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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
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END OF COPYRIGHT INFO - Date: 11/25/97

The Sporadic Verses - an epistle in n parts
Being a Satire of nothing in particular and containing
no political content whatsoever.

        From the politically correct pens of
                Louis-Philippe Mitouard   and
                Alexandre Lerot d'Avigne

		    Episode the Second


Chapter 3

	John's mind virtually whirred with the possibilities as he
stood speaking to the cavalier.  What had started out as an amusing
power play, could turn by a twist of fortune into a full-fledged
craven grab at Imperial domination.  Imagine forming a new
Principality with untapped resources of men and desire.  Why,
they could go Kingdom within a year.  All he had to do was gain their
support, and of course, get himself installed as Prince.  This
couldn't be that tough, especially with this crowd, he figured.

	"You know, sirrah," the rogue said, "You almost got the better of
me.  Asking for my green card is a nasty trick.  Probably would have
fooled a lesser man, too.  Why, I venture that, in this kingdom,  half
the knights on the field aren't authorized for _their_ weapons styles,
either.  I could use more brigands who are as fast on their feet as
you.  Maybe you're right, forming a Principality has a certain appeal.
Would you come back with us?  We can discuss this with the Queen.  We
set a fine table, mind you.  You won't go hungry ..."

	John thought about the invitation for an instant.  What Queen
could he be speaking of?  The Wastelands was ruled by a King. 
He decided to go.  A decision aided, in part, by the fact that
the cavalier still had a pistol leveled (albeit quite illegally) at
his navel.

	"Of course, I would be delighted," John said, in a cautious
voice, which seemed to indicate quite the opposite.

	"Right, then." The cavalier turned and yelled toward the bushes,
"Percy, Neville, Gaston, come on down here lads, we have ourselves a dinner
guest."

	John mounted up, and was soon joined by three other fops.
John and his four acquaintances rode down the road.  As they went,
John struck up a conversation.  It was the same old sad story from
each of them.  At an early age, their mothers had tried to put a
broadsword in their hand, and named them Thor or Snorri, or Conner,
but it never seemed right.  They yearned for clothes with buttons, and
to eat with a fork. 

	"You know, I never got _your_ name," John said to the leader.

	"Well, that's another sad story.  You see, my mother named me
Jackson, but the College of Heralds said that surnames are out of
period, so my friends just call me Jack."

	"Oh the injustice of it all," John said, his voice rising with
feigned passion. "I'm sure you yearn for your own Principality
where you can walk the streets without being called wire weenies or
swishy pokers.  I know what it is to be hated.  That's how I felt when
I got banished from the kingdom," John said, forcing a crocodilian
tear to his eye.

	"You were banished?" Jack inquired ingenuously.

	"Oh, yes" 

	"What for?"

	"I was once employed as the Royal Surveyor.  I was asked to
survey the Royal Road from Big Rock to Militaropolis.  I estimated it
at five hundred miles -- too far to travel in a day.  Once word got
out, my goose was cooked.

	"First the Palmers' Guild got upset, saying that no one would
go on a pilgrimage to Militaropolis if they knew it was so far, and
then the Relics and Antiquities makers got into the act.  No pilgrims
means no Relic sales.  The knights whined that they wouldn't travel to
Militaropolis if it meant having to sleep in a strange bed at night.
Pretty soon the King asked if I wouldn't say that I had meant
furlongs instead of miles.  Being a man of principle, I refused.  So,
he banished me."
	
	"So, you're a marked man -- just like us," Jack added.

	They rode until sunset, finally coming upon an aging manor
house, set back next to the hillside.  It looked slightly run down,
but was most notable for its plum and orange color scheme.  The colors
mixed in an awkward clash -- not exactly at war, but instead settling
in a somewhat uneasy detente.

	John and Jack dismounted, put up their horses and walked side
by side toward the front door, followed by the other brigands.

	"Not a bad place," John mused idly, waving a hand toward the
house. "Is it yours?  I thought	you had no money."

	"Ah, we scrape by.  It's not a rich life but we manage."

