On Wednesday, it happened again.
Kris was slapped sharply awake by a warm sensation stinging upon his legs. There, soaking through the hay upon which he had collapsed the night before, rendered legless as he had been after enjoying one too many flagons of the Farmer’s Full Moon ale at the Poisoned Turnip Inn, it seemed once again that Kris had pissed himself.
He flung himself up and slapped at the bits of hay stuck to his legs, picking up what he thought was the jug filled from the stream outside for washing, only to soon realise that his hazy mind had deluded him into picking up the piss pot, which he swiftly poured across his lower half. Kris looked down and sighed heavily.
‘Oh bollocks….’ He moaned.
It was going to be a long, tough day. Life as a pig farmer’s labourer in 5th Century England was tough enough without an unwanted pissy problem, particularly if you take into account the simple truth that pig farming was probably the last job in the whole of the land of Albion that Kris wanted to do.
You see, Kris Pitchfork held the utmost belief that he was fit for so much more than shovelling shite. Kris felt fervently that he was a Knight-in-Waiting, and, as far as he was concerned, all he had to do was train hard and he would soon enough be able to take his rightful place at the Round Table with the rest of Arthur’s band of sturdy warriors. There he imagined he will soon enough be sat, merrily celebrating some victory or other, taking pride of place next to the rippling Lancelot, seated directly across from Tristan, while vigorously slapping thighs and trading war stories with Yvain. Yes, he could imagine it all so clearly he could almost taste the superior flavour of their mead. Alls he had to do was train hard, train well and then train some more and he was damn well certain he would eventually make the grade.
Firstly though, he had to deal with the vast amounts of piss it seemed he had managed to inflict upon himself. A quick dip in the River Dee would be sure to sort things right out.
*****
Achwed shimmied as quickly as she could back to her hut, hoisting her skirts up around her knobbly ankles as her feet slapped and slopped in the cold, wet Wednesday morning mud. It had been another successful excursion and she was aching to record it in detail in her diary. Life as a Crone in 5th Century England was tough, so any chance she could get to alleviate the crushing loneliness and aching boredom she constantly felt was surely to be taken full advantage of. Life had really opened up for her since the fool moved into the hut across from her a few weeks ago. The various ways she could induce bother upon the young idiot had really given her a fresh outlook on life. This had all really allowed her to develop a new spring in her seven toed step.
Achwed chuckled her way through the door of her hut, grabbed a leather-bound tome from under her bed, licked the tip of her quill, dipped it and then started scribbling.
“Deer Dairy,
Once again I have bin able to sneek and piss all over the village fool. I think this time mite be the most satisfying one yet…”
*****
Kris braved the freezing depths of the Dee, well, at least up to his knees, with him then splashing river water over the rest of his legs. He rumbled about in his satchel and found the Scent of Dandelion he had bought from The Crone a few weeks earlier and gave himself a good spray. He had bought it as he wanted to ensure that he smelled as well as a pig farmer could smell after a days shovelling which he usually followed up with a dedicated bout of training-to-be-a-Knight. You never knew when a wench might take a fancy to you. Up to now, it would appear that none ever really had taken a fancy to him, but Kris was sure this would happen at some point. Once all of the training pays off and he is finally installed in his rightful place alongside King Arthur, if not sooner.
Kris steeled himself in the river and pulled his Trusty Stick from his waistband. He fixed his feet, found his most powerful stance and swung a shaky, half balanced arc about himself, both arms readied for the imaginary battle he was about to have with the snarling, mythical dragon imaginarily flying towards him, the beast’s eyes flashing with an innate fire, reflecting that of the annals of Hell itself. The Dragons countenance smugly showing its intent to burn his entire village to the ground.
“You’re no match for me, you foul emanation!” Kris snarled as he readied his Trusty Stick afore himself.
He pictured the dragon flapping its wings and hovering above him, threats spilling from it’s sulphurred mouth.
“You will be burnt to a cinder before the day is out!,” snarled the dragon.
“You’ll be no match for me, or my other Knightly companions, you horrid beast!” Kris shouted as the dragon swooped quickly down at him, flames raring from its huge nostrils, the dragon pulling back its wings, ready to pour its flames down upon the Knight he imagined himself to be, only to find Kris was able to pull back what he knew would become a sculpted, muscular arm, of the type spoke about in murmurs by the wenches of the village, his Trusty Stick thrown so powerfully as to find itself planted firmly within the dragons scaly gut as it belched a final burst of flame about him, the dragon swinging down for a firey, vengeful blast, his imaginary armour having protected him capably, his make believe shield absorbing the scrape from the dragons talons, allowing him to push hard enough to fling the dragon aside, its huge body then flopping into the river behind him, causing huge splashes that deftly threw enough water about to drown out every fire in the village, a neat touch he had counted on as he had plotted the deadly accuracy of the thrust of his shield. A proud and fierce cry ringing though the village.
