Crabbit Faery Tales and Folk Tales of Forumshire

{{{Oh yes, though he wont talk about it these days or pretends it never happened. But there was once a time when you saw Odo Banks in the Muck 'n' Duck wrestling a duckie down most days I also seem to recall bawdy songs being involved too }}}

Finished the whole thing yesterday. Loved it to bits. Loved the absurd humour and the deeper morals. Loved the pacing, the change between characters was really well done even with rapid changes and a lot going on - I didn't loose track once I think.

Loved the dialects, and the Dane and Fjordian translations. Geekisly deep appreciation of ken and mair which must be related to Norse/nordic.

{{ So glad you enjoyed it Amarie. I always worry slightly about certain folks because of how I use their persona in my stories- and with Ambassador Amarie of the Dark Planet she is so useful for being the character whose motivations and actions can be made opaque anbd so interesting- but at the risk of her sometimes not always being 'good'. It is of course no reflection on anyone- its just she is a really good character because of the DP thing for that- but still worry every time I write one of these that something unintended will offend (learned by lesson with Figg! ).

I keep meaning to ask one of you Fjordians to redo the 'Norse' stuff for me so its not a, presumably, insensible google translation version (plus you may spot puns ect I would completely miss that could be used in the names and short bits of 'fjordian' to enhance them for Fjordian speakers.) }}

The ambassador is a delightful plot device. The grin I wore during “citizen 103,445” should have been filmed.

I am sure I can take a look at the Vikings, but I'd like to have a PC to work on, so it won't be right away.

The grin I wore during “citizen 103,445” should have been filmed.- Amarie

{{{ A page back I mentioned the Ambassador was one of my favourite characters to write and that she had my personal favourite scene in this story- thats the scene! So happy you liked that one too! }}

Once upon a time in Forumshire, in the deepest depths of a Scotshobbitland winter when a cold and cruel wind howled through the pine tress which in turn seemed to huddle the hill sides and glens as if for warmth and shelter, there was a barrel. A buckie barrel to be more precise, with its uppermost side covered in snow, which due to the curvature occasionally slid in loud 'whumps' to the ground below.

This was no ordinary barrel, for a start it was a super sized deluxe family buckie barrel, meaning when new it had contained enough buckie to last an entire medium sized Scotshobbit family for up to an entire week, and secondly when consumed, and once the hangover had worn off, it was large enough to be converted into a surprisingly comfortable dwelling, as this one had been long ago.

Much had been done to it in the intervening years however, an awning had been added to its side, windows had been added then replaced over the years with more ornate, then more expensive, then more fashionable ones and finally windows which were all three. Likewise the garden in which it sat told a tale in itself; the oldest part housed a worn, weathered, tattered sofa whose springs showed in places certain to be uncomfortable when sat upon, empty buckie bottles surrounded it. It was a sight in any part of Scotshobbitland which would have told any who saw it what sort of people would live here and to maybe walk on the other side of the street. Yet the sofa was surrounded in turn by an expansive newer garden, one with herbs and vegetables in neat perfect rows, cut grass, hedges cunningly trimmed into various local wildlife so that a green leafy oversized haggis seemed to be scurrying across a lawn being pursued by the awkwardly gated stride of a bagpipe. And these things spoke of professional gardeners, of paid hands and were of course at complete odds with a tatty old couch and its debris of depleted alcoholic containers.

The reason for these discrepancies were explained by the barrels owner and his life. For he was none other than Paw McTyrant owner of Scotshobbitland's most prestigious, and most expensive buckie factory. But there had been no silver spoon in the mouth of Paw, indeed his teething as a baby had been done on a rock. A gift in a way from his own father who had being drunkenly, and using tried and tested Scotshobbit rearing methods, throwing the rock at Paw's infant head to shut up his wailing. And also because rocks were about all his alcoholic father had possessed in any case to throw.

