GREETINGS EVERYFRIEND
SORRY WE'RE LIKE KIND OF LATE WITH THIS, WE WERE BUILDING A STEAMPUNK GUNSLINGER AND WE HAD DO DISPOSE OF IT WHEN IT INEVITABLY WENT ROGUE
TODAY SER POUNCE IS GONNA GO ON AN ADVENTURE QUITE LIKE NO OTHER
BUT FIRST, WE HAVE STUFF TO TALK ABOUT
LIKE HOW WE FOUND A CARTON OF UM BONGO HIDDEN IN THE FRIDGE BEHIND A LOAD OF BEER CANS
LIKE THIS MUST HAVE BEEN A CARTON THAT SURVIVED THE APOCALYPSE
I MEAN DO YOU KNOW HOW RARE IT IS TO FIND AN UM BONGO IN THE AFTERMATH OF THE UM BONGO APOCALYPSE
ALSO YEAH YADDA YADDA YADDA GAME OF THRONES WAS GOOD BUT PREACHER WAS ALSO GOOD
COME WITH US ON A JOURNEY THROUGH LANDS NOT DESCRIBED (BECAUSE WE'RE NOT GOOD AT WRITING)
OK LET'S DO THE DO
Chapter 7 - Hakuna Matata - It Means 'Revenge'
It was a rather beautiful day amidst the green pastures. Ser Pounce, Doran and Charlie Joe Connolly were having a picnic in a serene idyllic meadow, listening to the distant sound of the babbling brook and their own playful banter, and chowing down on some tasty jam sandwiches. Doran reached out and bopped Ser Pounce on the nose, and they all had a great little giggle at that. Everything was just perfect in the world of these protagonists.
(I mean yeah technically they're supposed to be like finding Mr Geography and Friends, but let's just acknowledge the fact that the lads need some radical relaxing time. Saving the world is like a strenuous job, a shit load of time needs to be dedicated to it. The heroes who are responsible for sorting out all our shit for us need some time to have a sick picnic from time to time).
But wait! Ser Pounce heard the tell-tale ring-a-ding-ding of his text alert going off! And he looked at his Nokia ZX800 and he saw that he'd received a text from his friend Francis the Fascist! 'Quickly lads!' he cried. 'We have a friend in need! And a friend in need is a friend indeed!'
'Wait, isn't he a fascist?' asked Doran, brow furrowed. 'Because I'm not sure we should be helping one of them.'
'What, no!' said Ser Pounce. 'What ever gave you that idea?'
'I mean, he's listed as 'Francis the Fascist' on your phone contacts list.'
'It's an inside joke.'
'Are you sure we should be helping him? You know, he might be wanting to do some unseemly things, as could be expected of a fascist.'
'Nah, it'll be fine. Francis is a good hearted soul. Now lads, as I said earlier, though it seems to have lost some of its dramatic effect since you interrupted me the first time… we have a friend in need!'
And so the lads skedaddled out of that there meadow, taking their jam sandwiches with them. They eventually made their way to a old storage unit in a grubby old council estate. They could tell it was Francis' unit due to the loud ska music emanating from within. Ser Pounce rapped on the rattling metal door, and in a moments it was opened by Francis.
Now holy shit, look at this guy. Viddy this, my droogies; a lanky bald man, dressed in a leather jacket, skinny jeans and steel toe-capped boots, with a look of foul contempt slapped on his face and a swastika tattoo slap bang in the middle of his forehead. His scowl was so aggressive that it threatened to cause his entire face to curl inwards on itself like a shrivelling prune, but it quickly mellowed out and reshuffled to a look of mild approval upon seeing Ser Pounce rapping on his door.
'Well fuck me, if it ain't that bastard cat wot I done contacted!' exclaimed Francis, his voice so thick with the Common accent as to be damn near indecipherable to those unaccustomed to its drawling syllables. Doran was one such person, and looked rather disturbed at this turn of events.
'Easy, Francis!' shouted Ser Pounce, over the blaring sound of the pumping ska music. 'We have travelled over the Wachi Field from Westeros through snow magic, to find you, dear Francis! To solve your little quandary!'
'Wachi Field?' queried Francis, still yelling. 'Wasn't Wachi Field once part of Westeros, but was separated by Snow God, because of the war between Gods and Titans? Which subsequently destroyed the land?'
