OK, folks, here it is - more mind-numbing rubbish from a person with an obviously numb mind. Cue drum roll...
[center] The Third Chronicles of Skink[/center]
When Skink, son of Skunk, didst emerge from Castle Biab, his faithful and big-bummed friend Number 7 wast waiting for him faithfully – and big-bummedly.
‘Aiee, my friend,’ he didst say, ‘How goeth it? Are you yet admitted to the Brotherhood of the Closely Woven Fabric?’
‘Nay, not yet, my friend,’ didst Skink reply. ‘King Pistol patch, May the Sun Always Shine on His Loins and His Toast Always Fall Butter Side Up, didst give me this rather fetching green cloak, though.’
‘Mmmm, very nice. Then what, pray telleth, dost we needeth to proceed?’
‘Ah, that is where you cometh in, my goodly and well endowed friend!’
‘Eh?’
‘Nay, I do not meaneth it like that! I meaneth, you are the one with the money. We must now getteth the equipment we needeth to maketh our first brew; a vessel of large dimensions – nay, your bum will not do – a source of heat, and some of this Closely Woven Fabric.’
‘Ah.’
At this point, Skink, son of Skunk, didst frown.
‘What is this “Ah”, my goodly and money-ladeneth friend?’ he didst utter.
‘Well,’ Number 7 didst reply, ‘That is where we mighteth have a bit of a problem. You mayeth recall that I didst go with the wife to seeth the mother-in-law in Bognor Regis.’
‘Yesss,’ Skink didst reply with an air of trepidation; he didst also seem to have developed a momentary lisp.
‘Well, while we were there, I madeth a rather unfortunate error.’
‘Goeth on.’
‘Well, it is liketh this. As you mayeth recall, I am rather fond of wenches that are, shall we sayeth, rather well blessed in the region of the buttock. And my mother-in-law is one such wench. She has been knowneth to sit upon all three sections of a three piece suite and still have enough carriage left to cover the coffee table as well. Anyway, whileth we were visiting, I didst have a moment of weakness, and my goodly wife didst catch me.’
‘And what, darest I ask, wast this moment of weakness?’
‘Well, one afternoon, while the wenches were out shopping, I didst drink rather too much of the Mother-in-law’s home-made crustysnatch wine, and didst then venture out into the woods, where I didst fall asleep.’
‘Mmm. Not very commendable of you, but hardly a gallows offence.’
‘It is when thou art using the mother-in-law’s bloomers as a hammock.’
At this point, Skink didst gasp. ‘Gadzooks! She must truly be an impressive woman! But, while your tale is compelling in a rather disturbing manner, what, pray tell, has it to doeth with our present plight?’
‘Er, well, I wast comingeth to that. You seeth, my goodly friend, thou hast always perceived me to be the one with the not inconsiderable arse in my trousers, and while this dost be true in the physical sense, it is not so figuratively. I am, I must confesseth, a kept man. Or at least I used to be. Many years ago, we were a simple, struggling couple, selling bottles of dragon sperm as moisturising lotion at the fairs and markets throughout the five realms – it was actually sour milk mixed with gargoyle vomit, but that dost be beside the point. Anyway, at one such fair, my goodly wife didst buy a strange creature called a Doe Mayne – I didst think it was a worthless fancy that wouldst never catch on, but that just shows what a pillock I am, dost it not? Anyway, my goodly wife didst subsequently sell the Doe Mayne – it hadst the rather strange name of sexandsorcery.com – for 143 goats and 12 camels, which didst, overnight, make her one of those fabled things known as Milly Yon Aires. And all I had to do was sit back and be a goodly husband, and liveth a life of luxury because of her ingenuity. But, my green-cloaked friend, I didst screweth it up, and she didst throw me out. I didst landeth heavily upon the seat of my not inconsiderable arse.’
At this point, our trepid heroes (that is a hero that is struggling to gain the rank of intrepid), didst retire to the nearest tavern, and it didst take Skink three tankards of the nectar-like Amma R’illo Eye pee Hay (think about it) before he couldst speak again. And when he could, he didst utter one simple phrase.
And that phrase was ‘Oh, COCK!’
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Many hours later, our two heroes (?) were dumped with little ceremony onto the muddy street outside the tavern. Yea, a slight misunderstanding had occurred within said tavern; the landlord hadst understood that the two men didst have money to pay for the copious amounts of ale that they had supped, which, of course, they hadst not. Skink didst consider returning into the tavern to debateth the point, but he wast somewhat discouraged by the hired troll and ogre that hadst thrown them out.
‘Aiee!’ didst Skink cry out, ‘This is a catastrophe!’
‘Hic!’ didst Number 7 reply, from whence he lay, face down in the mud. ‘Oh, I don’t know…I don’t think I couldst have drunk much more anyway.’
‘No, not that! The landlord…he didst take my lovely green cloak as part payment! I am arseless again!’
This time, Number 7 didst not reply; he didst seem to be spending most of his energy and attention on trying not to drown. But Skink didst ignore him. He didst struggle to his feet, and cried out, with his fists thrusteth into the air.
