Jarm And Gorbold In The Purple Crypt - WritingForums.com - Writing Forums, Writing Challenges, Critiques and Help for Writers

caelum · 05-10-2009, 05:26 PM

Jarm and Gorbold

In

The Purple Crypt

by Donald Light

“Gnobbits! Come get'cher gnobbits! Gnobbit's for sale! Anybody need a gnobbit? Gnobbits here! Come get'cher gnobbits! Ah, you two! Come closer, yes! May I interest you in a gnobbit?”

“But what, pray tell, is a gnobbit?” queried Gorbold.

“Why, 'tis a valuable asset!” explained the merchant, “A provider of any service you require – that is, so well as you can train it. They're alot like you or me, just maybe half the size,” He gestured behind him.

For yea, twenty such gnobbits crowded a cage in the rear of the merchant's booth, which was but one of many in the bustling plaza. None taller than three feet, many pressed to the front reaching their puny arms through the bars, squeaking “Pick me! Pick me!”

“But what price?” sneered Jarm.

“Why, a mere twenty goldenmarbles each, or! And only for today, and only cause I like your style, you can get your very own three, that's right, three gnobbits for just fifty goldenmarbles. Three for fifty! You heard correctly!”

“Yargh, far too much!” spat Jarm.

“What on earth could we use them for, eh?” interrogated Gorbold.

“They make wonderful assassins, able to slip through the doggy-door or down the chimney. Several play the accordian, and at least one is a cunning banker – that one, with the tophat. And of course, there's endless butlering and labour possibilites. Fukking anything, man! Three for fifty!”

“Nah. Damn your damned gnobbits. Come on, Jarm. Let's get some food. Lunch is nigh.” “Aye.”

“Wait! Of course, in the end, naturally, each and every one of them can make you a fine meal. Let me testify to that!” He patted his belly, “Especially the shoulders! Very succulent!” He licked his lips.

“Hmmmmmm...” hummed the Dirty Duo.

The “Pick me!”s petered out.

“Lunch is nigh, Gorby.”

“Aye, Jarm. Aye.

Aaaaaaaaaaaaayyyyeeeeeeeee.”

“That was a fine dish, Gorby. What did you call it again?”

“Gnob on the Cob, Jarm. Gnob on the Cob!”

It was their first day in the city, having arrived late yestereve. For more than three months, our two ignoble heroes trekked o'er field and forest, mountain and valley, meadow and bog, in search of the legendary desert metropolis: Zairo.

Zai! A wonder and jewel of a city, with a million people animating its sandy streets and markets. To the east and west of Zai lay horizons of woodland, and to the north, mountains, but to the south? Dare I tell you? Dare I infect your sleep with nightmares for the rest of a sorry life? Nightmares of horror, lunacy, and bad jokes? Yea, I do, for I am a villain; so prepare your naieve, virgin ears, fool, cause I'm about to pop your... eardrums. To its south lay the one, the scorching, the abominable... The Desert of Desolation!!

Ah, The Desert of Desolation. Such horrors lurk between those dunes, you would best remain oblivious! All I will say is, for every five parties that venture that sand, one vanishes. I mean, like, totally gone. No survivors, no witnesses, no evidence – just fucking gonzo. Startling reports trickle into the city. Large, feline monsters have been sighted stalking wanderers in the night. Trails of blood found the next day go for a ways, then end of a sudden, as if the victims were dragged under... But by what? What! Some who have wandered into the deep deep, where water is all but a myth and desert madness a common affliction, claim to have espied a purple glow on the distant horizon, but this story is rarest of all. More paranormal examples abound, but I will spare you.

So why go near the damned desert, then, let alone inside, let alone build a city on its doorstep? Because only out there, in the wasteland known as Double-D, can be found the Zambi cactus!

Without the commerce of Zambi, Zairo would not exist. Medicinally, Zambi is invaluable. Spices fashioned from dried Zambi can extend life, cure blindness, and if one were to eat a whole Zambi raw, temporarily grant the strength of seven men. However, eating one would be madness. Consider eating your next five paychecks, or a bar of pure gold if you could. Yeah, um, no. Maybe you could justify such wanton waste if you were about to like fight a dragon or something. (Possible foreshadowing?...)

So precious is the Zambi, selling just one can give you enough goldenmarbles for four gnobbits, forty camels, and a house. No shit. However, the small cactus, looking like a blood-red prickly cucumber, is extremely rare, roosting only between the dunes of deep Double-D – and what massive dunes they are! A large expedition out for a week is lucky to get ten and lucky to get back alive. Poor water discipline alone bests many an amateur, not to mention the mysterious beasts that stalk the sand. Oh, desolate indeed is that wretched hell! However, even this bad, many, many brave the desert, and great profit is made. Indeed Zai thrives!

Or it has until recently. Unexplainable disappearances on the dunes have always been the norm, but over the past year mortality has skyrocketed. The sultan of Zairo, Double-D and all its surrounding territories, comprising the Sultire of Zairobia: Dran'Reb, is very concerned. He suspects evil forces. Seldom to be seen by his people – truly his last public appearance can't be remembered – some say the reclusive and enigmatical ruler sits for days on end in his palace tower, brooding over the future of his city.

In such dark times, so great are the perils Zambi hunting, all but the craziest fortuneseekers are deterred. And who are the craziest of the crazy?

Vikings, plunderers, scum, would-be-womanizers, graverobbers, loud, intense warriors, longtime acquaintances, bandits who steal from the rich and give to the needy (themselves), willing to compromise any moral for a quick buck, badass mofos, occasional pirates, hygienically unmotivated: All these words describe Jarm and Gorbold, who come from afar to hunt the cactus. Jarm, who has a cleanshaven, girly face and long, red hair done into viking dreads; and Gorbold, who has his short, black hair hidden beneath a horned viking helmet, a beard, and a sweet, maroon cape. Speaking of whom, here they are, finishing lunch at an inn. Gorbold's cooking skills are a little, shall I say... curious?

