HELLO MY PAL
HOW ARE YOU DOING
HMM, THAT'S PRETTY FLY
I'LL TELL YOU HOW I'M DOING: I'M WHEELIN' AND DEALIN' LIKE THE FANFIC OVERLORDS
SO WHO WOULD'VE THOUGHT IT, IN THIS WEEK'S GAME OF EPISODE
I MEAN THAT WAS SOME TIME AGO, I DON'T REALLY REMEMBER
THE STARK SPROG RETURNED ONCE AGAIN, TO MY EVERLASTING DISMAY
MAISIE WAS… RELEVANT, I GUESS
AND SOME OTHER SHIT NO DOUBT HAPPENED, DEATH AND FUNNY FACES, THE USUAL
BUT MORE IMPORTANTLY, IT'S TIME FOR US TO GET WITH THE WHEELING
Chapter 3 - The Ballad of Jeremiah
'Woah! What a nice pub!' said Doran, eyes filled with wonder.
'It's not just any old nice pub!' laughed Ser Pounce, slapping Doran across the back with playful admonishment. 'It's the Stinky Pig-Hand!'
'Ah, mint!' said Doran. And the bearded barman handed him a mint. The pub they had entered was a charming establishment; the lighting was pink and intimate, like the human brain, and leather armchairs were placed at dark wood tables. Men and women of all creeds sat and laughed, warmed themselves my the fire, and conspired against people in positions of power, as all lovely working-class men do.
Ser Pounce was drinking his regular milk and tequila, a drink he refers to as 'The Kitty Fiddler'. For you see, Ser Pounce does enjoy a drink now and again; in fact, some would go as far as to call him an alcoholic. But in a whimsical way, of course. And who could blame him? He is a busy cat with a busy life, not to mention the most ridiculously incompetent and over-coddled bastard of an owner since George Tesman from Ibsen's 'Hedda Gabler', some little prick of a sprog who is so ridiculously easily convinced to change his opinion that he can be coaxed into changing his opinion just by being made to sit down with some guy. And the guy wasn't even that fit, I mean let's be reasonable here. Like Jonathan Pryce isn't even the most attractive of old men; I'm not saying he's unattractive, but simply by being an old man, he is by definition not shaggable. Like if for some reason Tommen was being convinced by an attractive lass, like say his fucking wife, I'd be accepting of him being convinced so easily. But no, he's meant to be working on behalf of saving Natalie Dormer, and yet he instead is seduced by Jonathan Pryce. Like what the fuck man.
Also Doran is drinking an Um Bongo. This is a brief hiatus from the rest of the text, but can we just acknowledge the issue that Um Bongos aren't like readily available in England any more? Like this is complete sacrilege against what it is to be British; I shouldn't have to spend like fifteen quid on Amazon for like eight cartons of Um Bongo just so I can enjoy the tropical goodness. I shall say right now that I shall stand with whatever politician who states they will bring back Um Bongo.
The two men were enjoying their drinks in quiet contemplation, thinking about their next steps in defeating Penu and Fernandez. Penu, the alien from Mars, Ser Pounce thought to himself. Because you know what they say… men are from Mars, and women are from Venus, and Penu is an alien man… but surely Venus should be the birthplace of men, because it rhymes with penis? I mean of course, Venus was named after the Roman goddess of beauty and Mars after the Roman god of war, but surely that is a rather reductionist or even over-simplified view of the sexes? To associate men only with war and women only with beauty? Nay, what an archaic view that would be to uphold…
Ser Pounce's interesting hypothesis was interrupted by the slam of the pub door. In entered three men, and weren't they just the most villainous looking of souls ever put together in one mushy gallimaufry. Ser Pounce looked at them over his drink with intrigue.
The first man had about him an air of authority, and the appearance to match. He was dressed in chainmail, adorned with medals of honour upon his broad chest. His judgemental eyes surveyed the room, and his surprisingly long and spindly fingers twitched slightly, as if finger-picking an invisible string instrument, probably a banjo. He was accompanied by a hulking beast of a man, chunky overflowing fat seeping over his trouser belt, and a big moustache and combover. The last man, creeping around from the side, was a twitchy gimp in full gimp get-up, whose arms were as long as an average man's, and twitched sporadically, as is to be expected of a man described as 'twitchy'.
