Part 1 | |
Once upon a time, there was a man whose family resided in the various attic spaces of the most redeemed junior academy in the kingdom. He worked very hard to provide for his wife and many children. We don’t exactly know any exact figures of how many children he had but rest assured, there were a lot.
But we do know that whatever work he was assigned to do by The Dictator was strenuous, backbreaking work. Whatever it was, it definitely involved the attic spaces above the classrooms of the school.
But we do know that whatever work he was assigned to do by The Dictator was strenuous, backbreaking work. Whatever it was, it definitely involved the attic spaces above the classrooms of the school.
Perhaps he was not a satisfactory worker; perhaps he voiced aloud his discomforts to his judgemental superiors. For one day the Higher-Ups decided to hole that man and his grovelling family up in the dungeons as atonement for his sins. Specifically, the ceiling and the photocopier room in the Primary section.
There was much starvation and desperate bone-chewing in the first few months as the family ate any creature that made its way into their makeshift prison. Mynas, crows, beetles, magpips, all of these pitiful creatures were a feast to the starving family. Eventually, word broke out amongst the feasted-upon creatures in the school that the photocopier room was NOT a nice place to go, and so the steady stream of critters which fed the family for the first few months abruptly ceased.
Of course, the cleaners were told by The Dictator to not venture forth into the Land of the Photocopier, because such a revered realm was unfit for mere plebes. In short, not even ze Janitor was allowed in the Land of the Photocopier, and that’s saying something considering that there’s enough proof to note that ze Janitor has a key to every friggin’ door in the entire campus, and then some. Legend speaks of vast underground tunnel networks but all who speak of such are killed b
Hahaha just kidding, I’m still here. Anyway.
In the delirious mind of the grovelling, starved man, a wicked little thought manifested itself. Walking up to his wife and unknown-number-of-children, he wielded a cruel, bludgeoning weapon.
The Toner Sword of Diabolic Black Pestilence.
*THUNDER AND LIGHTNING STRIKES*
A few well-calculated cudgellings about the head and this entire family would’ve been beaten to a bloody, gory, nourishing pulp fit for the eating in about 15 minutes. But no.
This was a man whose last meal was bite-sized popcorn hopper bird, and the time of the meal was some 6 weeks ago. Needless to say, strength was not a strong point (heheh) with this guy at the current moment.
So in the end the whole dastardly job took about three hours. There was a lot of running and screaming, and cries of ‘Why, daddy? Whyyy?! WHYYYYYYYYYYY?????!?!!!!??!?!?!?!?!?!?!??!!??!!!’
Of course, such questions are amongst those in the universe which frankly speaking, have no answer. Because the person they were directed at was bludgeoning himself some dinner with his Toner Sword of Diabolical Black Pestilence and he was very busy.
Only the final blow to the pile blood, guts and gore could have been considered ‘well-calculated’, a strike worthy of its own ‘Raising the Flag at Iwo Jima’ moment.
***
After they died, he ate them.
The scarce flesh was nice and tender and juicy. It should be, since he bashed it into mince not long ago. Had his wife and children been killed in a manner which resulted in intact fillets of meat, it would’ve been tough from all that lactic acid and adrenalin released in the panic. In that scenario however implausible, this starving bastard would still have been able to chew the flesh because that was how starved this poor sod was. To a non-starved person like you at the moment (maybe), the meat would’ve been pretty much inedible.
This goes to show how desperation works wonders in the human psyche, and that great strength can be summoned in great adversity. That is the moral of the story. So if the reader is that self-righteous, ‘Chicken Soup for the Pacifist’s Soul’, probably vegan kind of person, stop reading. There’s nothing for you here. Reality is false, war is peace, yo momma is fat.
For the dedicated original gangsters, it also goes to show that starving people can chew up meat toughened by lactic acid. If you are concerned about the well-being of your fellow humankind and don’t want them to go through such trouble of tearing their own teeth out, you would not panic. Keep your flesh tender to save people’s teeth. It does wonders for everyone’s teeth.
***
This meagre amount of starved-human flesh was not enough to sate his hunger. He hungered for something more, something that only a human toeing the thin line between desperation and irreversible insanity would consume.
He climbed up into the ceiling. With his spider arms and spider fingers and spider toes grasping on the blood-splattered wall, he jumped into the attic cavity and reached for the lighting wires. The collagen-lacking skin could hardly stretch over his protruding bones as he gnawed on the plastic sheath and you could see the blood-lacking blue veins sticking out underneath.