“FOR THE KING!” he cried.
“WILL YOU STOP BASTARDING ABOUT YOU DAFT SOD?” Replied a voice from across the river.
The shout pulled Kris back to the present, the village of Crock startling back into view.
‘One Day…’ thought Kris.
One day he’ll be able to use an actual sword and fight real monsters and win over the pride of the village. ‘Yes… One day…’
*****
Kris couldn’t help but cast his mind back to the day he had been banned from handling a sword. He had been blessed to have a try of the mighty, legendary sword Beryl, a blade often and capably wielded by Lord Graevey, the Village Knight as it accompanied him though many victorious adventures.
“Here you go Pitchfork old bean, see how Beryl feels in your trainee hands!” Graevey had gruffly bellowed (the Lord rarely spoke below a full shout),
“See if you can hit this!,” Graevey challenged, throwing an apple into the air.
The apple went over Kris’ head, causing him to swing Beryl around in a wide arc that clumsily sliced the apple in half, the sword then bending low towards the ground, the momentum of the gleaming blade swinging down as it caught the glory of the bright morning sun and ever so precisely showed it’s finely honed sharpness as it sliced in half Old Farmer Gilfoyle’s prize pig Petticoat who had unfortunately happened to smell the apple and then wiggled her way over to see if she could snuffle a bite.
“STOP YOU FUCKIN’ MORON!’ screamed Farmer Gilfoyle as blood pooled about Kris’ feet as he stood, slack jawed above the swine.
“THAT’S MY ONE AND ONLY YOU BASTARD!” The farmer howled as he fell to his knees aside the pig, his dirt caked fingers tenderly holding a twitching trotter.
“SHE WAS EVERYTHING TO ME YOU FUCKIN’ IMBECILE!”
Kris could only bow his head and close his eyes as he dropped sword Beryl to the floor, letting it clatter next to the mournfully snuffling pile of future ham on the ground in front of him. He instantly knew this was some deep shit he’d managed to stupidly swing his way into.
Later that day, Kris balefully presented himself to the office of Crock’s Shire Reeve so his punishment could be determined. Shire Reeve Paddock was a large, burly, unkempt man with a squint in his left eye which all and sundry suspected was caused by his constant smoking of the pipe that barely seemed to leave the right side of his mouth, constantly spilling out the smell of burnt weeds. Lord only knew what it was that Paddock smoked.
“Now now Pitchfork” grumbled Paddock, smoke billowing about his face as he inspected the parchment in front of him. “Gilfoyle’s had a consort with the Mensarii and he’s determined Petticoat to have a value that borders on the extortionate. She was a rare breed, you see. Not of these parts and of a sort these parts rarely, if ever see and she meant a hell of a lot to old Gilfoyle, so I’ve been inclined to add a fair whack of sentimental coinage to the overall costing of the fine which really places you deep in the shitebucket. Luckily however, Gilfoyle and I have agreed to let you work it off.”
“But, but, I have to train!” wailed Kris. “I’m a Knight in Waiting!!”
“AHAHAHAHAHA!,” snorted Paddock as he pulled the pipe from his wide face, his smoke stained hand slapping his desk as his thunderous laughter smacked a fearful humility into Kris.
“Aye!” howled Paddock, “And I’m a fuckin Unicorn in waiting! AHAHAHAAA!”
Kris bowed his head. He could see there was no easy route out of this. Paddock eventually chuckled himself to a stop and then took a hefty toke on his pipe.
“Now now Pitchfork, you’d be right to report yerself to ol’ Gilfoyle before sundown and make some arrangements or you’ll be spending the night locked up at my behest, and I’ll be having you do a damn sight more than shovel shite!” growled Pitchfork.
Kris begrudgingly grabbed the parchment detailing his judgment from Paddock’s yellowed fingers and trudged out of the Shire Reeve’s office.
Kris had been shovelling pigshit ever since.
*****
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…
*****
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.
*****
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 every 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.
