The True Tale of the Un-magical Coal Scuttle

1

Odo Banks was holding forth at the Pink Dragon in Rushock Bog, a tankard in his paw as he sat facing the door, forever on the alert for blackguards, whiteguards, and murderous thieves of other assorted sorts.

"Skirts!" he cried. "Skirts! And they have the temerity to call them 'kilts'!"

"What exactly are these 'kilts' if they're not actually skirts?" Azriel Broodybaubs wondered aloud as she sat at the end of the long tavern table beside Halfred Alchemenical, a visitor from the Far West, who spoke up now: "Stilts, I imagine."

"What?" Julia Figginbotham addressed him from where she sat with Dave Cranberrysauce, another Far Western visitor, who raised in voice to say: "I think, my sweet Eel Princess, Halfy thinks kilts are stilts. They are called stilts where he comes from. Least, I assume so."

"Not at all, Dave. I just thought Master Odo was mistaking the word 'kilts' for 'stilts'. Happens all the time in my suburb."

"And 'stilts' look like 'skirts' where you come from?" Eldo Baltimore put in tentatively, not to seem too pushy, he being always a well mannered Far Western Hobbit of good family, erudite education and genteel hobbit habits.

"I heard he was wearing a very short stilt, if that's the case," put in Orwell Jackaboots, an incredibly intelligent and physically handsome hobbit from Ozhobbitstan in the Far South, though he was too humble to say so himself.

The Mayor, Bungo Pertbuttocks weighed in now, being a sophisticated hobbit, by Rushock standards. "Now, look here, we Forumshirans have always welcomed newcomers and I don't plan to stand by idle while Master Odo rouses you all about kilts. Yes, 'kilts'. And they are not 'skirts', so enough of that racial denunciatory type of thing."

"What are they then?" Master Odo wanted to know. "Are they some kind of flirtatious tunic?"

"No, tunics are a one piece bodylength garment," Julia instructed him, for she knew the difference between a tunic and a kilt and jumper.

"Well, it could be a dress," Dave mused aloud.

"But isn't a short dress a skirt?" Orwell mused aloud too.

"That's right," Azriel helped out. "Well, close enough. There are all sorts of women's dress-like garments which we have different names for, but why bother instructing males in the intricacies of women's tastes, fashions and sale addiction? For what it's worth, and to keep it simple, a dress and a skirt are the same thing, just one shorter than the other, forgetting the feminine nuances I espoused only just now."

"So," Halfy mused aloud too also, trying to put a scientific perspective on the discussion. "If a kilt is not a tunic or a dress or a shorter dress called a skirt, and not a stilt either, what actually is it?"

"It's a fucking kilt!" snarled a rather crabbit voice issued from the mouth of a strange looking Buckie ravaged hobbit who stood just inside the tavern door, having stood there these last three minutes listening in and until now unnoticed by the group at the tavern table. "My name's Petty McCracken and don't any of you ever call my kilt a skirt or a short dress or a tunic again. It's a kilt, and kilt means kilt." And the  roused Scotshobbit - and clearly he was a Scotshobbit to  judge from his rather splendid brogue - cast over them all a snarling eye that broached no arguments.

"May I ask, my good Scotshobbit," Master Odo asked with quite some animation. "Is that, perchance, a magical coal scuttle protruding beneath the hem of your... err... lower garment?"




To be continued....

hey! Figgin-Bothum should be double barrelled.

Oh man, I haven't thought about the coal scuttle saga in ages. Excited for this one.

I'm kinda glad I never seem to get mentioned in these stories...

Saying something like that is almost like cursing the Gods, you know.

oh yes ! maybe your turn is waiting....................

2

The Fan Makers of Needlehole, the Bog Mallicks as they were known locally, were holding their Eruvision barbecue behind Mrs Figgs Eel Emporium - a space they had hired for the afternoon - and it had come to that time in proceedings when their New Once Annual Fan was to be revealed, it being, according to family tradition, on the stroke of three.

The youngest Malick, as was tradition too, Malick Malick, disappeared tactfully into a storeroom at the back of Mrs Figgs fine establishment. There among eel harnesses and helpful oils, he took out the prized new edition of the famous Malick Family Fan. Though had you chanced to be peeping through one of Mrs Figg's many peepholes, you still may not have noticed it, it being so small. Dainty, even.

Proudly, Malick put it in the pocket of his trendy red trousers and he nonchalantly sauntered back into the yard.