'Yes! After the war, Westeros' time flow faster than Wachi Field, which the life is slow with animals and fairies and full of mischief!'
'Sorry mate, I can't hear you over all this ska music!' screamed Francis. 'But it sounds like you were making an incredibly stupid reference to an incredibly, I mean incredibly niche cat-based animated television series with broken English!'
'Aye, I was!' confirmed Ser Pounce. 'You always were good at picking up on my potentially obscure references!'
'Potentially? That's more obscure than knowing it's been two days now at the five-minute mark in Dino Riders!' Ser Pounce and Francis laughed incredibly loudly. Doran looked on, scared and concerned. (Don't worry audiences, I'm not sure about this joke either. Just let it pass and then we'll get back to the plot.)
Francis ushered his new guests into his storage unit, and threw a spare boot off the floor at his speakers to put a stop to the ska music. 'So, my fascist friends-' began Francis.
'Err, excuse me, not to be a negative nelly, but, err, we're not actually fascists,' butted in Doran.
'Oh,' said Francis, looking rather dejected at this new information. 'That's a shame, actually.'
'Never fear, my totalitarian buddy!' said Ser Pounce, all smiles. 'We are perfectly capable of throwing away our morals in exchange for cash. Why, just read last chapter, and the frog genocide written within!' Doran took a swig of whisky, to forget those dark memories.
'Well,' said Francis, looking a bit better at this consoling, 'it's not a matter of fascism that I have brought you here today, in fact. It is a matter of not my perfect physical being, but my fractured heart and soul! You see, I have spent so much of my time prejudicing against designated hate figures, I have had no time for love! And my mother is threatening to kick me out of the house, to stop paying the rent of this here storage unit! I'm 34 years old and I haven't even dropped a sprog yet! Whatever will I do?'
Ser Pounce clapped his paws. 'Well don't you worry your little fascist butt! For you see, me and my crew run an excellent dating service! It's called 'Ser Pounce and Prince Doran's Dating Service!' There's no joke there, because we don't joke around with your romantic future!' Francis was dazzled with this sales pitch, and began frantically collecting his stuff, readying up for a journey. Doran and Charlie Joe Connolly, however, were less than pleased, as they had no damn idea as to what Ser Pounce was talking about.
CUT TO ABOUT THREE DAYS LATER. The lads have found themselves in a quaint little rural village, like something out of a Thomas Hardy book. Specifically, they found themselves traversing amidst the beautiful countryside homes of the area's gentry, the kindly high born folk who frequented this verdant green fields. This had been decided by Ser Pounce, who had apparently decided that this was the place to look for Francis' wife upon having him complete a questionnaire, a questionnaire Doran was almost certain Ser Pounce had ad libbed on the spot. Nevertheless, it was a rather pretty place to be exploring, and though Doran was finding it difficult to traverse the bumpy environment in his cumbersome wheelchair, he found he could appreciate his surroundings nonetheless. But enough with what he thinks, we've got romance to attend to.
Ser Pounce somehow managed to swindle the lads' entry into a humble town ball, a ball to which Ser Pounce knew all the hoity-toity town lasses would be attending. The lads rocked up as the ball was underway, Francis decked out in his best fuckin' clobber. The lads strutted through those damn doors, swung 'em aside with far too much force for the purpose of a dramatic entrance, and they surveyed the room. The dance was in full swing, everyone was getting their crunk on to the latest bit of djent played by everyone's favourite group of merry bards and troubadours, Meshuggah. Strumming away on their lutes.
'So Ser Pounce, what are we doing here?' asked Francis.
'Well, you silly boofhead, we're here to find you a lucky gal! Any of 'em here tickle your enchilada?'
'Oh, I don't know about that,' mumbled Francis, going a bright shade of red. What a pussy. 'I wouldn't even know how to go about talking to one of these women…' He gulped.
'Don't worry, Francis,' said Doran, happy to finally be of use. He knew the arts of romance. 'Let me help you out.' He reached out with his catcher's mitt and caught a pigeon mid-flight, handing it to Francis. The pigeon seemed alright with this though, finding refuge in the warm confines of the catcher's mitt. Francis hesitantly took the catcher's mitt from Doran.