It had in short been a long way up for Paw McTyrant, a very long way up, yet up he had gone. And the barrel, his first lavish purchase he allowed himself on the back of his his first major buckie sale, had gone up with him from humble beginnings to luxury family pad. It had been a long, hard fought but ultimately successful life.

And now it was very nearly over.

In some cultures rooms in which those who are near to death are laid out are kept dimly lit out of reverence, or a sense of greater connectivity to the spirit world into which the dying is soon to embark. They are sombre, shrouded rooms with relatives standing around the bed talking only, when they do at all, in hushed and reverend tones.

In Scotshobbitland however the lights were abundant and turned up high so you could be sure when the moment came that the old bugger was actually dead. And that was the case in the room in which Paw McTyrant was taking his last breaths.

At his bedside were his two children, the eldest was Pretty McTyrant, the apple of his eye but by all convention, an augmented bosom, platinum blonde flowing hair and legs that were so long you could use them for measuring curtains, most definitely female putting her at a traditional distinct disadvantage in the upcoming granting of the legacy.

Beside her was her younger brother Petty McTyrant, with an unkempt mop of red hair, a squint so deep that on a good day he could see behind himself, and with a face that since it had hit puberty some fifteen years hence had still not given up on the idea of acne, blemishes, warts, nodules, and hard to identify blotchy bits which could be anything from mud to severe skin cancer. He was also slightly more drunk than everyone else in the room, including Paw- being almost dead was not considered a good enough reason in Scotshobbitland for refusing a drink.

There was also one other person, of sorts, in the room. But they hardly counted, and certainly not as a person. This was obvious from the fact they were kept in a cage and secondly that they appeared to consist of a large ball of fur with a pair of slightly weary yet bright eyes peering out from within.

“Muk him say it,” Petty encouraged his sister, nodding at the ball of fluff in the cage, “yi ken how Paw aways luved it, gie him a right gud laugh it did,” he turned to the grey, drawn face of his Paw on the bed, whose eyes though often simply seeming to stare still managed to focus sharply on him, “wannie hear the mutant haggis say it Paw?”

Almost imperceptibly Paw nodded.

Pretty grabbed a stick from beside her and rising went over to the cage, “Yi heard thum, sae it,” she demanded.

The eyes in the ball of fur glared up her.

She jabbed the stick between the bars and the ball of fur leapt back from it but struck the bars at the rear of the cage, “Sae it yi daft wee haggis mutant!” Pretty yelled, “or yi'll gi mair o' this.” And for further demonstration she jabbed at the ball of fur again.

The fur-ball rolled his large eyes at her then with a small, yet loud and quite deliberate cough, like an overly severe waiter attracting your attention to the bill,  he said in the tones of one resigned to this being their life, “Bada Bing”.

Petty roared with laughter, Pretty grinned along with him and on the bed even Paw managed a smile. When this moment of levity had passed and the hairy ball had drawn himself up at the far end of his cage Paw croaked, “It's time,” he coughed, “time tae gie yi baith ma inheritance. Cum claeser, baith o' yi.”

Pretty's eyes gleamed, she had her eye on the barrel, Petty would have to go of course but that was true no matter what happened.

Petty tried not to salivate as he approached, he knew what this meant, his time had finally come, he was going to own his own buckie factory!

“Petty,” Paw half-whispered through chapped thin lips, “Petty, yi've bin awmaist like a son tae me, sumtimes..”

“I um yir son!” Petty interrupted.

A wrinkled thin hand shot up from the bed and clipped him round his ear leaving it stinging and red, some Scotshobbit parenting reflexes died last, “dinnae interrupt me laddie,” he scolded and then broke into another coughing fit. Pretty offered him the cup by his bedside and Paw greedily slurped the buckie within it as she held it to his lips whilst Petty all but hopped from foot to foot in anxious anticipation.

He had waited so long for this even if he had never actually done anything as such to deserve it. But then Petty had always considered that was the whole point of inheriting things, that you did not have to do any actual work or learning you just got given it. And he was not going to feel sorry about that.