There was a lot of clattering while he guzzled the wires down the oesophagus. Soon enough, some of the wires were tangled so much that a bodily spasm was all it took to snap the wires cleanly away from the circuit. He fell from the rafters and onto the plasterboard, barely conscious let alone alive.
Part 2
“Ah Sir Lancelot, my fine friend! What jolly mischief is headed for us today?”
Sir Percival snickered without shame. This was a rather daring act what with the two troublesome knights’ seating positions in the Grandest Most Royal Lecture Hall in Knightworld Academy. Together they endeavoured to be the finest students though only in the most superficial way. Every morning they snagged the closest spot to their unwitting Knight Lore lecturer in a bid to assure him their diligence and enthusiasm to learn.
And it worked. This was unsurprising in every way since the lecturer was none other than old flabby cakeman-crone, Sir (as if) Lamington. He was easily pleased like the pathetic, beggarly peasant Free Willy that passers-by occasionally spotted in the fish market waste barrels. But apparently Free Willy recently succumbed to a malady of which the Medics’ Guild of Knights Templar diagnosed as ‘Ye Olde Bimbo-ness’ or some other plebeian affliction.
Lamington was just as hunch-backed as Free Willy and it showed very much. Especially so as he slumped about the hall, handing out today’s worksheet and separating them with a brown smear. It was no less gross even with the intellectual awareness of it being chocolate frosting.
Lancelot grinned manically, the lure of mischief sparkling in battle-hardened eyes. He glanced around the room for a bit in a search of some mischief to provide his dear comrade with.
“LaaanceLOOOT!!!” a shrill screech grated from the far end of the hall. “Pay ATTENTION!”
The Lamington had gone full aggro. Coconut flakes fell to the ground and violated the sterile sanctity of the hall. Fury heated the icing which bubbled on the surface and seeped through cracks already worn wide by the eons and starving junior Knights. All odds were against the geriatric Lamington and that only made the craggly wrinkles proliferate in their ugliness.
A dribble of chocolate icing splattered onto Lancelot’s worksheet. Percival bunched up the useless paper and lobbed it at classroom doormat Sir Gareth, that dunce of a tool. He gobbled it up with glee and then blacked out from digestive tract obstruction. Weakling.
Lancelot was not to be demoralised by the blood that spontaneously spurted from everyone’s ear canals onto the sugary floor from the ear-stabbing soundwave. Or rather, soundsword. For Lancelot was a gallant Knight of Camelot and thus the truest master of swordplay, no matter the sword material or lack of. No other petty student of Knightworld Academy (barring the similarly awesome Sir Percival) could match up to the charismatically valiant vibe secreted by Lancelot’s endocrine system.
“Yesss, my benevolent mentor of prestige and irreversible geriatricness?” Lancelot purred menacingly. The senile Lamington was too daft to notice outright insults and melted under this false praise. Why the Academy Dictator deemed Lamington competent enough to teach Lore of Knightworld will be a mystery forever.
The coconut flakes delicately settled and both Lance and Percival knew that the Lamington was once again in his (mental) Lamingtonland heaven and all was right with the world.
“O it is but nothing, my esteemed pupil of unrelenting competence! I only called on you to taste the greatness of your name on my unworthy, decrepit lips!” swooned Lamington.
Lancelot was not to be outdone by sticks, stones or (s)words. Nevertheless, the prospect of this ancient sponge monstrosity crushing on him was so disgusting that he almost spawned a soundsword upon fellow guildmates himself. Luckily enough, he pulled himself together in time for the class to regain their hearing, though the blood loss was no trifling matter. Not that Lancelot cared anyway.
Lamington was not done. He dropped to his knobbly knees with an overstated crunching noise. The icing evidently did little for the arthritis.
“My pitiful (tch yeah) self cannot even fathom the honour it is to share this lecture hall with you! The only respite from this longing is-” and at that, Lamington covered the sheer distance between the podium and Lance in one leap, like wow.
“-to smmmother you in my delectable icing! Together we will have a roll in the coconut you and I, and I will lie beneath you and think of Lamingtonland but in the best way!”
“Uuuuurrrgh the horror!” exclaimed Percival on behalf of his slighted companion. Already fired up from KO’ing the doormat Gareth, Percival bolted up and leapt to his feet. This motion blasted Lamington squarely onto the ceiling of the lecture hall. The hall indeed being the Grandest Hall, had a ridiculously high ceiling which the Lamington collided with, face to sticky face.
Witnessing the incapacitation of their mentor, the guild cohort nonchalantly filed out the hall and no-one picked up a homework booklet on the way out because who cares.
