Bats Kicked My Ass - Part 4…
In which we gather together in Crock’s Village Hall, looking for a hero in the morning light…
RECAP: Hey there beautiful soul, I’m glad you’re here again. It’s been a right old week hasn’t it, what with there being all those new babies about and those Alice Coltrane reissues being announced and another rise of a great and terrible evil…. Yes, last week, our plucky hero was rudely awoken after a fine dream that had him writhing around greased up in pig fat wrestling the mighty Lord Lancelot, only to have been awoken by a scream as the village discovered poor young Winnyfred had been slayed by the bats…. Now, on a damp, foggy morning, the villagers gather in their hall in order to see how this foul scourge can be dealt with…. We walk boldly in, smell the muck and note the ageing, huddled frame of the village leader as he addresses the folk gathered about us….
The Village hall was abuzz. An emergency meeting was being held by Lord Barry, the events of the morning having sent wild shocks through the patrons of the village, rumours piling high as gossip rebounded and resounded about, each retelling of the death of the young girl bringing increasingly ridiculous notions as to how the young girl had perished. The most ridiculous sounding of them being that Mike Cowden was one of the vampires. Mike was a man so mild mannered it was known that he had once allowed himself to be beaten up by a young girl who’s temper had broken after he refused her a ride on one of his prize cows.
Lord Barry stood at the raised end of the hall and clapped his hands together loudly.
“Now now folks, lets commence the commencement of todays proceedings as we shall be proceeding with forthwith. It appears one of our flock has reached a most untimely end and this is most unfortuitous. We are indeed sadly feeling an immense sadness at this most miserifying of times, yet we are gathering here in order to gather a suitable response to this most immediate of crisisees. ”he meandered.
“Let’s hunt down the bastards double quick!” shouted Jimmy Mulvey, the local butcher, who’s innate bloodlust made him ideally suited to his profession. “All we’ve to do is find the bastards coffins, I’m sure they’ll be about somewhere!”
“Now now my butchering compatriot, let us not be rushing into anything with any haste that is not having some thought applied to it beforehand,” replied the Lord. “We must be measured in a response that has taken all of the measurables into account before we run about with our swords and torches all aloft. Now, as our most venerable Knight, the mighty Lord Graevey is away on the sort of official business which is befitting of a Knight, as indeed are many of our men partaking in the kind of holy work that entails the very defence of the land of our most exalted and majestic King, we have but a handful of available men who may be availed of service to our fair village, indeed, the pickings we have to choose from appear to be most slender indeed. Let us see…”
Lord Barry scanned the room, looking about for the men who were the most able-bodied and ready. He was not particularly impressed by what he saw. In amongst the ladies, each of whom were eyeing the Lord with a potentially explosive mix of fear, dread and anger, he found a mere smattering of men. His gaze first falling on the butcher Jimmy Mulvey, what with him being the most vocal from the beginning.
“What sayeth thou, elegant carver of meats?” enquired the Lord.
“Ahhhhhh, you see….,” mumbled the Butcher. “I’m not up to too much after me accident. I blame the Farmers Ale! I’d had right too much of it the night before I had to slaughter the geese for thee harvest festie and I right done ballsed me hands up”
His raised hands showing a mere index finger and thumb on the right hand. “Me fightin’ hand is barely fit t’ raise a mug.” He hung his head in shame and looked down at the muck about his nervously shuffling feet.
“Accidents do occur dear Meat Master. Most unfortuitous as that is.” The Lord looked over at Mrs Pulvery, the Blacksmith’s wife. “Madam Pulvery, where might be your skilfully hammer pounding husband?”
Mrs Pulvery unwrapped the black veil from her face and whimpered, dramatically, “My dear Lord, the daft bastard Pulvery is in bed most infirm as we fearfully gather upon this day. You see he fell into the shite pit last Wednessday. He was off his barnet on the Farmers Special. He hadn’t half been slaving away in order to put together that carriage you ordered fer the jubbillee yer see..”
Lord Barry loudly cleared his throat. “AHEM… this is most upsetting to hear Ma’am. Please be giving my most utmost of regards to the craftsman.”
The Lord’s eyes next fell to The Scribe, who’s scrawny demeanour he was hoping to find had some semblance of fight within it. “And what say thou, oh master of letters?”
“Ah, well….” said the Scribe. “I ain’t in the best of shape I’m afraid. I’m not really seeing most things so well these days. I’d say its a veritable postulation of mine to make, but I’d suggest its cause is too much scribing by candlelight and too many sups of the farmer’s Triple Distilled Spud Juice. It’s rough on the palate is the spud juice, but it don’t half help with the focus making, if you catch me drift me lud?”
Lord Barry sighed, his aged and delicate hand worrying at his furrowed brow. “Of course, sighting is an essential element to any mission of any sort, I’d declare. I suppose I must honour your disavowal of the task at hand.”
Throughout the discussion, Kris increasingly became incredulous at the many times he had been passed over by the Lord, yet as his gaze now darted about, he started to see the magnitude of the opportune situation he was in. The realisation finally dawning upon him, he puffed out his chest, placed what he hoped was a firm looking arm upon his trusty stick, thrusting it out behind him in a move emulating the proud stance of the venerable Lord Graevey as he proudly marched towards the front of the hall.
“My dear lord!” Kris hollered. “I see you have been most kindly in acknowledging those clearly not up to the task afore us. Yet, it is clear to me this is the day the village of Crock will acknowledge the fierce readiness of I, Kristopher Pitchfork, Knight in Waiting!”
