The Storey.

Writ by Ehbygum

Genesis of the Storey.

A few years ago, while Ehbygum was in Japan, his sister in Britain was horribly ill, and his parents were beside themselves with worry and fear.  There was not much that he could do, but he wanted to bring a little cheer into their lives.  And so the tale which follows was born, as a series of faxes from Ehbygum in Japan to his parents in England.

 

From the start it was written to raise a chuckle and cheer, but there are some bluish bits, and parts may not be suitable for the more sensitive reader or children.   Parental discretion is advised.  Also, some of the references may be a bit abstruse … to anyone outside the Ehbygum familial circle.   But if you have reached the Age of Majority and are not of a sensitive Demeanour, please do Read and Enjoy.

One last thing … Ehbygum hopes that you will read this in the spirit in which it was written, which is as a piece of simple fun, not intended to hurt anyone, but to bring a little more fun and pleasure into the world.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Copyright  ©

Ehbygum

2003.

 

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AND so it befell, that on the third Monday after the Feast of St. Gormless, in the Year of the Gerbil, the fair Bindard Brothers set out into the World to seek their fortunes.

Young Sir Brian Bindard, fair of face and broad of helm, and Sir Raymond, great of nose and broad of beam sallied forth from the mighty portals of Castle Camerot, well mounted on snorting beasts - but they decided to send the women back.  Great was the gnashing of teeth and renting of garments (three days for fifty bob) among the Japanese Damsels of the Keep as the Two rode off on their mighty steeds, for what had these maids to look forward to beyond self-abuse or the wilting attentions of the salaryman retainers, in the absence of their Staunch Knights?

For these Two were on a Quest, a Holy Mission vouchsafed to them by Good King Kontiboard,  he of the renowned Table that bore his name.  The Brotherhood of the Knights of the Kontiboard Table were sworn to uphold Truth and Virtue, Succour the Oppressed, and assist  Helpless Virgins to overcome their handicap.  Just how they were to achieve these noble aims by sitting around a table is one of the great mysteries of history, but it must have been so, for So was it Written and So is it Sung by the Minstrels, even unto This Day.  A Curse had fallen upon the Noble Brotherhood, and it was this Business that occupied a Meeting around the Table on the Day when this Tale begins.

Good King Kontiboard opened the meeting with the time-honoured words, "If you are all Sitting Comfortably,  then we'll Begin."  Queen Formica, the Good King's beloved, heaved the great tea urn and stillage of pies into the room, her huge rump so quivering with the effort that great seismic shocks furrowed the generous folds of her kirtle.  Upon seeing the great heavings of her magnificent hindquarters Sir Brian remarked into his brother's ear that there was a woman for whom he could really do something.  Sir Raymond was unable to respond with anything more than a muffled grunt because at that very moment his gonads were in the process of slow strangulation.  It so happed that that very morning, jumping up  late from his pallet to the sound of the morning alarum, he had grabbed the pair of drawers nearest to hand … those of Queen Formica.  Which undergarments, not cut with space enough for the male appendages, were at that moment giving his Wedding Tackle all sorts of Merry Hell.

The flagons of tea and trenchers of pies being distributed, Good King Kontiboard went on to tell All there gathered of the Curse that had fallen on Camerot.  "As you all know, Good Sirs, we seek to follow our duty by sitting around this table, but our very existence is threatened by Mighty Affliction that has been visited upon Us.  Merlin, Our Official Clever Bugger will now Orate to us an explanation of this Dreadful Malady."

In years to come, the Balladeers and Minstrels would give the Great Merlin the Appellation Magician, but this is not as it was in the Days of Yore.  Those of Deep Wisdom who gave Counsel to the Kings and their Courts in the Age of Chivalry were indeed known to All by the honourable title of Clever Bugger in Ordinary.  In all the Leys of that Great Age there was no Bugger said to match the Cleverness of the Wise and Good Merlin.