“Let's away, Jarm, and find ourselves a Zambi party.”

“Aye!”

So they set back to the sandy frenzied streets with the sun tyrannizing a cloudless sky.

Exploring the many suburbs of Zai, our heroes could not escape the din of Zambi commerce. Open markets lined every street, and it was while browsing these our heroes came across an intriguing spectacle. Hundreds crowded a public square rapt to a stage, cheering now and again. Shoving their way to the front, Jarm and Gorbold came to understand why.

In a giant cage, a man in loincloth – some walking god of a man – was wrestling a bear! The bear made a slash with its awesome paw, but was parried by an even more awesome forearm. Fangs lunged and gnashed, tearing flesh, but those were the fangs of Man. Both beasts circled snarling, and lunged! The resulting hand-to-paw grapple was a stalemate, mountainous force held static, dams to eachother's rivers! Veins took definition as limbs were taxed, and the scowls they exchanged were of such venom, a fly buzzing between their faces dropped dead. Suddenly, The Man headbutted the bear to the face, who howled like a bitch, whose howl transmorphed into an unbecoming squeal when The Man ramjammed his shin to the bear's special region.

Sweet merciful fates, the agony! But there was no pity from the feral crowd, who were going apeshit bananas! And it was right about then that, somewhere in a jungle, an ape shit bananas. Just so you know.

The Man then swung the bewildered bear head down, administered a firm headlock, dished one-two-three! belly shots, and then he... oh no he didn't. Yeah, he did. With a back strength that was the envy of Atlas, he suplexed the fucking bear! The fuzzy critter lay groaning half-dead.

The Man ascended the cage wall, pounded his chest and roared at the sweaty crowd, who cheered with abandon. Quietly at first, then louder, a steady chant started to echo throughout the square: “Drop of Doom! Drop of Doom! Drop of Doom!” Jarm and Gorbold found themselves joining in. It grew and grew until every nook of every ear was filled with that chorus, until it was the only thing in existence!

The Man stilled himself, letting his arms droop. The crowd hushed instantly, expectantly; and slowly, oh so slowly, surfacing on the face of The Man... was a grin, wide and daemoniacal! Cheers erupted. All knew what happened next, that is, except for The Dastardly Duo.

Would it be The Kneeler, The Elborama, or The Last Stand? He dove. What's this? No! Not The Swan! The Swan it was, for yea, verily, The Man's own skull meteored itself some bear belly. That sad, fuzzy critter let out one wheezy sort of a burp, and then went to the land of neverending beehives. Rest in peace, Yogi.

Little is actually known of Bernard, except he is one of the Sultan's senior-most servants, and one of the fiercest warriors Zai has ever seen. He is never to be seen dressed in anything other than his loincloth and veins, and has long, blondish hair. When not busy with imperial quests of the highest order, he often entertains the people with such spectacles, dueling condemned beasts or gladiators; or sometimes breaking hearts with his cello, in the figurative way of course. Except for one time when some nutcake jumped on stage and tried to assassinate the hero during his concert. Then he broke a heart with his cello in the nonfigurative way. He also broke the cello.

“Good people of Zai!,” burst The Man from the top of the cage wall. His voice had an echoey, resonant quality that enraptured. “Tomorrow morn, on direct orders from our beloved sultan, I embark on a quest into the one, the abominable, The Desert of Desolation! For what, I cannot say, but I can say that should I fail, the future of Zairobia itself will be in jeopardy! This mission I cannot go alone, as I would prefer. Too much is at stake. I'm going to need the help of some brave Zairobian citizens – You! But let me forewarn: death is all but certain, and it will be many days riding camelback over the massive Double-D dunes before our aim is reached!

That being so, whoever comes with me may help themselves to whatever Zambi we find along the way, and we are heading to the untapped dunes of the deep deep! So then...

I need two volunteers.”

caelum · 05-10-2009, 05:27 PM

Double-D

“Jarm, get the coffee started.”

“It's your turn, Gorby.”

“Your mother it's my turn!”

“Don't you talk about my mammy!”

“Your mother is so fugly, she turned a gorgon to stone!”

“Oh yeah? Your mother is so hairy, the ends of her stache twirl a solid three times!”

“Bastard!”

“Rapscallion!”

“What fool, stupider than the retarded chipmunk!,” volcanoed The Man from his adjacent tent, “disturbs my slumbour?”

“Forgive we stooges, O Bernard!” grovelled Jarm.

“Calm yourself, smelly knave – and have a biscuit.” For indeed breakfast was at hand.

So began day-three on the massive Double-D dunes. Jarm got the coffee started on the condition Gorbold fried the eggs, and The Man set out a short ways from camp felling large cactii with majestic arcs of his blade: the sole source of water in Double-D. Soon the three were chowing down in Bernard's tent.

“So how much longer 'til we reach this purple glow?” queried Jarm through a mouthful of toast.

“By nightfall, comrades, we should glimpse the purple glow; and there will be our aim,” resonated The Man, “But now it is time you know in full what we seek: The crypt of a dark sorcerer! Who the Sultan suspects is the cause of the disappearing Zambi hunters.”

“Have I heard of this guy?” queried Gorbold.

“Perhaps. Who we seek is none other than he, Zooltuk the Numerical, The Purple Wraith!”

“Sorta familiar. But what's with the numerical?” queried Jarm.

“Once, many decades ago, Zooltuk was Zai's most reknowned disciple of the higher maths. His formulae were of an elegance and vigour few other numberoligists could rival, winning him accolades and posts on the boards of multiple universities, as well as a following. A true celebrity of the scholarly world.

But mysteriously, at the height of his fame, when universities across the entire Zairobian Sultire would pay fortunes for a single lecture, Zooltuk vanished! Witnesses that day said they saw him, along with his cult of disciples, simply up and walk into the desolated horizon! They were never seen again. The scholarly world mourned the untimely loss of their champion.