'Now Francis, when you find a woman you wish to impress, perhaps even marry, hand her a pigeon. It's an ancient ritual that will ensure your feelings are known.'
'Well, okay,' said Francis. 'Are you sure this will work?'
'Err, of course I'm damn sure,' said Doran, expressing an imposing side uncharacteristic of the meek and mild Doran. Perhaps this change of behaviour belied something about Doran. Perhaps that he has been drinking to numb the pain of having been partly responsible for the death of many frogs, and now does not know what is going on. In fact that is what happened; Doran's blood alcohol level had rose by 45% in the last few weeks. Ser Pounce's had only risen by 0.3%, but when your blood alcohol level is already at 90 something %, you can't really go much higher. So yeah, Francis is being advised by not one, but two drunken fools, one of whom is a cat.
'Alright, then. If you insist.' Francis, pigeon in hand, began to tentatively walk through the crowds, looking for an eligible woman. He saw many an interesting face, including a fat man with a moustache on fire, but eventually one woman caught his eye, leaning against a wooden beam thing. The woman in question was a beautiful specimen. Blue hair, blonde eyes (like a kind of white-blonde, mind you, otherwise it'd be unrealistic), a bosom you could fit like five hundred GameBoys in. Holy shit, that's a lot of GameBoys. Cor, imagine that! You could play Yoshi's Island and Super Mario Advance at the same time, as well as having 498 additional GameBoys left over! Woah! Bodacious!
So if that's not beautiful, I don't know what is. Awkwardly, Francis bumbled on over to this apparently beautiful woman, and when he caught her eye, he instantly looked away, all awkward and embarrassed and stuff, and was all but ready to retreat, bail the fuck out of there. But just as Francis was turning to leave, to go and cry somewhere in shame of his own ineptitude in talking to ladies, the pigeon that was so comfortably nestled in his catcher's mitt took flight, and landed on the beautiful lass' hand. She gasped with shock, and looked up at Francis, who was bumbling away oh so fast.
'You sir!' she exclaimed, voice high and euphonious. 'You have brought back my cherished pigeon, Sinbad! He left me twelve years ago with grand ideas of fame and stardom, and his leaving me brought many a tear to my eye! But you sir have brought him back to me! Oh, the trouble you must have gone through, oh, the trials you must have endured!'
By this point, quite a crowd had gathered around the couple, and the blue-haired lass was crying tears of joy. 'Come, my saviour, my bringer of happiness! Let me express my gratitude to you! Come, let us take a prolonged stroll in the beautiful serene woodland, culminating in an impromptu and heartfelt marriage ceremony after which we shall spend the rest of our lives together in bliss!'
Francis looked on, flabbergasted, as the crowds around him started cheering, and the blue-haired lass, who I shall now call Coppelia for simplicity's sake (y'know like how copper oxidisation creates like a greeny-blue verdigris colour - yeah I thought this through, fuck off), jumped into his arms, taking care to reposition the pigeon so as to ensure it does not get squished in their loving embrace. Ser Pounce and Doran looked on, bewildered by this fortuitous turn of events, and decided that there work here was all but done.
OR THEY WOULD HAVE DONE, WERE IT NOT FOR THE UNEXPECTED ARRIVAL OF ORGANISED RELIGION! The doors creaked open once more, before the festivities could recommence, and a priest walked through the doors. He wore a massive wide-brimmed hat that shaded his shrivelled walnut face, and his slow walking was accompanied by the rustling of his black robes and the clack-clacking of his huge fuck-off walking cane on the wooden floor. Everyone looked on in awe and horror. Who knows what the arrival of this man could bring?
'Brother Hodge!' cried Coppelia. 'What are you -'
'I have come,' replied Brother Hodge, his voice a lowly drawl, 'to inform you of this man's… insincerity. For did you know that pigeons in the wild only have a lifespan of around six years? Therefore, we must conclude that this man, bringing you this pigeon, is no more than a fraudulent-'
Francis panicked then, and did the only thing his fascist mind could do. Commit violence. 'Brother Hodge? More like Brother Hodge-Podge! Take this, you cunt!' He grabbed the cosh in his pocket and clobbered the priest across the bonce with it. The priest fell with a cry, slumped to the floor in a heap. 'Yeah, you pious prick! My fists are the gavel of justice, and your face is the little wooden thing that the gavel hits!' Francis began to release a whirlwind of pain on Brother Hodge's face, much to everyone's general shock.
