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
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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 
		puts hair on your chest!
  
          From the politically correct pens of
              Louis-Philippe Mitouard and
                Alexandre Lerot d'Avigne
 
                    Episode the Fourth
 
 
 
Chapter Six
 
	John the Smith sat in a chair in the upstairs sitting room of
the Cavaliers' mansion facing the Queen of the Late Period Liberation
Front, Anne of Creighton, who was seated on a sturdy couch opposite.
The queen was a rather large woman, especially compared to the slight
figure of John.  

	"So you see your Majesty," John said, "if we can crack the
domination the fighters have over the Crown just once, it is possible that
the entire edifice which they have constructed will crumble!"
 
	John sipped casually at the goblet of water he held.  The
Queen had given him one with wine, but John had quickly dumped it out
and replaced it with water from a flask while her back was turned.  "It
might not have been poisoned, but then again," he thought, "it might
have -- one could never be too careful around royalty."
 
	The Queen nodded, which act made her resemble nothing more
than a particularly stormy day at sea -- were water made of cellulite
and garbed in a repugnant shade of mauve.  "Yes, I see that.  It might
just work." She rose unsteadily and walked around the room muttering
to herself.  As she paced, John glanced over her copy of The Villains,
Schemers and Authenticists Newsletter -- special Pet Peeve Issue -- and
made a mental note to get a subscription.
 
	With a swish, a hitherto unknown (at least to the gentle
reader) man swept into the room.  A giant, gaunt gallant he was, with
the garish grace to garb himself in green gauze, garnished with gay
gleams of gabardine. In addition to his alliterative description, he
bore a plain black eyepatch over one eye, although the eye in question
shifted from moment to moment with his whim.
 
	The Queen acknowledged the new arrival.  Something that in
another person might have been genuine joy lit her eyes, although on
her it looked more like sadistic glee.  "Cy!" she said, "meet John the
Smith."  She waved her hand toward the new arrival, "May I present my
chief advisor, Cyrano Laurence d'Esclops."
	
	"The one-eyed wonder.  One of the craftiest minds in the
world."  John stood to bow as he finished suavely, "Famed throughout
the Imperium for his guile.  It is said that in your negotiations,
your opponents can know how you stand on an issue by which eye has the
patch."
 
	"The thame!" lisped the newcomer. "Although, I have given over
my turbulent nature for dedication to the cause of my Queen."  He
bowed over her hand.  John watched in amazement.  There appeared to be
real affection in the limp-wristed Cavalier's attention to the Queen.
"How quaint. I must remember that.  It may come in handy later," he
thought.
 
	"How may I therve you, your Majesty?" Cyrano asked.
 
	"John the Smith here has a plan ..." the Queen said.
 
	"John the Thmith?" Cyrano said with a hint of recognition.
"Surely you mean Saint Paul y Girl, the Spanish Inquisitor, whose
third miracle -- beating the Cardinal of the Tweenrealm out of 10,000
florins by drawing to an inside straight flush -- started a religious
war that is spoken of in hushed whispers to this day?"
 
	"The one," John added helpfully, "whose name still causes Duke
Ramrod of the Cannon to take to his bed with apoplexy should it be
stated in his presence.  The man whose disciple Abbe' Rue became the
most famous concert promoter in the Imperium?"
 
	"Yes!" said Cyrano.
 
	"Never heard of the gentleman," said the Queen.
 
	"Well, now that we have the formalities out of the way, on to
business," said John, changing the subject abruptly.  "I have proposed
that we form a Principality out of the groups in the area, including your
Cavaliers, and that since there are no heavy weapons fighters in your
ranks, we hold an arts and sciences competition to determine its first
Prince."
 
	"To what end?" Cyrano asked -- cautious but already curious.
 
	"To facilitate the redistribution of the power base.  That is
to say, we attempt to place more sympathetic monarchs in positions of
responsibility, e.g. and ipso facto we attempt to remove our biased
militaristic aristocracy and instead institute a policy of social,
artistic and monetary equity.  That is after we have changed the
governmental dynamic to have a later period focus."
 
