COPYRIGHT INFO The Sporadic Verses are copyright 1992, 1993 and 1994 by Jeff Berry and Ben Baron. They may be reproduced in any SCA publication so long as this copyright notice is retained, they are not sold for profit, and the authors receive a copy. If you want to sell them for profit, or buy the nice bound collected editions, contact Jeff Berry, nexus@panix.com END OF COPYRIGHT INFO - Date: 11/25/97 The Sporadic Verses - an epistle in n parts Being a Satire of nothing in particular Be the first on your block to be banished! From the civic minded pens of Louis-Philippe Mitouard and Alexandre Lerot d'Avigne Episode the Eleventh (Bet you never thought it would go this far!) Chapter Twenty-Six The sun rose on a pleasant Crown Tournament morning. As always happened in the Imperium, the sunrise arrived a little late, coming this day at about 15 minutes past dawn, Imperial Time. The camp rose to the cry of the herald for morning court. This herald cried slightly louder than most as he was immediately impaled on the early morning spears of the Viking Secret Police Death Squad. Baron Wulfric smiled in his sleep at the sound and took no further notice of it. John the Smith awoke and rolled over. He dressed, kissed his mistress goodbye, making a mental note to learn her name, and set off for court. Archduke Sir Lancelot Soloflex awoke and rolled over. He dressed, kissed his several mistresses goodbye, and with a mental pat on the head to himself for surpassing his personal best for a major interkingdom event, he set off for court. Sir Duncan mac Dostoyevsky awoke and rolled over. He dressed, and cursing the bone crushing, numbing bitter cold of the Steppes and the damp of the Highlands (which he always did, whether it was cold and damp or not), he set off for court. Master Shadrach Greymane awoke for a moment. He looked out the flap of his authentic Mongol Yurt to see the authentic sun authentically on the ascendent. He squinted into the sun, groaned, and determined to wait until at least mid-day, or until the elephants in his head slowed to a trot. So he rolled over and went back to sleep. Chapter Twenty-Seven To court came the masses. Seated there were the King and Queen of the Wastelands, flanked by, for as far as the eye could see in either direction, visiting royalty of other kingdoms. Finally, the trained eye could spy at the far left end of the rostrum a small camp stool marked unmistakably with the blue mailed fist of the arms of Warmongeria. More centrally, King Jocko, nursing the grandmother of drug induced headaches, slumped in his throne, while Queen Barbie made shy goo-goo eyes at Reginald Miyamo-san, who stood nearby. Of Jocko's army, there were few in sight. Most, with less reason to attend court than their king, were still sleeping or easing the suddenly unbearable loads of their stomach, and the faint sound of a retching army wafted to the assembled lords and ladies in the crowd. Flanked by his fearsome Northmen Baron Wulfric approached the throne. Baron Wulfric was upset this day. For those who knew him this was no surprise. King Jocko bowed slightly to his tardy vassal and with gritted teeth graciously waved an open palm in the direction of the camp stool. "Your Excellency, it would please us if you would take your proper place in Our court." Wulfric gave no answer, but gave a Jocko a sour face then strode quickly, if huffily, over to the stool and planted himself with a sound thud into the seat. "I told you he'd like sitting with us," Queen Barbie lisped. "See how quickly he accepted your invitation." While waiting for court to begin, John began, as he usually did when he was bored, to scan the crowd. His eyes met those of Duke Charles the Ancient, First King of the Wastelands, First Prince of the Wastelands, First Baron of the Wastelands, First Knight of the Wastelands -- John ticked off the list, as he had heard Duke Charles recite it incessantly. Mentally he added, "First fatality from being crushed under a stampede" -- wishful thinking. Duke Charles headed through the crowd, seeing his old friend -- he knew him by a different name, of course. "Say, my boy," he began as he swam through the crowd toward John. "Did I ever tell that I wrote the entire Crown Tournament ceremony." John, prepared to cut and run, instead decided to look as oblique as possible -- a strategy similar to going limp when in the clutches of a ravenous bear -- and see if Duke Charles forgot about him -- Charles didn't. However, just then, fate intervened. Court started promptly, giving rise to eyebrows amongst the cognoscenti, for such a thing was unheard of in the Imperium. The herald, in customary fashion, threw out the first