This is a series of unfortunate and sorrowful events, the result of the anarchy shortly after the reign of ‘The Baron’ of Goosebury. It is also the tale of how I, The Butcher, of all people, have come to rule all that I see before me. THE BUTCHER’S TALE-Prologue W THE BAKER’S TALE W THE CANDLESTICK-MAKER’S TALE W THE COOK’S TALE [This message has been edited by Lord SnakeEyes (edited 12-10-2003 @ 09:15 PM).]
Believe me, it isn’t much.
It all started on a Tuesday...
Well, probably a Tuesday. To tell you the truth, I don’t know anyone who knows what day it is any more, and that day wasn’t all that spectacular either!
It was dark and stormy, though not necessarily night yet, and everyone had gathered in our local run-down church. No one wanted to be caught out in the devil of a storm that was promising to come.
I myself had only come to purchase some of the reverend’s fine ale (“know thine enemy” He’d say in one of his drunken raves), but got caught in there when The Storm came. Just when everyone thought the storm was about to come, it did. We country bumpkins know a thing or two about storms, and this one, however dark, wasn’t fooling us. Everyone who lived in the surrounding shires was inside the church.
That is, except The Baron and his court. Not surprisingly, The Baron chose that exact moment to enter the room, when all were quiet and the first rumbles of thunder peeled off the clouds above. In entered The Baron of Goosebury, the ruler of our land for as long as the kiddies can remember.
He first came one stormy day, long ago, to challenge our old ruler to a duel of might, and won. The poor old gaffer that was ruling at the time had no hope, except that the tub of lard on his stomach might save him... which it didn’t.
I don’t know why The Baron wanted our shire, for it’s by far the soggiest of all places on earth, and the most boring. People call us culturally depraved, but who needs culture when you have work to do? That’s all people live for here, that, and the hope that the sky won’t fall down on their heads. Our Baron is a mighty man, a helpful, generous ruler, and an imposing figure, and everyone hates him for it. Ever since he came he’s being trying to “reform” our town, and a visit in the church means a boring sermon from the Baron, and no
mistake! However, instead of lecturing here, it seemed that he’d chosen this time, as we were all gathered in this dark storm, to announce something to us. Stepping onto the pedestal in the back of the church, he rumbled out a large bulky cough, almost as loud as the thunder behind him.
‘Greetings citizens of Goosebury hamlet’ he calls out, in his deep and gravely manner, while a courtier orders everyone to bow.
‘I know that I have hinted thuswise, but something very special is taking place this year!’ here he paused, waiting till the gasps and whispers quiet down,
‘Something exciting! Nay! Nothing short of preposterous and amazing!’ A few amazed shouts follow, and a befuddled farmer shouts out
‘It’s my birfday dis year!’ sighs flowed through the room; how could they forget?
‘Insolent dunce!’ shouts The Baron, in a sudden rage,
‘This year is the year I leave! I journey north! I shall begone!’ and with all that, he leaves his crown on a bench, marches out of the room, and rides away in the carriage waiting for him...
It took a while for the citizens to catch up with what had happened.
The Baron walks out.
The silver crown is left on the bench.
And then complete anarchy breaks out!
Or rather, it would’ve, if things had been left to take their proper course. Instead, as I (the smartest of the amassed crowd), grabbed the crown and placed it on my head, I felt a firm grip on my shoulder. Everyone was looking behind me, as if whoever was behind me was more important than I, the Baker, their new king! I looked around, and sighed. They probably wouldn’t have come to take my crown then. My lovely crown. Yes, my precious crown. The person I was looking at was certainly not fit to be king. Four feet tall, he was the Baron’s old jester. I’m sure he’d make me laugh, as he screamed his heart out in the dungeons…
‘What have ye to say, fool!?’ I said, in what I thought was kingly speech.
‘Be quiet! The crown is not yours to take!’ He yelled,
‘Give it to me, for a true king is not chosen by how fast he can snatch a crown. Their must be a trial, a contest, to decide who has royal blood, and who doesn’t…’ The room buzzed with laughter. How could this midget, this mime, command their king! It wasn’t right! However, I decided to play along, as surely no one would challenge their king!
‘What will this challenge be?’ I asked.
‘You must prove yourself worthy against those who oppose thee!’
‘I'm sure none will oppose I, the king!!’
‘You’re not our king yet, you filthy tub of lard!’ jeered the Candlestick-Maker,
‘I will challenge you!’
‘We have two contestants! Shall any more join this trial?’
A flood of opportunists raised their hands, knowing an easy promotion to Royaldom when they saw it.