	"Oh.  So, you want to hold a rigged tournament, install your
man as Prince, so you can declare your own Kingdom, toss the King out
on his ear, and install your people in power so you can claim all the
Royal commissions, and you want to use our Cavaliers and artists to
pad your membership rolls," said Cyrano nonchalantly.
 
	"Uh, that might be a way to sum it up, yes," said John, taken
aback at the directness of Cyrano's statement, and his inability to
baffle the Cavalier.
 
	"So, why didn't you just say so?  What's in it for us?"
Cyrano said.  He had, to John's surprise, lost his lisp.
 
	John thought hard about this.  He started to formulate a
windy speech, but quickly realized it would be of no use.  This man
was too quick.  "How do you feel about getting Kingdom ... uh, I mean,
Principality Treasurer.  Why, I know reeves who could cook books well
enough to make a French Chef envious."
 
	"It has possibilities," Cyrano said.  "I assume you have
someone in mind for the position of Prince?"  
 
	"I know a man in the Southland, Shadrach Darkmane.  He's the
best artist in the Imperium."
 
	"That recommends him well," Cyrano said. 
 
	"In addition, he also has certain open-mindedness about rules
and regulations, which may help his chances."
 
	"He'll cheat, you mean," Cyrano said.
 
	"Yes."
 
	Cyrano stood pensively next to the Queen, scratching under his
collar as he thought.  Cavalier garb was always tight and
uncomfortable, but this green gauze and gabardine outfit was
especially annoying.  Maybe a new tailor next time.  Ah well, he
decided, such was the price of fashion.  "You know," he said to John,
"Coronation is only a month away.  Can we have a petition ready for the
new King to sign?  The present King is, shall we say, adverse to such
radical new ideas."
 
	A gross understatement, thought John, since in his
experience the present King of the Wasteland, Jocko the Twelfth,
reacted to new ideas in much the same way as the Inquisition did to
heretics.
 
	"Now, we can assume the support of Big Rock, Medium Rock, and
Little Rock.  Last membership count puts them at about 100.  Count in
Obscuria, if we cut off the singed parts of course," the cavalier
tittered as he stared meaningfully at John. "Add our people, and we
should have enough to make a healthy, if unholy, group."
 
	It didn't take much to get him into the spirit of this, John
thought.  He could almost hear every gear of the Cavalier's
clockwork brain efficiently ticking off each possibility.
 
	John was beginning to feel outclassed, so he chimed in. "We
can count on all the Wasteland to support our petition except for one
holdout ..." He stopped to see if Cyrano would pick up the hint.  Of
course, he did.
 
	"You mean the Baron of Warmongeria.  Don't worry about him."
 
	The concept that one should not worry about the Baron of
Warmongeria struck John as rather absurd, like asking one not to worry
about the plague or the English Disease.  Fearing him was no shame,
in fact, it was rather a Wastelandish sport.  He was known far and wide
as a brutal fighter, who, as General of the Wastelandish army, laid to
ruin anything in his path, and, except for his tendency to confuse
allied armies with enemy, was renowned as a military genius --
especially by his chroniclers.
 
	Cyrano disappeared from the room for a minute, and reemerged
with a small book, which he leafed through as he spoke, "Hmm, yes here
it is.  Our Baron has an Achilles heel after all.  It seems that when
he was just a squire, he was a member of a secret heraldry study cell.
You know -- they would sit and teach each other blazons, and draw up
devices for fun.  That kind of thing."
 
	Despite his foppish looks and odd speech, this man was really
vicious, John thought.  That was a long time ago, and most people
would forgive a youthful indiscretion such as studying heraldry. It
wasn't as though he practiced it in public.  But one must play the
hand one is dealt, so to speak, and so it was time for the good Baron
to be called Pursuivant to his face.
 
	"So, it's a deal.  We work out the details later.  In the
meantime, John, we have to draw up a petition -- a long-winded one, of
course, since Coronation is being held in the Shire of Pedantia -- we
want to impress the locals.  You need to send a messenger to the
Southland to fetch our Prince,"  said Cyrano.
 
	With that, and with a graceful bow to the rotund Queen, the
garish green giant and his less alliterative new-found friend
departed.
 