‘I will returneth!’ he didst cry out. ‘I will returneth, when I am a fully-fledgedeth member of the Brotherhood, and I will reclaim my cloak! I will beggeth, borroweth, or stealeth what I doth need to succeed! You seeth if I don’t…eth!’
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After much deliberation, our penniless pair didst embarketh on a long and fraught journey, to a fell and dread place, to try to obtaineth what they didst needeth next. It was with a heavy heart and a partially infected bum that Skink didst lead his companion to the place, whence he didst fear he would never returneth alive from; the lair of the Wicked Witch of the Northern, Western, Southern and Eastern Realms (as yet, she had not added the Realm Without the Catchy Name to her portfolio, but the franchise was up for renewal in a month’s time and, according to the trade magazines, she was practically a shoe-in).
He didst hide in the hills above her twisted and corrupt lair for two weeks, waitingeth for his opportunity. And, at last, it didst cometh; after all, even a wicked witch, skilled in all the spells in the world, cannot maketh a pint of milk and a box of teabags lasteth forever. He didst watch as she left on her broomstick with her long-life carrier bag thrown across her shoulder, and then he didst race down to her dark and stinking hovel.
And, by the gods, was it dark! He didst stumble around for ages, falling over jars of frogs legs, books of spells, and even a George Foreman Lean Green Grilling Machine. Howevereth, eventually he didst find what he was lookingeth for – the Witches cauldron! It was heavy and it was dirty, and it had unfortunately rounded sides (let’s see if King Pistol Patch can cometh up with a volume formula for that, Skink thought with a smile!), but it wouldst be perfect for making their first brew. Luckily, it wast cold. Skink didst empty out the cauldron’s evil smelling contents, which glowed faintly green in the darkness and didst burn a hole in the heavy, flagstone floor – Skink couldst not be sure, but he thoughteth it might once have been porridge. Then, he didst lift the pot onto his shoulder.
Of course, he didst get no further than the door, when a bright light didst blindeth him. He thoughteth, at first, that it was a spell, a dread incantation that wouldst strike him down where he stoodeth – but no, it was just the Wicked Witch turningeth on the light.
‘Here,’ she didst sayeth, ‘Wot are you doing, faffing about in the dark? You could’ve done yourself an injury! We do have electricity here, you know – it’s not the bloody Dark Ages, or anyfing!’
‘Aiee!’ Skink didst cryeth out, ‘I should have knowneth that thee would have warding spells protectingeth thy hovel!’
‘Wot? Don’t be silly – I have a Phonewatch alarm. A nice man called, and gave me six months at half price. And a lovely little nodding dog for the back of me broomstick. Now, wot are you doing wiv me cauldron?’
By now, Skink’s eyes had become accustomed to the light, and he instantly didst wisheth that they hadn’t; because now, he couldst seeth how mind-bogglingly ugly the Wicked Witch was. Her long hair was dirty and matted, and it didst hosteth at least three families of birds, all of whom hadst obviously losteth their sense of smell. Her cloak didst look as though it had been used to stirreth a midden, and it didst covereth a body of immense depth and width. Skink was not sureth whether she had a large, crusted boil on her nose, or whether she had a nose on her large, crusted boil, and her lips were dry, cracked and plagued with sores. And, to cappeth it all off, she wast hopelessly cross-eyed – one eye wast looking at him , whileth the other appeared to be looking for him.
‘I said,’ she didst repeat, which didst snappeth Skink out of his horrified trance, ‘Wot are you doing wiv my cauldron?’
‘I – ‘ Skink didst beginneth…and then didst stop. What wast the point of lying?
‘All right,’ he didst continue, ‘I wast stealing it! You hath caughteth me! You must punisheth me as you see fit! Killeth me, but please do it quickly.’
She didst stare at him for a long moment (well, one eye did; the other seemed to be watching a fly doing aerobatic somersaults somewhere on the far side of the room). Then she didst sayeth ‘Well, let’s not be hasty, now. I’m sure we can come to some sort of an arrangement. You’re a handsome feller (?) after all and, well, it gets lonely here of a night.’
If Skink didst not liketh where this situation was, he definitely didst not like where it seemed hell bent on going. ‘Er,’ he didst sayeth, ‘I am not sure I followeth you.’
‘Well, maybe we can come to some sort of arrangement that’ll help me forget this little episode.’
‘Er, I am still not sure that I followeth you…’
He gotteth no further, for the Wicked Witch didst then maketh it perfectly clear what she didst mean; she unfastened her robe (which didst falleth to the ground with a dull clunk and much squawking of displaced birds and angry insects), revealing her nakedness underneath. The sight didst causeth Skink’s tongue to stick to the roof of his mouth, which was rather fortunate, because it didst preventeth his dinner from leaping out of it.