"Gentles All," began the Clever Bugger, "there is a Great  Affliction upon us.  In these three moons past, each of you, Brave Sirs, has quietly come to me to confess a Painful Ailment that Proves even beyond my Art, and of which, for Love of your Honour, you would have no man hear."  Seeing strange winkings and gymnastic contortions of the eyebrows from Sir Ferretface, Merlin gave him a reassuring nod, and said in his best pallet-side manner, "Fear Not, Good Sir, your Disgusting Secret is Safe with me … just keep on taking the Keflex, and you'll be as right as a groat in no time."  Inflation was later to increase the proverbial price of good health to ninepence, but since ninepence was larger than the entire National Income of Wessex and Rutland combined in those days, the groat was  a rather easier concept for the average Thane or Varlet to get his head around.   "No," went on the Clever Bugger," it is a much Worse Malady that has visited itself upon Camerot.   It has as yet no name, but now I name it by the name of … Piles.  I have chosen this Appellation, for the Pain and Suffering is so great that any man, be he Knight or Knave, would give All he do Own for Relief, and we of the Hippocratic Brotherhood will make Piles of Gold for Ease of their Torment."  "But what," quoth Good King Kontiboard, "can be the Nature of this Complaint so Dire?"  Kings used to do a lot of quothing in those Heroic Days.

"Sire," replied the Learned Clever Bugger, "it causeth pain beyond the endurance of even the Bravest of Knights when he Dumpeth in the Privy.   His eyes will be veritably crossed, and in case of Clinker there be a tendency to a Great Roaring of 'Argh!' by the Afflicted."

 

SO BEFELL  IT THUS.  Good King Kontiboard looked about him at the Nobel and Gallant Brotherhood of the Knights of the Kontiboard Table.  "I will call on the Two most Brave amongst you to go on the Holy Quest for the Unguent that will Relieve our Affliction.  It will be a Perilous Journey and only They who are Pure of Heart can Swear the Great Oath to Accept this Challenge".  He was quothing again.

        The Good King's gaze rested on Sir Raymond and Sir Brian.  "Oh, Fuck," said Sir Brian.  Sir Raymond said, "Oh Fuckus," because he had been to Grammar School and knew Latin.   "Sorry Lads," continued the Good King, "but those Oaths are not nearly Great Enough.  Sir Bastard, bring on the Oath Administering Accoutrements."   Sir Bastard, a man who took real pleasure in his duties as Torturer in Ordinary, and whose Seed were to Multiply upon the Face of the Earth to spawn the breed that would come to be known  as Tax Inspector, jumped up to direct his muscular retainers in wheeling in the Mighty Oath Swearing Anvil.  With a joy bordering on the ecstatic, Sir Bastard had his men lift up the Anvil with the a great Block and Tackle, but they soon gave up their rugby practice and got on with the job in hand which was to raise the Great Anvil above Sir Raymond's outstretched feet.  As it landed on the Gallant Knight's toes, Great indeed was the Oath that he bellowed forth.  Among the Tellers of Tales it is sung that even unto This Day there has been no such Oath heard by the Ears of Men.  Except, of course, for one.  That was the Oath that Sir Brian emitted a few moments later, when, after he was made to view Queen Formica while she was in the Bending Position, the Ceremonial Japanese-sized condom was forced upon his Member.

        And thus is was that the Oaths were administered and the Gallant Brothers set out upon their Quest, to Find the Unguent that would bring Succour to the Aching Rings of the Brotherhood of the Knights of the Kontiboard Table.

        Many were the Adventures (plus Vat) that this Intrepid Pair encountered on their Journeys in search of the Unguent of Relief.  They would meet Strange Beasts and even brave the assaults of Insurance Salesmen, not to mention a Battle to the Death with the Great Harpic Beast of Castle Ubend.  But of that, more on Another Day.

