Another attempt at fiction, I’m afraid. I’m in a sarcastic/middle-ages mood today.
Long, long ago … knights were brave and bold, kings and lords ruled the land, and the peasants worked in near-poverty. On the plus side: as a peasant you could always be sure of an entertaining witch-burning most Friday nights, social etiquette demanded a far lower standard of personal hygiene, and killing foreigners was considered a pastime of great national pride. Truly a far more idealistic and romantic era than today.
Once there was a lord, named Porkwesterley-Nonce. What he lacked in charm and moral-backbone, he made up for in riches and Halitosis. He bestowed upon himself many airs and graces, and did illude to an upbringing much greater than in truth. His tastes were expensive: shiny two-seater Italian-made carriages, only the most generously-endowed harlots that money could buy, and a fondness for standing on the roof of his tallest tower and piddling upon the locals.
This lord made his fortune from his three villages and the peasants who worked there. The villages were called Osneybuffingtonshire, Itchy-Runningcock, and Littleboffsbury.
Osneybuffingtonshire was Porkwesterley’s favourite. It was his pride and joy. The peasants of Osneybuffingtonshire employed by the Lord spent all their day whittling codpieces from driftwood that floated down the river. The finished codpieces – adorned by many gems and fine engravings – would be displayed proudly in the village shop. All who saw them gazed in much wonder. For certain, such desirable objects could be afforded only by the very rich, and were only bought by the very stupid.
Itchy-Runningcock was to the far north of the country, where the lasses were comely and the accents incomprehensible. It was said that Porkwesterley had never visited that place; he had merely read of it in the paper and decided to buy it because the name reminded him of an ailment he once contracted from a particularly cut-price wench. Itchy-Runningcock produced wrought-iron clothes horses, rudely-shaped weather vanes, ornate paper-clips, and chastity belts – all fashioned from the scrap metal and shopping trolleys they found at the bottom of the local canal.
Last – and by all means least – there was Littleboffsbury. The lord had acquired this village from a landowner named Flange-Widnes; a man of poor judgement and a dire weakness for wagers at the nun-races. Littleboffsbury became property of Porkwesterley-Nonce after a particularly abysmal bareback-steeplechase at Exmoor. On that day, the landowner lost everything to Porkwesterley, and Sister Wendy was sold to an abattoir.
In truth, Porkwesterley only wagered against Flange-Widnes in order to acquire his prized-collection of medieval goat-porn manuscripts. But Flange-Widnes refused to sell them separately, and so Porkwesterley gained the village too.
Porkwesterley despised the people of Littleboffsbury. Though they numbered amongst them many skilled craftsmen, Porkwesterley always gave them the work that the other villages refused. The jobs that required the ability to keep one’s mouth shut and ignore the smell.
One day, a rich businessman came to the land. He had a task to be done, and he had heard tell (overheard from his frequent visits to the local brothels and chariot-dealerships) of a lord who could accomplish this task, and right cheaply too. He took it upon himself to visit Porkwesterley-Nonce.
“See here!” said the man. “I have these turds. They are ugly and unshapen, and their constitution is barely solid. I need them to be polished to a high-shine, and have their surfaces adorned with nuts and sweetcorn. Then I may sell them in my own turd-emporium in my home land. This task must be done right soon, and I can pay thee well for this task!”
Porkwesterley-Nonce readily agreed, for though he was foolish, he wasn’t that foolish. “For certain!” cried he: “I shall give the task to the people of Littleboffsbury. There shall be one hundred men dedicated to your task!”.
The businessman paid Porkwesterley in precious stones; one for each man who would work upon his turds. But secretly, Porkwesterley dedicated only half the men to the task, and kept the rest of the money to fund the R&D of his new “super” codpiece in Osneybuffingtonshire.
The people of Littleboffsbury were sent the turds to work on, but were told not of Porkwesterley’s devilry. “Verily, we are being paid to polish turds!” the people did declare: “We cannot buff them as much as we are capable, for the resources are too few and the scheduling too meagre. But we shall do the best with what we have, and perhaps our master will smile upon us at last! Afterwards he may entrust us with a much larger task!”. And so the peasants set to work in earnest.
Part Two will follow … if I think of something funny to write.