“You, Sir,” shouted the belligerent elf, “are an imbecilic disgrace to this kingdom and all its intelligent citizens! I hope you rot in the bottom of a very deep pit filled with diabetic cats and asparagus stalks wrapped in tinfoil until the day when the universe itself explodes into a quazatrabahzillion tiny pieces, some of which will hopefully be your pieces! Only then will my soul find rest knowing that you have ceased to exist. May your bones rot in the brain matter of all kinds of squirmy, slithering things. May your children and grand-children and great-grandchildren and their pet gerbils be cursed with terrible body odor and horrible luck with Orange juice being sprayed into their eyes on Wednesday afternoons. Good day, Sir.”
The elf promptly died of asphyxiation and a heart attack in the very same instant (which, of course, hindered him from accepting his award for “Best Insult/Curse since the Dawn of Time,” later that year. That trophy now rests on his grave stone along with a stack of papers containing the acceptance speech he wrote just in case he won that award some day. He’d been practicing all his life. Consequently, leaving a wake of sobbing lumps as he merrily went on his way pursuing his life’s goal. His family became instant celebrities as the family of the first deceased being to win that prestigious, if obscure, award. Others had died being the subject of winning insults/curses, but no one had died doing the insulting/cursing. The award society was understandably shaken by the change from the norm. So, it’s no wonder that the head of the committee had been found a week later in a RV in the middle of some desert with nothing but a pile of posters of barn owls and bowls of grated cheese, muttering something about a career in auto production. He was tossed in the nearest mental facility where he remains to this day, running a successful Chiropractors office out of his cell. His name is Henry Clydeson, for those who are curious.)
The subject of that first elf’s fury just stood there. He didn’t respond in the slightest. This was his standard reaction. I’d tell you his name, but in all honesty I don’t know it. No one else seems to either. Those who bother to ask him usually end up having their reason to live dashed to a pulp. He never speaks, not once, not so much as a grunt. So the nameless elf continued standing there, staring at the stretched out body of the dead elf. Neither one did much of anything.
An hour or so passed in a situation that most would deem awkward silence, but if the silent elf thought so, he didn’t show it. Eventually, a fuzzy, hunched-over Koala bear waddled over to the elf. He was out of breath; as if the exceedingly light trek up to the castle gates had been a marathon. “Don’t mind me, Master Elf,” he wheezed, “Im merely here to see the King.”
The silent elf didn’t seem to mind much, so the small bear continued, “He should be expecting me, so if you could be a good lad and get him quickly I’d app…Say! Is that chap taking a nap?”
The silent elf shook his head.
“Is he dead?”
A silent nod. Now it was the koala’s turn to be silent. He took in the scene.
“Well? What happened to the poor chap?”
A shrug.
“You just gonna let ‘im lie there?”
Another nod.
Unsure of what to do, the koala uneasily stepped back once or twice. “Well…um…my name is Stan, short for Staniforous, but I go by Stan for obvious reasons…” Stan thought of asking the elf’s name, but decided he’d probably regret it and just mentally dubbed him “Creepy Elf.”
“So, how about you fetch the King for me? Im in a terrible rush, what with a murderous band of thugs behind me eager to dismantle my limbs purely for their enjoyment,” he said it all with such a chipper attitude that you’d never guess it was the truth, but it was.
The Creepy/Silent elf just stood there, staring blankly at Stan. A moment passed. Then the elf turned around and sat down staring off into distant mountain ranges. Stan sighed. He listened for a moment and thought he heard dogs barking in the distance. That was surely the murderous band of thugs. They always had their dogs with them, not because they were particularly useful. It was just that sometimes even ruthless murders get lonely.
“Now, listen here, Chap,” he layered on every ounce of authority he could muster in his furry body, “It really is imperative that I see the King at once. A matter of life and death, I tell you! And by Wally’s Green Toenail! If you don’t open this here gate in the next four seconds, I’ll make sure you end up with a toenail of such a distinctly green color so as to cause Wally himself to become comatose purely from the lack of purpose in his life all of a sudden, as so often happens to those who lose their claim to fame.”
The Creepy/Silent elf blinked. Which said a lot. Even though it didn’t.
Now, as fate so often has it, our best attempts at moving life along are rendered useless. Not because we are unable to accomplish what we wanted, but because chance does it faster. It happened just like that to Stan. Just as he was boiling over in fury, the gate leapt up with the clank of chains. Out stepped King Nate into the bright, glorious sun. He was looking for some sort of amusement to pass the time, since Queen Meg had left earlier that day with most of the other Kemenbarian citizens, chasing after some legend they had heard of. Something about a wizard. He didn’t remember. (After all, he just had a dumb male brain.) He barely noticed a blur dart past him and into the castle.
Confused, he looked to the elf. He was about to ask what that had been, when he realized who he was speaking to, “Who put you on gate duty?”
The elf shrugged. King Nate sighed and ran inside after the koala. Finally he had something to be distracted by.
Through the gaping doorway he entered the throne room, where a koala was lounging on the throne. His throne. King Nate marched up to the fluffy bear deciding that the chance of fun was being overruled by a threat to his throne. He shouted for Gus. (Who had insisted on staying behind for the sole purpose of a royal bonding session.)