Ser Pounce and Doran knew that they had to interfere, and so they readied themselves for a battle to remember. But then, all of a sudden, there was a little buzzing sound from within one of Doran'd wheelchair compartments. Ser Pounce, knowing it to be his phone, and worried that it may be something important, grabbed it and looked at it, aware that he'd received a text message…
'Oh shit!' shouted Ser Pounce, tapping Doran on the leg frantically and pointing at his phone. 'We forgot about our fucking hot air balloon ride!'
'Oh no!' cried Doran. 'We've been looking forward to that for weeks!'
'Oh golly, I feel like a right bint! I hope we can still make it.'
'We should be able to, if we leave now.'
'You're right. We better say goodbye to Francis.' He waved over to Francis, who was now looking around, blood covering his fists, at the countryfolk around him. 'Here, Francis! We've got to go now mate!'
'What?' asked Francis, rather meekly.
'Yeah, we've, err, got a hot air balloon ride to go on. We've booked it ages ago, so we've got to go to it.'
'What?'
'Yeah, so err. Y'know, we can't just ignore it. You alright here though? You've got this under control, right?'
'I-'
'Course you do! Alright, see you later!'
The lads then ran out of the door, only looking behind them when they heard the sound of commotion caused by an entire town attacking a single fascist, but shrugged amongst themselves and ran as fast as they could to the hot air balloon site.
Okay so in order to establish the fact that this next bit is going to take place in the actual Game of Thrones episode (yes, alongside the actual plot), we decided to do a verbal reconstruction of the Game of Thrones theme song, to get readers in the mood.
DA DA DADA DA DA DADA DA DA DADA DA DA DADA DA DA DADA DA DA DADA DA DA DADA DA DA DADA DAAAAAAA DUUUURRRGH DADADAAAAA DUUURGH DADA DOOMDOOMDOODOODOOMDOOMDOODOO DA DA DADA DA DA DADA DA DA DADA DA DA DADA
Okay so now we've done that:
Ser Pounce et al. are chilling in the hot air balloon, taking in the beautiful sights of the world below. They happened, at this moment, to be flying over King's Landing. Wow! What fortuitous circumstances! Will these friendly chums have time to appreciate this serendipity? We shall see!
Anyway so there's four of 'em in the hot air balloon at the moment. Ser Pounce, Doran and Charlie Joe Connolly, the important fellows, and also the geezer who owns the hot air balloon, Travis Hickman. He's got a pretty distinctive appearance; he's four foot tall, has a padlock tattoo over one eye, and is rocking a leather jacket emblazoned with the words, 'fried rice is nice', in the Jokerman font. Travis Hickman, however, is not a very opinionated guy, and so he's probably not going to be saying much. I mean I know he's not going to say anything, because I'm not going to write his dialogue.
The lads were enjoying themselves immensely, taking in all the CGI streets and CGI castles and real-life King's Landing gay bars. 'Wow, this is way better than Lord of the Rings!' commented Doran, eyes wide with wonder.
'I'll tell you what else is better than Lord of the Rings. Check out what I bought yesterday from the Alchemist's Gift Shop!' From his fuzzy pocket, he pulled out a small tub of gel. 'That's right, flame retardant!'
'Woah! What's that, Ser Pounce?' asked Doran.
'It's flame retardant! I just said that! It makes flames, like, not burn you, or something!'
'Wow! That's a useful thing to have! But I must ask, dear friend, why did you buy that?'
'The need just took me, y'know? I was thinking, I have so many things that are important in life, but I don't have any flame retardant! And what does having all these important things mean if they could be taken away from me at any second by fire? Nay, I say to thee, nay! I shan't have my earthly possessions swiped away by fire! So we're getting this hot air balloon to stop off at Dorne, and cover our dear friend the fisherman with flame retardant! Then he'll be safe!'
'Wow, what a great idea! But wait, the fisherman spends his entire life around water! Surely this here flame retardant is not necessary?'
'You can't be too careful, dear Doran! What about oil spills? They're sometimes in the water, and they could potentially pose a fire-based threat to our friend the fisherman!'
'But Ser Pounce, what if our friend the fisherman falls into the water, and the fire retardant gets washed away by the merciless tides? How would our dear fisherman friend defend himself against vengeful flames then?'