miscue. "My bores and toadies, gentiles all, pray attend the words of Their Magottys, Barbie and Jocko, King and Queen of the Wastelands." The crowd roared with laughter. Unfazed, King Jocko merely produced a decorative black and gold braided rope noose which he handed to one of his courtiers and pointed to a nearby tree. Chapter Twenty-Eight Behind that tree, awaiting just such a rough and forced transition as this, armies were approaching. From the south came the Northmen of Warmongeria. At their head was the the Amazonian Vikingette, Gunbutta, second in command to Wulfric, her highly polished breast-spikes gleaming coldly in the morning sun, and her fake six foot pony-tail swinging free. Obviously a veteran, seasoned army, they marched with their Fighter Authorization cards held prominently for all to see -- a maneuver obviously born of many years experience campaigning in the Imperium. Every few yards, one soldier or another removed his helm and engaged in what, to untrained eyes, might appear like prayer. They bent their heads to the ground and issued what sounded like a fearsome war yell. They were not doing so, of course. A less starry-eyed observer would immediately know that they were, in fact, doing penance for the previous night's libationary excesses. From the East came the plebian hordes of the Obscurian Peoples Front, wretched huddled masses, yearning to be free. Jasper lead them, tossing free broadsheets as he came. They were a novice, untutored army, many authorized only this morning and with somewhat dubious patches of colored tape on their helms -- an indication that their armor inspection had been rudely falsified. This did not stop them from performing rituals similar to those of the more heroic warriors of the previous paragraph. They, too, had not spent the night in abstinence. From the North came the army of Countess Fatima herself. Her Belly Dance Infiltration Squad had cast aside their flimsy gauze in favor of revealing chainmail bikinis and had been joined by other members of the Revolutionary Guard provided by the PELICANs. Fatima herself was resplendent in black leather armor with chrome studs, and sported a truly determined look. The Infiltration Squad wandered off in ones and twos as the army came on. The Revolutionary Guard stood fast, though, in their armor which was as ugly as it was functional, in best PELICAN style. Chapter Thirty "Something is very wrong," John thought, and suiting word to thought, he spoke. "Cyrano, something is very wrong." "I noticed it, too," replied the Cavalier, dressed in his finest purple tie-dye for the occasion. "The replacement herald hasn't missed a cue yet, and his pronunciation is correct." "What's more, business is being taken care of in an orderly and efficient manner. Notice that the scrolls are ready to be read, medallions are near to hand and so forth." John shook his head in amazement. "I agree, it is unprecedented." Suddenly Cyrano grabbed John's armed and pointed to the thrones, "Of course, it all makes perfect sense!" John followed the indicative digit and saw swinging about an attendant's neck the Bloody Bird medallion of PELICAN. With eager eyes he examined the scene. Down near the throne of the Dowager Duchess of Octagenaria he caught a glimpse of movement. As he watched, a copy of Kingdom Law was brought down with brutal force on the head of the Duchess' personal herald. As the woman fell, a similarly dressed matron stepped into her place, without missing a beat. Behind her, two of her companions carried the prostrate courtier away. All along the row of thrones, the same scene was played out, as one by one Courtiers were replaced with evil doubles. "Cyrano, perhaps we'd best leave." "Mais oui." Suddenly, the air was rent with a cry feared across the entire Imperium, "Lay on!" With a huge, yet disorganized rush, the three armies crested the hill, where they stopped cold upon seeing one another. In the void, the Viking herald spoke, "All rise and pay due homage to his Future Majesty Baron Wulfric." The crowd, fearful of reprisals if they were not respectful, did so. With a bit of impatience, the Marshall's voice again rang out, "No hold has been called." This was enough for the armies and with a mighty cry, the battle was joined. Fatima led a charge against Gunbutta, knowing instinctively that this would make for the most picturesque scene. Gunbutta scenting her natural enemy -- a woman with identifiably feminine traits, took up the challenge, and hurling fearsome oaths swept down the hill. At the end of the rostrum, Wulfric placed his helmet upon his head and grabbed a rattan sword from behind his throne. Joined by the VSPDS, he strode out