Finally Pretty lowered the cup from Paw's buckie stained lips, “An Pretty, ma Pretty, whit a lass, yi've the looks,” Petty grunted an interruption at that and added “aye bought an' paid fir,” but Paw ignored him and when on, “and yi've the brains tae, but no the baws, literally A mean,” he added at the sudden flare of red anger in Pretty's face, “wull, A'm dying, A cun feel it, sae a gie ma hame, ma barrel tae my beautiful Pretty.”

Pretty's face turned from its scowl to a huge smile, she had expected no less it was a shame that hopeless drunk Petty would inherit the rest, well, at least for as long as he lived that was.

Petty could not help but frown at the barrel going to Pretty. He had wanted everything even if he had expected she would get it, not that it mattered, he could buy ten new barrels if he wanted, hell he could just take them for free from his own factory. Now there was an idea.

“Ma life's work, ma pride, ma joy, the sweat aff my brow and that clammy nasty sort yi git roon yir baws efter a days hard graft, ma life's work, the McTyrant Buckie Factory, Petty son,” he paused to cough some more and a small trickle of dark blood appeared at the corner of his mouth, “I gie the lot tae yi so....,” Paw hesitated as if something had stuck in his throat, which in a way it had and Petty for a moment feared Paw had died before giving him his inheritance, but Paw had not died yet, he suddenly went on, “naw a cannae dae this,” and with a shake of his frail head and a long stare into Petty pockmarked face declared, “yir a fucking idiot son, A gie the lot tae yir sister Pretty yi cun huv,” his fading eyes flicked about the room, “yon ball of talking fur.”

“Whit?” Petty exclaimed in horror.

“Whit?” Pretty exclaimed in delight.

“Yi cannae dae this,” Petty cried grabbing Paw by his shoulders and shaking them. The old man grinned up at him with suddenly clear eyes and said, “nae luck son,” and promptly died.

“Noo!” Petty cried.

“Poor Paw,” Pretty said reflectively and sadly then spinning on her six inch heels to Petty she barked, “A'm no cruel, wull no aw the times oanyways, sae A willnae throw yi oot the barrel immediately, yi cun get yerself organised first, jist be goan by morning.”

“Whit?” Petty boggled at her still trying to comprehend that he had not in fact inherited anything of  any worth at all.

“Oh, and wan  mair thing, yir fired.”

“Whit?” Petty managed to stammer again reeling further from his already reeled to position.

“From ma buckie factory. Drinking oan the joab. Yi've goat yir books sae didnae even think o' turning up there fir work.”

Petty's face went red, the blotchy bits redder, “Yi cannae dae that?”

“Oh aye,” Pretty grinned back at him, “Aye A cun,” she opened the door of the room and walked out, pausing only to add, “and mind, take yon hairy ball wi yi, efter aw it's everything thit Paw wanted yi tae huv.”

She slammed the door shut behind her. Petty stared at the now deceased body of his traitorous father then turning he looked down  towards the cage in the corner of the room from where a pair of large eyes were watching him back very thoughtfully indeed from under the fur.

“Well, you ain't much to work with kiddo,” the ball of fur said, “but hey, yi get nuttin' for nuttin. Am I right or what? I'm Halfwise and from now on you kiddo can think of me as the cab driver of your new life. No lie. Kapeesh?”


Petty stared at him. “Whit?” he said eventually.

Love it ! Ha ha Halfy ! My God you've got your hands full, you do have hands don't you ? One of you is gonna be armed with flea powder & its a tight guess who

“Did yi jist talk?” Petty asked incredulously of the hairy ball staring up at him from out of the cage.

“What do you mean just? Don't you listen? Haven't you been here all these years? Are those ears on your head or doughnuts kiddo? They look like doughnuts,” the ball of fluff called Halfwise said.

“Bit, bit aw yi ever said afore noo wis 'Bada-Bing'” Petty pointed out.

“Right, exactly right kiddo. And look where it got me- a freak show for your Paw's amusement dragged out at buckie opening ceremonies and Hogmanay. When opening your mouth gets you whacked you learn not to open it, you get me?”