'Hark, the evil flames, they come! The despicable glimmer, it poses a threat to all of us! I hate fire as the Devil hates holy water! I wish my bloody eyes may drop out if it is not true!'
'Why the melodramatic tirade, Ser Pounce?'
'I just hate fire that much, Doran. Your insights into this subject have shown that my fire retardant is all but useless! I shall throw it away to the city below, where the mire of the peasants shall swallow it whole! Farewell, dear fire retardant!' And with that, he threw his small tub off the hot air balloon.
It was at this moment, that, just below them, Jonathan Pryce was about to drop his most fire mixtape in the middle of the sept, with all his bros around ready to witness this totally sick music. He presses the play button on his big arse stereo, and BOOM! Fucking explosion of green fire shoots all up in this bitch. Blasts his radical shades and golden chains right off him, makes him combust like a fucking wicker man and then kasploosh outwards like an effigy stuffed with dynamite. BUT, in the excitement of this here explosion, it may have gone unnoticed that, through a tiny little inconspicuous slat in the roof of the sect, there fell a tiny little tub of *gasp* fire retardant! And this here tub of fire retardant, right, (which was the exact same one thrown by Ser Pounce, just to clarify, not just some other random tub of fire retardant that just so happened to be falling in this exact spot), it managed to unscrew it's little cap thing off, right, and it spilled its incredibly useful saving contents over a certain gang of people. Yes, it was the Tyrell family! The only people in the sept who anyone gave any kind of a shit about. And of course, I mainly mean Mace. Because come on, he's the greatest. He once wore a silly hat, that's great. Oh and Natalie Dormer is really hot (haha fire jokes) and Finn Jones is kind of alright I guess. He dresses like a vagrant, what's up with that? And he's been getting on that body modding hype train with his new forehead tattoo thing. Pretty damn wacky.
So anyway, they get doused in fire retardant, JUST IN TIME, because the wall of vibrant green fire is a-coming, ready to fuck up some unsuspecting fools. But fortunately, the Tyrell lads have got luck on their side (or perhaps just a cat), and so they're totally fine despite the explosion. But nah, fuck that, they've got fire retardant on, not explosion retardant, and so they get blown the fuck out of there! They fly straight up into the sky, like missiles, and Ser Pounce and Pals are all like, 'What the fuuuck?' at this unanticipated turn of events. I mean they were just having like a peaceful serene hot air balloon ride, when bam, explosion beneath them, people flying up at them. Holy shit! This holy shit-ness is continued further when the flying Tyrells smash through the base of the hot air balloon, and out the top again. Through this punctured hole in the hot air balloon, all the hot air in the balloon flies the fuck out, making a comedic fart noise, because this is a light-hearted story. Aside from the occasional paedophiles and frog murder and leg squishiment and the fiery deaths of the entirety of Slayer and a single lizard, but fuck off.
SO YEAH, THEY ALL FLY AWAY. And where do they land? Why, they land right the fuck back where they left off, in the lovely quaint countryside settlement! Although it's not so lovely at the moment, on account of there being a giant smouldering wreck of a hot air balloon tarnishing the idyllic landscape, and the fact that a large portion of the town's populace were crowded around a tree, clutching torches and pitchforks, gathered around what appeared to be a rather perturbed looking fascist nesting amidst its upper branches. 'Oh shit, Francis!' exclaimed Ser Pounce, after having recovered all his friends amongst the remains of the hot air balloon (not Travis Hickman though, he didn't leave enough of an impact to be considered a friend). 'We ought to go and save him.'
'Yeah, that's probably a good idea,' said Doran, bushing himself down. 'But, what about those there Tyrells? Are they okay?'
'Well of course they're okay, they had their fire retardant on. No worries, dear Doran. Let us take a Tyrell with us, to make up our numbers and deter these here aggravated locals.'