If he hadst thought her rough with her robe on, nothing could have prepared him for what layeth beneath. Where she should have been flat she was rounded, where she should have been rounded she was, well, even more rounded, and the plethora of wrinkles madeth her body look like an aerial view of a field that an extremely drunk farmer had recently ploughed. Tufts of black hair sprouted out of her seemingly at random, and she hadst something between her wizened breasts that it didst take him several minutes to identify. Eventually, he didst realise that it was her belly button.
‘Aiee!’ he didst cry out as realisation didst hitteth him. ‘Aiee, aiee, AIEE! No! Killeth me now!’
He didst then runneth around like a headless chicken, while the Wicked Witch didst watch him, her gammy eye spinning around like a marble in a jam jar. This didst goeth on for several minutes, until Skink didst collapse on the floor; running around whilst smoking 40 Ye Olde Marlboro a day is inclined to haveth that effect on you.
‘Have you quite finished?’ the Wicked Witch didst sayeth, once it became clear that our hero (?) would not haveth a heart attack after all. She was stood with her arms folded beneath her breasts, which didst sayeth quite a lot about the length of her arms. ‘What a bloody drama queen! I suppose that means a bit of how’s your father is out of the question, then?’
‘My lady,’ Skink didst gaspeth, ‘I can assureth you that not only is a bit of how’s your father out of the question, but so is a bit of how’s your mother, auntie, and cousin eight times removed as well.’
At this, the Wicked Witch didst ‘Harrumph’, which is a condition treatable only with antibiotics and hypnotherapy. ‘Well, that’s a lovely state of affairs, that is. Okay, I’ll do you a deal – I’ll let you go for a kiss.’
Skink didst think about this. ‘What about the cauldron?’
‘And you can keep the cauldron in return for a bit of tongue.’
Skink didst continue to think, while his dinner time pie and chips didst struggle valiantly to get out. What couldst be the harm, he didst think, despite the overwhelming urge to vomit? It wast not as though anyone wouldst findeth out about it. He didst liken the situation to riding a Ye Olde Honda 50 – it couldst be great fun as long as none of your mates didst see you doing it.
‘All righteth then,’ he didst sayeth eventually, and didst moveth towards her. She didst respond by closing her eyes (thanketh fuck for that, Skink didst thinketh), and by puckering her plagued lips. Skink didst also closeth his eyes, and tried to imagine her was kissing Jenniferus Anistonis, the much-desired Goddess of Centralus Perkus; he pretended he wast kissingeth her lustrous hair, which was not really that difficult bearing in mind the copious growth the Wicked Witch had on her top lip.
It was, to be brutally frank, like kissingeth sandpaper that has a twitching disease. It didst seemeth to go on for an eternity, and it was only when the Wicked Witch hadst to cometh up for air that our ravaged hero (?) could priseth himself free. When he didst, the Wicked didst emitteth a heartfelt ‘Aaah!’, a sound which didst remindeth Skink of the sound he didst often make after a particularly fruitful visit to the midden.
His duty fulfilled, Skink didst then grab the cauldron, and didst runneth for his life. The Wicked Witch didst, of course, followeth him in all her inglorious nakedness, wobbling like an epileptic jellyfish on a griddle.
‘Where are you going?’ she didst cry out.
‘I – I haveth things to do!’
‘And when will you be back?’
‘I – I don’t know!’
‘Well, that’s bloody lovely, that is! You bugger off for two years, without as much as a bye-as-you-leave, and then you come back and nick me bloody cauldron! I should have listened to me mother! She said, don’t marry him, he’s no good – a bloody dreamer, that’s all he is! And when I think of all the things I’ve done for you – fed you, clothed you, tolerated your weird bloody fetish about only having rumpy-pumpy with a blindfold on, even putting up with that feckless bloody mate of yours! You think more of that Number bloody Seven than you do of me. Why, I’ve a good mind to…’
Skink didst hear no more, because he was runningeth as fast as he couldst, knowingeth full well what was comingeth next. He was halfway up the hill when the fireballs didst start exploding around him, turning stones into frogs, trees into writhing serpents, and even transformingeth a small shrub into a rather attractive wrought-iron gazebo. He didst runneth until he crested the hill, where the Wicked Witch, AKA Mrs Skink, couldst no longer seeth him, and where Number 7 was waitingeth, snoring and farting like an inter-realm Snoring and Farting Champion, and no doubt dreamingeth of elderly women with arses that wouldst only go through a door sideways.
‘Cor, you gotteth it, then,’ Number 7 didst sayeth, as he felleth in beside the fleeing Skink. ‘And how is the goodly Mrs S?’
‘Do not asketh,’ Skink didst pant.
‘You knoweth, you are very hard on her – I thinketh she is a wonderful woman. And what a body! A man couldst spendeth a lifetime lost in its folds.’
Number 7 didst then sleepeth for forty days and forty nights – which is inclined to happeneth when you are hit over the head with a heavy, porridge encrusted cauldron.
The Third Chronicles of Skink
Post #1 made 11 years ago
Last edited by Skink on 03 Sep 2014, 17:53, edited 1 time in total.
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