towards the battle. Jasper and the OPF found themselves temporarily without a target. Their goal had been unclear at the best of times, and now faced with their only clear objective -- defeat Fatima -- being dealt with violently by Gunbutta, they decided to run around pointlessly in circles. Jasper himself settled down to ruminate about the fact that he, a revolutionary, found himself actively campaigning to maintain the status quo. "Let me see", thought Jasper loud enough for the reader to follow along, "Jocko has decided that he will not give up the throne, something that must be prevented at all costs as it will endanger the entire Imperium. PELICAN learned of this and has duped Fatima into leading an army to depose Jocko. However, Fatima intends to install a democratic form of government, a thing so vile that only someone in the grip of dementia could dream of it. Thus, the OPF was mobilized for three purposes: first, to prevent Jocko's plan, second, to prevent Fatima's plan, and third to install a form of government less vulnerable to abuse by nasty fighters with big sticks and small brains, but not so radical as that of the deranged Countess. But now, it seems that Baron Wulfric has decided to execute a coup d'etat and even now his army is locked in mortal combat with that of Fatima O'Rourke, while Jocko's army, suffering from debilitating hangovers, has yet to take the field. "Further, John the Smith, as our inveterate schemer is calling himself now, has allied himself with Cyrano d'Esclops who is currently in league with the deposed and disgraced Anne of Creighton. Their plans are unclear to me, but are surely warped, and seem to involve the Laurel Queen Shadrach Darkmane. To complicate matters further, Lancelot Soloflex is on the scene, and appears to be prepared to enter Crown Tournament, fighting for an incredibly ugly and somewhat masculine Germanic person. "The upshot of all this being that I have not the slightest clue where to commit my troops." He raised his eyes to his disorganized rabble who milled aimlessly about the fringes of the battle occasionally ganging up on isolated units from either of the other armies, but only when they could muster ten to one odds or better. Suddenly, as if on cue. Members of all the armies begin to drop with no one near them to throw a blow. The Marshall's voice again shook the valley. "Hold! We have fighters suffering heat stroke. Chirurgeon!" A silence fell upon the field, as people gaily dressed in argent tabards blazoned with large crosses, gules, stormed out to the fields. Jocko, no fool -- well, not a great fool, well, okay, in an astonishing display of intelligence, decided to make his move. He stood. Behind him the four PELICANs who had been poised to strike pulled back and clumsily concealed their copies of Corpora and Kingdom Law, and shoved the patient Boffo back under the stage, where he had been awaiting the proper moment to replace Jocko (as described in Episode 8*). "My loyal subjects!" Jocko said. As one, the entire valley full of people turned to face the King. Their astonishment was complete. In twelve reigns, Jocko had never directly addressed the populace, preferring to do all his speaking by way of a constantly changing staff of heralds. They gazed in open-mouthed, slack- jawed wonderment as the King continued. Faced with his subjects, Jocko recalled why he never spoke to the populace, as he suffered an attack of stage fright so severe that it would have halted a charging water- buffalo. "aie, aie, I,I,I,I ..." he babbled and tried to nod intelligently. "Umm, big news! Yes! Big!" He indicated with his hands how large the news was, and it was large indeed. "No step down! I won't step down!" On firmer footing here, Jocko found himself capable of forming complete sentences. "I won't step down, my successor will be chosen, as the law says, but he will not be crowned! I will remain King." Although Jocko was mostly incoherent, as was true of any good, basic speech, the crowd grasped the rudiments -- No, Step, Down. "Damn," thought Jasper, Cyrano, Fatima, the PELICAN Seneschal, and Wulfric, as well as several others. "Oh, goody! We did it!" whispered Barbie to Miyamo, who rolled his eyes. "Huh?" thought Boffo, under the stage. Lancelot, as usual, didn't think at all. Shadrach merely snored on blissfully unaware. -------------------------------------------------------------------------- * What? You don't have a copy of Episode 8? First read the dictionary entry under "shameless hype" and second, after overcoming your shame, contact BJ Publishing who will provide with a lovingly bound copy of the collected Sporadic Verses, so that your life may be complete.