The Family knew what was about, though, after all it was the Once Annual, and they fell into excited silence.

Malick Malick made his way to the nether end of the table, where his seat had been set beside his handsome friend Blue Herringcousin on one side and Blue's beautiful aunt, Amarie, on the other; for they had been honoured to have been included in the story - the ongoing time honoured story of the Malick Family Traditional Barbecue and Fan Reveal

Without much ado, Malick being an exciteable young hobbit, not yet in his tweens and still not out of his tweeds (yet with the sturdy thighs of a hobbit well into his tweens), who was known to bring strange fates upon himself with apparently harmless seeming yet interestingly provocactive comments - cleared his voice and pronounced: "This year I proudly present a small one. Tiny even."

Amarie, that matron of indeterminate age, expressed a quick involuntary giggle. A surprising thing, too, if you knew her. She suppressed it quickly, of course, demurely.

"Tiny!?" his Family exclamationally feigningly queried, for having been all part of the planning and intimately involved in all aspects of research and development, and incredibly fond of all their Family traditions, knew no surprise.

And Malick quickly whipped it out, the exciteable fellow, and The Family craned their heads forward and strained to see, and so also did Amarie and Blue who, naturally not being of the Malick Family - and Fjordianlandian to boot - had no idea of what was going on.

"It looks like a tiny hand-fan," Blue whispered.

"Yes," Amarie whispered back. "You know, I'm half disappointed it wasn't a penis, as you would expect in these parts."

The Malick's stood as one and applauded. Amarie and Blue hastily followed suit, as not to seem rude, though both were quite unimpressed with the smallness of Malick's fan.

"What customer would be wanting that?" Old Proudfeet Malick called down for the head of the table. Being the Patriarch of the Family, residing at Malick Smials in southern Rushock Bog, it was his place to ask the traditional question.

"It's for the Foreign Market," Malick proclaimed proudly. "It is small and inexpensive and designed for the Scotshobbits who have not much wherewithal for purchasing fans generally. This is what we have called the Scotshobbit Ball Breather - for giving a small waft of fresh air to sweaty parts beneath the stilt."

"You do mean 'kilt', don't you," Blue reacted knowingly, but then, flushing red at his spontaneous intemperance, quickly added: "Whoops! My apologies! I never meant to question your accuracy, my good friend, Malick!" He sincerely hoped he had not offended the Family.

"Don't trouble yourself, Blue," Malick Malick responded friendidly, but his eyes told another story.




To be continued....

"

Malick you have gawn and done it now.

{{{{{{ Apart from the complete spuriousness of this supposed tale you could have at least waited till I had finished my account you plagiarizing OZhobbit!! Not an original idea in that ole head of Ole Anon you know I shall be getting Angmar and Sons to write a stern and no doubt ridiculously over the top threatening letter to Lesbo Proudfoot about this! }}}}

I changed my mind I'm quite happy not to be mentioned in these stories.

Brace yourself like a man Malick  ..................... you might need to.......
{{{ Ive seen where these stories can lead to, }}}

I expect things will only get worse before they get worser, Malick.

3


The wizened and decrepit Scotshobbit, in some ways adorable, sat spread legged on a bench outside the offices of Angmar and Sons in the high street, having an internal dialogue, or thought he was having an internal dialogue when actually he was thinking aloud. His spread legs were in plain sight of disconcerted passerby, and his internal dialogue lay plainly in the hearing of passers by and anyone who was, just now, hiding behind a water trough, in this case, Master Odo Banks.

"The things a travesty as I see it. And in Scotshobbiton it'd be the axe for them! Capital punishment!" (Petty did proclaim aloud). "Especially that Odo Banks with his beady eyes, one on my scuttle and one on my sporrin! What a creephobbit!"

"Hey!"

"Who was that?"

"Err... No one but us bandersnatches behind the water trough... ... err up the street behind the barber's pole!"

"Fucking bandersnatches! What's with the 'hey' business? You're not associated with that damnit Odo Banks are you?"

Unseen, and it did seem to come from behind the water trough, an annoyed voice answered: "Of course not! As if a respectable chap like me would associate with bandsnatchers!"

"That's the point. That Odo doesn't sound respectable to me. Ever since coming to this piddling little town all I've heard was shudders and slurs about the character of that avaricious sexually horrid beast-hobbit."

'Have you?"