 

 

WINDING through heavily forested dales and over bleak raw moors, the road that lead from Camerot stretched ahead of the Brave Pair.  As they rode along, borne by their faithful equine mounts, Maestro and Allegro, and clad in their best armour, the rhythmic bouncing of the Knights in their heavily-pommeled saddles led Sir Brian to remark, "my Arse Hurteth."  Sir Raymond, whose Marks and Spencer best chain mail Nether-Garments were long overdue for their  Thousand Furlong Service, added, "Aye, and my Hanging Parts do Ache like the Very Chaucer."  Dickens, of course, was centuries yet unborn.   Coming upon a wayside Service Station, the Two pulled up their Noble Mounts and Sir Brian called out in a Great Voice, "Varlet, come thee here and Do us Service."  From within a voice belonging to a certain Shortarsed Villein named William, but more commonly known as Teapot, replied, "Art thou Illiterate as well as Ugly?  Canst thou not read?  Cast thine Eyes upon the Great Sign which Standeth above thy Stupid Head.  Doth it not proclaim  Self Service?"  Sir Brian bid Sir Raymond tarry a moment, "Dear Brother, wait a short minute, I pray thee, while I go in to Reason with yon Fellow."  Dismounting, and drawing his Mighty two handed blade, he strode within, and with one stroke parted the sorry little twat's head from his shoulders.

        As Sir Brian returned to his mount, sheathing his Mighty Weapon, for he had found a Durex Machine within, he handed Sir Raymond a gourd of Best Chain Mail Neat’s-foot Oil.  "Ah, Brother, I thank thee mightily", said Sir Raymond, opening a filler cap in the Codpiece of his Armour and emptying the contents of the gourd therein, to the Great Relief of his raw-chafed Parts,   "How much do I Oweth Thee?"   "Tis a Present, Dear Brother," replied Sir Brian with a chuckle, "from the Management of this Establishment."  Noticing the quizzical look on his brother's Noble Brow, he added, "but there were Naught Else worth the Taking."  Dear Reader, do not think that the Brothers were Scurvy Thieves, for they were not, they were Noble Knights, Sworn to uphold Truth and Virtue, Succour the Oppressed, and assist  Helpless Virgins etc., etc., in the best traditions of Chivalry.  They were merely exercising  their Ancient Right of Pillage and Sockage, as had been Handed Down from Time Immemorial.  In later days it would come to be known as Value Added Tax.

        And there we must leave the Noble Pair for the Nonce, but feareth thee not, more of this Tale will follow.


OUR two intrepid Heroes, mounted on those Paragons of Equine Excellence, Maestro and Allegro, rode Far and Wide across the Forests and Wastes of Wessex, but the Unguent of Relief was nowhere to be found.

Sir Brian was not in the best of humours upon a certain morning, when, as he remarked, the rain pissethed down with a malignancy not to be expected outside of Manchester, and Sir Raymond was troubled with an Ominous Ache in the regions of the Arse, that suggested further travel would be not of the most comfortable.  On this Day, with their Spirits Flagging, and the Quest of less immediate interest than the Question of procuring a warm pallet for the night, with perchance the Company of a maid not totally adverse to the Ancient Rite of Legoverus, that they chanced to meet the Merchant who was to bring them both Adventure and Joy, The Good Merchant Moishe.

        The Manner of their Meeting was thus.  As they jolted and jostled down a dark, dank forest path, the sky obscured by an arch of matted foliage overhead, which did a fine job of obscuring the comforting Light and Heat of Sol, but for some malign reason, of its own, did nothing to mitigate the steady downpour that was worming its way though every chink and crevice in the Noble Brothers' Armour, they heard an urgent cry for help from within the tangled herbage that bordered the lane, followed by, "Get off, you Hun Bastards," and yet more Urgent cries for assistance.  Sir Raymond and Sir Brian did not like the Huns.  Indeed, they were not a much-liked race, with few friends among any of the Kingdoms.

