DUNGeon QUEST
The Quest for Laughs

Prologue:

Yea it came to pass (unlike the sods at work who wouldn't even give a sample for a practical. I spent ages going from floor to floor asking for people to give generously and would they? WOULD THEY? I only wanted to take the piss [stay with us folks, it does get better]) Grunthut the Hugely Gifted and highly popular with the ladies (hen parties catered for, private performances by negotiation) set forth, realised he’d left the gas on, came back, set fifth, went back just to make sure, set sixth, became known as Grunthut the Paranoid, set seventh (there’s nothing like milking a good gag) unto the land of Knold.

‘Get off my cabbages!’ yelled Knold. ‘And use the road like everyone else you great pillock.’

Responding unto the challenge in his sweet natured and conciliatory manner Grunthut rolled a 12 and stoved the octogenarians head in with a bloody great sword (+6 against Old Farts).

Many days and many nights did Grunthut wander in the wilderness or Birmingham as it is known now, with only one thought in his mind:

‘Did I leave the gas on?’

So he returned, turned the gas off at the mains and set eighth. After a few minutes he rolled an 18 bought his milk from Tescos and returned from his quest for a nice cup of tea. However on examining the Great Cupboard of Cornucopian Plenty he had fed the many hordes of rel’Atives, sated the hungerfollowing of the great pissup of Friday night, he found he was out of sugar.

FOR SOME THE QUEST NEVER ENDS!

CHAPTER The FIRST:

The First Chapter.

From the depths of time, aeons before aeons were even thought of comes a hero (oo-er) a hero so masculine he has vodka instead of testosterone, so masculine even his sweat has muscles, resplendent in his gleaming black breastplate and Codpiece of the Gods (+5 on no way you’re coming near me with that thing) emerges through the vortex produced by the time warping amulet of Ring Splayer the Unusual, grand wizard of the Order of Snit, grand sooth vomiter to the court of Grese Splotter the not quite as big as his brother Vargy the Bent as a Nine Bob Note, slayer of the Little Green Things that go Ni, cleans right round the bowl and even under the rim, Arsenal 3 Southampton 2, behind his sworn enema, sorry enemy, Sausage the Pervert, buggerer of the masses, filler of holes, frightener of horses and worrier of sheep whom he has sworn to destroy, he raises his long bent thing with a sort of knobbly bit on the end and rolls the dice...........................................

In the nearby Slug and Codpiece many weary adventurers were slumped messily about the place on splintery heavy oak furniture. The fire roared in the fireplace which was somewhat uncomfortable for mid-summer.

Turd the Huntsman raised his head. His vision blurred and his tongue like sand paper he threw a 9 and threw up. The constant roaring of the fire was too much for him in his delicate, hungover condition so he staggered towards the door. Standing in the doorway he let his eyes adjust to the early morning sun when suddenly a flash of light blinded him.

‘Bastards!’ he thought aloud. ‘Some sod’s using the vortex produced by the time warping amulet of Ring Splayer the Unusual, grand wizard of the Order of Snit etc.’

He readied his battle tights and crossbow (as yet unnamed as he’s only just bought it and can’t think of one) wiped the vomit from his tunic and sped off to the forest where he broke his nose on a tree as he still couldn’t see properly.

Squatting on his haunches, leather breeches tangled about his ankles, Frigg Aduck, adventurer, swordsman, knife-fighter, Priestling of Freda-Fury-Flaps, lecher and petty criminal, strained over his early morning shit. A sudden roll of thunder and a nova of light from deeper in the forest, shattered the tranquil woodland scene.

‘SHIT ! What was that?’

‘OH...FUCK, fuck, fuck...’

It took a scant few minutes and several dock-leaves to smear the excrement from his clammy buttocks. Normally he was quicker but then he didn’t usually fall back and sit on his business, as a rule. Displaying the natural curiosity that had been responsible for most of the trouble he’d ever found himself in, he yanked up his trousers and set off for the source of the disturbance...

Raising his trusty weapon to its apogee, in a sarcomeric symphony of exquisiteness, Grunthut the Multinamed, few on brain cells, prepared to smite his nemesis. One bounce, two bounces, a little bouncette, a spin for what seemed an eternity, finally the dice fell to rest. DISASTER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
a one.

As his mighty smiting tool swept towards the festering scalp of the bane of his life, Oh cruel Gods, Oh fickle Gods, what a bunch of wankers those Gods are! The mighty catches of his celestial package carrier can stand the stress of his magnificent portion no longer!!!! (WOW exciting isn’t it!) The mighty Codpiece of the Gods explodes forward at breakneck speed catching the foul disgusting violator of hamsters squarely in the back of the head, thrusting him to the floor beneath the mighty sweep of Grunthut’s cranial rearranger.

Momentarily stunned by this turn of events, the formidable warriors thoughts turned to home, his humble abode, the cat sleeping quietly in the washing basket before getting up to crap in his shoe, but one thought swept away this vision of domestic bliss:

‘Did I leave the bloody gas on?’

And with the thought ricocheting around the cavernous spaces of his skull he exited to his abode with a single rub of his amulet, got the gas company to cut the gas off and went ninth, to seek his fate.......

Turd the Huntsman sat at the foot of the tree. He dabbed his nose with the hem of his vomit stained and now bloody tunic.

‘Bloody hell!’ he thought, ‘I need a drink.’

He got up and hobbled through the forest. His foot slithered in something soft and warm.

‘Fuck!’ he swore. ‘What dirty bastard put that there? Bloody hell I need a drink!’

With this in mind he eventually found his way to The Gay Orc public house and entered. Seconds later he flew out through a nearby window, closely followed by a bucket of water.

‘But I only wanted a drink,’ he winged as he sat, drenched, legs splayed and with a lump on his head where the bucket hit him.

He lurched away, once more, to the forest. His keen hearing, amplified somewhat in his hungover state, detected something in the distance crashing through the forest.

‘A deer?’ he thought, his hand instinctively going to his, as yet unnamed crossbow. ‘I’m a huntsman, I’d better kill it!’

He crouched low as the object approached.

‘It’s going at some speed for a deer,’ he thought.

The branches in front of him began to part. He took aim and was knocked unconscious by a large steaming Codpiece of the Gods.

Standing amongst the bloodstained cruciferous plants, Grunthut the Indecisive, thought about rubbing his amulet, decided not to, changed his mind, changed it back again, then decided what the hell and rubbed it anyway. A myriad explosion of colours exploded around him.

‘I’ve got to stop sniffing that Ajax,’ he thought as he spiralled through the dimensions.

Almost instantaneously reality blinked back and Grunthut the Temporally Challenged was surrounded by bright lights and a cacophony of screaming raked his ears.

As his stinging eyes adapted to the glare, a frantic ringing started in his ears. Slowly, ever so slowly, his eyes focused on the panicking form of Miss Doreen Pfnutt, spinster of this parish, and member of the all England religious fervour relay team, frantically pressing the bell push to summon the manager of Tescos (East Finchley Branch), Mr. J.D.Icantthinkofafunnyname. As the horror dawned on our hero he made a heroic leap past the baked beans, the thought racing through his mind:

‘Sod that gas I forgot the Codpiece.’

Darting past a moustachioed man in glasses with a cropped haircut and broad smile on his face, Grunthut sought shelter. Hurtling past the sanitary towels he made a dash for the pickled gherkins.

‘It’s no good,’ he yelled, ‘I can’t fit into the jar.’ He resumed running, helter-skelter (the fair is in town) down the aisle squashing Mrs Gladys Groatthrobble, 81 years old and still got all her own tooth, as she complained bitterly about how the price of mince had gone up since the war and justifying fears about mad cow disease, much to the relief of Maxwell Frooms the shop assistant whom Mrs Groatthrobble had been boring to an almost comatose state since last February, when she had called for the manager over the fact no-one would accept her ration book.

Just then he spied his salvation and in a blur of catlike grace the mighty warrior dived behind the delicatessen counter secreting himself amongst the salamis.

‘Perfect camouflage,’ he thought as he gave his amulet a really hard rub. Reappearing amongst the well fertilised cabbages of his neighbour, Grunthut stormed into his abode, thrust himself into his spare codpiece of the gods (+5 on frightening horses) and set tenth on his quest, pausing only to pop into his local gas board to brutally slaughter the manager with his long bent thing with a sort of knobbly bit on the end (+2 on slipping into the underpants and boasting) and so reduce his anxiety with respect to his domestic supply.

Once more through the swirling vortex Grunthut the Magnificently Muscled (and we don’t just mean his arms) spun sideways through the dimensional causeway between the myriad possibilities of fate, world upon world, time upon time....etc etc (anyway you get the idea).

Appearing in a woodland glade the mighty renderer of gas showroom sales persons (politically correct as he is) surveyed the scene like a jungle cat. To his left was a prostrate form (not a prostate form, as that’s taking the piss) next to which embedded in the trunk of an ancient oak was the missing codpiece.

‘So that’s where it got to,’ the brooding behemoth pondered. ‘I wonder if this tosspot’s dead?’ he wondered as he administered a swift kick, snapping three ribs on the body at his feet. The disturbance of air brought the fragrance of cheap beer to Grunthut’s sensitive olfactory apparatus.

‘Nah, just pissed,’ he stated aloud as he retrieved his codpiece and set eleventh for the nearest hostelry.