“Naw” Petty replied honestly.

“Well that's probably because your a mouthbreather kiddo.”

“A whit?” Petty frowned.

“Forget it, now are you going to stand there gawping at me or you going to open this cage and let me fix your life?”

“But yir jist a haggis,” Petty pointed out, “a mutant haggis.”

The ball of fur sighed, “I ain't no haggis kiddo, came here from a long way away where they ain't got no haggis, and you really should be focusing a bit more on where I said I was going to fix up your life. I don't know if you noticed kiddo but you just got taken to the cleaners.”

Petty considered this and the fact that this Halfwise, the not a haggis after all that could talk, was the only thing he had left he could call a possession. With some hesitation he undid the latch on the cage and smoothly and neatly the hairy ball glided forward propelled by unseen motion beneath all the fur and looked with relieved wide eyes up at him, “I owe you one for just this alone kiddo,” Halfwise said swishing smoothly over the floor and spinning delightedly on the spot and then gliding round in a large luxurious circle, “Ah that feels good.” He stooped spinning and glanced around, “Hey grab me those boots and that jacket.”

“Whit boots,” Petty asked surprised, “an' whit jacket.”

“The one your Paw is wearing of course,” Halfwise replied rolling his eyes upwards towards the bed on which lay the stiffening corpse of Paw.

“Yi want me tae steal yi Paw's claes? Aff his deid body?”

“Well what did he give you kiddo?”

“Gud point,” Petty snorted and proceeded to strip the jacket from his Paw, which was a fashionable but awkward to remove long frock coat style with tartan edging, and then to heave at the boots, eventually pulling both off and leaving himself red faced and panting, “whit dae yi want them fir?”

“What do I want them for?” Halfwise replied laden with sarcasm, “I am going to open a show on Broadway and I need costumes.”

“A whit oan whur?”

“Forget it,” Halfwise said shaking his head, which was also his whole body, “I'm going to wear them of course.”

Petty stared down at him, “Bit yi havnae oany feet, huv yi?”

“Better than that, go bring me a couple of brooms.”

Petty frowned at this with no idea what the furball was up to but consented to the request and hurried out the room. A few minutes later he returned with a broom in each hand.

“Whit dae yi want them fir?” he asked confused.

“Stilts of course,” Halfy replied, “now give me a hand here.”

“Aye wull, A didnae suppose yi've oany o' them either,” Petty said crabbitly.

Ten minutes later Petty stared and gawped. He was looking almost eye to eye with Halfwise, who was balanced on a pair of stilts that ended at the bottom in his Paw's boots. A coat hanger provided the basic shoulders atop this and the frock coat hung over all, the sleeves rather loosely so that they flapped about.  And emerging out of the collar of the coat was Halfwise himself as a very hairy head, “I need a hat,” he said.

“Paw's git wan, a real gud wan wi a thistle in it,” Petty enthused and flung open the wardrobe door and took out a wide brimmed hat with an enormous thistle stuck on the side of it and which hung over the back, he perched it atop Halfwise's head.

“How do I look kiddo?”

Petty stared at him, words escaped him even as his mouth tried to form around them and only silence emerged before finally he tentatively offered, “Yir quite tall, fir yi're height.”

Halfwise's eyes narrowed in what might have been a frown at that, “I am rather banking on the fact that every Scotshobbit I've ever seen looks like they just fell out a Speakeasy and have been so blind drunk no one will notice the details,” Halfy explained.

“Wull A'm blind drunk, mind yi A'm awso wundering if aw this,” he waved at Halfwise in his get up, “is actually jist me really, really drunk.”

“Exacta mundo kiddo! That's what I am saying. You lot are so drunk you picked a unicorn as your national animal, this a race of people with a serious problem in telling what's real or not, am I right? So hears the plan kiddo, I'm going to teach you.”

