PART TWO:
Chapter Ten: Mother of all Surprises
—BEGIN PART TWO—
Saphira pulled her wings out with a loud Snap! before she hit the ground, suspending her lithe form in the air a few feet and gracefully descending on the compacted dirt.
Whew! Came the thoughts of all who were gathered there, That was close.
"Too close," Angela muttered aloud, and rushed over to the group.
What met her eyes was indeed a shocking sight.
Arya was a bedraggled, rumpled, soiled and laughing mess as she tumbled off of Saphira and hit the ground with an undignified THUMP! Orik was collapsed near the beginning of Saphira's spines at the base of her neck, one stout arm flung over his head.
He wasn't getting up any time soon.
Maybe we should bring out a tankard of something...strong...Angela mused.
Saphira, strangely, the only one not hurt or otherwise insanely affected, was struggling to remove something from the underside of her belly. Angela rushed over to look, and saw a stretcher. Angela frowned, Wait a minute...Angela counted the number of returned journeymen, and saw that Eragon was missing.
Saphira gave a loud roar of frustration, and Angela quickly ran underneath her to the stretcher. Undoing the metal clasps that held it to the saddle, she let it fall to the ground. Saphira quickly backed away, anxious to see who was on the stretcher.
Angela's eyes flew wide with shock.
There, among a tattered mess of blankets, dirty clothes, and other things that wisely would go unmentioned, lay Eragon.
Except, it did not look like Eragon.
His hair was turned from brown to a dirty black, and hung lank and unkempt over his blotchy sunburned face. His eyes were bloodshot, and there were numerous bleeding scrapes dotting his pointed ears. His skin looked like a roll of plastic Saran-wrap, stretched tightly over his muscles and body frame from malnourishment. Bruises dotted his Saran-wrapped skin, quite handsome ones to: varying from a deep purple all the way down the rainbow to a pucy, mottled yellow.
Angela wrinkled her nose in distaste and sympathy.
Saphira roared again, and everyone looked expectantly at her, and she said, Eragon got lost in the woods for three days through all types of weather. We went looking for him about a day after the showers, and found him trapped atop a pile of rocks.
The Varden gasped.
Saphira cleared her throat and continued, shooting a death glare at Trianna, who was stroking Eragon's hair, You do NOT want to know where that's been, witch. Trianna hastily dropped her arms to her side, but gave Eragon a look of pure admiration.
Saphira growled.
Trianna backed away, fear overcoming her contenance.
Saphira sighed, I do not know what Eragon saw in her—she even tries to play him up when he's unconscious! Stupid girl.
--ooo--ooo--ooo--ooo--
"OOOO! I LOVE 'STUPID GIRLS'" The authoress shrieked, bouncing up and down on the couch with her sister after having forsaken throwing cheese darts at the blob of red Jell-O, which they were eating right now.
"ME TOO!" the sister screamed, and started to dance.
"HEY! I'M THE ONE WHO CAN DANCE!" The authoress shouted and cued Fifty Cent, who was over by the sound system.
"Break it down!" the authoress said, and started 'getting jiggy with it'.
The sister sat back down, and muttered, "Show off..."
"You're just jealous," said the authoress, doing the splits.
The sister growled at the authoress.
All the authoress did was get right up in her sister's face and shake her butt around.
"EWW!" the sister shrieked.
"Hey, if you've got it, flaunt it," the authoress said, and started to do the 'butt dance'.
"EWW!" the sister shrieked again, "GET YOUR BUTT OUT OF MY FACE!"
"GET YOUR FACE OUT OF MY BUTT!" the authoress retorted.
The authoress, never stopping her dance, turned around to properly gauge the sister's reaction.
The sister wrinkled her nose and replied, "No, but seriously, you really need to get your butt out of my face."
"You seriously need to learn how to dance," the authoress said.
"DANGIT!" the sister shouted, then, in a quieter tone that she thought the authoress couldn't hear, "Why does she ALWAYS get the last word?"
The authoress chuckled, then started singing, "STUPID GIRLS..."
