cursed demon-doctor of the night. Legend had always spoke of a demon-doctor in the woods, a cursed man that had experimented in black magic medicine practices and when his HMO dropped him, he turned into half man-half beast. I never believed Legend though, because why would someone named Legend always be speaking of legends? It seemed silly.
But those cursed teeth were not silly. My years of training were escaping me as this foe sized me up. He was either going to prescribe me ginger root, or mix me up with ginger root for dinner. Ha. I should write that down.
But NOT NOW. Short- blade or broadsword? Crossbow or poison dart? Ascot or puffy-legging things? As I contemplated fashionable battle, Farfnarn pounced. Before I had even processed my danger level to have risen, Sherpa had impaled Farfnarn with his own short-blade. Before I could thank him, he rolled over, blood coming from the puncture Farfie had inflicted as Sherpa took him down. He had given his life for me. Maybe not intentionally, but I will just think of it that way.
I cremated the Sherpa's head. Well, first I took a break and bowled mushroom caps with his head, then cremated it. After sewing a blanket from his skin and a processing a pudding currency from his tender spleen, I pressed onward. This is what led me to where I am currently. And warmly, with his skin blanket.
The events following my encounter with Cosby had been disheartening. Searching for days, no sustenance, further recollecting my prior relationship with Beatrice and the distinct aversion to intercourse she maintained, even after being threatened with a crossbow...
..."Bacaw, bacaw," burst through the purplish thicket-space and infest my consciousness it did. I unperched from my mossy rocks of rest, withdrew my short-blade and...CHAPTER 3 coming soon. I think. Unless you don't want it. Let me know. It will probably arrive anyway.
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