This is my latest short story. It's a bit on the irreverent side and has adult content, so if you are offended by anything rude, crude or socially unacceptable, please do not read it. Otherwise, read on. Feel free to critique it, as I always welcome suggestions. Above all, I hope you enjoy it.
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Armored feet pounded the ground as Sir Richard ran, his legs straining for distance, desperate lungs gasping for ever more air. At such times, he was reminded of the poignant words of his grandmother, who had always told him that running from a problem was not a solution. Behind him, the earth shook with a thundering rhythm as a green, fifty-foot-long dragon batted after him like a cat toying with a mouse.
"I wish you were here for me now, Grans," he panted as a stream of red flames shot past his head. "I'd use you for bait, you old goat."
He scrambled down the slope of the mountain from the dragon's cave, weaving through the trees to try and slow the winged brute. The dragon merely snapped them flat as though they were but matchsticks. Even through his sturdy armor, Sir Richard could feel the dragon's hot breath on his back. With a touch of dramatic flair, he leaped over an outcropping of stones. With a girly shriek, he stumbled on a protruding tree root. He rolled like a stone down the steep hill. Though not as graceful as he had hoped, it proved to be a faster escape than running.
Sir Richard landed with a leaden flop in the bottom of a gully. Crawling to his feet, the knight scrambled along the deep valley, away from the growling drake. He arrived at a chiseled opening in the rock of the mountain. He knew that danger lurked in the darkness of the dungeon, but his chances were better inside. Outside, he would surely be dragon excrement. Driven by the thump of deadly claws in the valley, he darted into the black depths.
* * *
The Orrid Dungeon was a place spoken of in fearful tones. It was named for the late Lord Fatten Orrid, the former Duke of Northwesthamptonwickshireton East, who had once used the caves to hide treasure from his ex-wives. According to the chronicles of the great historians, Lawrence, Moebus, and Curlier, the place was infested with loathsome, wicked creatures that had invaded the caverns and taken possession of the Duke's magnificent riches. Even though the historians' accounts of the place were little more than dreadfully cliché attempts at low-brow humor, the dungeon was certainly not a place for tea and crumpets. Few ever returned its depths, and those that did tended to wander alone in the darkness, cursing under their breath and trying to bite their own ears off. Sir Richard checked his codpiece and pressed on into the depths.
In the first dreadful chamber, he encountered a pack of giant, rabid goats, which he evaded by feeding them his tunic. Upon entering the second horrific room, he was attacked by a group of walking skeletons, which he evaded by promising them all lucrative modeling contracts. In the third abysmal cavern, he was charged by a massive, three-headed cave troll swinging a tree-trunk for a club. Knowing that music could soothe the savage beast, Sir Richard lulled the creature into a vegetative state with an a cappella medley of Broadway show tunes. Within the fourth fearful enclosure, however, he came face to face with one of the deadliest denizens of the Orrid Dungeon: the terrible Medusa. It was an evil female creature with poisonous snakes for hair, a voice that could shatter glass, vicious fangs that could suck the life out of a person, and a gaze that could turn a man to stone. But, since Sir Richard was already married, the creature's powers had no effect on him, so he walked out.
Finally, at the end of the atrocious corridor, he came to a pair of gilded doors bearing two huge, round, brass knockers. The hair on his neck stood erect. He had heard tales of the legendary Tomb of Valejo, but scarcely believed in its existence. He grabbed one of the knockers and banged it against the door, which opened with a squeal of rusty hinges.
The dome-like room beyond was a cavern unto itself. In the middle sat a mausoleum, carved of the purest, whitest, shiniest marble. The walls were adorned with dozens of paintings of voluptuous valkyries, wearing nothing but loin cloths and bits of shapely armor that wouldn't stop a mosquito's bite. The floor was cluttered with dozens of hefty clay pots. On the far wall hung a huge set of antlers from an ancient Irish Deer that could have measured ten feet in span. A pair of stuffed owls flanked the sizeable horns. Below it all, an enormous treasure chest lay.
"Bloody hell. It's the fabled Chest of Hayek." The treasure inside was said to be the stuff of fable. Only the keeper of the magic words could open it. When he approached, the chamber rang with a sweetly, lyrical woman's voice from out of nowhere.
"Speak, brave knight."
Sir Richard thought for a moment.
"Abba cadabra." Nothing happened.
"Alakazam." Still nothing happened.
"Open sesame." Naught.
"Please." Nada.
"Pretty please." Nope.
"Password." Diddly.
"Anal nathrach, orth' bhais's bethad, do che'l de'nmha." Bupkes.
"Alohomora." Goose egg.
"Clatu verata nictu." Not a sausage.