Stan, the koala, stood up on the King’s throne. He stretched way up onto his fuzzy toes. Taking a breath of air, he cracked a knuckle. (Just one.) It resounded with a pop. He cleared his throat and addressed the king.
“Sire, I have come to request your service. I need to escape some…dreadful men who pursue me.”
Nate blinked. “Why are you sitting in my throne?”
“That’s irrelevant.”
“No, actually. It seems rather important. Please enlighten me.”
“Well, it has a certain cushiness that I enjoy.”
“I can’t disagree with that. Now, give me one good reason why I shouldn’t have you beheaded right now.” He tapped his royal foot.
“You’re bored, right? What with the Queen gone and all.”
“Yes, I am. And how did you know that?”
“That’s irrelevant. I can cure your boredom. At least for this afternoon.” Stan plopped down on his bottom.
“I could always have you beheaded. Im sure that would cure my boredom.”
“Ah, but my way I don’t die.”
Nate thought for a moment, “I suppose that’s true…”
“And…and…Ok, I don’t have another reason. What say you? You seem a decent chap, the very best king I’ve had the honor…”
“I say you should get off my throne.”
“If I were to refuse…”
“Off. Now,” Nate ordered.
Grumbling under his breath, Stan slid off of the comfy throne. He padded over to the King across the warm, sun-drenched tiles.
The King nodded his approval. “Better.”
Stan cleared his throat, promptly falling into a hacking fit. After a moment, it passed. “You see, it’s like this. A murderous, ruthless band of fuchsia-scarf-wearing bandits are chasing me.”
“Why?”
Stan shrugged, “Does anyone really know why fuchsia-scarf-wearing bandits do these things?”
“I still don’t see why you need me…”
“I need to get home today. And it’s a terribly lonely journey without company.”
“Where, exactly, is home?”
“It’s over the mountain that’s next to the mountain that looks like an orange tackling an emu.”
“Mount Baresastrikingresemblancetoanorangetacklinganemu?”
“Yeah, that one. Then you go through The Forest Peopled with Rabbits and Mice.”
King Nate shivered. “We have to go through there?”
“Yes, Im afraid so. It’s a tradition of mine.”
“But it’s the deadliest forest in all of Kemenbar!”
Stan shrugged, “Tradition is still tradition even if it is idiotic. Anyway, after that, we have to travel up the dried-up river bed which once flowed with apple sauce. Past the statue of Sally, the heroic yet needy goat. Across the field…”
“What field?”
“Just a normal field.”
“A normal, boring field? This is an imaginary kingdom! We don’t have normal, boring things. Everything is either awesome or deadly.”
“Yes, Your Highness. It is unwaveringly normal. Hence the danger,” Impatience grew in his voice.
“Im not sure I follow…”
“When crossing the field, it is tempting to be side-tracked to other, more interesting landmarks. Like the Alligator Hat pits, for instance.”
“Oh.”
“Then we have to climb to the very top of a volcano. We jump in and dodge blasts of molten lava as we plummet to the bottom, where we hope to land in the cushy pillows that no one knows how they got in the bottom of a volcano, and not the painfully sharp tacks, which are also of unknown origins. If we survive that, we have to tunnel our way out with only buttons from our clothing for a mile. Then, and only then, are we at my home.”
King Nate raised his hand.
“Yes?” asked Stan.
“Why don’t we just walk around the volcano?”
“Tunneling is more fun.”
“Im not sure Im willing to spend the months necessary to make that trek. Maybe you should find someone else.”
“I promise you it would take mere hours. Three at the most.”
“How would that take three hours?”
Stan shrugged. “It just is. Shall we be off?”
King Nate shrugged, led the koala bear out of the room, and so began his terrifying journey with as much apathy as he could muster.
As they walked in silence, Nate ran through all the things they would need for the journey. Out of the blue, Stan piped up, “Follow me,” and waddled off towards the gate.
“But I need…” Nate objected.
“It is all taken care of, Your Highness.”
“But how…”
“We don’t have time. Now please, just follow me.”
So he did. For no reason in particular, except that this felt like Stan’s adventure and thus should be in his control. The King of Kemenbar was still trying to figure out why he was on this adventure in the first place. He just assumed that that was the nature of adventures. They weren’t supposed to make much sense.
The king and the koala stepped out into the sunlight. Gus was standing out there looking a little dazed and extremely confused. Nate walked up and patted his scaly leg. “You ok, Gus?”
Gus shrugged.
“We have a koala here. He wants to go on an adventure. I need you to come with me. Will you?”
Gus nodded.
“Alright chap,” a voice bounced from on top of the dragosaur, “Let’s be off, shall we?”
“I suppose…There’s nothing else we need?”
“I assure you. Everything is settled. Now, climb up and let’s be off.”
King Nate eyed him suspiciously, “You do realize Im the king here, right?”
“Yes. Yes, of course, Sire. We leave when you wish.”
Nate sighed. “I guess we can head out now.”