*****
Kris knelt in front of the stone pile that served as the only acknowledgment of the passing of his dear mother, his Trusty Stick planted in the ground before him, his forehead gently resting upon it.
“Hey there Mammy… it looks as if the wheel of life has turned my way. Finally I can show the village what I am really made of, just like you used to tell me. I’ll be the fine figure of a man you told me I could grow up to be. I’ll bloody have these vampires on a stake Mammy, just you wait and see.”
Kris’ tears thickly dotted the ground beneath him. “I don’t half miss you Mammy. It’s been hard to manage since you’ve been gone.”
Kris shook his head firmly from side to side, his face crumpling as he tried to shift the memory of his mothers final moments, trying as hard as he could to shake the recall of how his simple, everyday life was one day transformed in an instant. One moment there he was, playing about with his kite, running as fast as he could across the field, feeling the pull of the twine behind him, feeling the wind catch in the sails of the kite, then feeling the kite then finally catch and raise into the air, excitement coursing through him as he turned to shout ‘Mammy, look!”, only to be slapped by the shock of noticing his beloved mother lying on the ground, shaking in a manner he’d never seen any being shake before. He ran over, stunned to notice his mothers pale skin, her breaths shallowing away to nothing, then hearing the sound of what seemed to be a wounded animal, only to then notice it was coming from his own mouth.
Though she was never coming back, from that day, Kris felt that his Mammy’s belief in him would always carry him through. Her kind words always shining through to him in the toughest of moments. The rays of her love poking through the dark clouds of his everyday existence.
He would finally do her proud, regardless of what it took.
*****
That evening, the remains of the village gathered round, torches aloft, ready to see Kris off and away on his quest. Lord Barry stood on the lip of the crowd, Lady Barrie next to him, resplendent in her black funeral garb, still mourning the poor girl who’s short life Kris was off and away to avenge.
“Dear Kris,” Barry solemnly intoned. “We gather here on this blackest of evenings, to consider in as many ways as we can consider and pray in all the ways we can pray, for the fate of you, at this rare moment with you happening to be the strongest of our kin, here and now ready to defeat the greatest of evils which has swept upon our fair village of Crock, the most simple and beautiful of villages in the land of Albion. We have gathered our finest of offerings, for which to aid you on your way. I shall commence in the giving of these said things, with this here amulet, gifted to me by the most honourable mystic Yooray Gellay, in the hope this brings you some semblance of hope in these, the darkest of our times.”
Barry held the amulet out on his shaking, aged hands. It was a sparking piece of chain, as fine as twine, on which a small, bent spoon dangled.
“I take this with grace, my lord” said Kris as he bowed his head before the Lord.
“I’ll let you ‘ave a wee flagon of this to be helping you bring up some courage when you might be lacking in it” said Farmer Gilfoyle as he stepped forward, holding out a small clay bottle. “It’s a new concoction I’m trying out. Knockums Arse is what I’ve named it, in honour of what it’ll do to a feller if he swigs too much of it.”
“The honour is mine” said Kris, as he placed the bottle in his pouch.
“In the hope you one day get to utilise it” spoke The Scribe, handing a small piece of parchment to Kris, upon which he had delicately and prettily written - “SHOULD YE RETURN WITH TALES OF DEEDS HEROIC, THIS ENTITLES YOU TO A FULL SCRIBING OF SAID DEEDS AT NO COST TO WHAT’S LEFT OF YOU. Signed, The Scribe”
“Many thanks dear Scribe” said Kris, nodding his head as he carefully rolled up the parchment.
“Now…” mumbled the butcher as he stepped forward, holding out his cupped hands, “these, my lad, are the very essences of a bulls power, and will give you plenty extra strength should ye require it” Kris glanced at the shrivelled globs of flesh in the Butchers hands, each glob seemingly wrapped in its own pouch of thin skin. Kris reached a hand out and tentatively grabbed them.
“Erm….. thank you” Kris mumbled, truly unsure of how to react. “Pray hope I have the strength without”
“Ahem…” Lord Barry cleared his throat. “So now, with none more haste or ramblings or delays of this quest, we bid you farewell, young Kris of the family Pitchfork. May the warmth and love of Crock swell your breast as you head to vanquish an evil unlike any our village has seen, before the times that befalls on this day. I speak on behalf of all when I say I wish you the tidings of the Lord Jeebus Christ and the constant and eternal love of Elsie, the Divine Mother.”