--ooo--ooo--ooo--ooo--
We eventually got him out all right, but not before he lit the whole area on fire, Saphira said, continuing to give death glares to Trianna, who was quavering under the dragon's stern stare.
Saphira went up to Trianna and nosed her on the forehead, not gently, and said only to her, You are unwise and foolish.
I don't know what you're talking about, Trianna retorted, a guilty blush creeping over her cheeks.
Say it, or I will, Saphira roared into Trianna's mind, making her flinch beyond normal reason.
Trianna cleared her throat, and said to the general public, "Everyone?"
Nobody payed attention.
Trianna's cheeks reddened, and she tried again, "HELLO! I NEED YOUR ATTENTION!"
Still, everyone ignored her and went about their business.
Even one of the dwarves was taking advantage of the gap in conversation to sneak a swig out of a large bottle of vodka.
Trianna went even redder, (if that's even possible), in anger, and she screamed at the top of her lungs, "DANGIT! PAY ATTENTION YOU STUPID FOOLS!"
Well, that certainly did it, if all else failed.
Everyone swiveled around to stare at Trianna.
Trianna nervously twisted the hem of her gown, and mumbled, "I have something to confess..."
--ooo--ooo--ooo--ooo--
"I WANT PIZZA!" the authoress shrieked at the sleepover she and her friends were hosting.
Other cries for food soon followed:
"—PEPPERONI—"
"—MUSHROOMS–"
"—EWW THOSE ARE NASTY, I WANT BELL PEPPERS—"
"—SAUSAGE—"
"—GROSS! DO YOU KNOW WHAT THEY PUT IN THOSE THINGS?—"
"—DON'T KNOW AND DON'T CARE—"
"—OLIVES FOR ME—"
"—UGH, THOSE SMELL LIKE BOILED MUSHROOMS—"
"—I LIKE MUSHROOMS!—"
"—WHO CARES? LIKE I WAS SAYING, THOSE SMELL LIKE BOILED MUSHROOMS WITH A HINT OF VINEGAR—"
Conversation suddenly stopped as everyone turned to stare at the authoress, who had made the last comment.
"What? It's probably the truth, ya know," the authoress remarked.
"EWW!"
"I'M NEVER EATING OLIVES AGAIN!"
"Does olive oil count?" said the sister, who was listening in.
"No it doesn't, silly!" said the authoress, with friends looking on attentively, "I mean," the authoress said gesturing to include her friends, "Do you EVER see olive oil doing algebra? Math? Least of all COUNT?"
The authoress' friends burst into loud trilling laughter, and the sister was left wondering, Even though sis' knew what I meant, she managed to make it into a random and logically sensible pun. Maybe if I say something random, people will laugh too!
The sister cleared her throat, and the authoress and her friends kept on talking.
The sister opened her mouth and bellowed, "FIRE!"
Total panic ensued, then, winking at the sister, the authoress grinned and said, "WATER!"
"SAVE MY CHILD! SAVE MY CHILD!" shouted another girl, who caught on.
"JUMP LADY JUMP!"
"AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH—" The friends sang, holding the note out. Then on the authoress' signal, they said, "SPLAT!"
The friends burst into laugher, and the sister said grumpily, "You guys such WEIRDOS!"
The friends laughed even harder, and the authoress said, "Hey, you actually made a joke!"
The friends laughed again.
"That's not funny," said the sister as she walked over to the cheese cubes to try another go at the blob of red Jell-O.
The friends kept laughing.
"STOP LAUGHING, YOU BUFFOONS!" the sister bellowed after she missed the blob of red Jell-O.
The friends went quiet, and one friend said to the other, "Dang, since when does she get the last word?"
The other friend replied, "Must run in the family."
--ooo--ooo--ooo--ooo--
Trianna's lower lip trembled, and she said, "I stole two bottles of faelnirv from the Varden supply stock."
The entire Varden looked upon Trianna with disgust, and Trianna looked up, noticing that she wasn't being stampeded by angry mob, said," WHAT?"