The Huns, followers of a shortarsed maniac, Hitler de Oneball, believed themselves to be a Master Race, and to have the Divine Right to Subjugate and Conquer the World.  Their Way was to bring a Mighty Army of black-armoured men to the border of some Kingdom, and then to Demand Tribute and Vassalage from the King thereof, and to Grievously Sore Use the People from that day on.  Many were the Kingdoms that had fallen Thrall to the evil Huns, but it was at Camerot that they Finally found their Nemesis.  It is a Tale sung in the Halls on dark winter nights, to cheer the Company, of Heroic Doings and the Great Diplomacy of the Silver-tongued Sir Winston, Greatest of the Men of the Brotherhood of the Kontiboard Table.  The Tale goeth thus.  The Huns, as was their Pernicious Wont, assembled a Mighty Army of their most Evil Black-armoured Knights, upon the very Borders of Camerot.  Mighty and Fearsome was the Hun Host, so all departed to another pub, but to continue the Tale.  It was an huge Army, its encampments stretching across the broad Plain of the Marcher Land, thick with the Evil Hun Warriors, and boasting Many and Mighty Engines of War.   Intelligence was brought to Good King Kontiboard, and whilst without he maintained a Kingly Demeanour, within he secretly Shitteth Himself in fear at the approach of the Evil Emissaries of the Hun.  And come they would, within a Day, lead by the Foul Gorballess, the Herald of Hitler de Oneball.  Even as he Shitteth Himself, the good King called on the Counsel of his loyal Clever Bugger, Merlin the Wise.  "Fear thee not, Sire," Merlin said in his best Calming Tones, "for there is One among us who is Skilled beyond Measure in the Art of Diplomacy, and hath a  Silver-Tongue which could charm even the Most Cunning of the World."  The Good King bade Merlin summon this Paragon of Negotiational Skills.  And so it was that the Great Sir Winston was brought before the King.  The Good King spake (Kings often Spake when they were Not of a Mind to Quoth.)  "Good Sir Winston, Even as I Spake the Foul Gorballess, Herald of Hitler de Oneball approacheth, to make Base Demands with Vile Menaces of Us.  Wilt thou Speak with him for Us?   "Aye Sire, and Gladly," replied the Good Knight, for although he Knew Well the Way of the Huns, he had no love for Any Man of them.   "I Command thee," ordered Good King Kontiboard,  "exert thy every Cunning and let thy Words flow off thy Silver Tongue like unto Music to Quieten the Evil Hun."

No sooner were these Words said than the Evil Gorballess swept in, in his vile black Krupps armour, with his mean-featured Page bearing the Crooked Cross flag of Hitler de Oneball.  He spoke No Word of Kind Greeting, but As a Lord Speaketh to a Vassal,  he barked, "King Kontiboard, hear me.  Even now the Mighty Army of my Master, the Only Leader, Hitler de Oneball, standeth poised upon thy Borders, with Many Men of Superior Race, Standing at Arms, and Many and Mighty Engines of War, ready to Lay Waste to thy Keep and thy Lands.  Therefore, bow thee thy Knee before the Crooked Cross of my Master, and Swear Thee True Allegiance to his New Order of the World."  At this, the Brave Sir Winston Stepped Forth, and these Golden Words spilled from His Silver Tongue.  "Pisseth Thou Off, and Come Ye Not Back.  We are the Men of Camerot, and Giveth We not one Flying Fuck for your Army or your Engines of War.  Come thou here, and Every Man of Us, while we have but One Breath in our Bodies  will Fight thee, and lay Such a Smiting upon thy Army and thy 'Superior' Race, that the Minstrels shall Sing of it for a Thousand Years. "  And with that, did not the Brave Sir Winston  wrest the Crooked Cross Flag from the hands of the Evil-featured Page, and Thrust it into the Villein's Entrance of the Vile Gorballess with such a Mighty Thrust that not even his Krupps Armour could save him?  And Lo,  did he not Piss Off, and did not the entire Hun Host likewise Piss Off?  For, as the Brave Sir Winston explained, this is the Only Manner of Speaking with the Huns.  They understand Naught Else but the Boot between the Cheeks.

And then the Clever Bugger Merlin Spake of a Dream he Dreamed.  And All listened with attentive Ears, for Merlin was Gifted with Prophecy as well as Wisdom.   He told how it would Come to Pass that Cowardly and Spineless Leaders would again give their Peoples' lands to the Hun whenever he Threatened.  But Again the Seed of the Brave Sir Winston would Arise to Again tell them to Piss Off, and to Lay a Great Smiting on them, such as would be told by the Tellers of Tales for as long as Men walked the Earth.

