~
Termina was baking under a hot-scorching-sun. Little heat waves danced off roof tops that could be likened to little gnomes waltzing about by candlelight. Or a bonfire. Lazy cats scowled at the hot cobblestone but were glad for the excuse to be lazy. Children stayed inside, unless they went swimming. Most all of Termina's youth were swimming with the exception of nerdy painters that fight with boomerangs.
So, Serge the fisherman ambled into town. His comfort in regards to temperature had been quite enjoyable, until he stepped into the village-or sprawling metropolis, whichever was closer in terms of population. He did some experimenting that consisted of hopping from one foot to the other, under the gate that heralded a certain land radius the city of Termina. He did this for a while, for, while he wasn't a scientist, or researcher, he knew observations were absolutely meaningless without repeated tests. Unbeknownst to Serge, the townsfolk weren't much for scientiftic theory.
Especially Chad.
Chad was, in all respects and everything the word entails, a bully. He didn't care who you were. He hated you. With a zealous passion. The Arbiter of Time was no exception. Driving this point home, then around the block again, Chad swaggered up to our heroic fisherman and shoved him-the victim of this unprovoked assualt was currently in the near-orgasmic state that can only be achieved by dedicated research.
And so, Serge stumbled. His mind reeling, struggling to grasp the implications of gravity and kinetic energy, and the laws of motion, he straightened up, mindset returning to the norm. Whatever that esoteric norm might be. Now, world hero or no, Serge cut a laughable figure-especially when stacked up to the brawny Chad.
Chad was staring at Serge with the most frightening look he could muster, disguising the fact he hadn't a clue what to do next. Not wanting to be aggressed further, the fisherman cooly-or not so-slid past Chad, whereupon the latter grunted and went to beat the snot out of Korcha.
Feeling risbily lackadaisical, Serge stole up to the inn. Inside was-as one could immediately determine upon walking through the door, with the exception of Serge-an imbroglio. There was a fair portion of his past compatriots, namely the...uh. (Note from Greegrue: I can't remember for the life of me what the title of the dragoons is [Acaian? Acacacnogabroo? Ackmyposteriorisonfire?], but specifity be damned, I'm calling them the Scuttlebutt Dragoons until further notice. Thank you.) Throwing caution to the wind-where it floated freely upon the thermals-Serge yelled out a greeting-which was a cunning act of gaucherie, indeed.
"Karsh! Riddel! Glenn! Zoah! Marcy! General Viper!" our hero exclaimed, eyes twinkling in boyish excitement. 6 sets of eyes shifted, and either their enthusiasm was waylayed, or it never even set off on the trail. It was everyone's favorite voluptuary who spoke first. A simple good afternoon, Serge.
An epiphany of sorts-that is, a dawning realization that struck the tortured cranium of Serge so hard he stumbled-took that moment to arrive. For the first time, he noticed the manner of clothing both Glenn and Riddel were wearing-veritably little. Their countenance belied activity usually reserved for furtive osculation under big, leafy oak trees-and another epiphany dashed the halls of our heroes brain matter with several conventional arms.
Serge got red in the face-sex was resolutely naughty, and generally 'Not Allowed' by his mother-and so, he quickly did a 180 and bolted out the door. And proceeded to jump in the salty, salty, ocean.
Serge was utterly flabbergasted. He lay face down on a wooden dock-a fact he came to the conclusion of after sticking his tongue out and licking-and he was damp. Or sopping wet. Someone was crying a little ways away. Risely slowly to his feet, the fisherman recited a rhyme his mother taught him in case he ever lost his way.
Show me the way,
O winsome day,
Not lead me astray,
Which you've done today.
Walking cautiously around, he ascertained his location was in Guldove-and the source of crying to be Doc. Either he felt Serge's presence, or just enjoyed hearing his own voice while choked with tears, he started to speak.
Serge didn't stick around to find out-he had never liked the sissy doctor, anyway.
Walking along, Serge never had a chance to dodge as three being collided into his bodily matter. Upon hearing the voice of a nasally duck and a retarded dog, Serge whispered in a sing-songy way the next verse of the ryhme.
Come, show me the way,
O malicious day,
Not toss me away,
Which you've done today.