'Look, Ser Pounce. A gang of brigands!' whispered Doran conspiratorially. 'They look like some vainglorious men, and make no mistake.'
'Aye,' responded Ser Pounce. 'So vainglorious they probably piss more than they drink.' He thought to himself about a good plan of action in order to counteract these sapskulls and snafflers. He sat up on his stool and cupped his paws around his mouth, to make sure that they heard what he had to say. 'LOOK, IT'S A FAT PAEDOPHILE!' Perhaps Ser Pounce had drunk a wee bit too much! Oh, what a silly sod that Ser Pounce is! But we love him anyway.
The newcomers did not think this comment to be too complimentary. And thus, the collective who we shall now refer to as Forbidden Love and the Crazy Bunch sauntered over to the kitty cat who was oh so cruising for a bruising.
'Hey!' said Forbidden Love, the fat paedophile, in a slightly normal voice, perhaps like a normal man with a slight cold. Perhaps he contracted a disease due to him being all fat and clammy and generally unlikable. 'What are you doing calling me a fat paedophile?'
'Why, good sir, I am merely pointing out the obvious! Clearly you are a pantagruelian trencher-man, no stranger to the dessert trolley, and your overall appearance to me says 'I am a registered sex offender'!' He holds up his drink to Forbidden Love. 'Here I am, drinking a Kitty Fiddler, standing next to… a fat paedophile!'
'Wouldn't have it have been funnier if you'd have said you were standing next to a kiddy fiddler?' asked Doran, ever eager to improve a sick burn.
Ser Pounce looked at him, with an expression that said, 'oh my days, you think you're better than I am? You just sit down; oh wait, you already are, your legs don't work'. Doran did not understand the complexities of the facial expression, as that would have been a near impossible task. Like no other ordinary man could have portrayed such a sentence with one facial expression, but Ser Pounce is ever the incredible creature; his face could sail a thousand ships, and every conversation you have with him belies a million novels worth of hidden meaning portrayed via his own incredible facial expressions. But such matters have little bearing on this overall story.
Doran felt a tap on the shoulder, and turned around to see a big burly barman, called Rhydian. (Fucking hate alliteration, it's the work of children; I'll nip that one in the bud by not giving him a name beginning with B. And whilst you may apparently be able to identify situations where we have previously used alliteration, or may use in the future, fuck off). Doran knew this, as Rhydian had introduced himself with a handshake and a gentle smile. Doran was put on edge though; no man could be this friendly and gregarious unless he had… a secret agenda. And lo and behold, Doran was right! For Rhydian was relaying a message:
'Listen, Doran. If your mate gets any more rowdy, we'll have to kick the both of you out. You understand?'
'I'm sorry, but my legs don't work,' responded Doran, gesturing to his flappy skin lumps that were once legs.
'Oh okay. You can stay.' Rhydian left Doran be. Doran turned back to the conflict at hand, but enthralled as he was with the dialogue exchange between himself and Rhydian, he had failed to notice how much the conflict had escalated!
The man with the long fingers had stepped in, attempting some conflict resolution, perhaps? 'Now lads, calm down! Clearly this is all some big understanding. We have gotten off on the wrong foot. My name is Lieutenant Pick-N-Lick, and I bring-'
CRACK! A priceless faberge egg smacked into the side of Lieutenant Pick-N-Lick's head, dealing perhaps serious damage to his cranium. (Don't worry, the whimsy is being retained with the use of the word 'perhaps'; it is equally possible that he is totally fine, or just has a booboo). He falls to the ground foaming at the mouth, perhaps in a bit of trouble!