Later, The Sultan's investigation brought to light an unsettling tale. It seems for some time Zooltuk had been dabbling in the dark arts! All knew of his thirst for new, untapped equations, but none suspected to what depths he would descend in order to satisfy that lust! It was discovered that Zooltuk came to the posession of several ancient, evil and banned tomes, notably: the Numberotica Nocturnius, the Bent Bible, the Necronomicon, and Zombies For Dumbasses. These books provide formulae of extreme power – that would tempt anyone – but formulae so heinous they would pop a witch's boils! Dark, dark math, comrades.

Decades passed, and slowly rumours of Zooltuk's evil mischief creeped across the dunes. Rumours of an undead cult, an enourmous crypt, monsters, and disappearances. Dran'Reb worried in his tower, but there was never enough cause for action. However, the recent spike of Zambi hunter losses cannot be ignored! Our hunters, our city's very livlihood must be protected! The sultan believes Zooltuk is responsible, and so it is our mission to find him, question him, and probably chop off his fukkin' head!”

“Aye, but'choo think before we chop off his head, we can get him to take a look at my chequebook?” asked Gorbold, “My accounts are more tangled than a fishing reel you lent to a curious monkey,”

“Aye, Gorbold and numbers don't get along,”

“Remember when I threw my compass at that math teacher, Jarm?”

“Aye! That was gnarly. Too bad they expelled you,”

“Eh, no regrets. It's not like any of the electives pertained to plundering tombs! But yeah, numbers and I have never got along. We get along like... a starving anaconda does with a litter of puppies: Not prettily.” said Gorbold.

A pause.

“Actually, I would pay to see that,” said Jarm.

“Come to think of it, so would I,” mused Gorbold.

A pause.

“Then so would a lot of people!”

“We could put on a show! Put 'em in a cage together! Ten goldenmarbles a ticket! We'll rent a booth!”
“Kittens too! Everybody hates kittens!”
“Aye, and cages are cheap... but how much do anacondas cost? Do you know, Bernard?”

“More than a thousand g-mabs, last time I checked,”

“Shythole!” “Faaack!”

“Not to worry. This sounds like fun, and my salary is, shall I say, more swollen than the belly of an anaconda who was trapped in a cage full of puppies! Anyways, let's hit the sand while the sun is hot, boys; many leagues, and Zambi, lie yet between us and The Purple Crypt!”

“Aye,” said Jarm, “and hopefully we'll find at least one of the damn cactuses before we get there!”

After one final, sweaty day riding camelback over the desert under Bernard's expert guidance, our earthly star retired as his little cousins started to peek down. Then they saw it.

“See there! The purple glow!” resonated The Man.

Many, many dunes away could be seen an otherwordly purpleness issuing from the sand, its aura staining the horizon.

Nearer now, The Tremendous Trio made out a large rock outcropping jutting from the sand with purple fires flickering all over it. What fire of this world burns purple? None, that's what. Torches, pyres, and open flames. The football-field-size slab of rock was more or less flat except for a small structure of ominous construction that was little more than a giant, downward-slanting door. Our team dismounted not many dunes away, crawled to a dune rim and peeked over, reconnoitering. The outcropping was not uninhabited. Men patrolled and stood guard all over, lightly armed, some circling a large purple bonfire murmuring – as if some dank ritual. Flames blinked in and out of sight as shapes moved around in the night.

Our heroes took out the tools. Gorbold caressed the handle of his giant, blunt maul. Jarm's left donned his spiked flail, his right his curved dagger. The Dirty Duo tensed their hands nervously, expectantly. And Bernard? He unsheathed his mighty blade, and strapped to his back... a frying pan?

“The Purple Crypt!” said Jarm.

“What you see is but the entrance to Zool's massive crypt below,” resonated The Man, “Heavily guarded,”

“I count maybe thirty men,” said Gorbold.

“My dagger has been dry too long! It thirsts!”

“It will find no blood in those dry veins,” said Bernard, “for those are not men, though they were once. Those are the mummies of Zooltuk! Observe the wrappings!”

“Mummies!” hissed Jarm and Gorbold.

“Yea, mummies. Stronger than the average man, only severe bodily trauma or decapitation will put them down,” Jarm and Gorbold smiled, “See the one by the door? At the first sign of trouble, he'll dart inside and alert the whole crypt, so I'll disable him with this frying pan, and hold the door so no warning descends. You two: have fun. Now, let's sneak up and take them by surprise!”

“Aye!” “Aye!”

They stole up to just outide the purple glow, and charged! So began the battle of the outcropping entrance.

Gorbold headed towards the purple bonfire circled by murmuring mummies. Like a golfclub, the maul swung. The maulee lauched up, up and away! Into the flames! Dry veins are not without their drawbacks discovered the mummy, for lo! He went up like a witch, crying a deep mummy cry. “Snap, crackle and burn, bitch!” shouted Gorbold.

Meanwhile, Bernard tomahawked the frying pan into the door mummy's face, disabling it. And when I say into, I mean it in the literal sense. He then charged the door and held point, fileting any mummies fool enough to challenge the loinclothed colossus, which were many. One majestic arc caught three mummies who became six half-mummies.

Jarm the Berzerker was in his element, dashing bits of mummy across the rocks like an eccentric painter. The brutality of the flail was complemented by the poetry of the dagger, that persuaded its way into many a mummy bosom. Jarm's dreads were an eye-catching sight on the battlefield, flippity-flap-flopping all over the fucking place.

Gorbold's maul was undeniable. With a steady rythm, he and his hammer waltzed through the mummies – those long acquainted dance partners! Once, Gorbold and a mummy squared off over a good twenty yards. They charged all out, screaming, and at the last instant Gorbold hunched his head, ramjamming the horned, viking helmet through the mummy's chest. Both horns came out the other side. Ouch.

Soon the battle was slowing down with not many mummies left to withstand the Tremendous Trio. Across the outcropping Jarm and Gorbold each had made their own swathes of massacred mummy, while Bernard the Blademaster held the door with a casual grace. But then a short ways from Bernard, from a recession in the rocks, something emerged...

caelum · 05-10-2009, 05:29 PM

I like it when you pur like that...

