RECAP: Back when we experienced Part 1, when we were all a bit younger and sprightlier and, dare I say it, spunkier… we met our plucky, pissy, proud hero, Knight wannabe Kris Pitchfork. We learned about his desire to become one of Arthur’s legendary band of orbicular Knights, we saw him fight an imaginary dragon, and learned he has a long way to go before he’s in anyway proficient with a sword… (RIP Petticoat.)
As we stumble into the realms of Part 2, we strain our eyes and finally a band of Vampires comes into our view, having what looks like a right old belter of a night…
Calihari stood triumphantly over the twitching cow, straightening the frills on front of his tunic and wiping the blood from his mouth. Bovine blood helped to provide a great start to what was shaping up to be an action packed evening. Being a vampire in the 5th century was pretty much a piece of piss and was tons of fun to boot. His thousand year old wife Valhari grabbed the head of the cow, all the better to get a decent purchase on its neck in order to drain her share, her thick raven coloured hair blowing gently in the wind, her weighty bosoms becoming saturated with bloody overspill that Calihari was sure he would hugely enjoy licking off once she was done.
Mike, the newest addition to their crew, stood a few feet away, looking wistfully at the moon as it did a fine job of icily lighting up the sky.
‘Miiiiiiike, yooooooou’re next to dine….” purred Calihari as she licked her full, ruby lips. “I hope you will be enjoying this sweeeeet, fresh blooooddddd…..”
“Oh thanks!” chimed Mike. “Most kind and generous of you to offer. I daresay, since you so rudely ingratiated me into your improper lifestyle, you really have made it up by being so incredibly polite. It’s just a shame I can’t really tell Glenda all about your hospitality, seeing as you killed her first an all. Such a sweet lass was my Glenda.”
“Worrrrrryyyy not about Glendaaaaaa” murmured Valhari as she wiped her lips with a jacket sleeve made from a material of the deathliest black. “Nowwww you can havvvee alllll the ladiesssss you wish to taaaaaake…Miiiiiiiiiichaeeeeeellllllll”
“While that does sound tempting” beamed Mike, “I really always have been a one woman man. My Glenda was my first and I’d hoped my last, so I think I’ll keep it that way if it’s all the same to you m’lady.”
Calihari frowned at Mike. Mike clearly had a fair bit of growing to do in order to really take full advantage of his new lifestyle. “Commmmeeee Mike, indulllllllge” he intoned, sweeping his skinny arm over the corpse in front of them. “Driiiiiiiiiiinkkkkkk”
“Well, I really suppose I should” said Mike. “I have started to get the most terrible headaches if I haven’t drank any blood for a while. Still, I no longer get any heartburn each night after dropping off, seeing as I don’t sleep the same these days, so every cloud eh?”
Mike knelt down, crossed himself politely and chimed, “Right, lets have a wee drinkypoo!”
Calihari palmed his pale forehead, drawn all the paler in the soft moonlight. Yes, Mike really had a lot of work to do.
*****
Kris tipped the last fork of pig shit of the day’s trudge into the pile. He was bone weary, fiercely hungry and dying for a mug of ale. He trudged over to the farmhouse and knocked on the door. Old Gilfoyle poked his head out.
“Ah! Done for the day is we?” asked Gilfoyle.
“Yep,” moaned Kris. “And right bloody knackered I am.”
“Well, it’s an honest days work of a sort” Gilfoyle replied while rummaging in his pocket for his change. “Let’s see, goin’ rate fer the day is 3 shillings, and that, minus me Petticoat tax leaves you….” he spilled a large dull brown coin onto Kris’ hand. “….tuppence’
Kris sighed the sigh of a man bounded by the cruellest of fates. It was just about enough for a bowl of stew and a couple of jugs of ale at the Poisoned Turnip.
“How much longer do I have to do this for?” Kris enquired.
“We’ve about a year yet.” Gilfoyle replied. “Still, you can earn an extra bob if you do yer extra. You knows what I’m on about lad.”
Once again, a sigh to end all sighs spilled forth from Kris.
“I suppose I bastarding must, if only for the sake of another ale” Kris moaned as he unleashed his penis from his trousers.
“That’s a good lad” said Gilfoyle, spilling a penny onto Kris’s outstretched hand as he stood in front of the petunias delicately arrayed at the front of Gilfoyles house and unleashed a torrent of thick, hot piss over them. It seemed like it would be forever that Kris would rue the day the village discovered that his urine made for the finest of fertilisers.
Kris was, it seemed, terribly cursed.
*****
By the time Kris had arrived there, the Poisoned Turnip was in a rare mood. The band were swinging a mighty jig, folks were cocking many a leg here there and everywhere and the night appeared to be in a rambunctious swing.
