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 Ninth Chapter Twenty-one Running across the throne room of the Villain's lair, Queen Barbie looked back again, just to make sure no one was pursuing her as she ran for the exit. Far from pursuing, the Villain, still sitting on his throne at the back of the large cave, waved his hands at her to shoo her out, without pausing in his monologue. He was reading his plan for world conquest directly from the sample presented in the COMPLEAT IMPERIALIST, as his own plan had run out several hours ago. Robin and Hawk were both slumped in positions of feigned sleep hoping to encourage Barbie's escape. Even so, it had taken her awhile to work up to this rather insipid dash for freedom. Just as she was about to escape, Barbie stopped suddenly, then turned, waved and blew the Villain a kiss -- he seemed a nice enough evil person. She then adjusted her dress and tottered at high speed for the door. Robin cocked a dapper eye, "Is she gone, Sven?" The PELICAN seneschal, for indeed, it was he, looked up from his CI. "Why, yes, I suppose she is! Thank heaven, I had almost gotten to the end of the sample plot. Hawk ... Hawk ... HAWK!" The sleeping agent rose up with a jerk. "Carry word of the success of our stratagem to the Unter-Plot-Fuhrer." Hawk nodded then hurried off. "Robin, to the PELICAN cave." With that they, too, hurried off down the hall. Interlude As Lord Risotto di Malpropio watched the peasants prepare the site for the Crown Tournament which was to be held tomorrow, his mind turned again to a question which he often asked himself and never answered: "Where do the Peasants come from?" The Articles of Imperialization clearly stated that all members of the Imperium were of the gentry, and in his more lucid moments, Malpropio wondered how the economy of the Imperium worked with no agrarian base whatsoever. "Still," he thought, "things get done so who am I to complain?" Chapter Twenty-two "No, no, that one will never do!" Lancelot declared as he made an abrupt pencil scratch on his tally list. He was standing in the back of a large dining hall in Taile Gunnar's inn. Melrose stood nearby awaiting the large knight's judgment of the next candidate. A line of prospective consorts faced him on the other side of the room. The girl at whom the comment was directed burst into tears and fled the room. "Melrose, I think we are wasting our time here." "Are you sure, your Archgrace?" Melrose asked. "Number fifteen seemed quite nice," Melrose said gazing at his notes, trying to keep a certain hint of experience from showing in his voice. Well, what could one expect? He did have a few spare moments while his master was occupied with other affairs. "No. Sorry, Melrose," Lancelot sighed dejectedly. He refused to allow himself to voice fully what he had truly felt -- he was bored. All during the day, as much as he had tried to concentrate, his thoughts wandered to the khaki-clad maid he had seen in the square the day before. "Well, that was the last one, number sixty-four. Perhaps there are a few that we should look at again?" asked Melrose. Lancelot sighed again and nodded. "Taile, send in fifteen again would you?" Melrose called through the open door. Chapter Twenty-three Jasper locked his door and mounted his horse. Already the members of the Obscurian Peoples' Front were awaiting him in Obscuria. He checked to make sure that he had sufficient copies of the latest issue of the Obscurian Lament and other scurrilous and inflammatory literature packed, and then clucked to his horse and set off to Crown Tournament. Elsewhere, others were making ready as well. John and Cyrano examined the petitions forged by Bill the Apprentice while Shadrach stood by beaming. Finally, Cyrano raised his eye, "The hand is unsteady, the calligraphy sloppy and the language forced -- in short perfect copies of the Wastelandish scribe's art. They should pass without a second glance." Shadrach smiled, "I had several examples that he could work from and all looked much like this." "Indeed. John, are all the other preparations made?" John smiled, "They are, the train is ready to move out towards Obscuria. Wagons, ho!" He called and the small band of conspirators began to roll. In Warmongeria, Baron Wulfric stood on the castle walls with the leader of the VSPDS watching the last of his crack units ride off. The pot units wouldn't move out until tomorrow, and the drunk units the day after that. "Well, that's that. Njal, are your comrades ready to ride?" Njal thought for a few long moments, then pointed down, "Da, my lord Baron." "Uff!" replied Wulfric, as he saw the rest of the VSPDS ride out the gates on their fearsome War Buffalo. The shaggy mounts tossed their high spirited heads to and fro as their riders played rock-scissors, their own variant of rock-scissors-paper, the paper being removed to simplify the game. "Let us join them, then, and ride for my throne!" Chapter Twenty-four Dusk brought Archduke Lancelot, Melrose, and their train to the site. Lancelot rode his fine white charger, resplendent in its gold lame' barding, its noble head bobbed up and down in perfect time with its precise footfalls. Riding somewhat behind were Melrose and what looked like Lancelot's consort. After all his trials, Lancelot had made a choice. She was short and dumpy, over-rouged and overfed, and quite undistinguished in her black dress, except for the fishnet stockings and high heels, and the Nazi armband peeking out from the short sleeve of the dress. Lancelot raised his hand to signal a halt to the train and drew his mount to a stop before the information kiosk at the entrance to the site. The