Kris bowed his head before the Lord, turned and shuffled his way away from the village, his oversized armour clanking with each tentative step he took, a low and uncertain murmur meandering from the village as he staggered away.
*****
The Vampires sat upon the branches of a tree at the edge of the small forest that nestled up to the west side of the village. Mike swayed back and forth as the breeze swayed the branches, holding an ornate golden goblet, filled with what was left of the young wenches blood. The blood of the wench was making him more than a bit tipsy, infused as it was with a good few flagons of the farmers finest. Mike hadn’t ever been one for the ale, the biggest vice he’d indulged in before his existence as a blood sucking hellion had been a few too many slices of bread so temptingly delicious as it was when it was warm and fresh from the oven, usually accompanied by the warmest of smiles from his dear Glenda.
A cute flapping gently announced the return of Valhari, the branch bowing a ways as she shifted forms to sit upon the bough.
“Sooooooooo. “Eeeeet would apppear that the Fooooool is on hisssss wayyyy, to try to destroy us, and take our very souls….”
“Mmmmmm my beloved” replied Calihari “tonight we will happily dine on the blood of the idiot, so little chance there isssssss of himmmmm vanquishing anything other than his pride”
‘MWAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!,” chuckled Valhari and Calihari in tandem.
“Do Vampires ever get to eat any cake?,” enquired Mike.
*****
Kris clinked his way through the forest, his torch held fumblingly in front of him, providing a gentle light which did little to compensate for the restricted view he managed to garner from the oversized helmet. Kris was doing all he could to keep himself brave, muttering words of encouragement to himself as he scanned all about for the bats.
“I am a Knight of the realm of King Arthur in waiting. I will defeat this great evil… I am a Knight of the realm…..” the words did little to actually soothe him, but they did allow for some brilliant scenes to play out in his fervent, bubbling mind, which helped him to keep putting one step in front of the other. He would never be truly ready for such a fight, but he remembered a piece of wisdom once imparted to him by the mighty Lord Graevey.
“It’s rare that you have the courage before you set off on a quest” the brave Knight had said. “You kind of pick it up as you go along. Each step gains you a bit of extra bravery as you go along the way”
“Yes,” Kris mumbled to himself as he stumbled through the forest. “Every step…”
Kris was stopped in his tracks by the most unusual sound he thought he had ever heard. There, all about him was what he could only describe as a chittering, accompanied by what he believed he had heard to be a flapping, which appeared to be coloured by a kind of chuckling.
It was time. They were here. Kris steadily pulled his Trusty Stick from his waistband. Time to finally prove to all that he was capable of greatness.
*****
In his relatively short life, Mike had wronged very few people. Not because he couldn’t, just because he hadn’t really thought of doing so. Mike just wasn’t built like that. Pretty much all and sundry had agreed Mike was just a nice fella, a good egg as they called him, a truly upstanding chap, they had mostly agreed at Mike’s wake in The Turnip. So it was truly hard for him to understand what came chortling over him as he giddily, drunkenly flapped about the lad. He suddenly felt the most unusual twitch at the edge of his mind and he felt overcome with the notion of causing some mischief, which was many degrees naughtier than he’d ever been inclined to do before.
Mike rounded upon the lad and as he found himself behind him, he shifted back to Vampire form and placed a swift and firm kick on the lads arse, sending him flying into the dirt.
“Mammy!,” cried Kris, all courage having temporarily fled from him as he heaved himself up on all fours, only to find Calihari shifting forms to sweep another leg into the lads rump, once again spilling him over, this time onto his side. The Vampires once again chittering about him in their bat forms, passing around a tiny cup of wench blood as they chuckled and flapped and chittered about.
Mike groaned over onto his back once again, this time finding the mettle to cycle his legs into the air and flick himself up, his Trusty Stick aloft and in front of him, able once again to shakily stand, unable to see the Vampire couple behind him, sharing the weight of the thick hefty log they were swinging into the lads bottom, again spilling him on his front, armour clattering as he lost his balance.
Mike suddenly had the idea it would be deeply funny to….. urinate on the lad. The thought clouded his entire mental landscape, becoming all that he could consider, indeed it felt at that point to Mike as if it was the only logical thing to do. And so that’s what he did, just like that, Mike allowed his little bat bladder to loosen, chittering as he watched the lad stumble about on his knees, once again trying to gain his balance as he waved his stick about, Mike chuckling a stream of bat piss down upon the lads daft head… Mike started to vacillate with a shivery delight of a kind he had never felt before.