Turd the Huntsman opened his eyes. The figure leaning over him, blurred and misshapened, gradually sharpened into focus. A young woman, blonde, pretty with pointed ears was leaning over him. She wore a long, white, flowing gown with plunging neckline revealing a generous expanse of her ample figure. (This is what we want!) He was lying on a straw mattress in a room walled with big white-stone blocks. He knew that white-stone was mined in the quarries of Shore Tarse, by the dwarven clans. Other than that he could not spot any other clues that would hint as to his whereabouts. On the far wall torches burned on either side of a heavy oak door, riveted together with large square headed iron pins.

Turd detected a faint trace of Hagwort in the air. A herb renowned for its healing properties when mixed with other herbs. The girl lent over him gently dabbing a cut on his forehead with a damp piece of cloth and at the same time treating him to a most glorious view. In her other hand she held a small bowl containing a clear potion. This, he presumed, was the source of the smell.

‘Hello,’ the girl said, as she dabbed at his cuts. ‘You have been in the wars haven’t you.’

‘Yes,’ he lied quickly, in an attempt to look brave. ‘Where am I?’ he asked.

She held a finger to her pursed lips.

‘Shh!’ she said, ‘you must rest.’

‘Yes, good idea,’ Turd agreed, a wicked gleam flared, momentarily in his eyes. Slyly, concealed by the cover of the bed he was lying on (in both senses of the word!) he rolled his dice. Praise the Gods a six!!! At that moment the girl’s robe fell to the floor. He rolled again and… another six!!! The girl began to advance upon him.

‘At last,’ he thought, ‘my luck’s changing.’

Suddenly the oak door flew across the room, embedding itself in the wall just above Turd’s soon-to-be-deathbed. Knocked off its hinges by a single thrust from the obscenely huge packet of the large, hulking lump of solid muscle, resplendent in Codpiece of the Gods, who now filled the door way.

‘Oo look!’ said the muscle-bound hulk, ‘a six! How lucky.’

The last thing Turd saw was the two embrace as the heavy oak door fell from its recess in the wall and flattened him. He thought he felt a couple of ribs pop.

‘Aaarrrgghhh!’ he screamed, as he sat bolt upright clutching his chest. His forehead slammed into a low branch causing birds to cheep and stars to chase around his head. A large, oiled pile of muscle was ambling away.

‘By the great Corn Plastorr,’ he thought, ‘a lumbering ox.’

It is strange but some people are born to just daydream of comely elven maidens with long blonde hair, soft almond eyes like limpid pools and huge, massive, titanic sized... well you get the idea; we’ll come back to it. Whereas others are born to live it. Is this fate? Is this destiny? Is it because they are lucky bastards? Or is it because their author wasn't paying attention to what I had written earlier? Who knows? Who cares? More to the point, where is that elf maiden...?

Creeping stealthily through the undergrowth, our adventurer Frigg approached a clearing in the woods. Scorched earth and burned foliage marked the spot where some unearthly vortex had only recently been unleashed. The clearing was quiet, save for the trilling of birds and the chirping of insects. Too late again.

A rather obvious trail of trampled greenery, squashed flowers and decapitated squirrels lead from the clearing back into the forest. Frigg decided to follow...

The trail lead to a sort of chapel, whose pleasant white-stone walls were decorated with pools of vomit, smelling oddly of stale beer. A woman’s weeping could be clearly heard from inside the building. With uncharacteristic manners, Frigg walked up to the heavy oak door and politely knocked. The door, somewhat scarred from what looked like repeated blows with a blunt object, teetered then crashed inward.

‘Err, anyone home?’

The slumped figure on the floor stirred, coughed, farted, then slowly raised herself up onto her elbows. Twin streams of tears glistened on her elven face as she turned to the doorway.

‘I am here, a humble carer for the sick and injured, how may I help you?’

‘Well, err, I’m sort of following a disturbance that appeared back in the forest. You, err, know anything about it?’ Frigg nervously eyed the ransacked interior of the hospice.

The poor woman collapsed again, fresh tears starting from her eyes.

‘Do I know.... hearrrccgghh.... anything.... sniff, sniff.... heee heeee haaarrrgg.... I’ve never.... seen one.... heee haarrr heee.... SO SMALL before... haaa haaa wooo hooooo hooooo.... a baby carrot.... and two petits pois...... har har, snort,.... heee heee’

‘I’m sorry?’ asked Frigg, feeling slightly uncomfortable.

But ‘..... The... heee herrr haarr Barbarians tackle....’ was all she managed to get out before great spasms shook her slender figure.

On instinct Frigg shook his dice - double six!

With a shudder, half manic cackle, half sob, the girls blouse caught on a crack in a flagstone and tore open (ah ha! didn’t think I’d leave this one alone did you?) to reveal a glorious pair of quivering mamms.

With a quick ‘WU-HEY !’ and a deft grope, Frigg introduced himself to the helpless elf, slipped her a business card and, with a sly wink, was on his way.

A good day’s adventuring, if ever he’d had one. He’d worked up quite a thirst - it was time to return to the GAY ORC.

Hunter’s skills at the ready Turd stood up, stepped forwards and fell flat on his face as he tripped on his cloak. He got back up and sprinted after the lumbering ox and with an athletic bound flung himself around its neck. He wrestled valiantly in an attempt to tame the beast, who had begun to whistle and scratch its head.

On entering the Gay Orc (ffnarr!), the muscular horse frightener paused to hang Turd on a peg. As he turned to the bar his two brain cells, in a freak, statistically improbable act, clashed. The ensuing thought caused Grunthut’s muscled brow to furrow.

‘I don’t remember putting a cloak on,’ he thought.

‘While we’re here,’ said a slurred voice from its peg, ‘I’ll have a flagon of the house ale if you’d be so kind.’

‘A talking cloak, that’s all I need, It’s that bloody cleaning lady again, I told her to cut that shit out, I’m going to sack the old witch now!’ thought the barbarian as a flagon of frothing liquid was placed before him by a large rotund being who didn’t seem to have legs but sort of hovered above the ground.

As Grunthut took his first draught there was a sudden fanfare of epic proportions, so loud it made the very air ring and caused the ale to take an alternative route to that preferred by the mighty warrior, that being down his throat to where it could start doing some serious rearrangement to his perception of reality. Instead heartened by the sonic call to arms, the potent fluid made a fleeting bid for salvation by exiting via the flared nostrils of the surprised hero. Muscles quivering and body wracked by coughing and attempting to blow Old Stuntbuggers patent tackle incapacitator from his sinuses, Grunthut the Somewhat Watery Eyed, was startled to hear a deep resonant voice proclaim from thin air:

‘And now, all the way from the land of Snig, mightier than a mighty thing, hero amongst heroes, swordsman amongst swordsmen, warrior amongst warriors, vanquisher of foes, rescuer of maidens, slayer of dragons............’

As this litany continued extolling the virtues of an as yet unseen person, the door burst in to reveal a blinding light. Clouds of white gas flowed through the portal snaking around the furniture and legs of the various unsavoury characters present like a horde of ethereal snakes. As the announcement reached its climax, the music reached a peaking crescendo.

‘.........Ladies and gentlemen will you please welcome, the unique, the one and only...’ a figure stepped into the space, magnificently framed by the following light, and stepped into the hostelry.

‘Prince Naseem (Oops, sorry back to reality for the moment) Scroatmangler the invincible!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!’

Turning to the barman, Grunthut asked:

‘Who’s that flash cunt?’

‘Don’t know, comes in about this time has a babycham and goes.’

Peeved at the disturbance to his evening, the massive warrior turned and looked down at the three foot six figure that had swaggered up to the bar beside him.

‘Oi, tosspot you made me spill my ale,’ he growled

‘So?’ replied the figure who looked as if the only reason his bones stayed in place was that the pale acne ridden skin held them there.

‘Listen shorthouse-’ was as far as the huge barbarian got as the minute fist arced upwards into the midst of his meat and two veg, sending him reeling backwards across the room.

Dwarves:

First lets get this straight. Dwarves are not a separate race. They’re just a bunch of short guys who spread the rumour around so people wouldn’t call them “shortarse”. The conception that dwarves are grim warriors feared in battle, and joyful in celebration is bollocks. They use the idea to cover the fact they’re a bunch of maniacs with chips on their shoulders about being groin level to any normal person, and are just spoiling for a fight. The joyous bit comes in because they are so insecure about their height they have to get pissed and make as much noise as possible to ensure they are noticed.

The whole beard thing is done as a distraction from the height, for example someone saying “look at the length of that” is much more of an ego-boost than “look at that tiny wanker over there”. As for the so-called racial character of female dwarves having beards, well that’s just an excuse for always pulling the ugly women at parties.

The whole mining bit comes from the fact that no-one else wanted the job and besides they’re cheaper than pit ponies only less intelligent. On the other hand it does present them with marvellous opportunities to play with various sorts of explosives in a vaguely constructive manner.

However their legendary obsession with precious metals, particularly gold, is sadly all too real. All dwarves dream futilely of the day when they will strike it rich. Unfortunately they have overlooked the fact that whilst money can buy you many things, it can’t buy you love (McCartney), but more importantly it can’t buy you height. Nevertheless it is a statistically proven fact that in these modern times dwarves buy more Lottery tickets than any other ethnic group.

