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 Fixes Parking Tickets, gets you a Peerage From the civic minded pens of Louis-Philippe Mitouard and Alexandre Lerot d'Avigne Episode the Seventh Chapter Thirteen Sitting in an authentic luxury coach on the road near Pedantia, Shadrach Darkmane gazed confusedly out the window and down the road at the rapidly receding column of Panzer warhorses. The Nazis had merely asked for his papers, and when he had shown them the four wainloads of (authentic) hand bound documentation, laboriously scribed in his own (authentic) hand, they had begun to look worried. When one had read the signature on the (authentic) frontispiece, he had screamed and gurgled and almost immediately, the whole intimidating group had fled in disorder. "Was it something I said, Bill?" asked the confused Laureate. "Nay, Master, I think it was perhaps their reaction to meeting someone of your prodigious talents." "Quite likely, quite likely." Darkmane returned to the odd looking writing table he always used for calligraphy and illumination on long treks. He claimed that the complex arrangement of shock absorbing leather straps and counterweighted cushions had first been described by Da Vinci, although no working models had ever been built. "When shall we arrive in Pedantia?" "Soon, Master, very soon." Bill, too, returned to his work. He had almost got that last bit fixed in his latest play. The young man had just found his lover in the tomb and thought her dead, although it was a ruse. He was about to take a greatsword in each hand and go chop up a bunch of Italian townspeople. He called it "Rambeo and Juliet." Chapter Fourteen Baron Wulfric of Warmongeria sat in his ostentatious throne room and sulked. Although he could with a single gesture raise an army of one hundred well trained and enthusiastic if not overly bright warriors, and commanded the mightiest army in the Kingdom, his own personal prowess at arms was less legendary. In fact, it was mediocre at best. This meant that even though he had almost absolute control over half the army (the well trained half), he could not be King. On his good days, this annoyed him. This was not one of his good days. Given these circumstances, he had done what any military officer in a similar situation would do. He had decided upon executing a coup d'etat. Having made that decision, he had proceeded with the heavy handed and overbearing manner that was his hallmark and summoned his most fearsome small unit to discuss the matter. At the moment, one of his vassals was taking up his time complaining about the lack of recognition for the gentle arts in the area, and the Baron was deciding how to have him executed. "Still," he thought, "they should be here soon." Even as he framed the thought, a snatch of song could be heard from down the hall. "Uff-da, Uff-da, It's off to kill we are, with shield and axe and cheap six-packs, Uff-da, Uff-da, Uff-da, Uff-da, Uff-da" The door swung open, and the Baron's Viking Secret Police Death Squad entered the room. Each wore a plain black cloak over a mail byrnie upon which was drawn an arrow pointing to the left and the words "I'm with Dopey" in runic. They carried round shields and large drinking horns, while their belts were draped with various implements of destruction. Casting evil smirks at the more fully clad members of the court, they completed their fearful song. "Da-Uff, Da-Uff, We're bad and that's the truth, we maim and kill, then drink our fill, Da-Uff, Da-Uff, Da-Uff, Da-Uff, Da-Uff Uff-da, Uff-da, We are above the law, by Wulfric's whim we sink or swim Uff-da, Uff-da, Uff-da, Uff-da, Uff-da" Wulfric casually pointed at the now quaking vassal, and with a smirk one of the VSPDS meandered over towards him, off-handedly drawing a small axe (that is to say, he drew it with his left hand). Over the screams from the corner, Wulfric outlined his plan. The VSPDS would spearhead an attack at Crown Tournament, the objective would be to cripple or intimidate every fighter not part of Wulfric's army on the site. Wulfric would then enter the list as the only contender and shortly be declared the victor. The Death Squad signaled their approbation by a chorus of Uff-Da's and the upending of a cooler of Gatorade on the smiling Baron. Then, singing a reprise of their song, they marched off to muster the army, leaving the Baron to absent-mindedly summon a bevy of harem girls to clean up the vassal's remains. The day was looking up! Chapter Fifteen John awoke with a ringing in his ears, he flinched and looked around for the source. He identified it and stuffed his head under the pillow. "Chainmail dance belts with bells on them should be banned in the Imperium," he thought. He cheered slightly when he realized that he would soon be in a position to ban them in the Principality, at least. The girl, Elizabeth du Plicitous, finished dressing, tightening the mail belt firmly over her chemise and bodice, the end result being that of a fresh milkmaid with something of a bondage fetish. John found it oddly appealing and rubbed his wrists in memory of the past evening. Lizzie gave him a last peck, set a card on the dresser and left. John stretched, arose and used the thunder jug, then wandered to the dresser to look at the card. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ TAILES OF GREAT ULYSSES Help us to serve you better! 1)The service was: _Great _Good _Average _Poor _Awful 2)The quantity was: _Too much _About right _too little _sadly lacking 3)What did you order? 4)Was it warm when it arrived? 5)Was the price reasonable? 6)Did your server remember to say "Thank You" and smile? 7)Is there anything else we should know? We value your patronage, Vito di Fricatti, Owner of the Chain of Tailes Visit our other locations: Pedantia - Tailes of Great Ulysses Obscuria - A Flock of Taile Pedophilia - Campfire Tailes and our newest shop for the connoisseur, Tailes of Mystery and Imagination ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ John stumbled unsteadily downstairs a few moments later, holding his head. He found Jasper setting out a cold breakfast of cherry poptarts and meat pies, a fare he must have learned to appreciate after years of camping at tournaments. Cyrano was already looking alert, nibbling daintily on a croissant. "How does he do it?" thought John, who felt much like he looked, and neither was pleasant. "I trust you had an ... um ... passably nice evening John?", asked Cyrano. "It was adequate, and you?" "Very nice, thanks." The gay repartee continued in this vein for a few more moments then John and Cyrano made ready to wander the town; first to see if Darkmane had arrived, next to bail out the surviving Cavaliers. The two conspirators wandered the streets looking for period coaches, period pavilions or other types of Laurel spoor. Before long, they saw the reproduction mongol yurt on the outskirts of town and smiled at each other. A brisk ride brought them to the yurt flap, and John called out, "Shadrach, is it you? 'Tis I, John the Smith, and Cyrano d'Esclops who wait without." "Damn," he thought, "I've been picking up alliteration from Cyrano, must watch that." A tousled head poked out of the tent, complete with bleary eyes and drooling mouth. "What?" sprayed the mouth, and ducked back within. Sounds of violent cleaning and morning ablutions came from within as Cyrano fastidiously wiped his face and hands before offering a kerchief to John. The flap moved aside again, and the much more recognizable (if no less bleary eyed) visage of Shadrach Darkmane appeared. He took in his visitors with a jaundiced eye and queried, "John the Smith?" "Aye, that's me!" "You look more like someone I once knew, Ivan Tobealone, the Russian actor and recluse, whose Oktoberfest resulted in seventy-two dead and thirty-four pregnant, any relation?" "None whatsoever. But enough of this idle chit-chat, let's get to business. Crown Tournament is the day after tomorrow, that gives us tomorrow to forge enough signatures on these particularly long-winded petitions ..." "Bill can do that," interrupted Darkmane, "he's always stealing other peoples' ideas and it's a small step from plagiarism to outright forgery." "Good man. With that done, we head to Crown Tournament and present the petition. The Principality can be formed within the day, and the Coronet Tournament the next day, running opposite the regularly scheduled Consolation Tournament for the Crown Tourney losers. That way there should be little competition for you in the A&S Tourney, and what there is my, err, our Cavaliers can deal with in more violent fashion. Any questions?" "None, except ... what do you think of an early-period coronation?" "Oh, you mean Celtic?" "... no, Minoan." The plan was to depart while the afternoon was still young. However, Shadrach, ever the polite host, had other ideas. He insisted that the group stay and enjoy his hospitality. They did for several exquisitely painful hours of drinking demi-tasses of fermented mare's milk and being regaled with Shadrach's stories of how, after years of study, he had uncovered documentation of mid-13th century Chinese lacquered fan painting. He then uncovered his masterwork -- an authentic reproduction of a sixth century mid-Highlands bagpipe. Unfortunately for our heroes, it had one aspect of authenticity too many -- it played. In an almost entirely unconvincing Highlands brogue, Shadrach offered to play several period selections. It was at this point that John had a difficult decision to make. Plotting his escape, he had toyed for the last several hours with the idea of feigning another attack of Saint Vitus's Dance, but decided instead to simply excuse himself from the yurt, and once outside cut loose several horses from their hitches. Having done so, and in the melee that ensued, he and his companions bid Shadrach a cheery good afternoon. "Is there anything else I can offer you?", Shadrach asked. "Do you know the name of a good bail bondsman?" John mumbled into his collar, but then when Shadrach missed the reference, he merely nodded no. Our heros (if we may call them such) then bowed hurriedly and departed. Mounting their horses, they pointed their pony's noses back toward Pedantia, and spurred them hard, hoping to escape the increasingly distant strains of 'Scotland the Brave'.