			*******************
 
	The plan fell together with amazing speed.  Over the next
several days, the pair composed a petition with enough words to drop a
team of heralds.  Shadrach Darkmane was summoned to meet them in the
Shire of Pedantia as fast as he could travel.  With the petition in
hand, John and Cyrano, flanked by ten trusty Cavaliers rode on to
Pedantia.  John figured they could hole up there and wait for the
Coronation.  He could also use the time to take care of some
unfinished business.  They would stay with his old friend Jasper
Goldstone, Captain of the Pedantian Guard.  If he hadn't changed his
ways, John thought, he was probably still trying to complete his first
book -- A Guardsman's Comprehensive Guide to Drinking and Whoring on 22
Pfennigs Per Week, which Jasper was sure would make him rich
enough to retire from the guard.
 
	No, finding someplace to stay wasn't the trouble.  The
trouble, John decided, was finding something for ten fun-loving
Cavaliers to do in Pedantia.  The Wednesday night poetry reading and
Thursday night sewing circle probably would not be enough to keep them
entertained.  Weaving and dyeing held no appeal for them.  He probably
couldn't get them to go to the Monday speechmaking and oratory guild
meeting. John carefully read the calendar in the back of the Pedantian
Chronicle just to be sure he wasn't missing any more exciting
activities.  He was sure they'd be arrested before they ever got to
Coronation eve.
 
	***************************
 
Chapter Seven
 
	His Archgrace, Lancelot Soloflex, and his faithful dogsbody
(and Squire) Melrose and their entourage rode their horses onto the
crest of a hill overlooking the border of the Wastelands.  In the
noontime sun they stared across the prairie grass down into the
valley.  Four days hard ride had brought them to this spot.  Crown
Tournament would be the day after tomorrow, and they had to make it to
the Shire of Obscuria.  Lance still had one minor matter to attend to
-- he needed to find a consort before the tournament.  Lance chafed at
the thought.  Since the Wastelands had recently tightened up their
entry restrictions he couldn't do his old trick of finding a consort
after the tournament.  It had seemed so easy before.  They always
seemed to find him.  Now he actually had to go looking for a consort?
How gauche, he thought.  'Gauche.'  That was a word that Melrose
taught him.  It meant left-handed, and he'd always had trouble
fighting leftys, so it stuck in his mind.  They never beat him, of
course, he thought, but at least they made him work a little.
 
	They rode into the valley, and after soundly berating the
border guard for having the temerity to call Lance 'His Grace' (what,
did they think he'd only won the Crown twice?), rode on to Obscuria.
The horses' footfalls changed to clatters as they rode from the packed
dirt road onto the cobbles which marked the start of civilization.
 
	After a mile or so, Lance drew his horse up suddenly.
The train, in turn, drew to a halt.  For a time nothing was obviously
wrong, but Lance stripped off his helmet and gazed intently down the
cobble road.  In the distance, they could eventually see a column of
black-clad warriors.  When they recognized the oncoming warriors,
there was immediate panic in the train.  People began hiding their
valuables, their clothing, some even their children.  

	The leader of the column drew up beside Lance.  He was dressed in a 
tight-fitting black jerkin, complete with red armband, which had on it some 
letters in runic.  He wore black leather boots and held a riding crop.  He
spoke, "Your pepers, pliss."
 
	"My paper?"  Lance said dumbly. "Oh, if it's about the border
toll, I told your man I'd pay it out of my tribute when I become
King."
 
	"Nein, dumkopf, I mean your pepers.  Ya, your documentation
pepers.  Look et you.  You are vearing a 16th century Cherman
tournament helm.  Your breastplate is late Gothic.  Your greaves are
Japanese. Your sword is some Viking nightmare.  Your shield is made of
Aluminum.  Surely you must document this," the leader of the black
riders said testily, poking his riding crop at Lance, and squinting
through his monocle.  Lance wondered to himself if a monocle was
period, but on closer inspection, Lance saw a small piece of paper
attached to the monocle, closely covered with cross-references to
primary sources.
 
	It was then that Lance realized they were facing the dreaded
Authenticity Nazis.  He had been warned about them -- but they were
supposed to be rare in these parts.  Probably that little rat Shadrach
had tipped them off.  The ungrateful weasel, he thought. we were nice
to him.  He got the privilege of having an Archduke stay with him and
we didn't even ask him for a tithe -- the food was great, though.
Lance cast a despairing glance at Melrose.  Though no foe yet weaned
of women gave him pause on the field of honor, these horrible
creatures were beyond his power. 
 