Tantalizingly beautiful, all Bernard saw at first, saw at all, was the face of the woman rising. Oh, how easy it would be to lose one's self in that face. That perfect face! Delicate yet sharp lines. Flowering, lively eyes, with a strangely feline sparkle. Mouthwatering lips. An adorable nose. The hint of an innocent smirk at the corners of the mouth. Ebony hair done up in a stunning headdress with gentle curls floating down. Feminimity embodied!

She dig's me, thought Bernard. He permitted himself to admire a few moments. Just a few more moments. That's all. Just a few more. So pretty! The face came closer, and closer, and closer.

*Clang!* Jarm swung his head to the noise, having just flailed a mummy in the back. Bernard's blade lay on the rocks - not in his hand - while Bernard himself... Jarm's brain had trouble digesting the scene, making sense of the thing slowly approaching his co-fighter. Retrieving his reason, Jarm squaked: “Sphinx!”

Imagine a lion; now exchange its head with the head of one foxy momma, and then you got what Jarm saw stalking towards Bernard about to pwndaddy his fukkin' ass. Natural sirens, the sphinx will hypnotize you with her beauty then simply go to town with her claws and fangs. Then have dinner.

To Jarm's horror, Bernard just kept on a-starin', 'til the Sphinx and he were practically face-to-face – close enough to kiss almost. And then the unthinkable happened.

“No, Bernard, No! Ummmm... What the hell, buddy?”

For yea, sure as the world is flat, they were kissing! It seem's Bernard wasn't the spellboud one! He outsirened the siren! She was purring in a rumbling, bassy way while they made out.

“I like it when you pur like that, baby. Mmmmm *smooch* yeah. But I gotta go kill this wizard, okay? Don't worry, I'll call. I know this desert. Catch ya later, babe.” After a parting tribute to the French, the sphinx ambled off into the dunes while Jarm just gaped and Gorbold fought the last few mummies.

There the other viking was not far away squaring off with the last two, standing undead. One was sent sprawling by a mighty blow, and the other lunged then thinking he had a window, but Gorbold deftly jabbed the hilt of his hammer to the mummy's mouth. Oh, snap! That was its jaw. Gorbold then roundhoused the maul, knocking the foe's legs out from under him. On his back, the mummy raised feeble hands for mercy, but maniac Gorbold just cackled as he rained down the sledge. Soon he wasn't hitting mummy anymore, but rock!

The other, the lone survivor was crawling away wounded, murmuring disgustingly. In one epic leap, roaring Gorbold brought down the maul like it ain't no thang! Dusty scraps of mummy shat across the rocks, and the sweet, maroon cape fluttered in the moonlight.

“Regroup!” nitroglycerined The Patriarch. Jarm, Gorbold and Bernard met by the door.

“Good work, Jarm and Gorbold! You are better fighters than I imagined,”

“You're not such a tinkerbell yourself there, Bernard. That was some fancy ass swordplay,” praised Gorbold.

“And the sphinx! How did you do that?” queried Jarm.

“Luckily, I have a way with sphinxes, but it disturbs me that Zooltuk is able to bend them to his service. His power waxes indeed. We are likely to meet more below,”

“So I guess this is the way down?” said Gorbold.

“Yea, and the door looks not very formidable. Jarm, let's grab those purple torches on the ground over there, and Gorbold... would you mind?”

“Not in the least, buddy!”

Gorbold went into lumberjack mode on the stone door, blasting it to pieces with one swing. Inside they saw a wide, steep stairwell with purple torches adorning the walls flickering into the distance. It went a long ways. They started down.

Traipsing slowly through the purple gloom, our heroes noticed strange symbols decorating the walls. They were hard to make out in the weak torchlight.

“Strange writing!” hissed Gorbold.

“Looks almost mathematical with its diagrams and figures,” said Jarm, “but of no system of numbers studied on our planet!”

“Indeed the formulae on these walls are sinister and alien,” resonated The Patriarch, “By what I can discern, the calculations pertain to reanimating dead flesh. Hence the mummies,” They descended further.

“Something's different here. A different kind of writing,” continued Bernard, “This math seems to pertain to instilling the still-living with evil purpose! Enslaving life! What kind of math is this mad mathematician toying with? However... it seems this math is too weak to affect large life, like we humans, but maybe Zooltuk has found a way to enslave small creatures. Curious...

Well it seems we have penetrated The Purple Crypt without detection so far, Jarm and Gorbold, but stay wary. Look, the stairs level off ahead! Follow in silence!”

They entered a cavernous tunnel. It faded into the distance, though they could just make out a sharp curve to the left far ahead. Along the walls and throughout were pillars, the light-giving torches, the dust of stagnant ages, and sundry rubbish, such as pots, and upright and fallen sarcophagi. It was an unsettling atmosphere, as if latent threats hid just beneath the surface, poised to strike! Were the many sarcophagi empty? They traipsed weapons drawn, Bernard with a torch.

“Beware, comrades, Zooltuk is fond of traps. Look for tripwires, unusual cobblestones, statues with moving eyes, or anything out of the ordinary.”

They all heard a grinding, scraping noise.

“What was that?!” snapped Bernard.

“Oh, um... I think that's my bad,” said Jarm; for yea, the cobblestone his right foot stood on had depressed several inches. Bernard and Gorbold groaned. They heard a rumbling sound. “How was I supposed to know! Anyone couldda' stepped on it!”

Whatever kind of trap they suspected Jarm triggered, such as a boulder rolling, the floor giving way to a bottomless pit or quicksand, a giant axe swooping down from the ceiling, poison darts firing from the walls – you know, something sort of plausible – what actually did happen came from way outta left field. I'm talkin' weird. Bremuda Triangle, Michael Jackson weird.

Hidden hatches on the walls slid open releasing dozens upon dozens of rabid, evil, insane purple weasels! Purple weasels! Foam dripping off the crooked muzzles. They came screeching and barking, closing in from all sides. “Well you don't see that every day!” exclaimed Gorbold. So began the battle of the purple weasels.

