With the odor of burnt curtains, and the plush leather chair fit for a
gnome of some 100 centimeters behind him, Fred stares at the little man.
With a smirk Mr. Big laughs in the face of Fred's threat. "Go ahead and
try it!" he prompts.
Infuriated by the advertisement (why, everyone in Suffex knows that the horsemen of Gala smithie much better shoes than these Aqualarians) and maddened by the little man's joint economic venture with the much-hated four-legged, serpentine-tailed, small-winged, over-grown reptile known as the Dragon (or the Dargon depending on one's dialect), Fred raises his sword in an attempt to smite the little capitalist. Then a most amazing thing happens: a puff of green smoke comes forth from the funny-looking toy in the gnomes hand; a sharp whistling is heard by Fred; a pain, as of a hornet's sting is felt in his right shoulder; and then the sky goes black! Mr. Big readjusts his tall red conical cap and guffaws. "That'll teach you young whipper-snappers who to not mess with!" He looks at the prone body of the knight, now slumped on the floor. The BS-19 Horcus Medium Pistol still feels warm in the little man's hand. Setting it on the table he pulls out another cigar from within the folds of his garish clothing, and he lights up. With a deep puff he exclaims, "Aaaaah, that's the ticket!" Blood is still trickling through the armor that had heretofor protected the knight's right shoulder. Of course, the smithies who had contructed that armor had never heard of bull-ettes! Made from the bone of the meanest, toughest bulls raised within a strange land far to the southwest and unknown to the "simple" people of Havnheim, these small projectiles could slice through almost anything. The fact that the gnome tribe of Buttintheheadbygollywellgetyou added a high-potency sleep drug to the tips of their bull-ettes added an even bigger kick. "Stupid, stupid, stupid," mumbles the gnome. "Besides some blood-loss you'll wake up with one helluva headache," he says to Fred as he walked back to his table and hit a blue button on a muave box. "I got a trash pick-up!" he yelled. Within a few moments three burly men - one of them a now recovered Boron - come in. "Hey Boss," says one. "Anywhere's particular yous wants this fellah?" "Nah, just outta my sight," says Mr. Big with some irritation. "Be imaginative for once, 'K?" "OK, Boss," they say and leave the room carrying the still-bleeding unconscious form of Lord Fred. Mr. Big looks around the room as if waiting for something. Finally he yells again, "I gotta mess in here! Whatya want, an invitation??? Where're the damn cleaning ladies??" In only moments five scantily-clad immigrant women come in carrying buckets, rags, and other cleaning supplies. The gnome smiles at the 'help' then picks up the copy of Weapons Monthly and walks to the john. Even as he is answering the call of the wild he flips through the pages till his eyes fall upon the highlighted portion of text that reads: A wholly owned subsidiary of The Dragon Enterprises, LLC. "Damn, gotta put that in smaller print in the next issue."
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12/1/2002 3:37:08 PM
Extending Enabled
21324109 episodes viewed since 9/30/2002 1:22:06 PM.