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 Gets you a Peerage - Irel read it and look at him From the civic minded pens of Louis-Philippe Mitouard and Alexandre Lerot d'Avigne [NOTE: Last month's Verses were printed somewhat out of order. To get the full impact of the Verses, read them as follows: Chapter 13 ends with the line "Rambeo and Juliet", turn the page and start reading at Chapter 14. When you get to the end, flip back to the first page and continue with the line after "Rambeo and Juliet". That is, "You look more like..." Anyone who thinks it makes more sense the way it is printed is welcome to read in that order.] [EXPLANATORY NOTES: 10/29/98 - of course the order has been corrected for this edition. Opinion is mixed as to whether or not this is actually an improvement.] Episode the Eighth Chapter Sixteen Riding into the seamy part of town, the jail was soon located. It was sandwiched between several local establishments of pleasure and an Angora Rabbit farm. Although in a single night, the rogues had amassed a rap sheet longer than the list of heresies of the Avignon popes, the cavaliers were still freed quite promptly from their bondage (sometimes over their objections), when John dropped several coppers on the constable's desk, and Cyrano dropped several choice verses regarding the constable's parentage from his ever-present book of gleaned intelligence material. Once home, the cavaliers recounted with childlike excitement what little they could now remember of their evening of fun. Apropos of nothing in particular, one cavalier, Guillaume, piped up. "Master Cyrano, you wouldn't believe what I got from the constable." John, who would believe this crowd capable of almost anything, especially since Guillaume was one of those who had to be forcibly removed from the prison, set to adding in his head a column of figures regarding the total cost of getting a good chirurgeon for the young rogue when Guillaume added, "I got some information. I heard that Archduke Sir Lancelot Soloflex is in Obscuria. He's going to enter our Crown Tournament." An animated conversation continued on that subject until John interjected, in a voice pregnant with drama, "I wonder if he's still mad about the consultation." He was, of course, fishing for someone to ask what he was talking about. When someone did, he began a story, listened to with rapt attention by the Cavaliers, who usually got a story before bed anyhow. He told the tale of how, many years before, during the reign of King Lancelot, sometime between the reigns of good King Rhinoceros Thickskin (or good Queen Anne of Creighton -- she occasionally alternated personae in a concession to proprieties) the Crown had attempted to add a new member to the order of the Ruby-Throated Warbler of the Southland, the South's award of high merit for bards. Although it was a consulting order, the crown had followed its usual policy of asking for opinions in writing, and then using the resulting volume of paper to supply its needs in the Royal Privies. However, one man, whose name John changed to protect himself, thought of a better method of communication with the crown. John recounted how this man had sent to the Royal Palace one night a choir of ten prized eunuchs. They sat below the window of the Royal bedchamber and sang extemporaneously for the next ten hours, in perfect couplets, verses extolling the wisdom of the crown's choice that the candidate be given this honor in reward for his talents in writing twenty new filk songs to the tune of Greensleeves. "And what reward did this enterprising bureaucrat get, for trying to facilitate communication with the crown? You guessed it, a year's appointment to the Royal Standing Committee on Improving Titles and Forms of Address. So much for attempts at progress," John said in mock exasperation. The cavaliers nodded in sympathy. The conversation continued for some while. The cavalier band eventually tired of this sport and wandered off to the local tavern for a spot of dinner with Cyrano going along to babysit, leaving Jasper and John alone. After dinner, John sat, idly leafing through Jasper's trade copy of the latest Villains, Schemers and Authenticists newsletter and considering the days events. A duel with Soloflex, he thought. This should be choice, and not incongruous with their previous plans, although it did complicate things somewhat. "Well," he thought, "I wouldn't want this to be too simple. We have to keep Cyrano interested." Things were working out. Shadrach was every bit as pedantic as money could buy, King Jocko would take himself out of the picture -- or let the PELICANs do it for him, and maybe his old nemesis Soloflex could find a way to immolate himself in the process. Yes, he always liked it when a plan came together. "I guess evil things come to those who wait." He thought, chuckling to himself, and turned back to his magazine. "I think this newsletter is going downhill," John said. Jasper looked up from the disclaimer he was carefully editing. John continued, "The last few issues have had plenty of articles by authenticists, but never enough by villains and schemers. It used to be that you could read the _Heard from the Torture Chamber_ section for some hot tips, but lately -- nothing. There wasn't anything about Soloflex or King Jocko. I guess we'll have to do our own spying." Jasper laughed as John tossed the newsletter to the floor in mock disgust. Chapter Seventeen Archduke Sir Lancelot picked up his copy of the Villains, Schemers and Authenticists newsletter from the bedroom floor and dusted it off. He had just slammed it to the floor, but now thought better of it. He stood in the room, facing his squire Melrose. "Sorry to be so cranky, Melrose, but this business of looking for a consort is harder than I thought." He paced around the large bedroom, the floor of the Inn creaking under him. "But I told you this idea wouldn't work, didn't I." He opened the newsletter to the last section and waved a finger at the