From his peg, Turd (the Huntsman) could see across the pub. A group of dwarves were sat around the middle table shouting loudly in very pissed tones.

‘No change there,’ Turd thought. They were probably in for the barbarian hurling convention held nearby. A silly event that they insisted on holding every year, even though none of the competitors survived as the barbarians would often bludgeon them to death before the games started.

The pub was actually quite busy. A mixed race of beings populated the tables. A couple of Old Farts (a wise and venerable race respected by all) sat in the corner where the bar ended. Four mugs were placed on their table, two filled with a dark tar-like substance the other two for them to gob in. Along the bar various adventurers lurked trying to look nonchalant in the desperate hope that someone might hire them for a quest. A large troll sat at the end of the bar. The trouble with trolls is you can never tell if they’re pissed or not because they look pissed even when they’re sober. Most people thought it best to give it a wide berth. A few shifty types were scattered around in the shadowy corners having a crafty shift. A minstrel sat next to the fire, melting. Thankfully he wasn’t singing but instead he was busy boring someone to death talking about his travels and how difficult it was to get strings for his lute.

Sat in the far corner was a cloaked figure, casually puffing on his pipe. He was trying to look cool and as far as he was concerned he was getting away with it. But to Turd’s trained eye he could see, by the way his knees bounced and crossed every few seconds, he was actually dying for a piss.

‘Poor sod’s probably been there for days,’ Turd thought. He grinned.

The reason for the adventurer’s discomfort was because of last week’s wizards convention where, after a few pints of Stuntbuggers, they had placed a ‘special’ chair in the corner. Unfortunately the chair was made of wood from the super glue tree which only grows in the northern fens of Loch Tite. He had wondered why the place fell silent, save for the stifled giggles, when he sat down that night.

Suddenly a loud fanfare blew up from outside and the door opened through which stepped a shortarsed, self-confident prat. Turd watched as he went up to the bar and stood next to Grunthut. A cockerel sprang to mind, certainly a cock. After a few seconds contact the shortarse threw the first punch in what was to become the pub brawl which demolished The Gay Orc.

Grunthut reeled backwards, his massive bulk knocking chairs, tables, dwarves and anything else that got in the way flying. A microsecond of calm passed before the place erupted. Grunthut got up and swore. He didn’t take too long to recover as his mighty Codpiece of the Gods absorbed most of shortarse’s right hook. The cocky shortarse had turned his attentions to the bar, where the rotund landlord was drawing a pint for him. He ducked as Grunthut threw a table, complete with drinkers, at him and missed.

On the other side of the pub a large barbarian was belting seven shades of shit out of a crowd of adventurers. He was heavily out numbered so he picked up the nearest chair and started swinging, deaf to the cries of protest from the cloaked figure stuck to it. A well aimed roundhouse across the broad shoulders of a particularly well built brawlee splintered the chair, sending the cowled figure winging into the fray. Seconds later people of all species, dwarves and barbarians alike were sent flying as the now free cloaked figure made a break for the outhouse. He disappeared through the doorway.

‘SHIT!’ came the mournful wail. ‘A few seconds more that’s all I needed.’ He emerged from the doorway, walking as though he’d done a ‘roof to horse’ stunt badly, occasionally shaking a sodden leg.

Mid-riot, the minstrel decided to calm the situation by standing on the nearest still upright table and singing a song. Lute in hand he drew a breath and was hit in the face by two pots of phlegm. The lute was snatched from his grip and placed forcefully over his head. He was then sent flying over the heads of the sprawling mass, through a window where he knocked a passing dark rider from his mount who was on his way to the Prancing Pony.

It was shortly after this that the peg, on which Turd was mounted, decided to break away from the wall sending Turd plummeting floorwards. He landed hard on his arse almost winding himself.

‘Well,’ he thought, ‘while I’m down…’

He picked his way through the melee, avoiding various projectiles, fists and bits of furniture, to the bar. Finding a stool he sat himself down and called to the barman, who was cowering under the bar.

‘A pint of Old Bastard’s Disembowelling Peculiar if you’d be so kind,’ he said.

The barman remained spread-eagled on the floor and raised a single digit in reply.

‘Oh and have you got any Orc scratchings as well?’ added Turd.

The barman crawled over to him on his belly. Turd was surprised. He didn’t think his arms were that long.

‘Are you mad?’ the distraught publican shrieked. ‘There’s a bloody bust-up going on in case you hadn’t noticed.’

‘Yes!’ Turd replied, ‘they do seem a trifle spirited tonight.’ He ducked as a sherry trifle flew over his head and hit Grunthut on the side of his face. A remarkably good shot considering his proportions. He was currently using the shortarse as a makeshift broom, swinging him back and forth through the throng in wide sweeping motions.

Turd turned his attention back to the bar. To his delight his drink had appeared along with a small foil packet. On the packet was a picture of an orc scratching his balls. Turd drank half the flagon in one mouthful and then set about trying to open the packet. He wrestled valiantly with it for some minutes pausing only to lift his tankard out of the path of a dwarf who had been sent skimming across the bar top (it’s about time that happened!). He drained the last of his ale and called for another immediately. While he was waiting he continued his own fight with the orc scratchings. He had tried everything. Twisting, shake it shake it shake it shake it baby, biting, squeezing and even rolling his dice but to no avail. He threw it down on the bar and stared thoughtfully at it as he drank from his second helping of Old Bastard’s. At that moment someone had their head used as a mallet on the bar top next to Turd. The makeshift hammer was wearing a helmet with blades riveted to it. Quickly Turd picked up the packet and held it out. The next hammer motion ran the blades across the packet slicing the top off.

Everyone was having a wonderful time until someone hit one of the main support struts rather hard, causing it to splinter. Almost at once the place fell silent as all eyes turned to the ceiling above them. The broken strut emitted a loud crack, then a long drawn out creak before falling silent. A short three second eternity passed before the roof collapsed.

Old Farts:

Denizens of the distant land of Geriatrica, these strange beings have developed an interesting method of blending into human society, by resembling aged humans. Although some believe they actually are aged humans, but this is just speculation.

Old Farts follow a strange and mysterious religion relating to a past age “Wheni wereyung” where the world was a good and happy place, summers were sunny and winters had real snow not like the stuff today. In this mystical time also known as D’Gudold days it was rumoured that a man could live in the lap of luxury, with exotic foodstuffs, wondrous entertainment and all the women you could eat for half a bronze dugget a week. Such is the devotion of these beings to this belief that it has become a potent defence in that it acts as a sleep spell to anyone conversing with an Old Fart for more than 30 seconds. Hence the phrase “Boring Old Fart” applied to a tedious person.

Time travel experiments to the period believed to be “Wheni wereyung” have revealed a dark time when people frequently dropped bombs on each other, suffered from rickets, and shoved small children up chimneys.

So well adapted to the human urban environment are the Old Farts that ordinary items are deadly in their hands and they receive attack bonuses with handbags, walking sticks, umbrellas and all associated objects. Many urban dwellers can relate stories of the severe shopping bag to the nadgers received when an Old Fart wanted to board a cart before them.

These senile delinquents can often be found hunting in packs in markets or lurking quietly in the corner of pubs taking about three months to consume a half of stout.

The Elf-maiden’s mamms safely recorded for posterity on his point-and-shoot pin-hole camera, Frigg Aduck resolved to pick up the trail the following morning at the hospice. Chortling to himself, he skipped along the path back to the village and more importantly, the pub.

The colour drained from his face as he rounded the corner to the Inn, only to face a scene of utter destruction. The Inn had vanished. Something resembling a Guy-Fawkes night bonfire-extravaganza met his disbelieving eyes.

A small group of Dwarves were attempting to extricate one of their fellows from under a heavy wooden beam; an Old Fart, thick black spittle dribbling down his chin and flecked on the splintered panelling about him, swore long and heartily. Always one to rise above himself in the face of adversity, Frigg scrambled fearlessly into the wreckage. A woman’s naked torso lay beneath the remains of the bar, her chest gently rising and falling. (He’s off again). Selflessly, Frigg warmed her breasts with his cupped hands, then out of the corner of his eye, spotted the cash register. He crawled towards it, and drew his dagger, using it to pry open the drawer.

A weak voice pleaded ‘Help...help’.

‘Help myself? Don’t mind if I do...’

Two groats, a silver penny, four pebbles, a leper’s toe, and twelve shillings. A good haul.

A loud rasping noise to his right made him freeze, mid-pilfer. In the dim light filtering through the ruins, he could just make out the figure of a colossal improbably muscled Barbarian, half buried under a heap of splintered planks. It was snoring, happily. He clambered over to the fallen behemoth and cautiously prised up one edge of his codpiece with the dagger. He snapped the contents with his trusty Pin-hole camera and, sniggering into his sleeve, carefully shaved off the Barbarian’s left eyebrow.

He crawled away. Unfortunately, in the deepening gloom he didn’t notice the open trapdoor until too late - he fell. He landed on something soft, that smelled of stale beer...

The next morning bright fingers of sunlight reached across the patchwork countryside and strangled the bastard of a cockerel that woke the slumbering star up, incinerating the mite ridden carcass where it stood.

‘That’ll teach the little bastard,’ it thought. ‘Oh well I’m up now might as well get this dawn shit over with.’