"Ekke Ekke Ekke Ekke Ptang Zoo Boing mumble mumble mumble." Bugger all.
Having exhausted his arsenal of pop-culture references, he took a closer look at the chest. The surface was festooned with cameo silhouettes of curvaceous people contorted into shameful, carnal poses. He sniggered. "Nice chest."
"Thank you," the voice tittered. "It's real, you know."
The lid of the box popped open. Sir Richard crouched, peering inside. A sparkling sword lay nestled in the pink velvet padding of the chest. Attached to the pommel was a tag of parchment. It read, "Genuine French Vorpal Sword. Never swung. Dropped once."
He tried to pull the weapon out, but an unseen force held it fast. He looked around. "Umm...nice chest," he said with authority. Nothing happened. He looked around the room, his eyes fixing on the massive antlers. "Nice rack?"
"Hmph," came the voice.
"What?"
"Oh, like you don't know?"
"What?"
"Is that all you knights think about?"
"Mostly, yeah."
"Hmph. Typical. That's all I ever hear. It's always 'nice rack' or 'nice jugs'...if I hear another hooters joke, I'll scream! How come nobody ever says 'oh, I really like your greaves' or 'that cuirass makes your eyes sparkle?'" The voice sighed. "All they care about is what's under the breastplate."
Richard scratched his head. "What sparkling eyes? You're a bloody ghost." The chamber echoed with distraught sniffling and the sounds of metal pots clanging together with unnecessary vigor. He threw his hands up. "What?"
"Nothing. Never mind." The voice cleared its voice and spoke in a curt tone. "If you want the sword, it will cost you."
Alarmed, he checked his codpiece again. "What will it...cost me?"
"Fifty florins."
"Money?"
"Why not? Don't I deserve a little something? I've been cooped up in here, day and night, for a bloody eternity. I never get to go out anymore!"
"Well...you are dead."
"Oh, and I suppose that means I can't have nice things for myself, doesn't it? Of course! It's all about you and your needs, isn't it? No consideration for anything that I want...."
Sir Richard sighed, digging into his pocket and extracting a handful of gold coins. "Bleedin' highway robbery for a French sword, "he muttered. "It's worth every bloody penny if it shuts your trap."
"What was that?" the chamber echoed dangerously.
"Er...nothing." He tossed the coins in the chest and took the saber, pulling it from its scabbard. It seemed to vibrate with a strange force. He held the saber aloft; it was impossibly light. He swore that he could hear a faint humming sound. Sir Richard swung it to test the balance. The impossibly-light saber replied with a buzzing noise with every swipe. Sir Richard spun it in a dramatic, dizzying display of swashbuckling acrobatics. The blade moved effortlessly, buzzing like an angry hornet. "I think I'll try this out on that bloody dragon."
"No," the voice chastised in a strange, gravelly tone. "Do, or do not. There is no try."
"Uhh, right. Thanks very much." Sir Richard started to leave. The voice called after him.
"When will I see you again? You'll stop by soon, won't you? Oh, please call me!"
Sir Richard sprinted for the doorway, followed by the hysterical shriek.
"Oh, how typical! You let them in your box once and then they just run off! You insensitive bastard!"
Shrill echoes chased him out of the Orrid Dungeon.
* * *
Inside the dragon's lair, Sir Richard fought to quell the churning in his stomach. Burned corpses littered the cave's entrance. The stench of singed, rotting carrion gave the place the ambience of a sewer in July. Dangling human skeletons decorated the blood-stained walls. Piles of crushed bones carpeted floor.
Suddenly, the dragon pounced at Sir Richard. Well, not really 'pounced', so much as 'lunged.' How could a bloody fifty-foot dragon pounce anyway? Pouncing is something like you would expect from a cat, or something else that's small and lithe. Of course, a tiger can pounce, and they're rather large. But, a dragon of that size would weigh, what? Seven, maybe eight tons? That's more than a bleedin' African Elephant. You wouldn't imagine an elephant pouncing on much of anything, really. Or, flying for that matter.
Anyway…Suddenly, the dragon lunged at Sir Richard. Okay, so maybe 'suddenly' isn't the right word, either. It's a bit overused and not very evocative. Also, an eight-ton dragon has a lot of bloody meat on it to be making any sudden movements. It is a mythical creature, though, that can fly and breathe fire, so, perhaps it has some manner of preternatural agility along with its other attributes.
