Are you going to add that lightsaber to your list of the things you miss?
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Is that an off-topic expression of displeasure with Boing Boing’s revenue model?
Step 1. I miss things.
Step 2. You agree with me.
Step 3. Profit.
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Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz…
“Hey Bon!”
Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz…
“Oi, Bon!!”
“Yeah…?”
“You awake?”
“Christ, I am now.”
“Where the hell you been?”
“Asleep, Aengus, ye wee fucker. I’m exhausted.”
“Why areya… dressed like that?”
“Like what?”
“The wig, the skirt, and that.”
“Oh yeah. I’m in-cog-neato.”
“In-cog-what-o?”
“Neat-o. I’m hidin’ out.”
“Who from?”
“The Emper’r’s daughter. Long story.”
“I guess it must be. She’s been dead these twenty years. Did you spend the whole armistice hidin’ out asleep in a Chinese opium den just because of one of your romantic misunderstandings?”
“Wouldn’t be the first time, would it?”
“I guess not, but I don’t remember you doin’ it in drag before.”
“I was hoping maybe the clientele here wouldn’t be tempted to molest a sleeping blonde.”
“You’d have found yourself woefully wrong, if not for the opium.”
“Christ, this pillow’s vile.”
“Twenty years’ accumulated drool might do that.”
“Let’s duck out the back. I may have trouble settlin’ me tab.”
“Don’t wanna fight yer way out?”
“Naw, my legs are too stiff at the moment. Let’s find a pint, then figure out where to go.”
“I got an idea, Bon.”
“Yeah?”
“Remember that war back home?”
“What, Charles the Mad and King Richard’s wee tiff? Sure. I’d half a mind to call it the 70-Year War.”
“Well, it’s back and it’s got a new name now.”
“Bloody hell.”
“Want in on it?”
“Hell no. Why would I?”
“There’s someone you might wanna meet.”
“Oh yeah? What kinda bloke would I want to meet in the middle of a war?”
“Not a bloke.”
“Really.”
“Young lass. French.”
“Oh, really.”
“Aye. Devout, too.”
“Sounds like work.”
“Not for you. That’s why I was sent to fetch you.”
“Sent? By who?”
“None other than King Henry.”
“Pull the other one. You’re tellin’ me you were dispatched to a Chinese opium den by King Fucking Henry the Fourth to fetch me…”
“Not Fourth.”
“What, Fifth? Was I asleep that long?”
“Longer. He’s Henry the Sixth.”
“Christ. I need a piss.”
“She’s a mere slip of a lass, and the King thinks she’s in league with the devil. But she’s actually a devout Catholic who loves her country.”
“What, loves France? Madwoman.”
“Maybe. But His Majestry needs someone who can charm the pants off young ladies, and when I heard that, I knew who to dig up.”
“Where do I meet her?”
“Near Orleans. In a garden. Underneath an old apple tree.”
6 Likes
“The long years began to pass before the Immortals would gather again.”
Current status: Sound asleep
Order submission: Unavailable
A cryptic footnote: 8f04b379abe179a58c6175e5a7dd6cd72b2ef6cf
Woooooooof! Not in a million years!
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You are free to participate wherever you choose, no one says it has to be here.
…remembers and nervously looks around…
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If you’re bored enough to be picking fights, I’d be happy to accommodate you. ~gently rests hand atop the grip of her sword~
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It’s vintage.
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Frankly, Nerf balls are just as vintage and just as (in)effective here as a ban hammer. Why not grab some balls?
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If you want him to shut up and go away, write a letter in appeal to his non-existent better nature. You’ll find as I did he won’t even rise to the bait of “using this fountain pen with this brand’s ink.” You’ll hear the soothing sounds of chirping crickets.
The Westy
The motorcycle
The Techbros Sausalito Summit
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Maybe it was the sake the tavern was serving, but I felt I couldn’t abide the scoundrel’s smugness a moment more. (I was regrettably short-tempered in my youth.) I rose from my table, hand on the hilt of my karabela. “I’ve got a letter for you, right here.”
YOwOL rose to his feet as well, banhammer in one hand, glowing (and slightly wobbly) cylinder in the other. Someone, I’m not sure who, shouted, “It’s the Armistice! Dueling is forbidden!”
We stared at each other for a long moment more, saying nothing as the tavern fell silent around us. At the same instant, we relaxed slightly. I sighed, “very well,” and removed my hand from my sword; YOwOL tossed his banhammer aside in a gesture of contempt–
–where it fell heavily on one end of an ill-fastened floorboard. That edge of the board sank under the hammer’s weight, resulting in the opposite end flipping up and flinging nails into the air–
–and one nail sailed through space, sinking into the cork of a bottle on the shelf behind the bar, which tipped the bottle into its companion, causing that bottle to bump into a third bottle, which knocked a fourth bottle to the floor where it shattered, liquor running–
–forming a puddle in front of a passing barmaid, who slipped and fell, sending pewter mugs and platters tumbling–
–the large, heavy platter rolling across the floor, the clanking and clattering like thunder as it spun and lopped the leg off a coat-rack–
–the coat-rack scraping along the wall as it collapsed, sending an oil-burning lantern crashing down and splattering flaming liquid everywhere–
–the burning oil igniting a rope, which stretched above everyone’s heads to a massive iron chandelier–
–which came smashing down between YOwOL and myself, missing us both by a hair’s-breadth.
The entire tavern froze. My nemesis and I stared at each other in shock. After a long, long moment, YOwOL muttered, “This never would have happened at Peasant Pies in SF,” and scornfully turned to leave. Unfortunately, he tripped over the handle of his banhammer and crashed heavily to the ground… the tip of his “sword” protruding from his back, pointing toward the ceiling.
No, I’m not kidding. He skewered himself on his own blade.
I stepped around the fallen chandelier and rolled my opponent onto his side. Blood bubbled from the corner of his mouth as he gasped, “I just wanted to go watch Cheers.” Then he died.
I grabbed the handle of the weapon and pulled it out of YOwOL’S chest. “Stop your clowning, durak. We need to leave before the authorities show up.” I waited for the lightning to flicker across the wound and heal him.
I waited for the lightning…
The lightning wasn’t coming.
10 Likes
This was completely impossible. YOwOL had to be Immortal. I’d felt his “buzz.” Why wasn’t he healing? How could he possibly be dead for real?
Desperate for answers, I searched the pouch around his waist. I found three strange objects: a small flask, neither glass nor metal, but some odd material, etched with the legend “Methos’s Longevity Potion: now with Acai Berry juice”; an unusually-shaped bit of metal, not unlike a key; and a card of the same weird substance as the flask. It read: “YOwOL, temporal merchant. Bringing authentic vintage goods to discerning future collectors.”
“Ebyona mat’, this is too strange for me. I’m getting as far away from here as possible. Maybe England’s far enough.”
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Ack.
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HAHA! Well done! I guess he never really was one of us, was he?
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Behead him. It’s the only way to be sure.
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from orbit, if possible.
I do not think we have heard the last of him, or his kind…
Evelyn, are you perchance related to this gentleman?
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As the rest of the Immortals wonder how a mere mortal managed to unveil their centuries-long game, our curtain falls on Bejing in the 15th century.
Turn 2 - Results has been posted.
8 Likes