Replies came all at once,
"That's nothing—"
"—What was it last week, George, ten barrels of grain?—"
"—no, more like seventeen—"
"—I used a bottle of brandy to put my baby to sleep—"
"—Thirteen casks of pickle juice last month—"
"—HEY! THAT WAS MY PICKLE JUICE!—"
"—NO IT WASN'T—"
"—DANG! I think I had my wife and I a half dozen loaves of bread for our anniversary—"
"—didn't your children take the bread and eat it?—"
"—well, it's the thought that counts—"
"—I took a healing salve yesterday for the scabs on my legs—"
"—isn't that because your tent kept beating you up?—"
"—hey, those stakes were sharp—"
"—meat, the best I ever had—"
"SHUT IT!" Roran yelled, silencing everyone in the arena.
"THANK YOU!" Roran yelled, as if being silent was the only possible thing to do.
"Roran dear, don't shout, it's bad for your—"
"LARYNX, LARYNX, I KNOW ANGELA! SHUT—UP!" Roran bellowed into the witch's face.
Angela raised her eyebrow and said, "Solembum?"
At her call, the were-cat became a small boy with unusually sharp teeth and fingernails. Several of the soldiers made the sign to ward off evil spirits, and Solembum shook his head. Angela said coolly, "Solembum, what do we do with rudeness?"
We don't tolerate it at all, oh no, came the creepy voice that was Solembum's mind speech. Roran shivered.
"How do we deal with rudeness?" Angela said.
We—Solembum edged toward Roran, who didn't know what was going on and was looking back and forth between Angela and Solembum, confused. Solembum was at Roran's elbow before he finished his sentence,--TICKLE THEM!
Solembum launched himself at Roran's midsection and started tickling Roran with a fierceness that could surpass a wildcat. But, you still wouldn't want a wildcat tickling you. That's what Solembum was for.
Angela looked on with a mildly amused expression on her face, and when tears started pouring down his face, she gave a signal to Solembum, who turned back into his werecat shape.
Helping Roran to his feet, she said, "Hope your larynx isn't permanently scarred for life, Roran."
Roran looked at her, confused. Angela sighed and said, "Well, you were laughing so hard that I thought that there must have been some damage. Although, laughter is the best medicine."
Roran's eyes grew wide, "Really?"
"Yes, and it keeps the doctor away!" Angela said, smiling.
Roran's eyes almost bugged out of his head, and he turned, "Here Solembum, here kitty, kitty, kitty, don't want to go to them nasty doctor's appointments now do we? Here kitty, kitty, kitty..."
Angela rolled her eyes and walked back to Nasuada's side.
"Well," Nasuada said, looking at Saphira, "What did you find?"
Mercywort, boasted Saphira proudly.
Angela's face whitened, and she turned on the support crew and shouted, "GET AWAY FROM THERE!"
The support crew quickly stepped away from the large canvas sailcloth as if it was a disease. Angela hurried over to it, and lifted the tarp. Then she started laughing.
And laughing...
And laughing...
And laughing...
And wouldn't stop...
"ANDELA!" Nasuada shouted, rather alarmed, "WHAT THE FINK IS GOING ON?" Angela collapsed into another fit of the giggles, rolling around on the dirt ground, and Nasuada heard the words, Haha, you...said...FINK!
Nasuada tapped her foot impatiently and said, "You can stop NOW, thanks."
Angela sat up, wheezing and hiccupping, and said in between gasps, "Oh, Oh-hiccup!-hee-hee, that's not-wheeze!-Mercywort!"
"WHAT!" shouted the entire host of people gathered there, including Saphira.
--ooo--ooo--ooo--ooo--
--The theme from Super Mario Brothers 2: Yoshi's Island is heard, and gradually focuses on two girls sitting in front of a T.V.—
"Don't you know how Yoshi makes ammo?" said the sister.
"Dunno," replied the authoress.
"Eggs."
"Oh."
"You press, 'B', then, 'down.'"
"Mmhmm..."
"White with green spots."
"And?"
"You use them to shoot things."
"Wonderful. And?"
"And so if you shoot the things, they die."