“WhoooOOOOOO!” yelled Percival and he high-fived Lancelot who already had his palm out, solid was their camaraderie. “No more sticky worksheets! I always have to cut off the sticky corner but not anymore!”
“Huh? Worksheets? What about being forcibly squelched into a fattening tea cake? I say my friend, hardly a savoury thought,” snickered Sir Lancelot and he grinned at his own terrible joke. Percival took a breath and prepared to chew Lance out for his mindless self-indulgence, for which he was consciously aware of. But everyone was utterly blinded by his charm and thus he got away with it all the time.
Before he managed to say anything however, the anachronistic fluorescent light tubes (installed by Merlin himself) flickered off. A chunk of plaster plopped from the ceiling, right onto Sir Percival’s big whiny head and this shut him up real quick.
Sir Lancelot broke out into cruel laughter upon the wayward fate of his friend (the traitorous bastard).
“AhahaHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAAaaa…aaah…ahhh…aHAHAHAHAHaaaaAAA-aaAAAARRGH-!!!”
Little did Sir Lancelot notice the trigger that caused the plaster to fall in the first place. For when he looked up at the gap, a…thing…was clinging to a chandelier and ravenously ingesting the remnants of Lamington. It was hard to see what it was from so far below but distance did NOT make Lance’s heart grow fonder.
He could make out twiggy limbs with cracking, collagen-lacking skin adhering to crumbly bones only by willpower. Yes, the wretched skin cells were sentient, which was more than could be said about the organism that owned them. The poor cells tried, bless their nuclei did they really. But they weren’t to be accepted by any other organism even when they offered the few molecules of nutrients they could give. Thus is the extent of every other immune system’s distaste for this organism.
Even from this far, the creature’s ugliness was so obvious that he could not help but vigorously empty his breakfast of milk and H-O-ly Grail’Os™ onto the marble floor. Sensing a variation of the atmospheric composition, Percival jolted up, the plaster slab clattering to the ground.
“Sir Lancelot! Thou darest wake me from most peaceable slumber? Oh why so? Such serene fantasies of ladies in lakes, grails glistening in golden glory-” and he took a moment to absorb the wonderment of coherent alliteration so quickly after awaking. His eyes drifted to a nugget of partially-digested 100% wholegrain, vitamin-fortified wheat pressed into the crude shape of a goblet.
“-and you taint it with your stomach refuse?”
Lancelot, still reeling from the sight of that beast clinging resolutely to the chandelier, staggered to his feet.
“I-i-‘snot my f-fault…” and he had hardly enough time to really get his balance in check before the eldritch horror lunged at Lance…
…and missed him.
Lancelot was no fool, but victim was he to weakness of the flesh. With compromised reflexes he had little time to summon his school-issue commandable sword at the other side of the room even though the hall was empty after everyone abandoned lesson. Lamington’s wrath was the glue of this mutinous class, apparently.
He could not, and did not, do anything more than stumble slightly backwards as the ugly stick-beast grossly lapped up his now-cold vomit. Lancelot realised that he had yet to rinse the taste out and reached for the flask at his belt to do so.
But before he could even bring it to his mouth, it was rudely batted out of his hands by the scrawny excuse of a living organism. Its skull tilted back as it drank and Percival narrowed his eyes at the sight.
“Euuurgh! Perce!” Sir Lancelot bellowed. “You actually wish to witness this abomination?!”
Percival was not to be deterred by the abhorrence and did not break his gaze. A pang of guilt stirred in Lancelot as he considered the possibility of the noxious puke fumes liquefying his friend’s brain.
“He…he’s oddly familiar,” mused Sir Percival. He scratched at his beard stubble, of which he had none but had always longed to be otherwise.
“Oh come now, you wish for me to look at that?! What do you take me for, Sir Percival? A numptie?” retorted Lancelot.
Percival was at his wit’s end with today’s proceedings. With no hesitation, he grasped the scruff of Lancelot’s neck and turned him towards the creature guzzling from Lance’s flask. An epiphany happened in Lancelot’s head which Percival was blatantly smug about and he would obnoxiously remind Lancelot of this for the next 3 weeks.
“I-it’s…” stammered Lancelot.
The knights closed in on the beast. That distinct tooth-rot pattern, that exact map of moles and squamous cell carcinomas, that hunchback curve that put painstakingly-plotted parabolas to shame…
“Free Willy!” blurted Lancelot. “You’re not dead!” Percival alighted from his mental train trip upon Self-Righteous Express and boarded the tangible dimension.
“The Templar Medics…they were wrong.”
“Eh? And why for?”