Slowly it raised it self into the sky, illuminating, first in a rosy glow casting long ebony shadows and slowly building up to a good strong light, the pile of rubble formerly known as the Gay Orc Hostelry. A tiny zephyr lifted a few small grains of dust dancing into the air. Until with ‘Fuck me what was I drinking last night?’ several square yards of debris lifted and fell away from the horribly muscled body of a somewhat hungover looking barbarian.

‘Look at the state of me,’ he muttered as he dusted himself off with a large round brush with a shocked expression on its face. ‘By the great thrusting tool of Spang the avenger,’ he thought, ‘I need a piss.’ He sauntered lazily towards the nearest group of trees with the gait that can only be achieved by a man with a really distended bladder.

Feeling slightly indebted to the drunken form sprawled beneath him for breaking his fall, Frigg generously donated the leper’s toe and a couple of pebbles to the man, slipping them into a leather pouch at his waist. He dusted himself off and cautiously stood up.

A faint, dank breeze stirred through the tumbled wreckage of the cellar and Frigg clambered towards its source. The cool moist air issued from a hole in the far wall, where a falling support joist from the bar above had smashed into the side of the cellar. He cleared more earth from around the beam, slowly uncovering a hidden passageway. When the hole was big enough he squeezed his thin frame through. It was pitch black in the passage beyond and Frigg nervously fumbled in his Kartimor backpack for his trusty Torchlite. He spun the inset stone flint with a thumb a couple of times, until a sudden spark caught the end of the torch and a weak flame sputtered into life. He popped the thumb (Leper-U-Like Industries, Germville, Bogland) back in its pouch at the back of his belt.

Crazy shadows shimmied left and right as he raised the torch above his head dramatically, the way he'd seen it done in the B-plays at the local Drama Society. The passage ran down and away into the depths of the earth, the roof of the tunnel propped here and there with shoddy looking wooden pillars. The rough hewn walls of packed earth were damp and mouldy and scattered across the floor were the remains of several beer crates and an ancient keg of Brandy.

He looked back towards the cellar. From this vantage he could see that the falling beam had split a concealed door that had obviously been used to gain access to the pub without the Landlords knowledge. Whoever had constructed the tunnel was a mystery, but Frigg admired their style. His best guess, judging from the poor quality of the tunnel-work, was a consortium of unemployed Chunnel-Troglodytes, a race of shifty engineers and burrowers renowned for their spiralling work costs and imaginative approach to deadlines. With some effort Frigg managed to force the beam from out of the entrance to the tunnel, then patched up the hole with handfuls of earth that had fallen from the passageway's walls. Satisfied that no-one else could now follow him, he set off down the tunnel...

The rays of the early morning sun crept slowly across the floor of the cellar. This was, somewhat, unconventional as sunlight never usually ventured into this part of the building; it was always blocked, until recently, by the building above it. This was turning out to be a historical occasion which was being missed by a certain, very hungover, huntsman.

The sunlight picked its way across splintered wooden beams and rubble, which lay in abundance in the cellar, and crept slowly across Turd’s face forcing a reluctant eyelid to open and the iris behind to contract rapidly in its rouged surround. A few seconds passed which, to him, seemed to last an eternity, as he rapidly tried to workout where he was. A few hazy memories flashed through his mind. A fight, a loud crack and him diving through the open hatchway to the wine cellar. That would explain the familiar sandpaper tongue, stomach cramps and monstrous headache.

Looking up he could see a sturdy wine rack leaning over him resting on the wall he was slumped against. It was this that was largely responsible for preventing the remains of The Gay Orc from further collapsing on top of him.

Above him he could hear movement. A distant crash as a pile of debris was forcefully thrown aside, a brief silence and then the splattering sound of running water hitting a hard surface. This seemed to go on for some minutes and Turd listened, mesmerised.

‘Well, this won’t do,’ he thought. ‘I’d better get out of this hole.’

He began sifting through the pile of bottles littered around his feet. To his astonishment some of them were still intact. Better still they were full. He began stuffing them in his magic pouch of holding. The pouch was a little bag sewn to the inside of his tunic which could hold any amount of stuff. This was great until you tried to find anything specific in it. He had ‘obtained’ this little item during a small wager with a wizard who had challenged him to a drinking contest. Naturally Turd, a hardened pisshead, won easily and for his prize he nicked the comatose old fool’s little magic bag.

He crawled out from beneath his shelter and saw the hole where a large ceiling joist had ploughed through the floor above. Scrabbling over the piles of rubble he made his way to the base of the beam. He unhooked the crossbow from his belt, tied a length of rope to the shaft of one of his bolts, aimed at the top of the wooden beam and fired. His huntsman’s skills honed to perfection the bolt sailed over the top of the beam and hit something out of sight.

‘Must’ve hit a tree or something,’ he thought absently to himself.

He gave a few experimental tugs on the rope and, satisfied that it would support his weight, he edged his way up the beam.

On reaching ground level he was able to see what the crossbow bolt had lodged itself in. To his horror Grunthut was stood facing a tree, whistling while still relieving himself. The bolt had pierced his left buttock. He didn’t seem to have noticed but his fingers were very close to finding out as they scratched at his bum.

Turd almost fell back into the cellar as he quickly released the rope hoping that the barbarian wouldn’t turn round and catch him. He scrambled the last few feet of beam unassisted, acquiring several splinters in his hands, and legged it.

Having washed his hands, Grunthut, pulled the codpiece back into position, caught his foreskin in the catch, and was faced with the dilemma that has faced man since the first primitive tied an animal skin around his waist and caught his tackle in a claw that he left there as it looked good; do I just pull it free or try to undo it. Grunthut, a being not unlike this first primitive human, only a little denser, went for the pull, and gave a cry as his eyes filled with translucent tears, blurring his vision. Puffing and having overcome one ancient problem, the warriors mind slowly, came to dwell on another:

‘Food! I think I’ll head to town.’

Heading down the well trodden road a delicate hint of roasting chicken floated past his nose causing him to increase his pace.

Shortly he entered the ramshackle hamlet of Chipping Potatoe. A rustic looking village yet to discover the delights and practicalities of the domestic outhouse. The people of Chipping Potatoe usually made do with the exterior of upper storey windows or pavements as the village’s only outhouse, in the main square, had been full for centuries and no-one dared to empty it. Stepping carefully, Grunthut proceeded to the market place.

‘It’s You!’ a voice boomed.

Grunthut looked up expecting to see a large ethereal hand pointing at him and was disappointed to find it was actually a small scrawny looking man in a dress, clutching a pointy hat, and wearing a ridiculously unconvincing wig. However, stood next to him, was someone much more to his taste. Scantily clad, in a brief sequinned costume, was what could briefly be described as a well constructed young lady (a fuller description can be obtained for a small fee, along with the photos, tastefully done, of course), who every time the small man spoke or gestured, posed in such a way as to emphasise his action. She seemed to be enjoying the job, not a lot, but she was enjoying it.

‘I have a job for you,’ the wizened wizard said. ‘Hold on. I’ve got it written down here.’ He reached into his top pocket and began to pull brightly coloured handkerchiefs in a string out at an alarming rate.

‘No, not that pocket,’ he said standing in the pile of silk, ‘this one’ and he reached into his pouch at his waist and produced a bunch of flowers.

A ripple of applause ran through the small crowd that had assembled as the mage said with some annoyance, ‘No, no I put it in my hat.’ He reached in and after producing a white rabbit and several multicoloured doves, much to the delight of the ecstatic crowd, he pulled out a small rabbit dung and bird shit stained note with the corresponding pose from Doreen and a groan from the crowd.

‘That wasn’t very good,’ came a voice from the throng.

‘You shut your face,’ retorted the mage.

‘Do another one.’

‘No, shan’t.’

‘Oh go on.’

‘No!’ he snapped and turned to Grunthut. ‘Come with me,’ he said.

‘Why should I ?’ the huge Barbarian replied.

‘I’m going to the bar.’

‘Oh, righto!’ and both men turned made their way through the crowd and into the King’s Bollocks (The one thing Chipping Potatoe was famous for was the bluntness of their speech and irreverence toward royalty).

Grunthut sat at a bench as the conjuror went to the bar, and immediately sprang to his feet with a cry of ‘What clumsy bastard left that there?’ as he pulled the quarrel from his left buttock.

‘Where’s that Beer?’

Torch held out in front of him, Frigg cautiously crept down the tunnel. It bent left then descended sharply, the earthen walls giving way to slick rough-hewn rock. After several hundred paces the gradient levelled off again and in the distance Frigg could just make out a flickering light. He extinguished his torch and slowly approached. A crude oil lamp hung from a grimy bracket that had been screwed (badly) into the wall of the tunnel. It cast dim illumination at the intersection of a cross tunnel that ran perpendicular to the one Frigg had followed. He took out his dog-eared copy of the Thieves Guild Handbook, and after consulting the contents table at the front, turned to the section entitled ‘Junctions in underground Labyrinths’. Unfortunately the main body of the text assumed that said thief had entered a subterranean maze with the predetermined goal of robbing something specific, and thus had some clue as to where they were supposed to be going. He quickly flicked to the end of the chapter, to the questions and answers bit, where things seemed more relevant:

You find yourself at a junction, in the underground caves of Graap, do you:

a) go forward? - turn to page 124

b) take the right passage? - turn to page 326

c) take the left passage? - turn to page 247

d) have a quick wank, while you think about it? - turn to page 3

The thief came to a horrible end in all the options save one, so Frigg decided to carry straight on. (After a couple of tugs, just in case it was the last chance he ever got.) He carefully marked the page with one of the dog-ears, then resumed his stealthy progress.