"Ingenious."
"..."
"You're not listening to a single thing I'm saying, are you?" queried the sister.
"DANGIT, MARIO, GET BACK ON YOSHI, YOU STUPID BABY!" the authoress shouted at the T.V. screen.
"I thought not," sighed the sister, then the authoress said to the sister, "DANGIT! How do you get ammo?"
"Eggs."
"And?" the authoress said, completely captivated now.
"White with green spots."
"OH!"
"You use them to shoot things."
"REALLY?"
"Really, and when you shoot things, they die."
"That's—" the authoress paused then, "AMAZING!" she bellowed, knocking the sister head over heels with the force of her bellow.
"Yes," the sister said, recovering, "You press, 'B', then, 'down'."
"Wow..." said the authoress softly.
"Talk about Déjà vu," the sister commented, completely bored with the proceedings and went back to munching on a cheese dart.
Silence ensued...
Then...
"AAAHHH! NO! MARIO, STOP CRYING! YOSHI! DON'T BE STUPID—GET MARIO, YOU DUMB RIP OFF OF A GREEN DONKEY!"
"PRESS 'JUMP'—" the sister offered.
"I AM! I AM! NO, DANGIT, STUPID FLOWER! DON'T EAT YOSHI—YOU DON'T KNOW WHERE HE'S BEEN!—"
"—GET THE 'PEEP'—" the sister shouted.
"—SHUDDAP! YOSHI! NOOOOOO!" the authoress wailed, throwing her controller against the wall and started to sulk.
On the screen, Yoshi did a little ballet lie spin and fell down, dean on the too-cheerfully green grass. Baby Mario was happily taken away by a group of red mutant ducks with teeth, tennis shoes, and glasses, up into the sky.
The –GAME OVER—sighn flashed on sceen and the authoress shouted, "PILES OF ANGST!" and glared at the T.V. set.
"Umm..." the sister started and the authoress whipped around to look at her, and the sister cleared her throat, "You know..." and hit the –RESET— button on the Nintendo, "You can just start over, " the sister said, sounding matter of fact.
"REALLY!"
"Yeah."
"That's AWESOME!" the authoress shouted scaring the fink out of the pigeons roosting on Big Ben in London, 6,000 miles away...
--ooo--ooo--ooo--ooo--
"SQUAWK!" screeched the roosting pigeons, ruffling their feathers indignantly and hopping up and down in a state of great agitation.
"Screechity, squawk, coo, coo, ditty?" said one pigeon to the other, which translates roughly into, "Say, old chap, what was that hullabaloo all about?"
"I don't know, Percival old boy, and I don't care to find out," said Scrooge, the other pigeon.
"Righto," affirmed Percival.
"Shall we fly, my fair weather friend?" inquired Scrooge.
"Of course not, you bumbling rat with wings! It's cloudy today, and I think I'm going to poop on that bobby's head over there," said Percival.
"See you next spring!" called Scrooge, and when Percial was out of sight, muttered, "What does he mean, 'It's cloudy today'! It's always cloudy in London. Natty old codger, he is."
When Scrooge was out of earshot, Percival said, "Stupid old birdbrain, he is."
--ooo--ooo--ooo--ooo--
"I'm amazed at the redundancy of London pigeons," remarked the authoress rather drily as she gazed at the T.V. screen.
A series of noises generated from the game, signaling the entrance of the first boss.
The authoress grinned evilly, and shouted, "DIE, YOU STUPID BEACH BALL IN PINSTRIPE TROUSERS, DIE! HA, HA!"
The bobby felt something wet on his head, and put his hand up to feel what was there. A white blobby mass came off of his hat onto his hand, and the bobby wrinkled his nose in disgust. He lifted his old fashioned shot gun to his shoulder, ignoring the protests of passerby, and took aim...and FIRE!
The pigeon dropped out of the sky.