“Teach me whit?” Petty asked suspiciously, he had always despised school, learning, or anything in fact which did not involve buckie and the drinking thereof.

“To win kiddo, to emerge the champ. To be the Don.”

“The whit?” Petty said more confused than ever.

“To get what you deserve, the whole enchilada, the entire Big Apple. Everything that should have been yours and your evil sister got, ka-pish?”

“The Buckie-factory?” Petty said his eyes widening, “take it aff a Pretty?”

“Yeah! Finally he sees it.”

“A cunnae dae that?” Petty said horrified, “she'd kill me!”

“Don't ever go near any of those McBanks kiddo, I hear they have a thing for jelly and right now you're made of the stuff. But we don't go after her straight.”

“We didnae?” Petty said, “then wit dae wi dae?”

“We go up in the world, right to the very top in fact- whose in charge around here?”

“Whit go tae the Chief o' the McTyrants?”

“No, I said to the top not some local Boss, the Big Boss.”

“Yi didnae mean,” Petty gulped, “ the Admin?”

“Bam! That's our girl.”

“But Amarie, she's frae..”

“The Dark Planet? You should take up fossil hunting, if your lucky you might find a few old  vertebrae then at least you'd be part the way to having a back bone. Yeah we are going to see the Admin. Grow a pair kiddo!

“A pair o' whit? An whit dae wi want tae go there fir? Tae plead ma case, tae use legal and technical an unnderhuanded stuff tae bring Pretty doon?”

“No, of course not,” Halfwise replied, his eyes gleaming,” we're going to take her a present.”

“Whit?”

“You jaw like a uptown politician, less noise more action kiddo, let's go.”

“To the Admin?” Petty asked again as if in a state of disbelief, “Jist like that? Bit I cannae go tae the Admin, A'm naeboady! A'm less than naebody, A'm the disinherited son o' a an old bugger nae wan liked.”

“Exactly kiddo, exactly. And that's what we are going to sort out. Now move it.”

Petty scrambled for his boots and went out and fetched his bunnet and then in a sort of puzzled, trepidation filled daze he and Halfwise, who walked erratically beside him in long literally stilted strides, exited the barrel and into the night air and set off to see Amarie, Admin of all Forumshire. Even if Petty still had no idea why he was going.

"Whit"....


I can see this conversation in my head

{{Don't look at me for answers, I'm just gathering all the old crabbit tales of Forumshire together for Pure Publications, I don't know whats happening either!!! }}}

Paw dead? Halfwise with sticks for legs? Amarie still Admin? Not another Forumshire documentary! The place gets no more respectable with age.... Sad about old Paw. He lived far too long in my opinion!

Hello Odo

{{Nothing like the death of another miserable, skinflint of an old man to wheedle Odo out for a gloat! }}}

Just because I haven't imparted my wisdom here for a nonce does not mean I haven't been keeping an eye (two, when I have one spare!) (three, if I had more than two!) on all the unrespectable - and sometimes downright disrespectactable - noncesense going on here! A moral eye (sometimes two!) is needed here as much as any time, whether at the nonce, before the nonce, and/or post nonceall!

Wisdom is not founded in the head,
It's founded in the heart,
For can you not have two eyes for sight
If they lie too far apart!

Oh verily I say to thee,
Ye sojourners in a shire -
Of your own sinful make -
Where  noncesense (I know) conspires!

Tell me now,
Ye ramshackle crew,
Where is wisdom,
Hardbound and true?

If it's not in
Your puny hearts,
It must exude (logic'ly),
From your nether parts.


Yeates: Unwritten Poems, 1872 (Shire Reckoning)

If on a time halfwise you meet
Never forget he has not feet
And even if you thought for years
You'd better compliment his ears!

(Dr Seuss, Forumshire Fantastiques, The Lost Verses )

Without ears one must use feet,
On busy roads ad urban stations;
Without ears one surely relies,
On minute reverberations.....

Keats, “Reverberations and Other Aural Emanations”, Collected Poems, 1912 (Shire Reckoning).