Ahead of the rest of the swarm, one enthusiastic critter came a-streaking to Gorbold, purple foam sloshing off its fangs. When it was nigh, Gorbold's maul descended like a felled oak, and the aftereffects were so beautiful, Jarm couldn't help but say: “Pop goes the weasel!”

Engaging the weasel swarm, our heroes were well taxed. Jarm's tools were having a gay, old time, splattering purple all over the everyplace; and Gorbold's hammer was laying down a liberal share of smack. And Bernard? He would not condescend to unsheath his blade on such vermin, yet rather put to work his size eighteen boot. He also swung a mean frying pan. Our trio painted the walls purple.

Once, a weasel got itself knotted up in Jarms dreads, promptinga: “Not the do!”, and would have gnawed a nasty wound – if not for the size-eighteen boot that exploded it! I'm talkin', Bernard did a crazy ass flying Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon kick that would have made Lou Kang proud, baby. Another time, one particularly beefy rodent leapt like a fukking froggy at Gorbold, who calmy wound up, and homeran it into the afterlife. Not to mention the ceiling! “BoomShukaLucka-MuthaFucka!” he gloated.

In a grim turn of events, The Man found himself completely surrounded by rabid rascals. They closed in barking evilly, foam dripping, but to the weasels' astonishment, Bernard spontaneously burst into song: “I said brrr! It's cold in here! There must be some Brrrnard in the atmosphere, what!” He then breakdanced a dance of death.

Eighty-four weasel cadavers later, Jarm and Gorbold bellybucked victoriously. One that still twitched, Jarm banzaiied. It twitched no more. Bernard nodded approvingly at the scene. Victory, but did all that alert the rest of the crypt? Who knew. They traipsed on weapons drawn, worrying, fidgeting, wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before.....................?

Around the curve the tunnel quickly shrank to a small, ornate archway. Through it opened an enormous chamber, but the view inside was obscured by large pillars. Standing guard infront of the archway was a mummy with a huge gong beside him – the alarm! He didn't even notice the three walking up however, that lame guard, but he did notice the flying frying pan suddenly say "Hello!" to his crotch, and he did notice the hammer, and he did notice the flail, and he did notice the dagger. Oh, he noticed. He noticed real good.

“Die, mummy!”

“You can't kill what's already dead, Jarm.”

“Well I just did.”

“No you didn't.”

“Well then I made it undead!”

“It already was, Jarm.”

“You exasperate me, Gorbold! Exasperate me!” he shook a finger angrily.
"You want me to do what to your ass?" Gorbold knew just how to get under his fellow's skin.
"You're one sick puppy, mate. One terminally-ill fuckin' puppy!"

“Whatever. So what's in this huge, bloody room, you guys? For some reason the hair on me arms stands on end. Something in there gives me the willies!”

“You panzy, old nun. I bet you'd like to get some from Willy!”

“Quiet, knaves! Look above the archway, engraved in the stone,”

“Room of the Rector. What's a rector?” wondered Jarm.

“I fear a horror, ancient and monstrous, lurks in that room. Come, we'll

sneak up to a pillar and peek inside.” They did.

caelum · 05-10-2009, 05:30 PM

Room of the Rector

“Woah! Would'ja look at the size of that big fugnasty!” whispered Jarm.

“That Sphinx is bigger than an elephant!” whispered the other viking.

For yea, an enourmous sphinx lay in the middle of the room, obviously her lair. The only way to the tunnel on the other side, beyond to the rest of the crypt and Zooltuk, was through her. She lounged licking her forearms, occasionally nibbling the leftovers of a weasel between her massive paws. Though stoic Bernard never lost his cool, Jarm and Gorbold shivered with raw fear at the sight of her, their teeth clattering! Their knees wobbling! 'Twas a more jittery scene than an epileptics-only orgy.

“That is no ordinary sphinx!” resowhisped The Patriarch, “That is a sphinx of legend. One of the original sphinxes that reared a thousand more: A Sphinx Rector! Or, as it is more commonly known... a Sphinktor!”

“A Sphinktor...” whispered Jarm and Gorbold.

“But what're them there things on the floor with steam coming off 'em?” wondered Jarm, “They look like juicy soccer balls with threads stickin' out. My first inclination was they're that oversized kitty's ass-candy, but they don't look...” Jarm trailed off.

“No, even worse! Hairballs!” said Bernard.

“Oh, rank!” said Gorbold, “And how are we supposed to deal with that monster?”

“Not easily. This foe is beyond either of you, I'm afraid, and I fear even my wiles will be of little use against so magnificent a sphinx. But maybe...” Bernard mused and brainstormed several minutes, “...mmm... yeah, I have an idea. Okay, I'm going to need a torch, some Q-Tips, one of her majesty's hairballs, and this frying pan! You're about to watch history, boys! Here goes!” He leapt out from behind the pillar with a “RAH!”

“Oh, what's he gonna do, me Gorby? Look at him go! She spotted him! What a swipe! She almost got him!”

“Oh man, he's not having an easy go. Shyt! He barely dodged that one. Ha-ha, bet she didn't see that comin' though! She's having a hard time reaching behind that pillar... What's he doing with that hairball and the Q-Tips? Oh, that clever bastard!”

“Clever scheme, aye, but smelly. Frying that thing is a little hard on my stomach. Nice dodge!”

“This is gonna take a while.”

“If only we'd brought some popcorn.”

“Aye.”

Eight minutes later, the Sphinktor lay snoring, sleeping like a wee babe. Bernard was cleaning off the frying pan with a rag and stomping out a fire. Jarm and Gorbold joined him beside her highness.

“You clever dog, Bernard!” said Gorbold, “I never would have thought of that. It was truly a privelidge to see in such explicit detail just exactly how to incapacitate a Sphinktor!”

“O Bernard, truly you are more creative than Kabogg, the hobgoblin gnobgobbler who invented eggnog!” praised Jarm.