'Woah! Who threw that there priceless faberge egg?' said one of the random people in the bar, a man with a beard and a puffy coat, who is not actually fat but on first glance may have appeared fat. He is not important to the story, stop worrying about him. But just in case you were wondering, his job is a postman. He wakes up at seven in the morning, and gets to work on his two-hour shift. He only gets a few shekels, but it's enough to get by for this man; just enough to pay for patchwork repairs on his coat, a couple of trips down the pub, and a big tasty waffle for his pet goldfish.
Interestingly, goldfish do not actually eat waffles, but herein lies an interesting tale of one goldfish who developed a peculiar taste! For you see, it was three long months ago, when Jeremiah, one plucky goldfish, found himself washed up in the sink of the Westerosi Waffle House! Not the greatest waffle house in the world, but it's sure in the running! And one gentle soul, a man named Harold just looking for that big break, found Jeremiah and gifted him with a lump of waffle, and this gift did not just satisfy Jeremiah's hunger, but his friendship. But I hear you ask… how did Jeremiah find his way from a waffle house to a fish bowl owned by a postman? Well—
FUCK OFF
Ser Pounce threw up on the floor. 'I threw that fucking faberge egg!' he screamed, vomit and sweetcorn dripping from his mouth. 'And that priceless faberge egg was one of two! And I shall use this other priceless faberge egg to take out at least one more of you gollumpuses!' He passed out before he could act on this threat. Doran spent the next fifteen minutes profusely apologising to everyone involved.
'Hey there,' said the gimp, his voice an orotund thunder that shook the room and chilled everyone to their bones. 'Did you know that Hellboy I is a very faithful adaptation of Mike Mignolia's artwork, yet Hellboy II is more associated with Del Toro's creature design? Really it's entirely down to audiences which one they prefer.'
'Oh no, don't say these things, Spoilers Gimp!' cried Forbidden Love. He then apologised to Doran, for spoiling Doran's would-be watching of the Hellboy films. This was hardly a spoiler, but Doran was not one to argue with technicalities. Except I think he did that last chapter. But fuck off.
After everyone had finished apologising to one another, they all trekked back to Doran's tavern rooms, and they all had lots of laughs and fun, except for Ser Pounce, who was still passed out. They eventually all went their separate ways on good terms as everyone returned to their separate rooms.
HOWEVER! This is where shit gets… interesting. For you see, late at night, Doran got thinking. What was Lieutenant Pick-N-Lick a lieutenant of? (We'll leave it up to the readers whether you believe that Pick-N-Lick overcame his injury and partied it up with Doran and the others, or if he's still just lying on the floor of the tavern with blood seeping out of his gaping head wound. We can assume Rhydian helped him out though, if that helps. Spin-off, anybody?) And why, pray tell, was Forbidden Love so hesitant to reveal the contents of his knapsack? Could he be… hiding something? Maybe some… leaves? Maybe this gang of miscreants who were established to be villains at the start of the chapter were not just throwaway characters, but were actually villains under the command of Penu and Fernandez, with Lieutenant Pick-N-Lick being the leader of them and a lieutenant loyal to Penu's cause? But instead of actually writing that, the story got completely derailed and the writers couldn't salvage it in any way to bring it back to the plot point that they had actually come up with prior to writing the chapter? Yes, instead of just going into it completely blind and writing it as we go, we conceived some ideas beforehand and still wrote it pretty much as we went. Shit. Looks like Ser Pounce and Doran aren't gonna be getting any closer to progressing the plot this chapter; don't worry, we're planning on starting next chapter with a dramatic fight scene against these dastardly villains to put shit on track again. Hopefully we will actually do this, and not just write some bullshit about a postman and his goldfish.
AIGHT THAT'LL DO
IT'S KIND OF SHIT BUT NOT AS SHIT AS 'THE SHAWSHANK REDEMPTION'
MORE LIKE THE SURE-WANK REDEMPTION, AM I RIGHT?
OF COURSE I'M JOKING, BECAUSE IT WOULD BE MORE LIKE THE POOR-WANK REDEMPTION
YES, ANDY DUFRAIN WAS IN PRISON BECAUSE OF A LACKLUSTRE WANK HE HAD, AND SOUGHT REDEMPTION
SEE YOU NEXT WEEK