Anyway…The bloody great lizard went for him. With a dramatic, dizzying display of swashbuckling acrobatics, he attacked the dragon with his sword. He discovered that the weapon, while it allowed the wielder to perform dramatic, dizzying displays of swashbuckling acrobatics, did very little by way of injury to one's foe. All it seemed to be good for was to make an annoying "vorp" sound every time it was swung. The edge was about as sharp as one of those Reality Plays at the Globe, where members of the audience are put onstage into a contrived situation to show what a bunch of greedy, backstabbing bastards they all are…you know the ones: "Plague or No Plague," "Medieval Idol," or "Survivor: Yorkshire." Anyway, back to the fight, Sir Richard thought he might have been able to hurt the beast more with the scabbard.
With one swipe of its terrible claw, the dragon knocked away Sir Richard's impotent blade. It skittered across the floor, vorping all the way. With the other claw, the creature pinned him to the floor of the cave and leaned over him, breathing its foul breath into his face.
"Who dares disturb my slumber?"
"I do, f-fell beast. My name is S-Sir Richard."
"Another knight, eh? What do you want?"
"I s-seek the Blessed Grail."
The dragon recoiled. It sat up and withdrew its massive talons. "Oh. Well, why didn' you say so? I's righ' over there." It thumbed towards the treasure pile.
"P-Pardon?"
"Yeah, jus' over there. Mind the gold, if you please. I jus' 'ad it polished."
"You're not going to k-kill me?"
"No, no, no. Not for that thing. Sorry 'bout the snarling and biting and all, but I thought you was after me shrubs. Bloody knights are always ruining me landscaping."
"You mean, I can have it? I can have the Grail?"
"Yeah, yeah, go ahead. I don' like it no more. Bought it a couple centuries ago, off that needy tart in the dungeon." It scoffed, shooting a gout of fire from its mouth. "Pissy li'l bird, that one. I'd 'ave ripped 'er throat out if she wasn't already dead. A hundred florins I paid for it, too. Bleedin' highway robbery, if you ask me."
"So, I can just…take it?"
"Yeah, go'head. It don't do nothin' for me decor, you know. It's so last millennium. Here." The dragon plucked a golden chalice from atop the pile of treasure and turned, handing the grail to Sir Richard. He looked inside the bowl; the cup was filled with clear liquid.
"Uh, what's in it?"
"Water. It comes like that. If you dump it out, it fills up again." It gave a toothy grimace. "A bit silly, really. Anyways, I'm not big on water meself." The dragon snorted puffs of smoke from its nostrils.
"Uh, well, thank you...d-dragon."
"Oh, no need for titles, mate. Call me Mike."
"Mike? The Dragon?"
"What d'you expect? Tiamat? Smaug? Oh, yeah, that'd be a big mistake, wouldn' it? Give yourself a big, scary name, and people come by, knocking you up at all hours, trying to slay the 'dreaded beast.'" It gestured, curling a pair of talons by either side of its head. "I's rubbish! Nope. No Bahamut for me. I'm jus' Mike, a simple wyrm from down Devonshire."
"Right. Well, thanks... Mike."
"Yeah, good to meet you there, Richie." It gave a smoky yawn. "Well, I best be gettin' back to me beauty sleep. Stop by anytime, we'll go down the pub and throw a few back, eh? Oh, jus' remember to knock first, right? So's I don't fry you on the spot, or anything."
"Uhh, right. Thanks. Good day." Richard strolled out of the cave, the Most Blessed Grail in hand.
* * *
The queen slouched, half-asleep on her bejeweled throne. A herald entered and bowed to her.
"Your majesty, I present to you Sir Richard James Johnathan Thomas Percy William Tadger, the Cavalier from Langerwood, of the province of Dobber." The queen waved at the herald like he was a fly. Sir Richard marched up toward the throne and kneeled.
"What is it?" the queen demanded.
Sir Richard stood. "Your highness, my quest is completed." He raised the goblet. "I present to you, the Most Blessed Grail."
The queen snatched it from his grip, scowling at the gem-encrusted goblet "I don't like it. Doesn't match my gown." Richard recoiled as though he had been slapped. "And, what's this rubbish inside? Water?"
"That's how it comes. If you pour it out—"
"Couldn't be bothered to put something good in it, could you? Maybe Chardonnay or a nice Claret? You know I don't like plain water. Typical. You just don't think of anybody but yourself."
"Perhaps, your majesty," Richard said through gritted teeth, "you should want me to travel a thousand leagues into the desert and find a holy man that can turn the water into wine for you?"
"No, never mind. I don't want to be a bother," she said with a sniffle. "I'll be fine." She put the chalice down and looked at her hand as though she had just plucked it from inside a toilet.
"Well, instead of the Most Blessed Bloody Grail, how about some nice landscaping to go with your dress. I could introduce your majesty to my friend, Mike."
The queen perked up. "Ohh, that sounds lovely. As long he's got something that looks nice. And, not too expensive."
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