Percival jabbed a finger at the quivering mass of filthy beggar.
“Lance, is this what passes as ‘bimbo’ to you?”
-END-
Sir Percival snickered without shame. This was a rather daring act what with the two troublesome knights’ seating positions in the Grandest Most Royal Lecture Hall in Knightworld Academy. Together they endeavoured to be the finest students though only in the most superficial way. Every morning they snagged the closest spot to their unwitting Knight Lore lecturer in a bid to assure him their diligence and enthusiasm to learn.
And it worked. This was unsurprising in every way since the lecturer was none other than old flabby cakeman-crone, Sir (as if) Lamington. He was easily pleased like the pathetic, beggarly peasant Free Willy that passers-by occasionally spotted in the fish market waste barrels. But apparently Free Willy recently succumbed to a malady of which the Medics’ Guild of Knights Templar diagnosed as ‘Ye Olde Bimbo-ness’ or some other plebeian affliction.
Lamington was just as hunch-backed as Free Willy and it showed very much. Especially so as he slumped about the hall, handing out today’s worksheet and separating them with a brown smear. It was no less gross even with the intellectual awareness of it being chocolate frosting.
Lancelot grinned manically, the lure of mischief sparkling in battle-hardened eyes. He glanced around the room for a bit in a search of some mischief to provide his dear comrade with.
“LaaanceLOOOT!!!” a shrill screech grated from the far end of the hall. “Pay ATTENTION!”
The Lamington had gone full aggro. Coconut flakes fell to the ground and violated the sterile sanctity of the hall. Fury heated the icing which bubbled on the surface and seeped through cracks already worn wide by the eons and starving junior Knights. All odds were against the geriatric Lamington and that only made the craggly wrinkles proliferate in their ugliness.
A dribble of chocolate icing splattered onto Lancelot’s worksheet. Percival bunched up the useless paper and lobbed it at classroom doormat Sir Gareth, that dunce of a tool. He gobbled it up with glee and then blacked out from digestive tract obstruction. Weakling.
Lancelot was not to be demoralised by the blood that spontaneously spurted from everyone’s ear canals onto the sugary floor from the ear-stabbing soundwave. Or rather, soundsword. For Lancelot was a gallant Knight of Camelot and thus the truest master of swordplay, no matter the sword material or lack of. No other petty student of Knightworld Academy (barring the similarly awesome Sir Percival) could match up to the charismatically valiant vibe secreted by Lancelot’s endocrine system.
“Yesss, my benevolent mentor of prestige and irreversible geriatricness?” Lancelot purred menacingly. The senile Lamington was too daft to notice outright insults and melted under this false praise. Why the Academy Dictator deemed Lamington competent enough to teach Lore of Knightworld will be a mystery forever.
The coconut flakes delicately settled and both Lance and Percival knew that the Lamington was once again in his (mental) Lamingtonland heaven and all was right with the world.
“O it is but nothing, my esteemed pupil of unrelenting competence! I only called on you to taste the greatness of your name on my unworthy, decrepit lips!” swooned Lamington.
Lancelot was not to be outdone by sticks, stones or (s)words. Nevertheless, the prospect of this ancient sponge monstrosity crushing on him was so disgusting that he almost spawned a soundsword upon fellow guildmates himself. Luckily enough, he pulled himself together in time for the class to regain their hearing, though the blood loss was no trifling matter. Not that Lancelot cared anyway.
Lamington was not done. He dropped to his knobbly knees with an overstated crunching noise. The icing evidently did little for the arthritis.
“My pitiful (tch yeah) self cannot even fathom the honour it is to share this lecture hall with you! The only respite from this longing is-” and at that, Lamington covered the sheer distance between the podium and Lance in one leap, like wow.
“-to smmmother you in my delectable icing! Together we will have a roll in the coconut you and I, and I will lie beneath you and think of Lamingtonland but in the best way!”
“Uuuuurrrgh the horror!” exclaimed Percival on behalf of his slighted companion. Already fired up from KO’ing the doormat Gareth, Percival bolted up and leapt to his feet. This motion blasted Lamington squarely onto the ceiling of the lecture hall. The hall indeed being the Grandest Hall, had a ridiculously high ceiling which the Lamington collided with, face to sticky face.
Witnessing the incapacitation of their mentor, the guild cohort nonchalantly filed out the hall and no-one picked up a homework booklet on the way out because who cares.
“WhoooOOOOOO!” yelled Percival and he high-fived Lancelot who already had his palm out, solid was their camaraderie. “No more sticky worksheets! I always have to cut off the sticky corner but not anymore!”