The rest of the pigeons immediately crowded around Scrooge, who was loudly lamenting in pigeon speech, "THE POOR, POOR CHAP! I KNEW HIM WELL!" Scrooge then made a noise equivalent to that of a sniff and said, "GOOD PIGEON, HE WAS, WHEN WE WERE ROOSTING AT THE GRAMMAR SCHOOL..." and on and on he went...
Meanwhile...
"GEORGE, YOU GREAT DOLT! THAT'S THE SEVENTH PIGEON THIS WEEK!—"
"—MORE LIKE SEVENTIETH—"
"—DO YOU WANT TO PURGE LONDON OF IT'S NATURAL TRASH EATERS, EH?—"
"—MAYBE—"
"—STUPID RATS WITH WINGS THEY ARE, BUT YOU CAN'T GO SHOOTING BIRDS OUT OF THE SKY! YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO BE DEFENDING THE QUEEN!—"
"—THE QUEEN DON'T LIKE PIGEONS EITHER!—"
"—YES, BUT HER GOOD MAJESTY DOESN'T NEED TO HEAR RIFLE SHOT SEVEN THOUSAND TIMES A DAY!—"
"—ACTUALLY, EIGHT THOUSAND—"
"—SHUT YOUR MOUTH, YOU GREAT LOUT!"
"YOU'RE JUST JEALOUS BECAUSE I CAN SHOOT PIGEONS AND YOU CAN'T—"
"—AM NOT—"
"—ARE TOO—"
"—AM NOT—"
"—ARE TOO—"
"—WELL, MOTHER LIKES ME BETTER, I WASN'T THE ONE USING HER BEST CHINA TEA CUPS FOR TARGET PRACTICE—"
"—OH, SO YOU REMEMBER THOSE, DIDN'T YOU? USED TO SIT AND DRINK TEA WITH MOTHER AND HER FRIENDS LIKE YOU WERE ROYALTY—"
"—MOTHER STILL LIKES ME BETTER, ANYHOW."
"..."
"GEORGE?"
"I'M TELLING MOTHER!"
"NOT BEFORE I GET THERE FIRST, YOU GREAT DUNG HEAP!"
"WELL, YOU WOULD KNOW, YOU'RE THE ONE SLEEPING IN THE DUNG HEAPS!"
"WHY YOU LITTLE—"
"—MOTHER!"
And so the bobbies' raced off into the night, each trying to find the great tea cup loving mother, who was calmly washing the brother's socks, (WHAT? You didn't expect two mature, snigger, grown men to wash their OWN socks, did you?) and listening to a soap opera called: Causing a Scene...
--ooo--ooo--ooo--ooo--
The authoress, bored of beating the fat beach ball boss in pinstripe trousers, had taken to flicking through the soap opera channels.
Which rapidly proved to be rather amusing, for the authoress kept putting lines of her own invention into the character's mouths before they could say their next line.
"Edna," said the tall man to the blond, breathy actress, "I came as soon as I found out—"
"—THAT YOU DIDN'T HAVE A BRAIN!" interjected the authoress, gleefully.
"Oh, Walter—"started Edna, but then the authoress said,
"YOU'RE SUCH A LOSER!"
"I know, it's such a shame," sighed Edna, tearfully, "I'm so unhappy—"
"—THAT I DIDN'T FINISH THE FIRST GRADE!" shouted the authoress.
"You must be devastated," started Walter," I would be too if I found out—"
"—THAT I'M ONLY GETTING PAID A BUCK FIFTY FOR THIS LAME, LOUSY JOB!" cackled the authoress.
"Oh, Walter—"started Edna, but was interrupted by the authoress, who hooted:
"—THANK GOD YOU'RE A POOPER SCOOPER, OR ELSE WE'D NEVER BE ABLE TO AFFORD THE CARDBOARD BOX WE LIVE IN!"
"I can't help you anymore," said Walter, "I have to—"
"—GO TO THE ANNUAL POOPER SCOOPER'S CONVENTION! THEY GIVE OUT FREE PLASTIC GLOVES AND BAGGIES FOR UNMENTIONABLE THINGS THAT I PICK UP!" whooped the authoress, getting increasingly elaborate in her descriptions of a made up life for Edna and Walter.
