Bats Kicked My Ass - Part 3…
In which it becomes clear there’s a scourge on the village of Crock….
RECAP: Hey, remember what we were like back when we experienced Part 2? Man, we were cool back then… back there, like a week ago, we experienced Kris toil away on the farm and then refresh himself with a night on the Farmer’s Ale at The Poisoned Turnip, during which, like any young fellow, he had a good old think about his mating options, and showed off in front of his crush, the rugged Catwin, the Scribe’s daughter. Now, our hero is staggering home with a belly full of booze and a head full of dreams….
At the end of the night, Kris meandered home in a warm haze, feeling pleased enough with himself, having had the opportunity to show Catwin his new moves and having not let Dafydd upset him too much. Indeed, it was a fair old night and it he was now fit for nothing but tumbling his way home to tear into the chicken leg he’d left on the side for chewing on before he fell into a deep slumber, in the hope that he would dream his most favoured of dreams…..
In his favourite dream of all of his many dreams, the mighty Lancelot would stand before Kris, his strong, rippling chest all glistening in the candlelight, the smell of pig fat all about him, his burly arms twitching as he poised himself before Kris, as he readied himself for the task ahead. His arms sending Kris’s mind all around and about, so full of the promise to many a fair wench that they would be safe and warm wrapped within them. His large, manful hands at the ready to grasp at Kris, all the more to teach him the sacred art of wrestling. An art they were practicing in the hush of Kris’s hut, the dream evoking the tale of the how this wrestle could determine his entry into Arthur’s crew.
Kris feared for a moment as he slapped the warm pig fat onto his own, much punier body, yet Kris fiercely believed his fierce pluck and dogged determination would win through.
“I fear thee not, Knight of Legend!” Growled Kris, as he readied himself for the trial ahead.
“I expect nothing less young Pitchfork” smarmed Lancelot, his moustache twinkling around his calm, full lips as Kris made his move, a swift grab of the right arm with his left hand, swiftly countered by Lancelot as he stepped aside, clapping his hand across Kris’s chest, leaving Kris in no doubt of the power that seared through the great Knight. Kris swept his leg and spilled Lancelot onto the floor as he pulled the slapping hand away, using Lancelot’s momentum against him, Lancelot tumbling to the floor with the grace you would expect of a knight, managing to turn the spill into a roll, with him then leaping back onto his feet, twisting around quick, feet twinkling swiftly so as to place himself behind Kris, his arms grabbing Kris about the waist. Kris felt a surge of electricity course through his body as he realised Lancelot had fallen for his trap. It was time for his signature move, the one he had spent many an afternoon practicing with the Scarecrow from Gilfoyle’s field.
He twitched his knees downward as he jabbed his elbow into the Knight’s side, allowing him to greasily slip from Lancelot’s arms with ease, curving a shoulder into the knights powerful abdomen, allowing him to hoist Lancelot aloft upon his shoulders, holding him across his back. Kris span the knight around, then flipped him vertically, slamming him to the ground, taking the wind from his brilliant lungs, the Knight flopping upon the ground for a moment, allowing Kris to pin his arms with his knees and slam his fists next to the great man’s beautiful head.
“HOW!” screamed Kris. “Now then, take your defeat with honour!”
Lancelot smiled as he readied to accede the victory to Kris.
“You move smartly, Pitchfork” Lancelot purred, making a sweet, warm rush flow throughout Kris’s body. “Now, if you would allow a gentleman the grace of standing….”
Kris moved his knees carefully from Lancelot’s hands, allowing the knight to right himself.
“HOW NOW!” scorned Lancelot as he swept the legs from under Kris. “NEVER AFFORD THE ENEMY GRACE, YOU FOOL!”
Kris squirmed upon the ground and curled into the ball he often screwed himself into at such points, awaiting the inevitable blows to rain down upon him. Lancelot had other things in mind however, as he dropped his tights, whipping out his penis and unleashing a huge torrent of piss upon Kris as he squirmed beneath.
“HEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEELP!!!!”
…The screams pulled Kris swiftly from his slumber, his eyes adjusting to the Crone as she stood crookedly over him, her piss running from her into in rivulets about the haypile Kris claimed as a bed.
“WHAT IN THE NAME OF THE SAINTS!”cried Kris as he kicked at the crone’s legs. She tumbled from the makeshift bed, gathered herself sloppily about and ran from the hut, farting noisily and wailing gracelessly as she did so.
It took Kris a moment to determine what was happening, though his quickening realisations were further disturbed by screams from across the way.
“OH DEAR LORD HELP! WINNYFRED HAS BEEN HAD BY THE BATS!” howled poor old Mrs Dally from the road in front of Kris’ hut.
Kris gathered himself as swiftly as he could, his blood searing through him as he realised the oncoming potential of adventure, his loins engorged, his senses finely attuned by the crone’s piss, his nature affronted, yet his will was firmly set aflame by the cries for help. He leapt up, slapping off the piss strewn straw stuck on his legs, bumbled about for his clothes finding them thrown as they were the night before in a pile in the corner of his hut, for him to then hurriedly put them on as he then leapt outside, sticking his trusty stick in the rope about his waist as he did.
Mrs Dally was in her nightgown, tears streaming down her face as she kneeled over the body of the young girl.
“OOOOOWWWWWW” she howled as she kneeled next to the dead girl. “SHE’S BARELY A PUP, CUT DOWN IN HER PRIME BY THE FORCES OF EVIL… LORD SAVE US ALL!”
Kris rubbed his eyes as he knelt next to the old woman, doing his best to inspect the body while maintaining what he felt was a necessary air of decorum as he did so. The girl was as pale as the moon, her body portraying a translucence that made it clear as day that all of the blood had been drained from her. Kris could see the trio of bite marks on her neck, making it clear what had occurred.
“Bloody vampire bastards!,” exclaimed Kris as he shook his fists in the air, his whole being becoming a swirl of rage, hatred, fear and sadness as he equally vacillated with a renewed sense of purpose. Here it was, the cause he’d been looking for, a tragedy laid at his feet right outside of his own hut. He was going to make sure he made the most of this opportunity to show the village exactly what he thought he was made of.