‘Very well! The trial shall start at cockcrow, tomorrow. I will tell you what you will have to do then.’ He announced, before turning back to me.
‘Now, give me the crown.’
‘How can I be sure that you won’t keep it for yourself?’ I demanded, knowing that the crown was slipping further and further from my grasp.
‘I am a jester, and I always will be. I won’t take the crown.’
Grudgingly, I took off my crown, and with one last longing look at it, I handed it over to the fool, not knowing what would become of it.
Well, I was not going to miss this adventure of a lifetime!! A hundred or more contestants for the throne flocked in that day, armed with pitchforks, pokers, whips, and Butcher’s cleavers. Three main factions formed, those supporting the Baker, the Butcher, and of course myself. Others, who preferred the crown for themselves, psyched themselves up for whatever the jester had devised. At 6 o’clock the following morning, the jester himself rode up on a mule, jumped off, and climbed up onto the pedestal in the town centre.
‘Greetings, contesters to the throne of Goosebury! I have brought you all here today, to partake in a test of might, skill, and wit.
‘To gain the crown, you must first complete the tasks that I set before you.
‘First, you must kill the legendary Gooseburian hound, whose lair is set in the darkest forests of Goosebury’s highest mountain.’ At the very mention of this, a thousand childhood stories awoke in the minds of the contesters. The Gooseburian hound? Surely not! This wasn’t why they came! A large group sidled off into the Inn, or away through the countryside, where they had come from, leaving a small nervous group to hear what else they would have to achieve.
‘Those that can survive the Gooseburian hound, and slay it, have achieved a deed worthy of a king. However, strength and valour alone are not enough for the ruler of this land; you must also rule successfully for an entire week! On the day of our lord, I will judge who shall rule.’ Hearing this, everyone stared at the jester, expecting something else.
‘Well, what are you all waiting for? I’d start if I were you, before I take the crown for myself!!’ Hearing this, the contesters ran off as if the very hounds of Hell where after them, even if they were, in fact, running off into the jaws of the monstrous Gooseburian Hound! My small group of followers had intuitively brought a carriage, and I was hastily driven off, while a group of armed men sat at the windows, their weapons in their arms, ready to fire…
As the contester’s set off to certain triumph (Well, that’s what they’d have me believe), I started a fire in the camp we had hastily erected for the night. Without even touching my soup, they had all run off into the forest to slay the hound. Funny thing was, “they” included all factions vying for the throne. I suppose it’s more official on such occasions to travel together, especially in such a deep, dark forest! In any case, I was soon distracted by a high pitched wail, which seemed to be getting louder. I had a niggling suspicion that it was someone screaming, which was confirmed when a fully armoured knight came running out of the forest, with a hulking beast pounding after him! I could see a half-hearted group of pursuers at the end of the track, so for the good of all concerned, I scrambled up the closest tree, in order to, er, better see what was happening. The knight disappeared behind some foliage, followed by the hulking monster that was chasing him. Mere moments later, the Hound came walking back, yet the knight was nowhere to be seen. To the contesters, who had finally come exhausted, to the camp, the beast somehow didn’t seem as threatening as before.
‘Leave this to me,’ growled the Baker, before being pushed aside by a man with a pitchfork. Seeing his moment, the Candle-stick maker lunged forward, and drove his lance into the hound’s foul heart. Everyone stared dumbly at the scene, for how could it be that easy to kill such a thing? Soon someone started to clap, and I let out a cheer of approval! The crowd held their new king aloft, and cheered as they took him back to camp… What a glorious moment, I thought, as I climbed down from my vantage point. I was so jubilant, that for some reason I didn’t even notice the blade being slipped in front of my throat, while a dark, angry voice stated;
‘I’ll slit your bloody throat, if you don’t take me to your king!’ happy to oblige, I walked as calmly as I could towards the camp, where the Candlestick-maker’s supporters were packing the tents. Shoving me aside, he walked into the centre of the camp, where I could see he was the knight I had seen, running in front of the recent Gooseburian Hound! Ha, what a coward! The men would make short work of him!
‘Tell me, which one of you is the king, for he is the man that I will kill!’ pronounced the knight, with the same vicious gusto which with he had threatened me. A man armed with a heavy two-handed sword stepped up, and raising his weapon, said to the knight;
‘Bugger off, or you’ll be the one that ends up dead!’ I laughed, and so did everyone else, but not before the man’s head came spinning off!, and the knight demanded to see the king, for a second time! At that same moment, the candlestick-maker stepped out of the carriage,
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