(Continued from Episode 15,
In the Dandruff Mine.)
Meanwhile, back at the ‘Pebble & Peahen,”, Sir Cornelius and Gullet the Ghoul were engrossed in their respective narratives. As the sun waned and the moon began to gloom, the two mad authors simply lit some candles and continued on with their writing. Sir Cornelius Cornwit Gnawson began his new epic, “The Eerily Silent Village,” this way:
The village was quiet -- too quiet! Balderdash the Brave moved like a cat through the village lanes and cobbled streets, looking for a sign of life. There was none!
“Methinks some witchcraft has befallen this abode of no people” he observed to no one but his own shadow. “I shall find out the cause of this mischief and restore the residents to their rightful lodgings -- or my name isn’t Balderdash the Bold, son of Peter the Prosaic!”
So saying, Balderdash took out his magic pendant, which revealed the presence of magic, and spun it around like a top on the ground. It hummed and then a beam of light shot out of it towards the apothecary’s shop. Striding inside, Balderdash found a hastily scribbled note on the counter that read: “Help! A band of trolls is taking the whole village hostage because we wouldn’t give them enough weasel juice to drink! They are rounding us up even now to take us to the Horrible Hills. Please, if you read this, and you are a wandering hero bent on fame and fortune, come rescue us! We have much gold and many beautiful daughters -- and you can have as much of both as you want! Sincerely yours, Axel Floom, Apothecary B.B.S.”
“Ha!” cried Balderdash the Brave, and then he cried “Ha!” again, so that the walls of the little shop shuddered and the stucco began to flake off. “I shall journey to the Horrible Hills to rescue these fine folk -- and then collect their gold and maybe a few maidens for a dalliance. Twould be rude to ignore this invitation to adventure!”
Balderdash mounted his fiery steed, Gallstone, and was off in a flash to the Horrible Hills. He rode like the wind, ignoring the weirdly shaped boulders along the way, and the doleful cry of the turnip spitters that eyed him maliciously from their fleabitten grottoes. He stopped only once, to fight a ferocious gunkle that blocked the road. Whoosh-whish went his sword, and the head of the lifeless gunkle rolled into the ditch like a round loaf of oat bread.
The Horrible Hills loomed up before him, horrible and intimidating. A sinister mist clung to the ground as a shrill wind soughed through the dead tree branches above his head. Caring not a fig for any such gloomy nonsense, Balderdash spurred Gallstone onwards and upwards, and soon they had reached the camp of the trolls -- where a huge bonfire was blazing. The trolls were getting ready to eat every last villager!
Stealthily did Balderdash creep up upon the unsuspecting trolls -- and then, whish-whoosh, their heads were tumbling about like a game of marbles! When the last troll had fallen, Balderdash the Brave untied the villagers and bade them return to their homes, safe and sound.
“Oh, brave and noble hero!” cried Axel Floom, the apothecary, “what can we possibly do to repay you for rescuing us? Would you like our gold and some of our fairest daughters?”
“That I would” replied Balderdash, rubbing his hands in anticipation.
“Well” snarled Floom suddenly, “you won’t get either from us, you ugly baboon! This was just a trap set by our master, the wizard Slooterpants, to lure you to your doom! Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!”
And before Balderdash could move a muscle, the nefarious apothecary threw slug dust all over him -- and Balderdash collapsed into a shapeless heroic mass on the ground.
Gnawson paused here, nibbling on the tip of his quill, feeling quite satisfied with his story so far, but beginning to wonder if he had been a bit too premature in introducing the dark wizard Slooterpants so early in the story. Such powerful villains needed a better build up if they were to be really scary and effective. Perhaps he should put in some more stuff about dalliance before giving Floom his first line? Slightly perplexed, Gnawson looked over at Gullet the Ghoul, who was still scribbling furiously away. Gnawson sighed; novice writers always began like this, in a haze of enthusiasm -- but wait, just wait, my friend, until some grammatical or syntax problem pops up to slow you down. Then you’ll realize how brain-deadly writing can be! Sir Cornelius gave a deep cough, intending to distract Gullet the Ghoul long enough to impart some of this writerly wisdom to him -- but Gullet didn’t even hear him, so wrought up in his own story was he! And this is what he was writing:
I was born on a log in the middle of a bog near the nest of frog who was eaten by a dog. And things have not improved very much for me since then! My parents were humble ghouls who could barely provide dead meat for me and my seventeen sisters. At the tender age of one-hundred-six I was forced to leave home to fend for myself. And it wasn’t easy, let me tell you! Many nights I had to shelter inside a ring of cattails while the charlie chewups relentlessly prowled about, searching for me or any other innocent young flesh to gobble up. And then there were the fusspots and the floozy-flops that preyed on the unwary swamp child, battening on them and draining them of bile and mucous before you could say “junk bonds.”
Yes, it was a hard life, and I toughened up fast. Soon I could look any bumptious creature right in the eye and tell them to buzz off -- and they would!
But it never occurred to me that my life might be unfulfilled -- until I met Tildy. She was everything I was not. Where I was hard, she was soft; where I was tall, she was short; where I was black, she was white; and where I right, she was wrong! We planned on marrying in the fall of the year, right after the woolgathering. But, alas, on the day of our wedding she accidentally stepped on a miniature land kraken, which stung her so viciously that she immediately swooned and lost all her hair and teeth. When the doctors were able to bring her around, her brain salts had been depleted to the extent that she no longer remembered me. With a heavy heart, I walked out of her life, vowing to never fall in love again and instead devote myself to learning how to ripen a corpse in less than 24 hours -- the Holy Snail of ghouls the world over.
At last Gullet the Ghoul looked up, and saw Sir Gnawson staring at him.
“What’s wrong, colleague? Have you run out of plot twists and turns so early?”
“Nay, my ghoulish companion. I was just thinking we have probably got enough good material to go see my publisher this instant, demand a tremendous cash advance, and then spend the winter in Loma Limeade on the beach, finishing our respective masterpieces!”
“An excellent idea!” enthused Gullet the Ghoul. “Let’s go find Tim and tell him the good news!”
The two mad authors tucked their linen scraps, on which was written their marvelous tales, into their tunics, and headed towards the dandruff mine in search of Tim Laughingstock.