"Oh, Walter—" started Edna, again, and the authoress, again, interrupted:
"—I KEEP ON POUNDING THIS PATHETIC PHRASE OVER AND OVER AGAIN! YOU MUST BE REALLY ANNOYED WITH MY LACK OF ORIGINALITY!"
"Edna, you know I have to leave you—"started Walter, and the authoress almost insane with laughter, said:
"—FOR THAT REALLY HOT, AND EVEN MORE BRAINLESS PARIS HILTON CHICK IN CALIFORNIA!"
"Walter, please, please," Edna cried, "Please—"
"—GIVE ME A BRAIN SO THAT I CAN THINK!" the authoress bawled, tears of mirth pouring out of her eyes.
But, this time was interrupted by Walter, who said, "Edna, I'll never leave your side—" and as always, the authoress added:
"—FOR THAT REALLY HOT BRAINLESS PARIS HILTON CHICK IN CALOFORNIA!"
The sister walked into the room to hear this:
1) The sound of her authoress/sister laughing
2) The sound of a soap opera
3) The fact that her SISTER WAS WATCHING A SOAP OPERA AND—
4)—LAUGHING!
"WHAT'S GOING ON?" the sister shouted, completely non-plussed as to the current situation.
"Oh, Oh, OH!" the authoress laughed, beside herself with hilarity, "IF SHE ONLY HAD A BRAIN! HA, HA, HA!"
"My head hurts," said the sister, and swayed, dizzily, out of the room.
"I wonder if they actually have a pooper scooper's convention?" wondered the authoress aloud...
--ooo--ooo--ooo--ooo--
"Name?" asked a woman with banana colored hair and bright pink fingernails.
"Joe Flloyd."
"Place?"
"Dog park."
"Business?"
"Do you really need to know that?"
"We're very serious about Pooper-Scooping here at the 10th Annual Pooper-Scooper's Convention," said the woman in an obnoxious voice, looking at him from over her horn rimmed glasses.
"Plastic bags, big dogs, city streets.." Joe rattled off, "Happy?"
"Mutual, I'm sure," was the reply, "Please pick up your complimentary sample of Hefty's signature pooper-scoopering-gloves."
"Will do, lady," sighed Joe...
--ooo--ooo--ooo--ooo--
"Nah, there's no such thing," said the authoress, then yelled, "MORE CHEESE DARTS!"
What was I thinking? There's no such thing! Ha! I bet even if there WAS one, they'd be giving out plastic gloves for better future pooper-scoopering! HA! HA! HA! the authoress thought, grinning at the now empty box of cheese darts.
--ooo--ooo--ooo--ooo--
"No, of course it's not Mercywort, you DIMWITS!" Anela said, rather irritably, dusting herself off, and turning to look at Arya and Orik. She walked toward them, and Nasuada followed her, somewhat apprehensively, saying, "Well, then, what is it?"
Angela ignored her and said briskly, "Get Arya and Orik a bath—Roran don't look at me that way, of course SEPARATELY—clean clothes, and then bring them to me, I'll give them a sleeping draught. Give or take a couple of hours, and they'll be as good as new!"
When nobody went to do as she had ordered, Angela grew enraged and said, "WELL! GET TO IT ALREADY! AM I YOUR BABY SITTER? DO I NEED TO SPECIFICALLY OUTLINE WHAT YOU NEED TO DO? I DON'T THINK SO!" Angela glowered at the crowd, "EH?"
Murmurs of confusion flickered throughout the crowd, and Angela massaged her temples and called wearily, "SCRUFF MAIDS?"
"E-GADS!" Roran yelled, thinking, I don't know what that word means, but it sure sounds cool.
Scruff Maids? Nasuada thought, puzzled, what are Scruff Maids?
—END PART TWO—
(A/N): Otay, so this chapter was going to get a leeetle long if I wrote any more. I mean, I know long chappies are DA BOMB, alas, this one would've gotten super, super annoying. Don't worry, I have lots planned for next chapter...muahahaha...REVIEW pleaseshandthanks.