Another couple of hundred paces later and Frigg’s sensitive hearing detected the sound of far-off voices. As he turned slowly on his heel to determine which end of the tunnel the sound came from, the dice in his pocket rattled: double one. His left foot slid on a discarded toad skin, that had been invisible in the gloom, sending him crashing backwards into the wall. The impact was enough to unsettle the ‘Mouldy Furnishings Industries’ (MFI) bracket from its tenuous grip in the wet stone, and the guttering lamp and rusty hanger thumped down onto his unprotected head.

He managed to put most of the flames out within a minute or two. To the remains of his hair and the rapidly blistering skin of his swelling face he quickly slapped great handfuls of ‘Pile’ cream, a mysterious salve he’d received by way of thanks from an Old Fart, in return for one of his ‘Ma Troll’ Doughnuts. The strange thing was, the Old fart hadn’t even eaten it, merely sat on it for the rest of the evening, with a contented smile on his weather-beaten face. The cream dried quickly, and seemed to soothe some of the pain, although it left him with the appearance of a rabid Mr. Potato head.

With some effort he raised himself to his feet, stood on the toad skin again, and slid feet first into the opposite wall.

Improbably, the wall opened before him, swinging away on hinges that badly needed oiling to reveal a huge hall, festooned with banners and a-glare with heavily smoking torches and braziers. With horror, Frigg read the Gothic-style lettering on the main banner that swung over the hall from the imposing stalactites overhead: ‘THe 512th AnnUal ConGRess of OrcS, KoBolds and grEMlins - NorTh EastErn sEction’.

The Speaker in front of the podium faltered mid-sentence, distracted from her slide depicting a dismembered human baby. Eight hundred and twenty three eyes turned to the door, and the figure sprawled in the emergency exit...

Gasping for air Turd, huntsman and pisshead, sat on a tree stump in the forest gnawing at a small splinter of wood lodged in his palm. Occasionally looking over his shoulder to see if he had been followed. Using the flat edge of his knife, he eased the splinter from his hand. He could have used his splinter removing kit but it was stuck at the bottom of his magic pouch along with everything else. As he sat a sudden craving overwhelmed his body. An urgent need for a certain something.

‘Money!’ he thought. ‘I could really do with some money.’

From his pocket he extracted a small, flat, frayed, leather bag. After scraping a dirt encrusted finger around the interior he held in his palm his worldly wealth. Two bronze duggets and a small ball of string.

‘It’s no use,’ he thought. ‘I’m going to have to resort to being sent on a,’ he cringed, ‘quest.’

The very thought sent shivers through his whole body. Having to work for a living was something that only happened to other people. Still, there it was, staring him in the face and waving gleefully at him, poverty.

‘I wonder if I could knock myself unconscious and go back to that elf maiden with the Hagwort and big tits,’ he thought idly. A wicked grin spread across his face as he stared into space.

‘Money!’ The word came from somewhere within his head bringing him back down to Spew-Earth with a bump. He picked the bump up and put it in his pouch. He got up and wandered towards the nearest village. A small place called Chipping Potatoe.

‘I know a good pub there,’ he thought as he set off. This seemed to brighten his disposition noticeably. Sadly any pub was a good pub to Turd.

The sign indicating the way to Chipping Potatoe was now pointing vertically. On the outskirts of the community a small crowd of villagers had gathered round a small pile of multicoloured hankies, a dove, a rabbit and a plastic bunch of flowers. Turd was dabbing tenderly at his top lip as he passed them.

The village square was busy this morning. It being market day many merchants and tradesmen had come from the surrounding district and were putting up awnings and stalls to sell their wares. Chipping Potatoe being fairly central to the region it seemed an ideal place for this sort of thing.

The landlord of The King’s Bollocks, was busy setting out his hoardings promulgating the fact that he owned a pub which sold drink and food, and that market traders were welcome to come and get pissed. The famous Chipping Potatoe bluntness was reflected in his advertisements.

On entering the village square Turd headed straight for the King’s Bollocks. He edged his way in through the door while the landlord’s back was to him in case he was recognised.

‘...’ear The Gay Orc’s bin demolished,’ was a short piece of conversation Turd caught as he was enveloped by the interior atmosphere. Prepared to disclaim any knowledge of this fact he went to the bar. Brandishing an official looking card he swindled himself a free pint by pretending to be an inspector from the brewery. They fell for it every time!

Looking round, he could see that the majority of the customers within were merchants and market traders stuffing themselves full of breakfast before the day’s bartering and haggling got underway.

Next to him, on the bar, was a small pile of papers. He picked one off the top and began idly flicking through it. He eventually came to the vacancies section.

WANTED! Large oiled barbarian to rid Castle Daggs of dragon. Must have own transport and sidekick. Salary 1 gold blunt 50 bronze duggets per hour.

DO YOU play the flute? Talented flautist needed to lure plague of children away. Must be good with rats. Apply the King’s Bollocks, Chipping Potatoe.

WANTED! Maiden to hang out of tower window and scream. Apply Castle Daggs. Rates negotiable.

URGENT! Builders, carpenters and plasterers needed at The Gay Orc for major refurbishment.

LOST! One author. Answers to the name of Phlange which is odd as his name is Gordon. He's a doctor you know! Reward: One doctor who answers to the name of Phlange.

Grunthut watched as the small mage made his way to the table with two flagons of ale and a small book on a tray, closely followed by the tottering form of Doreen, who as if the victim of some strange spastic affliction would stop every few steps and pose in such a way as to frame the man she followed.

‘That’s better,’ said the Wizard. ‘Let me introduce myself, I am the great

P’Daniels, I have a job for you.’

As he said this Doreen made a somewhat exaggerated giving gesture that made Grunthut’s eyes and a number of other things boggle.

‘I come from the wonderful land, far far away, of Freebeer, where people were always happy, the sun shone, the rain gently watered our gardens and fields when we’d just popped in to make a cup of tea, birds sang and never ever crapped on your cart bonnet,’ as the mini mage spoke Doreen performed an action that made it seem she had been indulging in too many mind expanding drugs, over balanced due to her somewhat raised centre of gravity and plummeted to the ground.

‘What is it with her?’ Grunthut asked.

‘It’s the rules. Wizard code 121 states, “All magicians, mages, conjurors and associated workers shall have and be seen to have an assistant and/ or apprentice.” Some people go for short guys with big hairy feet, some black cats, some even have mops that carry buckets of water and whistle the Sorcerer’s Apprentice. I even heard one chap got a young boy who pulled swords out of stones, became king and ended up shagging his sister while his best mate had it off with his wife.

Strange world, me, I thought I’d stick with tradition but enough about me this task I have for you will bring you great renown.’

‘Not interested,’ said Grunthut firmly.

‘Honour,’

‘Not interested,’

‘A challenge, a test of courage,’

‘No way,’

‘There’s beer money in it,’

‘Okay, start talking,’

‘On our eastern border is the unhappy land of Gasbordia, ruled by an evil and depraved tyrant, he has abducted our king’s only daughter whom he loves beyond life itself, the princess Isha’ and imprisoned her in his dark tower. Our chief wizard has predicted that only a brave hero from these lands can save the princess and the kingdom from the evil intent of Sausage the terrible, poker of holes in the ground, sellotaper of hamsters and other small mammals, ravager of wildfowl.......’

At the sound of the name of his arch enemy, the huge barbarian leapt to his feet, his huge chiselled torso glowing with incandescent rage, rivulets of sweat running through the hardened canyons of muscle.

‘Sausage!’ he howled at the top of his voice whilst smashing his fist into the table top and causing P’Daniels to looked around in that embarrassed manner only ever seen when someone at your table creates a scene at a restaurant.

‘Sausage!’ he howled once more as there was a crack, a twang, a gasp of appreciation from Doreen and the sound of someone being hit violently in the face with a rapidly moving codpiece.

The situation slowly dawned on Grunthut, and he sat down, flushed with embarrassment and to cover himself.

‘How will she know I’ve come to rescue her?’

‘You must call her by her full name, a name known only to her family and the wizards guild,’ P’Daniels spoke in hushed tones. ‘Her full name is “I shag anyone for a bacardi and coke and a packet of cheese and onion crisps”. I will supply provisions and of course you must have a sidekick as denoted in the heroes union handbook. Now let’s see,’ the wizard opened the small book, ‘what category are you? small hairy geezer must have large party of other small hairy geezers and a wizard, no that’s not you. Unfortunate fellow accidentally dropped into situation must have screaming ladylove to rescue. No, that’s not it. Ah! got it Huge muscular barbarian with violent temperament, bronzed torso and macho name must be accompanied by weasely coward with dipsomania and/or kleptomania, thieving skills and the morals of a stud farm pig’

‘That may be difficult to find round here,’ replied the soon to be hero. ‘Now about these supplies, I want 2 horses, food, wine, a bottle of bacardi, 3 cans of coke and 5 packets of cheese and onion crisps.’