“True words, friends. The plan worked well. She'll be out for a couple of hours, long enough for us to put an end to this dark mathematician!"
"Why not kill it now? Stab its heart, Bernard!"
"Nay. It would be a shame to slay this ancient, magnificent beauty. It will trouble us no more if we hurry our business with Zooltuk, but what powerful equations Zooltuk must possess in order to entice the service a Sphinktor! This leaves my heart ill at ease. Let's get a move on. Crypt security will be lax from here in, presuming no one could best the beast. Let's go.”

“Can we just hang out for a bit?” asked Jarm, “You know, take a breather?

Look at that face, man! Just look at it! I think I feel tears a-comin'!”

“Look away!” bombasticated Bernard.

“Aye, aye...”

They made their way through the far tunnel. Soon it broke up and dissipated into the sprawling network of catacombs that was The Purple Crypt. Mummies populated the gloomy halls, patrolling and murmuring, but our heroes evaded them. When the time was ripe, our heroes snuck up on three unsuspecting, undead ugmos, dispatched one each, and started unwrapping...

“I feel dirty.” said Gorbold.

“You hear that? Drumming!” said Jarm.

“Yea! An assembly!” said Bernard.

caelum · 05-10-2009, 05:31 PM

The Vast, Subterranean Ampitheater

The vast, subterranean ampitheater was packed, dimly lit by purple torches. The couple hundred mummies were shouting: “Zoo-ul-TUK! Zoo-ul-TUK!...” going stomp-stomp-clap. 'Twas a very Nuremburgian scene. Some ranks of the mummies were elite, dressed in purple robes: The pupils of the darker maths. There was even a giant scorpion or two. Most of the crypt's inhabitants were in attendance.

The large stage was empty except for ceremonial purple pyres and a small, elevated dais at the front, a promontory into the crowd. At the rear was an ominous, darkened doorway directing to the dais.

He stepped through the doorway.

Sickly, mummy cheers broke out at the sight of him stalking towards and mounting the dais. The purple, rich robes flowed from the train dragging to the hood shadowing his face. Ornate armour glinted across his body. His footlong, spiral beard was cool-looking. His expression was pained, as if the log just ain't comin' out. Held in right hand, his silver sorcerer staff terminated with large “Z”, which was on fire. Purple fire! For this was none other than he, The Purple Wraith, Zooltuk the Numerical! The darkest mathematician who ever lived!

“Thank you, thank you, my minions and thralls!,” rasped The Zool's slithery voice from one end of the ampitheater to the other. The cheering ebbed. “Thank you. As you know, my children, our plans come to fruition! Long we have waited in the Desert of Desolation for our opportunity to strike! To destroy Zairo! To burn and pillage and mummify, just as I have mummified you, my children the former Zambi hunters!

However, the army of Zairobia is too fierce for direct confrontation, and our forces too few, so our plan of attack is abstract! We shall destroy their economy!

By the power of my twisted, heinous formulae, I have managed to enslave an army of weasels! These rodents we have raised, warped and possessed by the dark math, are finally ready as of tonight! Fed from birth by my fetid hand, they have only ever eaten one thing:” here he reached his left hand in his robe, removed a Zambi, and held it aloft, “Zambi, the only maker of Zambi spice! The rodents are wholly addicted to it! At my command, the weasel swarm shall spread across the dunes, cleansing them of the treasured cactus. By my calculations, to comb the entire desert will take three months, eight days, nine hours, and six minutes give or take thirty seconds! My calculations are exact! They shall eat and and eat and ravage until there are no makers left! Until there is no spice left! Muahahahahaha! Muahahahahaha!”

“Oh Zooly, Zooly, Zooly?” chuckled Gorbold.

For yea, standing in the crowd slightly removed from the rest of the mummies were three of the burliest, brawniest bastards ever born, standing on top of what must have been their wrappings. The entire assembly gasped at the intruders, and the mummies retreated several paces, leaving them their own little island in the crowd. They were not too far from the stage.

“Intruders! Wait, don't kill them yet, my children! Not until they answer some questions. How did you three penetrate my crypt, and defile it with your filthy human footsteps?”

“Easy, Zool!” shouted Jarm, “Your security is more of a farce than that crazy tornado growin' out your chin!”

“Yaaargh! Swine! You shall get yours soon enough. But tell me, what idiot thought his three thugs could contend with my mummy hordes? And if you don't answer, I have the means to make you. Oh-oh-oh-oh yes! I shall calculate the exact amount of pain it will take, and my calculations are exact!”

“Old Zool,” resonated The Man, “did you really think the sultan would tolerate your scandalous villainy? As for these mummies, go ask the guards on the surface how well we contend. For that matter, go ask the Sphinktor!”

“Ah, maybe you are more capable than I gave credit. You shall make fine mummies. Yeh-eh-eh-eh-es! As for the sultan? Pah! The Sultan is nothing! Nothing!” screeched The Zool in a pitch so high, it outpitched a dude who got frisky with a mousetrap, if you know what I'm sayin', and maybe you don't want to know what I'm sayin', “When Zai whithers and I invade, I myself shall slay the legendary sultan Dran'Reb! Enough of this! Mummify them!”

But something happened then that even The Zool did not expect. As the mummies closed in on The Tremendous Trio, something materialized in the gloom. Something wide. Something daemoniacal!

“Fool!” supernovaed Bernard, “I am Dran'Reb!”

Just then a projectile fired at The Zool, but its path wasn't straight, yet rather curved. A boomerang! The boomerang struck the Zool's left hand, snagged the Zambi there, and returned to its sender, The Man, with its load; and now that the boomerang was still, one could see that it actually wasn't a boomerang, but a frying pan!

In a heartbeat, The Sultan scarfed the red cactus, thorns and all, septuppling his strength. Infuzed with Zambi power, The Sultan's hair rose up saluting the heavens, standing in a pointed do like a Super-Saiyan's, which was also roughly how strong he was become. He glowed with energy like a radioactive mutant Chenobyl victim, like a christmas tree! The mummies circling withdrew several paces in awe and terror.