horse stopped with perfect measure, and one dainty, splendidly choreographed snort. After reading the notices on the signboard, Lancelot said, "Melrose, I have an errand I must attend to. It seems that my old friend Sir Duncan mac Dostoevsky has a squire being knighted. I shall go to his squire's vigil, which is being held tonight." "Who is his squire?", Melrose asked for no particular reason except idle curiosity and to advance the story-line. "Lord Peter mac Bilt the Slugger," Lancelot read on the sign. "He must be a hard hitter, I guess that's why he's called the Slugger", said Lancelot, ever quick on the uptake. "No, actually, I heard he had to change his name," said Melrose, correcting his master with an indulgent tone. "I heard he used to be called the Sluggard, but that's not a proper name for a knight." With that, they prepared for the difficult job that lay ahead. The scheme was easy. No, the hard part would be surviving the night. For they had drawn a campsite in the valley. Not just any valley mind you, _The Valley_. On cue with the narration, Melrose inquired,"Where are we going?" of his master, who was riding purposefully but seemingly without a firm direction in mind just ahead of him. "The Party Bowl." "The Party Bowl!" The whispers shot through the party. Mere men had been reduced to drunken gibbons simply by passing through that valley, and they had to be up early to make ready for Crown Tournament. This would be a test of manhood equal to the labors of Hercules, Melrose thought, and almost as difficult as that time he tried teaching His Archgrace not to kick peasants for fun. The party rode on toward their campsite. John, Jasper, Cyrano, Shadrach and Bill, and a rowdy band of cavaliers arrived at the information kiosk just as another large party rode off. The group riding off was undistinguished, save for the large ducal coronet which John could see sticking up above the silhouettes of the other riders, and the odor of cheap cologne wafting in the air. John waved his hand in front of his nose, trying to shoo away the foul odor which he recognized as "Eau de Five-timer", popular among the Ducal crowd. He read the schedule on the kiosk. "Awards, Drinking contests, the usual. Hmm, this might be interesting, Knighthoods." John didn't care about the ceremony, but he could usually find something to say at a vigil which would be inflammatory enough to start a large brawl, which was worth a laugh or two. "Lord Peter mac Bilt is getting knighted." Shadrach spoke up. "That's the man I was going to speak for." He sniffed haughtily. "I even waived my usual speaking fee. I have this long speech prepared." He pulled a sheaf of loosely collated notes from his saddle bag. "How came you to know this man?" Jasper asked. "Well, he had a bit part in one of Bill's plays -- awful of course," Shadrach said. "The acting?" "No, the play." The Warmongerian party arrived at the Crown Tournament site near nightfall. They rode in full battle array, their mounts swaying under them. They passed the generally stunned crowd, stopping now and again to acknowledge the cheers of the few planted partisans by flinging at them one of their souvenir monogrammed VSPDS war-axes. They mowed their way to their camp site, tying their War Buffalo to the posts of the nearby signs which read "ALL VEHICLES MUST BE KEPT OFF SITE". The buffalo munched happily on the signboards as the VSPDS set up their Viking A-frame pavilions, except for the new recruits who used pre-fab dome tents spray painted with dags. As they settled in for a heavy night's drinking, plans were being made across camp. Fatima O'Rourke, unconcealed beneath half a layer of flimsy gauze adjusted her chainmail bikini briefs for the thousandth time. How the blasted belly-dancers could do this sort of thing regularly was beyond her. She gazed out past the fire towards the salivating men who were watching the medieval bump and grind that her Belly Dance strike force was performing, and smiled. Jocko himself was present and the combat dancers were already plying him with plum wine and spiked grape juice. Most of his officers were in the process of being rendered unfit for combat, either through sheer exhaustion or through complicated mixed drinks guaranteed to give even one of the Baron's military statues a hang-over. Satisfied, Fatima stepped back into the tent and reappeared a moment later clad in her khaki Norman tunic with black leather accessories. Silently she slid off into the night. Across camp, other things were sliding as well. With a sigh, Mistress Rosetta Stone finished instructing Lord Peter mac Bilt in both French and Greek and climbed off the prostrate knight-elect. "Remember this lesson when you are a peer," she commanded and swayed out of the tent, lighting another two candles as she left. Lord Peter stood slowly vowing to always remember what the Laurel had shown him. The tent flap opened again, and Sir Duncan mac Dostoevsky entered slowly, with the lugubrious depression that had made him famous. He paused for a long moment, then spoke, "I see Mistress Stone has made her usual pre-vigil call." "Yes, my Lord," replied the Sluggard, er, Slugger, "she has made me a great gift this night." "Yes, but if you wash with kerosene it should not trouble you too much." He sighed. "I have been staving off early arrivals with poetry readings and dirges on my bagpipe, laments to the steppes, but that is starting to pall. Are you ready for your vigil?" Duncan stopped splashing himself with kerosene and pulled on a white dressing gown embroidered with serpents twining around daggers and the word "Mom" in Scots Gaelic. "I am." "Then let the vigil begin!"