“Yessssssssss Miiiiiiiiike” shouted Calihari, albeit in the tongue of bat. “Pisssssssssss upon the fooooooooooool. Yesssssssssssss’, a stream of bat wazz steaming from him, down all over the lad.
Valhari cackled as she joined in, thick streams of bat peepee joyously soaking the idiot below them.
Kris managed to right himself and unsteadily waved his Trusty Stick about, the bat piss thickening his shame, the chittering growing ever louder with every moment, his stick rarely coming close to catching the bats as he blindly swung about so infused he was with rage, until a bat flew a boozy, wavy pattern in front of him, allowing Kris to take his chance as he whacked the stick in an arc ahead of him, managing to catch bat-shaped Mike squarely, the bat flinging from the end of the stick into the nearest tree, where he thudded, cleanly knocking him out.
“NOOOOOOO” screamed Calihari. “MIIIIIIIIIIIIIKE……!”
Valhari swooped alongside his wife, each of them grabbing one of Mike’s wings, flapping him swiftly as high as they could, clearing the trees and circling for a moment to spout their vitriol.
“Weeeeeeeeelll getttttt yooooou, you priiiiiiiiiick” chided Valhari as they spirited their companion away, leaving Kris defeated, crumpled upon his knees, a prolonged, tired moan rumpling from him as he fully noted his defeat, there in the cold, brutal woods, alone, covered as he was in bats piss.
*****
Kris slowly wended his way back through the woods, the tears turning all he looked upon into globulous messes, making everything a sad and painful blur.
Just once, he thought, why can’t anything go right just once…
As he came upon the outer edge of Crock, out of the corner of his eye jumped a lumpen shape, smelling thickly of daffodil, breath steaming from what Kris assumed was a mouth, the breath tainted with the hoppy tang of the Farmer’s Ale Most Foul.
“AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!” screamed The Crone, grabbing Kris around his shoulders.
“You’ve been pissed all over by the bats, haven’t you, you silly bastard!”, the Crone fair legging it back into the village as fast as her stumpy little legs could carry her, cackling and screaming as she went.
“HE’S FUCKED IT UP, THE DAFT LITTLE TWAT! HE’S ACHIEVED FUCK ALL BUT MANAGED TO MAKE HIMSELF A SPONGE FOR THEIR PISS!!”
As Kris stumbled, he could see the twinkles of the candles being lit about the village, a murmuration bubbling afore him as the village awoke, causing folks to start out of their huts, all in order to pile their woes upon him.
“BEHOLD” shouted Butcher Mulvey, “It’s Kris Piss!!”
The laughter resounded about Kris, each clang of his coming into the village weighing more heavy as he wearily continued, with him becoming increasingly desperate to close the door of his hut, flop upon his bed and try to forget all that had just happened.
“HERE HE IS” chortled The Scribe, as Kris passed him by, “from this day forth, he shall be renamed Walter Passwater, the pissy lumber pile of a prick as he is!”
“AHA!” roared Blacksmith Pulvery, “HERE WANDERS IN OLD KRIS PISSBODY”, the laughter cacophonously exploding once more.
As Kris reached his hut, he found the entrance blocked by Lord Barry, standing wanly with his candle-less hand held out.
“Stop there, dear young fool of a boy that has clearly failed in his attempt to vanquish the foulest of foulnesses from our most humble village”, The Lord’s head bowing dramatically as he intoned. “You must appreciate, you can no longer be upholding the partaking of activities or the holding of an abode in this hollowed village any more, as is the decree I shall be handing down to you now, at this most difficult and upsetting of moments”
“Please…” begged Kris. “I’ve nowhere else to go, and you must understand, I did clobber one of them right good! Cleaned him right out I daresay!”
“This is neither helpful, nor compensation nor what the decreed venture you set out to achieve was to be achieving, of this I am sure you are aware boy.”
With that, Lord Barry cleared his throat and proclaimed at the top of his voice, “FROM THIS MOMENT FORTH, YOU, HENCEFORTH REFERRED TO BY MY GRACIOUS SELF AS KRIS PISSLIPS WILL BE BANISHED TO THE OUTER REALM, NEVER TO GRACE OR TO SUNDER THE GOOD NAME OF THIS VILLAGE AGAIN, THIS I DECREE WITH ALL OF THE POWERS VESTED IN ME BY OUR DEAR KING, ARTHUR OF ALBION” The Lord clasping his bony hands about The Basin of Sunderment, shaking it aloft to emphasise each word.