All the mummies, Zooltuk, Jarm and Gorbold were rendered dumbstruck by triply the revelation of Bernard's true identity, the stunt with the pan, and the transformation. No one said a thing. Deafening silence pervaded the universe for at least a minute, except of course for the odd, undead cough in the crowd. And the occasional hollow, coarse, undead passing of the wind. And the sound of undead crickets stridulating. Some mummies even started to gossip quietly by the end.

Then the silence was climactiaclly shattered by a suave Jarm, who managed to sum up the feel of Bernard's performance with just a one. single. word.

“Groovy!”

The mummies murmured.

“Is it really you, Dran'Reb, my nemesis of old?” wheezed The Zool.

“Yea, I am he: The Sultan of Zairo and all its surrounding territories, Bernard the Blademaster, Dran'Reb the Pan-Man! And I can fight, I can crow – Caw! – and I can flyyyiieeeee!” Here he leapt like gravity itself was his bitch, soaring thirty feet over the heads of mummies onto the stage landing plunk in the face of Zooltuk, mere paces away.

Zooltuk flung his purple robe aside unveiling his grim armour, and raised his flaming wizard stick high in the air, twirling it like a ninja, shouting: “Handle those two, my children, while I take care of this washed-up Sultan! Have at thee, Dran'Reb!”

“Die, Zool!”

So it was that The Purple Wraith and a Zambi-charged Dran'Reb dueled atop the stage while Jarm and Gorbold entertained the mummies below.

Clang, clang, clang resounded each union of blade and wizard-stick. Though The Man's strength was absurd, so too the Zool was preternaturally Arnold-like, owing to his heinous equations. 'Twas a titanic clash! The force of the blade was terrible, but Zool's wizard stick was slippery, thwarting it time and again, holding its own. As they fought, if Zool managed to slither enough distance away, he would bazooka a purple fireball from his flaming “Z” at The Man, who would swat it aside with his blade off to burst wherever, sometimes exploding a mummy.

Thing's heated up. Very nearly beheading Zooltuk, Bernard chopped off his ugly beard. Enraged, Zooltuk jabbed Bernard in the gut with his staff, knocking the wind out of him - but then Bernard made an awesome uppercut with his sword! The Zool's shoulder was gashed nastily, sending a purple spray high in the air. In vengeance, Zooltuk swung the staff wickedly, the maneuver evading Bernard's blade that tardily tried to defend, blasting his left shin out from under him. Bernard faceplanted hard, blood splatting.

The flaming “Z” came down a la Sword In The Stone, but met only the stone of the stage, which burst up in flaming chunks.

Having barely escaped that by rolling, Bernard shot to his feet, dodged another swipe via backflip, matrixed a fireball, turned tail and ran away flat out? Could it be cowardice?

Never! Distance was necessary... The Zool shat a fireball after him, and then things went into slo-mo. While running, Bernard leapt, whipsnapped a mid-air one-eigthy, and in that process frisbeed the frying pan with a vengeance. Actually, make that two vengeances! It sped to meet the incoming fireball. They were two trains heading down the same track.

Though it is true that many, many equations came under the Zool's scrutiny throughout his lifetime of numberology, it seems there was one equation that never entered his awareness, and that equation went a little something like: Frying Pan > Fireball.

The frying pan and the fireball collided mid-air, and there was a magnificent, purple explosion! From the wreckage, glistening with glory, the frying pan sailed to Zool, for the fireball was annihilated. With every inch closer to Zool's face it came, his jaw dropped, as well as his eyes opened, a little bit more in shock.

With a crunch to end all crunches, the frying pan ramjammed Zooltuk in the throat, crushing his windpipe. He gasped and chocked in vain, clutching his throat with his left hand, his right propping his weight feebly on the wizard stick. What now, bitch?

The absolute next thing that happened was a nuculear *Boom!* that resounded through the whole crypt, if not the whole Desert of Desolotion! And what in the hell went boom, you wonder? Why, only Bernard's blade... breaking the sound barrier!

For yea, verily, the arc was of a majesty never seen before or since, and the rage on Bernard's face as he swung was freaken intense, man. Really intense.

The arc shattered through the wizard stick, and then Zooltuk became two half-Zooltuks! The blade hardly even noticed him. So ended Zooltuk the Numerical, The Purple Wraith!

Instantly, the source of bewitchment removed, the mummy hordes fell inanimate like the dead should be.

“Aw, and I barely broke a sweat!” said Gorbold below.

“Yeah, cause you barely broke any mummies!” said the other viking.

“Still your tongue, ass! I broke twice as many as you.”

“Hah! Well we all know how good you are with numbers.”

“Well, let me see now. I can think of at least one mummy who I've had my way with recently. Or should I say... mammy?”

“.............Bastard!”

“Rapscallion!”

“Knaves, knaves, knaves!” shouted Bernard hopping down off the stage, “Zool is dead, his mummy hordes sleep the timeless sleep, and the weasels can rot in their cages! Zairo's hunters are safe again! We have won!”

“Aye!” cheered the Dirty Duo.

“So you really are the sultan there, Bernard?” queried Gorbold.

“Yea. I like to deal with my sultire's problems personally.”

“Wow. Not too many leaders like that out there.”

“I do what I can. But hurry, let's away before the Sphinktor awakens. And on our way out, there's one, final stop we need to make. Near Zool's weasel den we should find...

The Zambi Vault!”

“Wow, the ceiling's way up there, eh?” said Jarm distractedly.

“Aye. The Sultan's architects know how to make a mansion! That's for sure.”

“Aye, aye... but I still think we should have stood ground a little more on our share! Half is hardly fair. Two thirds would have been better!”

“Jarm, Jarm, Jarm, Jarm, Jarm – Act not the fool! Bernard was more than generous considering he found the crypt, defeated the Sphinktor, and killed Zool!”

“Aye, you're right I guess.”