Stan beamed, “Good. Very good indeed.”
King Nate climbed onto the dragosaur’s back and they took off into the sky. Clouds, birds and wind whizzed by them. Gus’s wings lifted and dipped, gaining altitude with each powerful stroke. With the sun’s smiling rays on their backs, they headed directly towards Mount Baresastrikingresemblancetoanorangetacklinganemu.
The king settled into the dragon’s scales, preparing for a long, agonizing journey to the mountain. He had just finished finding the perfect position for his oddly shaped legs, when the peaks of Mount Baresastrikingresemblancetoanorangetacklinganemu and the mountain next to it rose in the distance. They were growing closer far faster than could be reasonably expected by anyone with a relative intelligence greater than that of a chunk of tree bark.
“Was it always that close?” Nate questioned Stan.
Stan merely replied, “I told you it wouldn’t take long.”
Before he could continue, they whooshed past the two mountain peaks, without even a brief moment to study the detail on the orange part of the mountain, or the grimace on the emu, or even the disappointing blandness of the mountain next to Mount Baresastrikingresemblancetoanorangetacklinganemu.
Terror struck King Nate. There, looming in the distance was The Forest Peopled with Rabbits and Mice. Stan ordered Gus to swoop in to land. “Seriously, why can’t we just fly over it?” Nate begged.
“If I have to answer that question again, I will take Tradition out of its theoretical existence and beat you with it until you submit to its rule over you.”
“Im still the king…”
“Good Yak Milk, Boy! Its tradition! We can’t go running away from it, now can we?”
“Um…yes we can…”
“Ah, but we won’t.”
With that, they entered into the canopy of trees. Nate had the uncontrollable urge to keep his eyes shut. It wasn’t until he walked straight into a tree branch that Stan sighed, waddled over to him, and led him by the hand the rest of the way.
Not more than five minutes could have passed, when the King felt sunlight once again on his royal face. “I could have sworn the forest was bigger than that.” He said, opening his eyes. Stan just shrugged. “Were there any rabbits or mice?”
Stan shivered. “Its best you don’t know.”
The group of three decided to skip up the dried-up river which once flowed with apple sauce. It is quite a sight to see a dragon skipping and one that usually leaves people staring at that exact point dumbfounded and with their chin resting on the grass for three or four days.
They marched past the statue of Sally the Heroic, yet Needy goat. Only stopping to take one picture, in what is probably the third greatest show of self-restraint ever. The second is me refraining from telling you the first.
They continued on across the field, and despite it being a ten minute walk both Gus and Nate complained of boredom so intense that they were seriously considering humming a Miley Cyrus song. But, thanks to Stan’s efforts, they stayed on the right path and out of danger. Also, no hideous songs that can only be described as disgraceful of the title “music” were sung.
Gus looked up and saw a volcano. Lowering his head, he sighed. The poor dragosaur was weary from running around all day. Days with the King usually caused him great joy and also the urge to run around. He had been on his feet all day and was exhausted. But there was not time for a rest. They had to continue. They climbed the volcano that appeared to be thousands of feet high and stretching into the clouds, in about five seconds. Nate was understandably dumbfounded. It made zero sense. Granted, not much made sense in Kemenbar, but still it seemed like over-kill to him.
Stan didn’t bother to explain. He just jumped into the volcano massive opening. Gus and Nate shrugged simultaneously and followed suit. Nate could never be sure, but the fall seemed to take an hour. Occasionally, they dodged bursts of lava, but all in all it was persistently boring.
Eventually, they landed in a pile of mattresses. Nate was just relieved to be done falling, until he looked over and saw a bundle of gray fur skewered on a spike. He gasped. Laughter exploded behind him. He spun. It was Stan.
“Im sorry,” he sputtered, “I couldn’t resist. I had to pass the time somehow, while I waited for you to finish falling.”
When Nate recovered from the shock, he asked, “Why did that take so long?”
“Don’t ask,” said Stan as he padded off towards the volcano wall, with a silver button in hand. “Come. Come,” he motioned them over. “Help me get this done.”
So the group began stabbing and scraping at the grimy volcanic rock with some spare buttons from Stan’s clothing. It took only a short time for them to get through.
They were out into the sunlight, or what should have been sunlight. In reality, it was dusk. Nearly the whole day had been passed in that volcano. Nate looked around. There was nothing of significance in sight. Just grass. “Where is your home, Stan?”
Stan grinned. “Around.”
Just then, a mob of a dozen or so fuchsia-scarf-wearing bandits, popped into existence out of non-existence. Gus and Nate would have fought them, but ropes and chains also popped out of non-existence and promptly attached themselves to them. Stan would have fought, but he was too busy cackling evilly.
He bowed, “Thank you, King Nate. You’re assistance has been most valuable. I shall be going now.”
“You’re leaving us with these guys? They’ll kill us!”
“I must. You see, I have some unfinished business with that Queen of yours. Besides, I wouldn’t worry about them, Sire.” His voice filled with mock-humility. “They don’t really exist. And technically, neither do I. Yet.” At that very moment, the koala disappeared. But the mob, the ropes and chains did not.