“NOW, BEGONE YOU SHALL!”, the Lord yelled, and with that, The Basin of Sunderment, a tool rumoured to be a gift from Merlin, that most exhalted of wizards, apparently after spending a fine and ribald night in The Turnip, getting fair hammered on the Farmers fabled Mushroom Stout.
“BEGONE GOLDEN CHILD!,” harrumphed Lord Barry…. and with a flash as yellow and as stinking as the bat’s piss Kris had been shamefully drowned in, Kris found himself alone, in the darkest of all of the dark places.
Kris sat down, albeit upon the part of the blackening void that functioned as somewhat of a ground, took off his oversized helmet and once again started to cry. The tears spilled all down Kris’ cheeks, as the cold of the Outer Realm began to seep into his very bones and the sadness embedded itself deep within him.
It all seemed so silly. His wanting to be a Knight, his trying to find his way by showing a strength he was never sure that he had, what in Albion was he even thinking, trying to fight not one, but three Vampires, all alone like that? The sobs escalated from him as a truth that it seemed would forever be with him finally stole over and within him. Kris was now also convinced that he was just a silly streak of piss.
“There there my lad.”
The gentle tap on the shoulder made Kris jump back, so far he banged himself right up against what passed for a wall at the back of the Outer Realm. Kris leapt back, holding his Trusty Stick aloft, fearful piss dribbling down his legs, fully prepared for this to be his final moment when he realised he was looking into the handsome, sculpted face of his dear friend and Knight.
“Graevey!!” he exclaimed. “How in Albion did you get here? I thought no folks could ever find their way to or from this place?”
“Ah, you see dear lad!” shouted the Knight. “I have my ways. I’ve spent many a night with a witch, or, on nights when the moon was particularly full and the farmer had a particularly fine batch of the old Elderflower wine on the go, several witches, and often, in turn for a fixing of a gate here, or a patching of a fence there, they have been inclined to teach me a thing or two. I’d nipped back to Crock for a catch up at The Turnip and found out what had occurred to you my lad. I didn’t have either the heart or the inclination to leave you on your own here.”
Kris flung his arms around Graevey’s thick chest, buried his head in his warm, tight bosom and allowed the sobs to escalate to a proportion the Knight had rarely heard before. Graevey gently patted Kris on the back, as his other hand held his nose.
“By Jeebus lad, you really have had a rough old time of it, haven’t you?” said the Knight. “Still, there’s plenty we can do to get you right. Which is why I’m here. I have a gift, and some advice, which if you follow, will get you returned to your homestead and shown to be the hero you so clearly have the potential to be…”
Kris pulled back from the embrace and started to wipe his eyes with the back of his mucky, piss stinking hand. “Well crumbs Lord Graevey, I don’t think there’s any good to be had in my doing anything. I think it’s clear that I’m naught but a useless bastard.”
“Now now lad, do you think me daft?”
“No! Of course not!” Kris shouted.
“Well then, you need to heed my words then. I have a plan that will help you get those bastarding, bloody, piss streaming, shape shifting bats dealt with once and for all, just you mark my words! But first, here…”
Graevey pulled a sword from a scabbard on the back of his armour. “Here you go, its about time you were trusted with one again”
“But, but, the thing with Petticoat!”
“Never mind that. That was an accident, and naught but piss poor luck. I’m a bloody knight and if I say it’s time for you to own a sword, then it’s bloody time!”
Kris held the sword two handed in front of him, the sword somehow gleaming with an innate light that shimmered through the dark of the Outer Realm. Kris started to enjoy the feeling of the finely balanced weight in his hands as he allowed himself to feel a mighty, renewed bravery rise in his chest.
“Does she have a name?,” he asked, tremulously.
“This, my lad, is Betty. You could go do far as to say she’s my Beryl’s sister, as she was made by the same fair hands of Satwick the Master Bladesman…”
“Betty….,” murmured Kris wondrously.
“Now lad… lets get you out of here, lets get you cleaned up, lets get that armour scrubbed and reshaped and let’s gather together our plan.”
Graevey clapped his hands loudly, and the pair found themselves materialised outside a rough shack on the edge of the foul woods that found Kris pissily defeated just a few hours before.
“Come now lad” said Graevey as they headed inside. “Let’s make this the last time you’re ever made to look and feel a fool….”
TO BE CONTINUED IN THE SEQUEL - HERE THEY COME, THE BATS THAT KICKED MY ASS!!!