	"How do you do it.  Surely not by robbery," John said.
"You are, I'm sorry to say, not much of a highwayman.  You must have
made sound investments.  Gold from the Colonies?"

	"Nay"

	"Family Heirlooms?"

	"No"

	"Tea from India?"

	"Never.  Because I like ye, I'll let you in on the secret.  We
have the silk underdrawers concession.  Don't let those Viking fellows
fool you.  They might seem tough enough, roaring about, burning things,
swinging their axes, but their braes chafe just like the next man's.
They're some of our best customers."

	They marched through the entry-way into a large sitting room,
where they were joined by a large portly man, clad in black with a
tall black Puritan hat.  The company took comfortable chairs scattered
about the room, except the black clad man, who stood scowling in the
middle.

	"John," Jack began, "I'd like you to meet my Priest."

	"John the Smith, ever at your service, and you are ... " John asked
the scowling Puritan.

	"Father Damn-the-evil-King-to-Hell-and-let-him-burn-his-bottom-for-
eternity Pettiworth ... the third," the Puritan said, without cracking
a smile.  If anything would make him smile, it would be saying his
name, thought John, smashing down the peals of laughter which were
marching up his gorge.  The Father turned stiffly and walked to the other
end of the room, where he stood, warming his hands by the fire.  

	Jack stood and walked quietly over to John.  "He's not so bad after you
get to know him," Jack said. "He can even be amusing ... well, not 
intentionally -- watch."

	Jack took his scabbard from over his shoulder, and with a
rather broad grin toward John dropped the rapier loudly on the floor. 
"Damn," Jack exclaimed in the general direction of the Father.

	The Father whirled in anger, "You do take liberties with me
sir.  I told you never to call me that.  Only my mother calls me
that."  He spluttered some more and stormed out of the room.

	"So, that's the entertainment.  Lets on to dinner -- we'll hear your
plan, John," Jack said laughing broadly.

	*********************************

	The Puritan stood for prayer as the covered trays steamed in
the center of the table, "Oh God, who will most certainly chastise those
who persecute your rightful followers, who led the slaves out of Egypt,
who led Alexander the Great to victory over the Punes, who, with the aid
of the protector Cromwell scourged the evil Monarchist early period vermin ..."

	John leaned over and whispered to Jack, "Alexander the Great against the
Punes?"

	"History has never been the padre's strong suit."

	"... who provided the Catholic Church as an example of all that is evil
in religion so that the God-Fearing Church of England would not fall into their
vile ways ..."

	John must've nodded off, for he awoke with a start when Jack poked
him under the table. "The prayer is almost done, only 34 minutes this time,
he gave the short version since we have a guest."

	"Amen!  Next we proceed to the ritual flouting of the laws!"  The
covers were whisked from the now lukewarm food. "Turkey!  Without a doubt
eaten by 1650 -- banned by the Imperium!" 

	The assembled bandits replied, "We spit on their laws and savor
our food!"

	The Padre repeated the process with tomatoes and potatoes, then the
company fell to with a will. Jack mentioned that one of the advantages
of belonging to the LPLF was that one could have chocolate for dessert,
John nodded.

	Suddenly, Gaston leapt to his feet, "The Queen!", he cried. The
bandits, that is, Freedom Fighters, rose as a body.  John stared, he
couldn't help himself, this was getting better and better!

	Into the room swept a vision in pearled brocade, a lace collar
struggled heroically upwards, only to be pressed into a disordered retreat
by no less than seven chins.  The quantity of cloth used to cover the
gargantuan ruler could have housed the survivors of several hurricanes
in relative comfort, the crown on her head was of such height and majesty,
that only the steel cable support lines running down to her 20 foot diameter
hoop skirts kept it perched in some kind of stability atop her massive
bouffant hairdo.

	All this John absorbed in a moment. Even before she was announced
he knew who she was: the exiled, and ritually banished Anne of Crieghton.
He strained mightily with his memory, and was rewarded with a flashback.