“Huh? Worksheets? What about being forcibly squelched into a fattening tea cake? I say my friend, hardly a savoury thought,” snickered Sir Lancelot and he grinned at his own terrible joke. Percival took a breath and prepared to chew Lance out for his mindless self-indulgence, for which he was consciously aware of. But everyone was utterly blinded by his charm and thus he got away with it all the time.
Before he managed to say anything however, the anachronistic fluorescent light tubes (installed by Merlin himself) flickered off. A chunk of plaster plopped from the ceiling, right onto Sir Percival’s big whiny head and this shut him up real quick.
Sir Lancelot broke out into cruel laughter upon the wayward fate of his friend (the traitorous bastard).
“AhahaHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAAaaa…aaah…ahhh…aHAHAHAHAHaaaaAAA-aaAAAARRGH-!!!”
Little did Sir Lancelot notice the trigger that caused the plaster to fall in the first place. For when he looked up at the gap, a…thing…was clinging to a chandelier and ravenously ingesting the remnants of Lamington. It was hard to see what it was from so far below but distance did NOT make Lance’s heart grow fonder.
He could make out twiggy limbs with cracking, collagen-lacking skin adhering to crumbly bones only by willpower. Yes, the wretched skin cells were sentient, which was more than could be said about the organism that owned them. The poor cells tried, bless their nuclei did they really. But they weren’t to be accepted by any other organism even when they offered the few molecules of nutrients they could give. Thus is the extent of every other immune system’s distaste for this organism.
Even from this far, the creature’s ugliness was so obvious that he could not help but vigorously empty his breakfast of milk and H-O-ly Grail’Os™ onto the marble floor. Sensing a variation of the atmospheric composition, Percival jolted up, the plaster slab clattering to the ground.
“Sir Lancelot! Thou darest wake me from most peaceable slumber? Oh why so? Such serene fantasies of ladies in lakes, grails glistening in golden glory-” and he took a moment to absorb the wonderment of coherent alliteration so quickly after awaking. His eyes drifted to a nugget of partially-digested 100% wholegrain, vitamin-fortified wheat pressed into the crude shape of a goblet.
“-and you taint it with your stomach refuse?”
Lancelot, still reeling from the sight of that beast clinging resolutely to the chandelier, staggered to his feet.
“I-i-‘snot my f-fault…” and he had hardly enough time to really get his balance in check before the eldritch horror lunged at Lance…
…and missed him.
Lancelot was no fool, but victim was he to weakness of the flesh. With compromised reflexes he had little time to summon his school-issue commandable sword at the other side of the room even though the hall was empty after everyone abandoned lesson. Lamington’s wrath was the glue of this mutinous class, apparently.
He could not, and did not, do anything more than stumble slightly backwards as the ugly stick-beast grossly lapped up his now-cold vomit. Lancelot realised that he had yet to rinse the taste out and reached for the flask at his belt to do so.
But before he could even bring it to his mouth, it was rudely batted out of his hands by the scrawny excuse of a living organism. Its skull tilted back as it drank and Percival narrowed his eyes at the sight.
“Euuurgh! Perce!” Sir Lancelot bellowed. “You actually wish to witness this abomination?!”
Percival was not to be deterred by the abhorrence and did not break his gaze. A pang of guilt stirred in Lancelot as he considered the possibility of the noxious puke fumes liquefying his friend’s brain.
“He…he’s oddly familiar,” mused Sir Percival. He scratched at his beard stubble, of which he had none but had always longed to be otherwise.
“Oh come now, you wish for me to look at that?! What do you take me for, Sir Percival? A numptie?” retorted Lancelot.
Percival was at his wit’s end with today’s proceedings. With no hesitation, he grasped the scruff of Lancelot’s neck and turned him towards the creature guzzling from Lance’s flask. An epiphany happened in Lancelot’s head which Percival was blatantly smug about and he would obnoxiously remind Lancelot of this for the next 3 weeks.
“I-it’s…” stammered Lancelot.
The knights closed in on the beast. That distinct tooth-rot pattern, that exact map of moles and squamous cell carcinomas, that hunchback curve that put painstakingly-plotted parabolas to shame…
“Free Willy!” blurted Lancelot. “You’re not dead!” Percival alighted from his mental train trip upon Self-Righteous Express and boarded the tangible dimension.
“The Templar Medics…they were wrong.”
“Eh? And why for?”
Percival jabbed a finger at the quivering mass of filthy beggar.
“Lance, is this what passes as ‘bimbo’ to you?”
-END-