Chillin' in their new crib, Jarm and Gorbold lounged on some beanbag chairs sippin' ale. Gorbold was chewing on some roasted camel hump. Gnobbit servants scurried about the massive den cleaning and whatnot dressed in outrageous, frilly bullshit, one fanning Jarm with a fan as big as him, one periodically placing grapes in his mouth, and one filing his yellow toenails!

“I'm off to the hot tub, Jarm. Catch ya later.”

“Later bro, but remember: tonight, we're checkin' out that new club. Finest belly dancers in Zairo!”

“I'm in.”

A merry gnobbit skipped past as Jarm downed his mug.

“You there gnobbit! Billabong Baggytits! That is your name, right?”

“Close enough, sir!”

“Whatever. Fetch me another mug of ale, will ye?”

“Yes, sir!”

“And gnobbit?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Good work.”

The End

caelum · 05-10-2009, 05:42 PM

So I hope you guys like that. It was around 7700 words. Everything in this work is tentative and I of course claim all the rights to my story.

This story has been in gestation for more than a year, and I've only really been sitting down and committing myself to finishing it for the past month or so. I just made up those makeshift chapter names on the fly while I was spacing it out so I could post it.

I've shown this work to some friends and family who've been really encouraging, but I'm not entirely sure what I'm gonna do with it. If I committed the time, I could totally add a bajillion scenes, polish the dialogue and add way more dialogue and easily triple the length. It could be like a mini-novel. I can definitely imagine more scenes in Zai and the crypt and even the desert.

Hope you liked it, and I hope I cracked you up once or twice

It's hard for me to experience the cracks when I edit because they're really only funny the first time, and then after I'm always like "Was that funny? Yeah I think I remember that being funny." haha.

edit: I'm also seriously considering cutting all profanity to make it a little more kiddy friendly.

Leyline · 05-14-2009, 10:33 PM

Cae,

This is on my 'to read' list. I'm way behind lately but I promise I'll get to it ASAP.

-G.

caelum · 05-25-2009, 11:21 PM

Is this a little too long for the short story section? Would I get more hits if I put it in the critique forum?

Leyline · 06-01-2009, 04:10 AM

Alright. I really enjoyed this, and laughed my ass off quite a few times. Good pace and energy, lots of clever dialouge, some excellent riffing on conventional fantasy cliches. Some people don't care for the 'archaic fantasy meets modern concepts' style, but it has never bothered me.

Your descriptions are good for the most part, sometimes excellent, sometimes a bit obviously rushed. I'd suggest, if re-writing, you look mostly at those for polishing. I'd also suggest going a little easier on the adjectives. You can get away with more than usual because of the stories fantastical/comedic nature, but I feel you may have went just a bit overboard here.

Still like J. and the Gorb-O here. Although they are still quite titanic assholes, they seem to be a little less callous than in the last adventure. That's as it should be -- characters who don't grow and change are cardboard. In future adventures, you may even have them develop some scruples! Nah.

One thing you do feel is that whatever their attitude towards others may be, the two really do like and depend on each other. That's a good thing. "Two Against The World" is always a nice theme.

Lastly, I think the length is the main reason you're not getting any responses. I think what you should do is take each section and post it in the Workshop (with a link to the whole story should it grab interest). Say....one section per week or so. This will get you many more comments and some good crits.

Anyway, my final opinion is good stuff! Thanks for the entertaining read and I think, with some polishing and tweaking, you may have a very sellable piece here.

Best,

-G.

caelum · 06-04-2009, 07:33 PM

Thanks Leyline. Good, sound tips, bro. There's a lot about writing I'm still working on, learning and experimenting. Like grammar. I think I use too many commas sometimes, and I know I overdo the language here and there. An old insecurity I'm slowly stamping out. I'm teaching myself how there's no harm using direct, normal sentances.

There really wasn't much here in the way of a sound, stable story with lots of characters interacting and developing, yet rather what story there was was just an excuse to get from one gag to the next. I can imagine more of a story revolving around these events, and for that matter I can imagine a whole world and mythology to Jarm and Gorbold. They would come from a distant viking land to the north ripe with mammoths and yetis! If I were to make this story longer, one thing I would do is start them in their hometown and give them some kind of incentive to find Zairobia and hunt the cactus, whose name I'm gonna change (Zambi), cause too many things start with Z. I would also develop Jarm and Gorbold's history a bit. Jarm's a little crazier and Gorbold fancies himself level-headed.

If you imagine a 300 page version of this story, with a larger, more-elaborated world and more characters, would you actually pay to read it?

Do you like Jarm and Gorbold's actual names? For the two protagonists, I want to keep Jarm for sure, but part of me thinks I should make Gorbold's character's name start with a vowel and have some hard "t" or "k" sounds in it, to mix up the sound a bit more. Just thinking of the title's first impression. But Jarm and Gorbold have really grown on me by this point.

Was there anything that you thought was too much? Too vulgar or too out there?

I think vikings and absurd fantasy are underexploited niches in literature, man, I really do.

I appreciate your advice. Right now I'm really showing this around and getting feedback, and I think the fact that people are actually laughing rocks! hahahaha.

Leyline · 06-08-2009, 02:31 AM

Quote:

If you imagine a 300 page version of this story, with a larger, more-elaborated world and more characters, would you actually pay to read it?

Sure. And I think Terry Pratchett's success proves that there is a huge potential market for just this type of fantasy. Like you mentioned, you'd want a more structured narrative than in the shorts, but that's the case with any novel length work.

Quote:

Do you like Jarm and Gorbold's actual names? For the two protagonists, I want to keep Jarm for sure, but part of me thinks I should make Gorbold's character's name start with a vowel and have some hard "t" or "k" sounds in it, to mix up the sound a bit more. Just thinking of the title's first impression. But Jarm and Gorbold have really grown on me by this point.

When I read the previous story, I -- at first -- thought the names were a bit clunky. But, by the end of that story, they'd grown on me and now seem natural. I don't think you'd have any problem with readers accepting the names.

RogueGunslinger · 06-16-2009, 06:42 PM

I really like the names, prbably wouldn't have read the piece if they didn't catch my attention.