ARE YOU short of a few bob? Need that extra cash? Then get smart and sign up for the Certain Death Games. Be a man!

CERTAIN DEATH Games? Pah! That’s for poofs. Why not join the armed forces and learn to be a real wife battering MAN!

‘Nothing!’ Turd thought irritably. He threw the paper to one side and stared at the barmaid’s arse for a while.

He signalled her over and, once again, used his card to order a pint of Elvënbräu Strongcider. He raised it to his lips when, suddenly, the tankard disintegrated, spilling Elvënbräu all over his battle tights and tunic.

Several moments passed as Turd’s brain registered what had happened. The alarm had gone off in his head when nothing fell out of the tankard and into his mouth. He then realised that he was only holding the handle with a small bit of tankard still attached to it. The rest, along with the Elvënbräu cider was in his lap. When looking around to try and piece the mystery together he spied a crossbow bolt, wedged in the bar top, rather like the sort he uses. Very like the sort he uses. Huntsman’s skills once again coming to the fore, Turd discretely looked around the pub to see if he could spy anyone he recognised within. Well as discretely as anyone can who impersonates a bug-eyed giraffe while sat on a bar stool with a cider sodden groin. Eventually he spotted a large, familiar looking, muscular barbarian sat at a table with some dozy old twat whose head resembled an oversized testicle, sporting a pointy hat with unconvincing hair stuck to the fringe. He also noticed, seated next to bollock-head, a buxom wench who appeared to be voguing badly (sorry I haven’t sent away for the full description or photographs, tasteful or otherwise).

‘Pssst!’ something said.

‘No,’ Turd said, absently without turning his head, ‘it’s cider.’

‘Pssst!’ the something repeated, more urgently this time.

Turd averted his gaze and looked down at the distraction.

Stood before him, at knee height, stood a shifty looking character. His skin had a faint greenish tinge to it. He had a big nose, beady yellow eyes and large pointed ears which protruded from either side of his head like two triangular wings. He wore a small, leather jerkin with the hood down around his neck. Over his shoulder was slung a small bag of scrolls. He doffed his cap as he announced himself.

‘My name is Leech Badsmell and have I got a deal for you?’

‘I don’t know,’ Turd replied, ‘have you?’

‘Yes indeed,’ Leech continued, hopping on to the bar stool opposite Turd. It was at least twice his height but his enthusiasm for a sale spurred him on to make short work of the climb. He perched himself on the edge of the stool, legs dangling over the side and continued.

‘When I saw you I thought to myself “Leech my boy, there’s a chap with a gift for magic”.’

‘Gift for magic,’ Turd repeated patiently, staring vacantly at Badsmell.

‘See? Even you agree! I pride myself on being a good judge of character,’ Leech prattled. ‘Now look at this.’

He held out his hand, palm upwards, stubby fingers spread. A small ball of white light appeared and hovered just above his pale green skin. Clearly the diminutive sales rep was pleased with this. The light began to pulsate and hum slightly when it suddenly burst into a cloud of black soot.

‘Astounding,’ Turd said flatly, his face now blackened.

‘That’s not all,’ Leech continued, his eagerness unabated, ‘watch this.’

He waved his hand, majestically, in a wide arc. Stars appeared from nowhere and showered onto the floor.

‘Is that it?’ Turd asked.

‘Well, yes,’ Leech said, his hard sales routine faltering slightly.

‘Very nice,’ Turd said, ‘but what I could really do with is a levitation spell or time freeze or anti-hangover spell or something like that.’

Leech rubbed his chin and his gaze shifted to the crossbow bolt lodged in the bar top. He gave the impression of serious contemplation. He drew a lengthy breath through the corners of his mouth.

‘I could get them for you,’ he said, sales rep confidence beginning to ooze once more, ‘but it’ll cost you a little more. Can I take your name?’

‘What else have you got in the bag there?’ Turd asked, quickly avoiding the trap.

‘Nice little number here,’ Leech said, winking as he withdrew a scroll from his bag, ‘one that I know you’re going to love. It’s the free drink spell.’

At the sound of this spell Turd became suddenly attentive.

‘Straight from the far off land of Snig where Snigian wizards have been working round the clock to perfect it. Hence it’s a brand new spell. So new, in fact, that commercially it’s only available as a demonstration copy only. It can only be used once unlike the full version which can be used indefinitely. Luckily for you I have managed to smuggle out a copy of the full spell.’

‘Fascinating,’ Turd replied, his eyes fixed firmly on the scroll in Leech’s hand. ‘Could you demonstrate it for me?’

‘Certainly,’ The rep said. ‘I’ll use one of the demo versions given to me as a freebie at the World of Magic and Sorcery Exhibition I attended a couple of weeks ago.’

He placed the scroll back in his shoulder bag and from his jacket inside pocket he took out another scroll similar to the other but not sealed with a lump of wax. He unrolled the scroll and scanned the lettering. As soon as he had finished the parchment disappeared with a small puff of smoke.

‘Okay,’ Leech said, rubbing his hands together, confidence dribbling from every pore, ‘what’ll it be?’

‘I’ll have a bottle of Mange’s Puissant Stealth Whisky,’ Turd said leaping on good fortune like a cat on a half dead sparrow.

‘Right!’ Leech said, ‘I’ll have a pint of lager shandy.’ He called the barmaid over and ordered the drinks. The barmaid frowned and found herself compelled to utter the words “it’s on the house sir” as she passed over the beverages.

‘Thank you my dear,’ Leech leered, raising his glass slightly as a token of appreciation.

‘I must have that spell,’ Turd thought. ‘So,’ he said, feigning nonchalance, ‘how much would a spell like that cost?’

Leech drew thirstily from his pint and wiped the froth from his top lip. He thought for a second and replied, ‘I should think, what with it being a new spell and this being the only one, about four thousand gold blunders at least.’

Turd responded by spraying the sales rep with very expensive whisky. ‘Four thousand...?’ he began coughing.

‘I could make it three five for you,’ Leech said, wiping eighty seven percent spittle from his face.

‘Forget it,’ Turd replied, ‘what about those other spells I asked for?’

‘The levitation and whatnot?’

‘Yes’

‘Five hundred apiece,’ Leech said flatly.

‘When can you get them.’

‘A couple of weeks at the earliest,’ Leech replied. And then as an after thought, ‘you have got the necessary craft level to cope with these spells haven’t you?’

‘Oh yes,’ Turd lied, taking a large swig from his whisky bottle.

‘If it’s not too much of an imposition,’ Leech oil slicked, ‘may I see your Character card?’

Turd rummaged in his inside tunic pocket, where he kept his dice, and produced a small card. On it was his character name, alliance, initial craft and strength levels, and a list of special abilities (mostly inabilities in this case except for one which was “you may always evade pub brawls”). He waved it in front of the rep’s eyes, never letting go of it, cunningly concealing the number under the heading “Gold Blunders” with his index finger.

‘Craft level a half,’ Leech read, rather too loudly for Turd’s liking.

‘It’s enough,’ Turd said, replacing his Character card quickly. ‘I don’t need much to learn these spells anyway.’

‘I have the very thing you need,’ Leech said reaching, once more into his bag. He produced a small porcelain bottle with a small cork in the top. He showed Turd the label.

‘Mindlax™ the mind expanding drug,’ Turd read aloud. ‘Take after meals keep out of reach of fairies.’

‘Works wonders on athlete’s foot too,’ Leech said knowingly. ‘It’ll increase your craft level by five points, no matter what your existing level.’

Turd’s face lit up with glee and he made a grab for the bottle. Leech snatched it away quickly.

‘Yours for one hundred gold blunders,’ he said.

Turd thought for a while.

‘Er… will you excuse me for a minute?’ he asked, ‘call of nature.’

‘Sure, go ahead,’ Leech said, ‘I’ll be right here when you get back.’

Turd had the initial stages of a plan forming in his mind. This coupled with Mange’s Puissant Stealth Whisky was making him feel more than a little light headed. ‘Perfect,’ he thought. He got off his bar stool, tottered, lost his balance and fell against Leech Badsmell.

‘S-ssorry,’ he slurred, exaggerating his condition slightly. ‘Bit pished!’

As he fell his hand slid inside Leech’s jacket pocket and when he straightened up he whipped out one of the freebie scrolls. He lurched away towards a sign marked “bogs” and went through a doorway, concealing the scroll from view as he went. Once out of sight he dropped the act quickly unfolded the scroll and read it. As before the scroll vanished in a puff of smoke.

To prevent the spell salesman from becoming suspicious he meandered over to the hedge marked “gents” and relieved himself. Judging by the sparse cloud cover it was going to be a nice day.

He re-entered the pub and sat on his stool. The shortarse sales git was still there, finishing off his lager shandy.

‘How about a free sample?’ Turd asked.

Leech instinctively thought, “on yer bike” but instead found himself saying, ‘sure, help yourself’. He handed Turd a bottle of Mindlax™.

‘I MUST have that spell!’ Turd thought. He uncorked the bottle and drank the lot in one mouthful. He re-corked the empty bottle as he swallowed noisily.

‘Cheers,’ he said, ‘I-’ he stopped short. Sat on the stool in front of him was a green furry octopus in a shocking pink showercap. It was grinning a big cheesy grin at him. Turd rubbed his eyes. The walls of the pub began to wobble as though they were made of rubber and the floor beneath him lurched violently from side to side. Suddenly, from out of the blue, a large codpiece hit him in the face.