The hall let out a collective gasp which quickly descended into a muttering susurrus.
“Oh Christ, not Power Piss Kris!” Shouted Mulvey. “May the Lord himself help us if he’s all we’ve got left!”
Kris paid no mind to the insult, taking the moment to leap over next to Lord Barry as he loudly proclaimed to the room.
“We shall worry no longer as to this vampire scourge, my fellow Crockians! Indeed I have been working my whole life up to this very moment, with many an hour spent in preparation!”
At that point, Kris whipped his trusty stick from his belt and held it aloft. His imagination forging it into the most fearsome of weapons.
“What in the name of the balls of the lord are ye gonna do with a bastarding branch, you silly bastard?,” yelled The Scribe.
“Worry not Scribe, all shall fear this stick when I am done!” Yelled Kris as the women of the village each seemed to simultaneously place their hands to their bosoms, each loudly voicing a prayer to their chosen gods, not one of them holding out even an inch of hope that the village fool would come even close to saving them.
Crock, it seemed, was well and truly in the shit…..
*****
The meeting went back and forth in this fashion for a while, with members of the village decrying their lot and bemoaning the very idea of sending Kris out on such an important mission, followed by a series of replies from Kris, each increasingly filled with bravado, bullshit, bollocks and exhortations regarding the power of his Trusty Stick and his burgeoning Knightliness. Eventually though, the realisation was accepted, all they had left to fulfil this task was this fool and indeed they would have to send a boy out to do a man’s job.
“Right one and all of you fine folks of this most beautiful village, I am hazarding a guess that this is settled then” waffled Lord Barry in order to put a stop to a particularly nasty torrent of vitriol from local whoremonger Madame Buttery in which she stated her firm opinion that Kris’ obvious inability to please a woman left her feeling he was clearly not up to the task at hand.
“Kris it is then, in the light of us not having any other options, this shall be the option of our choosing, one I reluctantly must vigorously decree. I for one and perhaps only I have every faith in the lad, whose burgeoning solidity more than makes up for an obvious lacking of wiles. Indeed, we shall be sending him out this very evening, once we have been able to conclude our preparations. Madam Pulvery, what say you regarding the costuming of the lad in some appropriate armourings? Is there some such about in the smithery you may be able to utilise to accommodate the lad?”
“Aye, I reckon I can fancy some up for the dickhead, but I’ll be doing so with a fair bit o’ reluctance me lud. I fear it’ll be a waste of good tin, that will. God himself will have to bring the daft shite back with his very own hands I fear.”
“Now now, all frettings that have been spilled from the village mouth upon this fair floor are to be swept away with the days dust Ma’am,” replied the Lord.
“I HAVENT ‘AD MY SAY YET!,” shouted Achwed from the back of the hall, her eyes crossed and trembling, one hand holding up her skirt and the other waving in the air in a fashion designed to invoke both fear and reverence in those gathered about her. Those stood close to the Crone gasped as they noted the tell tale signs she was in one of her mystical trances as she reached a bony hand into her bra and pulled out a potato fashioned into the shape of a man, with a little round head and tubular arms. “ALL BE NOTING THE WORDS OF JOHNNY SPUD HERE AS HE COMMUNES WITH ME VIA THE BACK PASSAGES OF THE MYSTICAL REALMS….. THAT LAD IS ACCURSED WITH WHAT SHALL HENCEFORTH BE DECLARED AS THE FLOWING AND WE MUST COUNTER THIS OR THE FORCES OF URINIUS, THE GOD OF PISS WILL BE MOST DISPLEASED WITH US…”
Lord Barry rubbed his forehead with his hand as he waved the other about to try to silence the thrumming crowd as they acknowledged this moment of bother. He’d really had enough of all of this and was most in need of a good sit down and a nice cup of tea.
“Indeed Crone, we must regard your most salient regardings as they are coming to you through the many forces unseen by those eyes that have yet to be trained to see such things. What therefore can be done to counter this?” Asked the Lord.
The crone grabbed a pewter vase of flowers from underneath the main window of the hall, (a stained glass affair showing King Arthur defeating the foul Mud Man of Mercia) and, placing the vase underneath her skirts as she raised them up, proceeded to loudly and vigorously urinate in it, holding it proudly aloft as she finished.
“THIS PISS WILL BE RITUALISED AND THROWN UPON THE ARMOUR AS THE FOOL IS FIRST WEARING OF IT IN ORDER TO APPEASE THE MANY STREAMS OF THE FORCES OF URINIUS!,” the Crone belted out, forcing Kris to look down at the floor as his face began to turn the same shade of colour as the farmer’s beetroots. Kris hated the idea of having to once more be befouled by the crone’s piss, yet he also couldn’t bring himself to tell the tales of the shameful nature of the Crone’s nightly emanations and so he kept his mouth shut.
“Of course, this appears to be the most sensible of sensibilities Madam Achwed. We shall utilise this here urine to decorate the lad’s armour, so long as this is fine with you Madam Pulvery?,” intoned Lord Barry.
“With all due respect, I don’t give a shite me lud, I’ll be getting me shillings fer it from the village pot, wether it’s covered in crone piss or pig shite, so it’s all the same to me.”
“Righto. That settles it then. Kris, you will head to the Smithery before nightfall in order to receive your armourings before your making upon your brave way. And with that, this gathering shall be brought to its conclusion. May the dear, sweet lord of all Albion be smiling upon us this on most salient of evenings. My warmest regards to you all.” Barry waffled as he walked through the middle of the hall, parting the crowd as he hasted himself off to finally get that cup of tea.