section labeled "Classified ads - (13) - Consorts new and used." "Well, it was Von Plato's idea." Melrose lied lamely. He avoided his master's eye by turning to look out the inn window onto the street. He focused on the sign hanging straight out from the building. He was trying to ignore his master. It in fact had been his idea, but his master had trained him well -- to pass off blame on those more helpless than yourself -- in this case on their newfound authenticity Nazi sycophant, Von Plato, who had done as he had earlier promised and joined them when they reached Obscuria. A knock sounded at the door, Melrose rose to answer it. As soon as he had opened the door it was forced open all the way and a small man in a checkered polyester T-tunic swept into the room, looking as though he wished cigars were period. "Hello, hello," he cackled, "I heard you had a little problem and thought I might be able to help." "Who the hell are you?" inquired Lancelot with the customary politeness that shot through all his interpersonal relationships. In reply the man whipped out a printed broadsheet and handed it over. Soloflex glanced at it and then handed it to Melrose, who read: "A Flocke of Taile, Sq. Gunnar, Prop. Est. Anno Imperius 23, over OneThousandScore served." Melrose raised an eyebrow, "and you are?" "Gunnar himself, my friends call me Taile Gunnar on account of my job. I heard that you needed a consort, your Archgrace, know what I mean?" "True enow, I have yet to find the woman I shall elevate to the ranks of Royalty." "Right, right, well take a look here ..." He grabbed the Broadsheet away from Melrose, flipped it over and handed it to the Archduke. "Over forty of the best potential consorts a man in your position could want." Lancelot cast an eye over the cheap artist's renderings of the women of "A Flocke of Taile" and cross-checked the pictures with the stated measurements. "Hmm, let us talk, Squire Gunnar." "Please, call me Taile." Chapter Eighteen Queen Barbie doddered unsteadily down the cobble street near her palace in Pedantia, occasionally catching one of her ten inch heels in a crack in the pavement. Every few feet, she stumbled, but then righted herself, and after readjusting her cocktail dress* with an impatient tug and straightening her crown, she continued walking. So determined was she this day that she entirely failed to acknowledge the townspeople as they prostrated themselves in obeisance. She was so rarely seen out of the palace that they debased themselves out of surprise and shock as much as respect. The queen continued stumbling down the street, a determined look on her face, her mind -- well, racing was perhaps to strong a word, limping might fit better -- her mind limping quickly. She had to find someone to tell. Finally, her King had gone too far. After all, if he decided to stay King forever, she would never become a Countess. And so, she would never become a Duchess, which is what he promised her so many late nights ago. For his own good, she had to tell someone, she reasoned. But who? She knew practically no one outside the palace, and hardly could trust anyone inside it. The only one she trusted, Sir Miyamo-san had given her this card with a name on it, and told her to find that man -- he would help her. Now she clutched the card with a viselike grip, comparing faces she passed to the face drawn on the card. Finally, the Queen reached the town square. There was her man. She recognized the cane and dark glasses from the sketch on her card. This must be Birdie, the blind man she was told to meet. She approached him, the townspeople groveling and scrambling out of the way as she approached the blind beggar. He sat on the curb, supporting a sign that said 'INFORMATION BOUGHT AND SOLD'. As she approached, the small man lifted his head slightly. "Greetings your Majesty," he intoned. She was shocked. What powers of perception this blind man had. "Why, you knew it was me before I told you," the Queen lisped in a vague southern drawl, "you really are smart." Birdie hadn't the heart to tell her that her flight from the palace was one of the worst kept secrets in the realm. "Your Majesty, I have two men who will take you to my friends. Go with them." He waved a finger, and two men emerged from the alley nearby. They had hoods covering most of their faces, but one could see the glint of the familiar bleeding bird icon on the medallions hanging about their necks. "These are my friends, Robin and Hawk, agents of PEL ..." Birdie caught himself awkwardly, "Uh, two ... toymakers of my acquaintance." Chapter Nineteen Sir Reginald Miyamo knelt before the shrine to his ancestors which he maintained near the royal palace and meditated. He hoped that all was well with Queen Barbie -- the very name was an ache in his heart! Long had he loved Barbie from afar; it was that love that had first swayed him to PELICAN, that and the fact that an entertainment co- ordinator got no respect in the court of any of the King Jockos. He rose gracefully and crossed to the wall where he had his scrolls hung, and paused before one with special meaning -- the Queen's Pawn. The award was given by the Queen for reasons known only to herself, and without consent of the King, the only power the Queen held of herself. He reread the text, "We, Barbie, Queen of Bust and Lately, bestow upon our Loyal subject Reginald Miyamo this Queen's Pawn because he is the only one in the whole court who was nice to me." He reached out a finger to trace Barbie's illegible signature at the bottom as tears filled his eyes. She was so sweet, so kind, so (although he did not admit that it was part of her attraction) gullible. It was his duty to see her safely off the throne and then take her away from all this horrible politicking. A servant arrived and knocked softly, "Sir Miyamo-san, the King would like to discuss the entertainment again." With Samurai resolve, Reginald stood and prepared to again try to convince the King that even if feeding small religious sects to