He woke up sat on the floor with stars chasing round his head.

‘That’s good stuff!’ he said, getting to his feet. He whipped out his Character card and was delighted to see “Craft level: 5½”.

He got back on his bar stool and returned to his bottle of whisky.

‘So,’ Leech said, ‘are you still interested in the spell then?’

‘Not at your price!’ Turd said flatly.

‘Perhaps another time,’ Leech said.

At that moment a crusty old git, adorned in robes the wearer thought made him look sage (but in actual fact made him look rather stupid), moved between them. He was ordering a pint of Stuntbuggers’ a bottle of bacardi some coke and five packets of cheese and onion crisps. He wore a long cone shaped hat with false, woollen like hair hanging from the brim. On closer inspection, Turd noticed the hat was adorned with silvery stars and crescent shaped moons. This prompted him to ask the following question:

‘You’re a wizard aren’t you?’

‘Yes,’ the old fart replied. ‘How did you guess?’

‘A wizard you say?’ Leech said, latching on to the conversation as his name would suggest. ‘Would you be interested in a spell?’

‘Of course I would you bloody idiot, I’m a wizard,’ the wizard said.

‘Well do I have a spell for you?’ Leech said, once again launching into his sales routine.

‘I doubt it,’ the wizened wizard replied. A tray with his drinks had been placed on the bar in front of him. He paid and turned to return to his seat. ‘You do have something I need though,’ he said, ‘would you be interested in earning some money?’

‘Of course I would, I’m a salesman,’ Leech replied.

The wizard returned to his seat, the diminutive sales rep in tow.

Turd remained on his bar stool taking regular draughts from his whisky bottle. At the speed of a snail with diarrhoea the gentle rays of thought dawned across his alcohol soaked brain. ‘MONEY!’ he said aloud. Seconds later he was off his stool and searching for the wizened old fart in a nightie and the shortarse. He eventually spied them sitting at the table with the buxom wench and the mountainous barbarian. On closer inspection he could see the wench was clad in a scant sequinned dress which strained to contain her ample curvature. (The rest of the detail was somewhat blurred as Turd’s stingy author still hadn’t sent off for a fuller description or photos). Equipped with the huntsman’s skills that have earned him his fame and living he stealthily sidled up to their table with the intention of eavesdropping on their conversation. He tripped over his cloak and landed flat on his face. From this vantage point he could hear the low mutterings from the group’s table:

‘…at’s agreed then, Leech here will accompany you on your quest and if you are successful my king will pay handsomely.’

‘They always do,’ Turd thought. ‘I’ve never heard of a hideous king paying anything.’

He stood up directly behind the wizard, his cloak hood concealing his face. He wrestled with it for a few seconds as he tried to free himself from within. As one they all turned to stare at him.

‘There it is!’ Turd gasped. He was somewhat knackered after his struggle with his attire. Pretending to hold something between his thumb and forefinger, he made a big show of putting the ‘something’ in his pocket. ‘I hope you don’t mind but I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation,’ he said into the ensuing silence. ‘Would I be right in assuming that you’ve just signed this con-man up for a quest?’

‘Aye,’ the wizard said guardedly, ‘we might’ve.’

‘Well that’s fine,’ Turd continued, his mouth drying rapidly as his brain’s gears ground. ‘I just thought you ought to know that he’s thoroughly unsuitable for the quest in question.’

‘How would you know?’ Leech said, getting down from his chair reducing his height by a foot. He stood directly in front of Turd in an attempt to block him out of the discussion. ‘You don’t even know what the quest is.’

‘I flatter myself by saying that my huntsman’s skills would be invaluable to any quest,’ Turd said, trying to sound confident.

The wizard arched an eyebrow. ‘Go on,’ he said.

‘I have, er… been on many quests and faced many perils and lived to tell the tale,’ Turd continued.

‘Lies!’ Leech shouted. ‘The only quests this inebriated oaf has been on are those between pubs.’

‘And also one other important difference between myself and shortarse here,’ Turd said, ignoring Leech’s protests, ‘is that my foot isn’t permanently affixed to the floor of this pub.

‘What are you talking about?’ Leech said incredulously. ‘My feet aren’t-’

He stopped mid sentence. His face swelled with silent agony.

Turd smiled benignly and took his finger away from his crossbow’s trigger.

‘Oh yes!’ the wizard commented, ‘I hadn’t noticed that fourteen inch crossbow bolt nailing his foot firmly to the floor. Good job you happened along when you did.’

‘Isn’t it,’ Turd agreed. Leech finally let out a cry of pain but it was too late. Turd was already being filled in on the details of the quest in question (and that’s not easy to say after the amount Turd’s had to drink!).

‘Then that’s settled then,’ The wizard said, ‘you two will rescue the fair Isha’ in return for a small fortune, fame and notoriety throughout the land.’

‘And beer money!’ Grunthut said draining the contents of his flagon.

‘Yes,’ the wizard said, patiently. ‘Come! My friends,’ he said, ‘we must find you some transport and supplies for the journey.’

‘Long journey fraught with danger and peril I hope,’ Grunthut confirmed.

‘Of course,’ The wizard said, ‘it has to be in order to conform to the Hero’s Union Handbook.’

The foursome ventured out of the pub in search of provisions and horses, the wizard being constantly framed by the lovely Doreen with every other step she took.

Once outside Turd stopped. ‘Just a moment,’ he said, ‘shan’t be a tick’. He nipped back inside the pub. There was a dull thud and Leech’s faint cries were silenced. Turd emerged from the dark interior tucking a wax sealed scroll into his belt.

‘I believe this is yours,’ he said, handing Grunthut a large Codpiece of the Gods.

Frigg froze as a sea of the ugliest faces he’d ever seen slowly surveyed his sprawled form. A troll farted explosively, somebody sneezed, and a nervous cough came from the speaker up on the rostrum:

‘Err, Dr. Plague-bringer-foul-face?’

Frigg turned towards the grotesque figure, his throat dry in anticipation of the horrors that were about to be wrought upon his feeble body.

‘Dr. Plague. I do apologise. We’d just received word that you’d been slain by a fiendishly cunning barbarian and a cruelly skilful huntsman. I was attempting to fill in for you - please take the rostrum. Ladies, gentlemen, monsters all, I give you Dr. plague-bringer, amputator of a thousand appendages, infector of a dozen villages and scourge of the south-central regional health authority.’

The hall broke into rapturous applause, wild hooting and much stamping of cloven-hooves and scabby feet.

It slowly dawned on Frigg, that the cheering was for his benefit. His blistering, salve-encrusted face had been mistaken for his true visage. It could only mean one thing: not only was he about to lose his life in one of the most historic ritual torturings of all time, but he was going to be forced to humiliate himself first.

Suicide was the only option. He reached in his bag for the vial of poison he’d stolen from a blind wizard, but a strong pair of warty hands plucked the bag from him before he could grasp the vial.

‘Here, allow me Dr. Ah, I see you have some film. I’ll just turn on the slide projector - it won’t take a moment...’

Grunthut and Turd approached the livery stable with Grunthut clutching the credit note from P’Daniels. He had no idea what the squiggles were on the sheet of parchment, but he was “buggered if I’m going to let that weasely little shit carry anything of value, do you think I’m thick or sommat?” Turd, wisely, had kept quiet.

Pushing past a shepherd and three guys in flash suits the barbarian swung the huge door of the barn open sending a young woman with a curiously glowing head careering across the floor. Looking down to where she was recently stood he saw a baby delicately wrapped in linen and resting in a food trough on a bed of sweet, fresh hay.

‘Bit unhygienic isn’t it,’ he said turning to Turd. ‘The horses have got to eat out of that.’

The two adventurers approached a small man who seemed somewhat caked in horse shit, kneeling behind a large black stallion.

‘Just a moment sir and I’ll be with you and your animal in a moment,’ he said glancing at the thief. Grunthut growled under his breath causing the man to jump up in fright, startle the horse and receive a hefty blow to the nether regions from the great hoof. Tears in his eyes he croaked, ‘Ooo, me nads!’ and fell to the floor where upon the two observers saw the effects of the horse dysentery that had been going round and provided an explanation of the man’s rather encrusted appearance.

As giggles were suppressed an arm was placed around Turd’s shoulder.

‘Can I help you two gentlemen?’ a slimy voice oozed into their ears.

The smell of horse diarrhoea filled Turd’s nostrils. He choked and gagged but held the vomit back. This was no longer funny.

Suddenly something hit his shoulder. It squirmed slightly as it rested there and the rest of the arm coiled around the back of his neck like a snake, only cold and slimy.

‘Can I help you two gentlemen?’ a greasy voice oozed.

Turd stuck a finger in his ear and waggled it to relieve the oleaginous sensation from within.

‘We need some horses,’ Turd said. He turned to face the showroom assistant. He was about Turd’s height, plump and very oily; certainly on his hair. Clean shaven, save for a thin pencil line moustache he wore a smart fur lined coat and flamboyant shirt with trousers to match. Unlike his manure caked associate he was remarkably free of shit. His eyes were narrow and his straight nose jutted out from his face at a sharp angle. He was grinning, displaying a full set of large, pristine white teeth.