Kris pushed his way through the heavy wooden doors at the front, only to be resoundingly smacked in the face with a bunch of daffodils.
“Well, looky here!” Shouted Dafydd, the newest edition to the village. “If it isn’t old Proud Piss himself, the wee bastard Pitchfork!”
“Bugger off Welshy!” cried Kris. “Why don’t you bugger right off back over the wall, you pile of shite!”
“I’ll be doing none of the sort you!” responded Dafydd. “And here, that Daffodil potion does nowt to stave off the foul aroma of piss you emanate Pitchfork, you feeble prick!”
Dafydd stuck his leg out and back slapped Kris over it, toppling Kris unceremoniously into the pub, causing ructions of laughter to echo throughout. Kris did his best to right himself as gracefully as he could, rubbing the floor muck from his hands as he did so.
Kris did his utmost to not rise too much to Dafydd’s pettiness. One day, he believed he would be the one riding back into town on horseback as a freshly minted hero, riding on the coattails of the many legends his knighting adventures would afford. Indeed, there was little use in wasting time on such trivial affairs. Better to use his time wisely and do what he had come here to do. Get as drunk as he could on his pittance wages and flirt with Catwin, the Scribes daughter.
Some were inclined to be attracted to some of the more conventionally attractive wenches in town, such as Winefred Gilfoyle, who stood near a foot taller than most wenches and whose caramel hued skin portrayed an exoticism some found irresistible, capped off as it was with features that seemed to have been sculpted by the finest of Roman craftsman, her emerald eyes shining brightly with the warm promise of her untarnished youth. Or, some may wish to indulge in the conventional English Rose fairness of Betty, the serving wench at the Turnip. Betty had the cutest, dimpled, rosy cheeks, blue eyes that tickled with cheeky promise and her job allowed her to show off her true nature, all full of piss and vinegar as she is, what with her being more than salty enough to give as good a gobful as she got from the locals, and strapping enough to knock a man clean out should he make a grab for her she wasn’t expecting or wanting.
No, these wenches mattered not to Kris, Kris only had eyes for Catwin, who stood merely 5 feet tall and whose deftly carved biceps and tightly cropped blonde hair sent Kris into the kind of spin it would otherwise take him a good few mugs of ale to generate.
Betty saw Kris head shakily to the bar, wiping his hands on the seat of his tights. She took down a mug and filled it with the farmers Special Bitter, timing it perfect so the mug was foaming and ready as soon as Kris got to the bar.
“There you go Pitchfork me lad!” twinkled Betty. “I’ll be betting you’ve a thirst after yer day’s graft?”
“That I have mostly, kind Betty, I’ll be thanking you” chimed Kris as he slapped his tuppence on the bar. “‘’Ave one for yerself and that should make me good for a couple more.”
“Most kind of you Master Pitchfork” Betty purred, winking as she pocketed the tuppence. Kris turned to see Catwin leaning against the bar, her sizeable hands dwarfing the mug of ale she was taking a long draft from.
‘Evening lady Catwin, yer looking most radiant tonight, and no, I ain’t meaning the glow from the fire!” Kris said, trying his finest to emulate a snifter of the charm he’d seen Lord Graevey emanate on the odd, rare nights in which the Knight would grace The Turnip.
“Aye, and thanks to you Pitchfork sir” Catwin boomed, her deep and dulcet tones vibrating their way deep into Kris’s loins. “I suppose you’ve been shovelling plenty of pigshit to turn the day through now have you?”
“A gentleman should not talk of such to as neat and herald a lady as you, dear Catwin” replied Kris after a firm draught of ale. “Though would you be inclined to my burly self to show off some of the moves I’ve been developing with me Trusty Stick?”, ventured Kris.
“Well aye” said Catwin. “there’s not much better goin’ on until I’m to be working later”
Kris took his Trusty Stick from his belt and began to swing it about, in front of Catwin, clattering it on the floor clumsily almost as often as he was actually able to make a full swing of it.
As Kris swung about, Catlin took the opportunity to stare right past him and enjoy watching Betty shine her charm upon the patrons of the Turnip, her round, firm bosoms jiggling in the firelight, her blonde ponytail nestled sweetly in-between them, the frills on her blouse framing her bosoms perfectly, all set to glisten as they were with a light beading of sweat. Betty’s plum red ample mouth singing its way along to the ballad the band had struck up, the flower in her hair fair begging to be plucked out and placed between the teeth. Betty caught Catwin admiring her and looked across, smiled widely and winked. As soon as tonight’s shift was done and the patrons were staggering back to their huts, there would be some time for Catwin to continue to teach Betty how to read.
“Mmm, and how many words she’ll be uttering after…” thought Catwin. Like yes, and yes please, and do that again and some phrases too unholy to mutter in a public space like this…