'Good shout. Take the intimidating body-modded sort over yonder.' And so between the two of them, the cripple and the cat lurched Loras to his feet once more, who seemed rather disconcerted with these current events. I mean, not ten minutes ago (yeah they were flying through the sky for a while, don't worry about it), he was confessing his sins to a swag old man, and had been marked with a gnarly tattoo to show that he's gonna be a pious pal. But here he was, in a field in the middle of bumfuck nowhere, with a talking cat and also a cripple. It just goes to show, children, that with a little Ser Pounce magic, you never know what's going to happen! *winks at camera*
So yeah they bumbled on over, and the townsfolk dispersed after seeing this fucked-up nomad with a fucking star carved into his face with whom they certainly did not want to mess with, and Loras looked up in the tree to see a humble little fascist. This fascist face, normally so prone to frowning and grimacing and being all surly because of its hatred for Jews and whatnot, now seemed to mellow out, look almost happy. Why, Francis thought, look at this beautiful little miscreant! His face, so unorthodox, so different from the Aryans back home! And yet so beautiful nonetheless! This man is unique, in that he is both beautiful and weird-looking, on account of his bloody great star tattoo! What are these feelings inside me? Could they be… love?
YEAH, THAT'S WHAT IT IS. AND THUS BEGAN A BEAUTIFUL RELATIONSHIP BETWEEN A MAN STUCK IN A TREE, AND A MAN IN A COTTAGE NEXT TO THE TREE, BECAUSE HE BUILT IT NEXT DOOR, WHERE HE LIVED WITH ALL THE TYRELLS. AND THEY STAYED THERE IN THAT THERE COTTAGE FOR THE ENTIRETY OF THE SHOW, UNTIL RIGHT AT THE END WHERE THEY REVEALED TO EVERYONE 'NAH MATE WE'RE OK'. NO THEY DIDN'T THINK TO TELL ONELLA THAT THEY'RE ALIVE, THEY HAD EACH OTHER, AND A LOVELY QUAINT COTTAGE, AND LORAS HAD A TREE FASCIST AS THE NEW LOVE OF HIS LIFE. FUCK RELIGION.
And so, Ser Pounce, Prince Doran and Charlie Joe Connolly, content with the knowledge that they had changed this world for the better, walked along the side of a country road, picnic baskets and bindles in hand, happy with life, like the little endearing bindlestiffs they are. (Haha I got the word 'bindlestiff' in here.)
BUT WAIT, THIS AIN'T THE END. Because as the lads were strolling along the road, without a care in the world, a fucking Cadillac rolled up alongside them, its wheels aflame. Inside the car were three skeletal mariachi band members, all skeletal grins and bone-adorned instruments, and in the driver's seat was an obese devil with a finely tailored suit and a huge fuck-off cigar sticking out of his grinning mouth. 'Easy, Ser Pounce!' said the devil. He spoke in an incredibly thick and low-pitched Mexican accent.
'Oh, hey there, Satan!' said Ser Pounce.
'Hey, Ser Pounce, what about that road trip you were talking about last time we met?'
'Oh boy, right now?'
'Ayy, el gringo! Hop in!'
And so the lads jumped in Satan's Cadillac, and the lads sped away down the quaint country road, flames flying behind them. Fucking awesome.
FUCKING FINALLY WE'RE DONE
THIS WAS THE LONGEST CHAPTER TO WRITE BY FAR
AND WE HIT THE SHIT A LOT WRITING THIS
HERE ARE SOME THINGS THAT WERE SAID/WRITTEN DURING THE WRITING PROCESS OF THIS CHAPTER, TO GIVE YOU AN IDEA OF HOW PRODUCTIVE WE ARE:
- RELIJIN OR RELIGON OR RELIDJINN OR RELIJUANN
- 'I Fucking Hate All These Edgy Horses'
- Bram Stoker was a mannequin animated by human piss
- Never believe it's not Joe
- Three pigeons, fused together with their combined powers, could be as old as me
- Vox Vulgaris is my fucking jam
- I don't want to hear his entire fucking life story, I just want his opinion on Thai fried chicken
- Jonathan Pryce gets off on telling people they're evil; he wears that big potato sack to hide his erection
- I wish Robert Jordan would fuck off
- That is one ugly sprog!
- Nippon nipple
- Super eunuch, he fights with his fists
- Samurais sprogs
- Ginnungagap will always be impressive
SO YEAH THAT'S THAT
LOOK FORWARD TO NEXT TIME LADS
WE'D USUALLY SAY 'SEE YOU NEXT WEEK', BUT WE'VE HARDLY BEEN CONSISTENT WITH THAT
SO, SEE YOU AT SOME POINT, PROBABLY