‘Of course you do,’ oozed the salesman, ‘and do you know why you came here for them?’

‘Well because you-'

‘That’s right!’ the salesman butted in. ‘Because of the tremendous bargains to be had, I mean, to be picked up here.’

‘Well we need two fairly fast horses and-‘ Turd began.

‘Hey!’ the horse peddler interrupted, ‘do I look like the kind of guy that would deal in second-rate goods?’

‘Well, ye-‘

‘’Course not!’ the rep said, once again butting in. ‘Now! Is there anything here that takes your fancy?’

‘Anything, as long as it’s fast,’ Turd said, surprised that he was allowed to finish a sentence. ‘Oh, and do you have any shire horses for my friend here.’

The horse man frowned and scratched his chin.

‘Hmm. Yes, he is a bit on the large size.’ He led them down the stable corridor and up the garden path at the same time. ‘How about this one?’ he asked. The horse was magnificent. Glossy coat and well groomed mane it stood about sixteen hands high.

‘Splendid,’ Turd said, ‘we’ll take two.’

‘They’re rather expensive,’ the salesman said, almost apologetically.

‘It’s OK!’ Turd said, ‘we’ve got a credit note from-’

‘I’m sorry sir,’ the rep interrupted, ‘we only take credit from our registered customers. If you would like to register I could get you the forms...’

‘How long will that take?’ Turd asked.

‘Oh about fourteen days,’ the rep answered.

Grunthut growled.

‘Two days I mean,’ he hastily amended.

Grunthut growled again, louder this time and his hand instinctively went to his long bent thing with a sort of knobbly bit on the end (filthy beast!).

‘A couple of hours at least,’ The rep blurted, paling noticeably.

Grunthut lent over so that his eyes met with the rep’s. Their noses scant centimetres away from each other. He bared his teeth and growled again. The rep shrieked and stepped back, flattening himself against the stable door. Grunthut handed over the note from P’Daniels which the rep accepted not once losing eye contact.

‘If you’d like to step through to the courtyard I’ll have them made ready for you,’ the rep said, his voice noticeably shaky.

‘I’ll collect them in the morning,’ Grunthut stated.

They left the horse rep in a somewhat nervous state and went forth in search of bargains and trinkets from the Chipping Potatoe market.

Stepping from the fragrant gloom of the barn into what was a bustling market place, both Turd and Grunthut were surprised to find the village square empty. Closer investigation of the nearest shop front clarified the situation.

“Half-day closing. Fuck off we’re shut!” read the notice, written with the normal Chipping Potatoe candour.

‘Let’s have a look round then,’ stated Turd, an idea already forming in his mind.

Ten yards later, standing under a sign graphically depicting the current monarch’s spouse and a particularly impressive marrow (a further description and copies of this can be acquired only from a small specialist shop in Rotterdam) was a blackboard reading, “It’s Thursday, half-day closing, you’re off work, come into the Queen’s Vagina and get pissed!”

After a lengthy argument and following much persuasion on the need to be really relaxed and refreshed before a quest of such epic proportions lasting all of 3 picoseconds our heroes entered to become relaxed and refreshed.

Legs a-tremble, Frigg stumbled in a blind panic onto the stage and towards the vacant podium. A hearty clap on the shoulder almost parted the joint and propelled him the last couple of feet. He stared through unseeing, watery eyes, over the assembled nightmare before him.

An expectant hush settled over the crowd.

It was all too much for his poor sphincter, which relaxed humiliatingly to let out a vocal gust of noxious air.

An appreciative murmur rippled through the crowd: a good start.

Frigg was too far gone in fear to even worry about whether he’d followed through. He stood there, mouth agape, mind blank.

There was a sudden flash of light from the back of the hall, as the hairy goblin who’d stolen his bag stoked up the flames of the slide projector. On the main screen, a taut leather curtain haphazardly stitched together and sporting the occasional blemish that looked suspiciously like human nipples, a pleasant woodland scene brightened into technicolor life.

The crowd took in a harsh breath, someone screamed. The collection of twisted faces slowly lost their smiles and an angry muttering began to swell from the back of the hall. A small bone, hurled from the midst of the audience bounced off Frigg’s head.

The impact brought him sharply back to unreality. He remembered taking the photo the previous morning, just before...

* The projectionist, clearly upset with his first slide, moved onto the next:

A large and unhealthy looking turd sat nestling amongst some flowers. *

...just before his early morning dump.

The anxious crowd exploded into laughter. The monster that had introduced him leaned forward, a look of relief on her distorted features, and raised her hand. Frigg flinched under the expected blow, which set the congealing cream on his face to wobbling. Mistaking this for a nod of acknowledgement, the ogre cleared her throat and ventured:

‘The tree blight of Elvenhome - the terrible disease that forced the Puffy-folk to torch their own forest? You poisoned the roots with Dragon dung?’

Frigg gaped, dumbfounded for a long couple of seconds and then a spark of ingenuity flared in his fuddled brain. He tightened his throat, to force his voice into a low rasp.

‘Errr, NO.....’ he rasped, desperately trying to remember the name of that village where they’d had to drown all the children in the local well, before filling it in with soil. ‘The....err... Plague of Poxford!’ he blurted triumphantly, ‘I infected the local playground with dog shit from the hounds of Anusol, Lord of the Galloping Trots.’

The place erupted into jubilant applause...

It was late evening. The great P’Daniels sat at a wooden desk facing the window overlooking the empty market place. Illuminated by a single candle, the room appeared alive with cavorting shadow phantoms. Working feverishly at a new spell he’d been creating, he finally gave up for the night and decided to join in with the revelry emanating from below. He donned his wig and pointy hat and descended the stairs to the bar. On entering the bar he saw a large pissed barbarian and an equally pissed weasely huntsman. Anger welled up inside him and he stormed over to confront them.

‘What the bloody buggery are you two still doing here?’ he ranted. ‘You’re supposed to be on your way to Freebeer!’

The barbarian looked blankly at the wizard before a dopey grin swarmed over his face. He pointed a finger at him and blew through his lips in a kind of laugh, spraying the wizard with spittle.

Turd (bless his inebriated battle socks), on hearing the phrase “Freebeer” sat up and offered his flagon for the wizard to refill; a soppy grin adorned his face also.

‘ !’ the wizard said, mouth agape.

‘Whee’ll be orff in th’ morning,’ Turd said, realising he wasn’t going to get a refill. ‘Wur’re jus’ killin’ toime ‘till th’ horsees’re ready.’

‘And just how much time have you been killing exactly?’ The wizard inquired, arms folded his foot tapping impatiently. Grunthut, by this time, had begun to belch and sway.

‘Well, we began at that end of the bar and now we’re here,’ Turd replied pointing down to the far end of the pub.

‘So you’re telling me you’ve almost consumed the entire contents of this pub?’ the wizard fumed.

‘Yep!’ Turd said proudly.

‘And here’s me thinking you both took this quest because you were broke,’ the wizard said, throwing his hands up as Doreen wasn’t there to gesticulate for him.

‘We are,’ Turd said, ‘this has been on your tab mate.’ He raised his tankard slopping some of the contents over his head.

The wizard stood stock still, fists clenched, eyes screwed up tight, his face brightened to a rouged hue as steam shot out of each ear.

‘Can you do that with alternate ears?’ Turd enquired politely.

‘YOU STUPID BASTARDS!’ the wizard screamed. A silence followed and Grunthut stopped belching. With a strength that can only come from one so puny in the madness of rage, the wizard grabbed the adventurers by the scalp and dragged them from the pub. He dumped them outside the closed livery stables and kicked hard on the door.

‘Piss off twat!’ the owner shouted from the window above, the Chipping Potatoe brusqueness more pronounced at this hour. ‘We’re fucking well closed!’

‘Open this door or I will turn you into a steaming pile of shit!’ the wizard shouted.

‘You’re too late!’ a voice cried from across the square.

Footsteps were heard from within. A series of locks and bolts were undone and drawn back and the door to the stables was flung open.

‘You want a horse at this hour?’ the dishevelled rep asked, somewhat disgruntled. ‘What are you some sort of pervert?’

‘These two need horses,’ the wizard said gesturing at the two intoxicated oafs at his heels. ‘I believe they we’re in earlier today.’

‘Those two again!’ the rep said. ‘Yes they were. They said they’d pick up the horses in the morning.’

‘It is morning,’ the wizard said, pointing to his magical talisman he wore around his wrist.

‘Right!’ the rep said, ‘I’ll get the horses.’

He disappeared into the depths of the stable and returned minutes later leading two horses. One was the magnificent horse they had been shown earlier, the other was more unkempt, shorter and (unknown to them) had raging shits. It had a cross shaped plaster on its rump.

‘Is that it?’ the wizard asked.

‘It’s all we’ve got at this time of night!’ the rep scowled.

‘It’s good enough for these two,’ the wizard said.

Together they manhandled Grunthut, who had dozed off, so that he lay, face down, across the stronger of the two horses. Turd, who had passed out, was sat on the back of the smaller horse. He slid off. They tried again and this time tied his ankle to the stirrup. They led the horses to the edge of town and pointed them roughly in the direction of Freebeer. Together they slapped the horses’ flanks and watched as the horses galloped into the night, one leaving a steaming trail behind it. From the dark they heard the sound of a pissed idiot hitting the ground and being dragged into the distance.

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