But to Come Back to Our Intrepid Pair, and their First Meeting with the Good Merchant Moishe.  Sir Brian lead the way, Jumping down from his Trusty Mount, and hacking a Path through the tangled verdance in the Direction of the Cries for Help,  with Sir Raymond following Hot on his Heels.  In a Clearing, they came upon a Small Fellow, Dressed in the Sombre Browns of a Merchant, whose Greatness of Nose proclaimed him a member of the Wandering Tribe of Yiddrelites.   He was surrounded by Blond Huns, Five in Number, in their black armour, verily Kicking the Excreta Out of Him.  "Hold, What Meaneth This?", cried Sir Brian.  "Prithee, Peace, Good Sirs," answered the Leader of the Huns, a Tall Blonde Man.   "This is merely a Dirty Yiddrelite,  of the Tribe that the True Leader, Hitler de Oneball has Told are the Scum of the Earth, and to be Wiped off the Face Thereof.  They are all Cowards, and No Man may Suffer their Existence.  We are Simply Kicking him to his Maker."  "So Think You All?", enquired Sir Raymond, and the Huns Answered with a Hearty Affirmative.

This was in no Mien a Good Answer, and did nothing for the Huns’ chances of Enjoying a Comfortable Old Age in the Bosoms of their Families.  For it should be told, though Sir Raymond and Sir Brian were Fine Upstanding  Knights of the Brotherhood of the Knights of the Kontiboard Table, they were also the Sons of Sir Peter the Rampant and his Lady, Jean the Gorgeous.  Jean the Gorgeous was herself a Yiddrelite, of such Great Beauty and Charm that Sir Peter had married her and allowed his Sons to be Reared in the Manner of the Yiddrelites, even unto having their Dick Ends chopped off, a Rite known as Circumcision, which is the Strange Way of that Wondering Tribe.  The Brothers had heard of Anti-Semitism, and, on the Whole,  Liked it Not.

 In an Instant they were Upon the Huns, within another Instant, three of those Teutons had been variously Run Through, Disembowelled, Garrotted, Killed, not necessarily in that order, and generally made to feel that they were Not having a Particularly Good Day.  The Leader of the Huns and One of his Men, were now lying at the Sharp  Ends of the Brothers' Swords.  "I yield", cried the Hun at the end of Sir Brian's blade.  "No you don't", said Sir Brian and was just about to despatch  him to his Valhalla, when Sir Raymond bade his Noble Brother, "Hold, Killeth Him Not."  At this the Hun was mightily Relieved.  "Pray, why not, Good Brother," Sir Brian enquired.  The Hun's relief was short-lived, and indeed became a very Different Emotion as he heard Sir Raymond's reply.  "Methinks it would be a Great Injustice to Send him to His Maker an Uncircumcised Dog." 

At this time the Good Merchant Moishe was heard from.  "Kind and Noble Sirs, I thank you for the Great Kindness that you have Shown to a Poor Merchant.  I will be Ever in Your Debt, and your True Friend while I yet Breathe.  But as to these Huns," and at this he spat, " I have within my Saddle Bags some rope Which may serve to Bind Them and a Blade both Rusty and Blunt, for which You may find Good Use."  "Good Master Merchant, it is Our Pleasure and Welcome.  Great is the Joy we have In Cutting Down the Hun, for are we not also of the Brotherhood of the Flangeless Member?  But Good Master, would you Do us the Service of Attending to the Trimming of these Heroes' Appendages."  The Merchant had also heard of Anti-Semitism.  "It will be a Real Pleasure," he said in All Truth, "but not for Them," which Assertion proved Equally Truthful.  The details of what followed are Not for the Squeamish, but when the Deed was Done, the Hun Begged, "You can't Kill us Now, It wouldn't be sporting."   The Gallant Brothers could hardly Disagree with such a Sentiment as this, so they did give the Huns a five minute head start before Hunting them To their Deaths.  They also took the Precaution of first cutting off the Teutons' feet.

The Good Merchant Moishe was overcome with Gratitude and bade the Brothers Join him in a Night at Inn and Knockinge Shoppe in the Next Village, where he Lavished Much Gold on the Brothers who took  such Great Advantage of the Facilities, that they were Shagged Out beyond Redemption before the Next Morn had Dawned.

 

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