		**********

	It was in the early days, when the Imperium consisted only of
the Southland, and the Northrealm.  Anne of Crieghton was the proposed
consort of Rhinoceros Thickskin.  Throughout the long day, Rhino, as he
was called, was in the middle of the fray, shrugging blows with the best of
them, finally coming face to face with Sir Lancelot Soloflex in the final
round.  Their struggle was epic; each knew that to show pain would force
them to accept a blow that they might otherwise call light, and so,
stoically, they battled.  Finally, Rhino stepped on Lance's foot, and the
popping of bone was audible from the stands.  A flicker of pain shot
across his face, and Rhino declared victory.  
	The king stood slowly, "Rhino, where is your consort, Anne of 
Crieghton?" he asked.

	Rhino removed his helm, and with a flourish pulled of the fake beard.
"I am Anne of Crieghton!  Queen by my own hand!"

	John smiled at the chaos that ensued, the law forbade women from
fighting, and Anne of Crieghton had not only fought, but, using her massive
frame, had even brought low the famous Soloflex, the only fight he had ever
lost in his career -- although, it must be mentioned that at the time he 
had been fighting only a short while.

	John's flashback ended suddenly with a crash, as the Queen sat
down in a large throne at the end of the room.  The buttresses which
held up the arms and back of the throne groaned under the weight.  In
concert, the cavaliers all sat as well.

	"Your Majesty," Jack rose to speak, pulling John by his arm
out of the neighboring seat as he rose, "May I present John the Smith,
a cooper by trade, who comes now before us with a proposal for you to
hear."

	"John the Smith," the Queen said incredulously, she then set
to a fit of uncontrolled laughter, inducing a series of tidal
undulations in her large frame.  "Why, that's a rather unambitious
name ... uh John.  No titles this time?  Not even Squire John?  Good
Jack, I know this rogue, or at least I know of him.  His name is _not_
John the Smith, but never the mind."

	"Ah, yes, Your Majesty," Jack replied agreeably, "I knew that
could not be his true name, for although he be called John the Smith,
he never spoke of caging birds ..."

	John rolled his eyes, and interrupted, "Your Majesty, long
have you sought that which seems so simple, the right to live in a
Kingdom which respects your right to be ... uh ... different from
others."  He hesitated, hardly out of discretion, but more because he
could not think of a good synonym for 'grossly obese'.  "I share that
same dream.  It was sheer happenstance that your men waylaid me today,
and we discovered our common bond of purpose.  Your Majesty, I would
like to lead your men in the cause of creating the Principality of the
Rocks."

	"A Principality?  It has a certain merit.  We haven't had a
puppet -- I mean sympathetic royalty -- on the throne in many years.  We
could certainly use a few more Royal Commissions and offices.  Of
course, there is a weakness in this plan," the Queen looked bored,
"Our men have foresworn the use of the Broadsword, and that is what
would be needed to win a Coronet Tournament.  I assume you don't want
just anyone to win, and I don't think you're going to win it," the
Queen said tartly, looking John up and then down.

	"Of course not, Your Majesty," said John, ignoring the
insult.  This Queen was his kind of woman.  He was pleased enough to
find someone else of like mind, or even one with a mind, he mused
looking around at the idle cavaliers.

	"Even we of the LPLF," Anne sighed, "are prepared to concede
that it is holy writ that we must fight a Crown tournament with heavy
weapons.  It is written in scripture.  Show him the relic, Jack."

	Jack said, "Aye, the great Saint Francis even declares so in his
Chronicles."  He walked out of the room and returned with a large
glass box in which there was a scrap of aging brown paper.  

	Jack thrust the box under John's nose.  On the paper John read:

	   "San Francisco Chronicle.  The Imperium held a tournament of
	   fighters today to determine the 'king' of their group ...  When a
	   bystander was asked what he thought of the spectacle, he said
	   'heavy' ..."

	John glanced at the side of the box.  There was a small
maker's sign which read "Quality Holy Relics Ltd. serving your
questing needs since Anno Imperius LXI."

	"Holy Writ it may be," John said, "but we just need our own
holy ghost writer." He chuckled at his own wit, not even stopping to
glance at the cavaliers at the tables behind him - they just didn't
appreciate fine humor. "We will conduct an Arts and Sciences
competition to determine the first Prince and Princess of the Rocks."