	Melrose caught his cue and stepped into action.  He rode
forward to face the chief Nazi and said, "Good sir, let me speak to
you.  I am Professor Melrosius of the University of Northrealmia.  I
am traveling to assume my post as guest professor at the Obscurian
Fellows Free College where I will be teaching my fourteen week course
on mid-gotho-franco-viking-nipponese period armoring.  Surely you have
heard of the Franco-Nipponese empire?"
 
	"Aah, Ya.  Of course," the Nazi looked confused. 
 
	"Well, as fate would have it, I have a short paper on the
subject.  You do speak Greek, do you not?" Melrose played his trump
card.

	"I do not, but my apprentice does, Von Plato!"  The chief Nazi
yelled imperiously.  Presently, a short mousy blond man drew up from
the rear of the mounted column.  "Herr Von Plato?  I am told you speak
Greek.  I have some documentation for you to look at.  Look it over
closely.  I shall peruse the rest of this little motley crew."  The
chief Nazi saluted stiffly then rode on to inspect the rest of the
train.

	"Damn," thought Melrose, "the man knows his stuff, and has a
Greek-speaking apprentice.  Now I'll have to find something to show
him."  Melrose's mind was racing, how was he to deal with this
problem?  In a flash of brilliance, much like he imagined a light bulb
would give off had it been invented, he had it!  "Herr Von Plato, I
must fetch the documentation, one moment pliss, er, please."  He
scurried over to Lancelot.  "Your Archgrace, how do you feel about
lying to get us out of this situation."

	The giant knight pondered for a moment (his thoughts were
always ponderous). "Is it to a Royal Peer?" Melrose shook his head. "A
knight?"  Again Melrose shook his head. "Well, that's all right then."
	
	Melrose smiled then spoke in a theatrical voice, "Then your
Archgrace, let us promise to yon oafish," he paused for dramatic
effect, making sure that the Nazis were listening, "Landsknecht?  Yes,
Landsknecht, that when you have become king, you will do the following
..." his voice trailed off, and a moment later he rejoined Von Plato.

	"Good Mein Herr, I have a proposition for you ..." Melrose
said to Von Plato.

	"Ach!  Just because we vear leather you all think we are of
loose morals!" the assistant said with horror.

	"You misunderstand me.  Let me explain.  That man is the great
Lancelot Soloflex, he will shortly be King of this realm.  He has told
me to make you this offer: extricate us from this predicament with
your group, and he shall lend you his support when he wears the
Crown."

	"Support how?"  The pudgy Nazi was wary, but he had heard of
the Archduke (although he gagged on the title).

	"Primus, he shall pass a law requiring all armor worn in crown
tournament -- except for his, of course , grandfather clause, and all
that -- to pass rigid authenticity standards."  The Nazi seemed
disinterested.  "Secondus, he shall appoint you his Minister of Arts
and Sciences."  The Nazi perked up slightly.  Melrose was on to
something.  "Oh, and give you a Laurel as well."  Melrose said
offhandedly.

	"Hmm, I must think."  The Nazi said, looking about to make
sure no one else could hear.

	"If on the other hand you refuse, he will beat you into a
pulp."

	"Very well, I accept," the assistant said quickly, "What must
I do?"

	"Tell your party two things.  First, that the documentation I
have on the Franco-Nipponese Empire is quite adequate.  Second, that
there was recently discovered incontrovertible proof of the use of an
Aluminum tournament shield in period.  Explaining that should take
long enough for us to escape.  Then meet us in Obscuria."  Melrose
ticked off his list of demands.

	The little Nazi nodded in agreement and hurried off.  Shortly,
confusion began to be heard from the leather-clad riders as Von Plato
began to explain the documentation.  "Ya?  Mein barn door shield ist
legal?" a confused voice was heard from the gathered Nazis.
	 
	While the Nazis were thus diverted, The train, needing no further
hint, slipped away and rode on toward Obscuria.  "I handled that quite
well Melrose, don't you think?" Lancelot said with his typical overweening
pride.  Melrose only nodded.