the lions was period, it was not likely to increase his popularity. Chapter Twenty The two toymakers led the Queen down streets and alleys to a small wooded park, in the corner of which stood a large statue. Robin reached up and pressed the statue's codpiece, revealing a hidden stairway in the base of the statue, leading down. The three slipped through the door, and down the long spiral staircase into the caverns below the city. They walked for several miles through cavernous corridors until they came to a large chamber. The toymakers and the queen stopped at the mouth of the chamber. It was a large audience hall, primarily decorated in Modern Period Villain, set off gaily by a great proliferation of bird paintings, frescoes, draperies and guano on the walls and ceiling. By this time, Queen Barbie was becoming suspicious. This didn't look at all like St. Nicholas' workshop. What kind of toymakers were these? The chamber was devoid of people except for a looming figure sitting in the throne on the other side. He had on a black cape, sinister-looking boots and leather gauntlets, and a large iron mask covering his face. He also wore a huge golden key around his neck. In his lap lay a plump white cat, which he petted idly as he sat. The two agents led the queen near the throne, then stopped and bowed, then split off to the sides of the presence, leaving the poor intimidated queen alone before the imposing figure. A raspy voice issued from beneath the mask, echoing through the large hall, "Welcome, Your Majesty. You have been expected." The queen looked up with fear. "You have a problem with your King?" The effect was eerie, the voice was underlayed by heavy breathing even as the man spoke. Barbie looked around in superstitious awe, until she noticed the two toymakers alternately providing the sound effect. "So do we," the Villain continued, "I hope you will see things our way and cooperate, or it may get ugly. Perhaps before I go any further, I should show you something. Robin, go fetch him." Robin bowed quickly and disappeared through a side passage, reappearing with a man at his side, who looked for all the world like King Jocko. "My liege," the Queen exclaimed, and dropped to her knees. "How good to see you. I was just here visiting ... uh ... this cavern ... um, I needed to ... get some air." She stopped, cursing herself silently. Why couldn't she think up clever lies like those slimy Ministers who were always hovering around the palace? "Steady yourself," the large figure said in a booming voice. He laughed unconvincingly. "This is not King Jocko. Meet Boffo, his brother." "He's not? He looks exactly like my King Jocko." "_Your_ King Jocko," the voice rose in anger, "He's _our_ King Jocko. We made him, and we can destroy him! We raised King Jocko from a mere youth to be King of the Wastelands. Everything was going perfectly according to plan until one day last year when he suffered a severe concussion during a tournament fight. Since then he has had this unfortunate tendency to have a will of his own. He no longer takes orders from us. And now, with this announcement of his, it's time to replace him." "What do you want with me?" "You were looking for a way to get rid of Jocko, and so are we. Jocko is going to be kidnapped at Crown Tournament. Once we have him safely away, we can dispose of him as we wish, and replace him with his more reliable brother here." He patted Boffo on the shoulder. In turn, Boffo smiled at the compliment. "That's where you fit in. Most people would never be able to tell the difference between the two brothers, but someone as ... intimate ... as you may notice certain differences between them." It would have to be an improvement, Barbie thought. "But how did you find these two?" Barbie asked. The man laughed maniacally. "We found Jocko and Boffo when were just children. We were wandering through the forest one day when we first saw the two boys. They were vicious, snarling little creatures, biting and scratching each other, wrestling through the mud by the side of the road." "My god," Barbie asked, "were they raised by wolves? A she-bear?" "No, by lawyers actually. It turns out they had a summer cottage not far away. When the boys were old enough to go to school, they were sent to us for training." Queen Barbie looked around distractedly. This place was cold and drafty, not at all like her warm palace. And who was this maniac standing before her? "Oh fiddle, this never works." the man said, reaching up to strip off his armored faceplate. The queen hid her face in her hands. What vision of horror could be concealed beneath this mask. She peeked daintily through her fingers to see the face. It was the face of a rather friendly, if slightly world-weary looking man in his mid-fifties. His sandy grey hair peeked out from beneath the helm. His voice was now a thin but melodious tenor, "I can never breathe in that mask, anyway." He gestured and Robin and Hawk stopped making the breathing sounds. "It never fools anyone, either, but our Publicity Department determined that it is good for maintaining our reputation for terror. You weren't scared, were you?" The queen timidly admitted that she was. The man hesitated. He then took a book from a compartment on the side of the throne and began to leaf through it. Barbie could see the spine which read "THE COMPLEAT IMPERIALIST #47 - PERIOD MEGALOMANIA - HOW TO DO IT - A GUIDE, by Shadrach Darkmane." "Oh yes." the figure said in an entirely milder voice, to himself. He then cleared his throat and started again. "Now, I will tell you how I intend to conquer the world." Sotto voce he spoke to her, "You're supposed to use this time to plan your ingenious escape. I shouldn't tell you this, but I know you're new to this." ____________________________________________________________ * [Ed. note. The dictionary defines cock = from Old English - coc, a male bird, and tail from Old English taegel, the end of an animal -- of course it's period. What were you thinking, anyway?]