"Aye. He's an evil dog pretending to be oh so nice and respectable. All surface and cover up and smarmy smiles and foul tempers."

"Well, at least he doesn't associate with bandersnatches."

"I guess if you're a local bandersnatch you'd know. Says a lot about his character if even bandersnatches don't associate with him."

"I don't associate with them, I said!" came  the annoyed reply.

"That's what I said."

"No, you said bandersnatches don't associate with Odo Banks! The difference is by no means trivial!"

"I thought you were a Bandersnatch!?"

"... ... .... Err.... Yes, that's me. Anyone, carry on thinking.... don't let me interrupt."

"Weird creatures, bandersnatches," Petty opined. "Now, what was I thinking? Oh yes, I was thinking that anyone calling a 'kilt' a 'stilt' at least needs to be sued, seeing as it's not a capital offence in Needlehole. But no, not even a local bylaw against it. Ridiculous! It's worse than plagiarism in my view. I wonder if there's something, though. Angmar and Sons should be able to find something against that creepy Odo Banks I can sue him for."

"My own firm of lawyers and accountants? You do make me smile," opined the bandersnatch - presumably thinking as loudly as Petty was.

"You own Angmar and Sons! What kind of bandersnatch are you?" Petty wanted to know. "I smell a rat! Come to think, what s a bandersnatch anyway?"

"Oh evil little creatures. Not friendly little shoemaker elves I can tell you that. Sharp teeth too. Ghastly swift moving blood thirsty things of the dark, but quite useful if you have a grudge and the money they charge."

"Useful? Grudge? Mmmm... Maybe there is more than one way to skin an Ozhobbit," Petty mused darkly. "I wonder what it would cost to have that beastly sexual deviate dealt viciously with?"

"Err..." Said the bandersnatch carefully. "What about a magical coal scuttle...?"


to be continued....

delightfully constructed little fugue, inversions and all!

4


The irascible long legged Scotshobbit, Petty, trudged down the wet streets of Needlehole in the rain looking for a certain establishment. At last, he came to it in Crafty Street.

Looking up, he read the sign over the door.

ORWELL JACKABOOTS POTTER.

Straightening his kilt, Petty entered by the front saloon door, it presumably being a former saloon. The Scotshobbit presently found himself before the counter where he saw Orwell polishing his teeth with a horse brush. Orwell saw him and, lowering the brush, smiled at him with teeth that might have belonged to a shark once.

"Well, Petty McCracken, I thought you'd hear about my pots sooner or later."

"Pots? What pots?"

"You mean you didn't even read the sign above the door? Is it true? Are Scotshobbits truly illiterate? I thought Julia Figg just made that up!"

"I can read. All I saw was your name over the door."

"Yes, Orwell Jackaboots, but..."

"Potter."

"At last! So, what kind of pot are you looking for?"

"What do you mean, Potter?"

"Exactly. We have a range of sizes, shapes and colours...."

"What are you talking about?"

"Pots!"

"Why are you going on about pots, Potter?"

"What would a potter be talking about when he was talking about pots, you dolt, if he wasn't talking about pots? Pots!"

"Oh, you're a potter, you're not called Potter!"

Orwell laughed. "You know, I have that misunderstanding every time... No, my name is Orwell Jackaboots comma Potter. I really should put that comma on the sign."

"You're an idiot. Now, a certain bandersnatch by the name of Smith sent me here. He says you a have key to the back door of the worm filled burrow of that deceitful perverted avaricious bastard Odo Banks, and that when you're not hanging around the front door of Mrs Figg's Eel Emporium with your hands in your pockets, you're seen slinking in and out Odo's rear passage on nefarious business. Odo Banks! Of course you know him!" "

"Oh yes, I think so. Is that the same Odo Banks who says he is an honest hobbit of humble tastes born in wedlock even if his parents married just three months before he was born.... In a small place like Needlehole, I can't imagine there would be two hobbits of the same name, and if there were, I would know. So, what did the bandersnatch called Smith " (and here, Orwell gave Petty a confidential knowing wink) "what did Smith send you here for?"

"He told me if I gave you this magic coal scuttle you could arrange for Odo Banks to disappear permanently!" And the Scotshobbit showed a fierce vengeful knowing grin.

"Did he? And did he say anything about paying me my fee for last time I had him disappear permanently?" Orwell asked, perhaps with a hint of bitterness.

"No, he didn't! Why would he?"

Orwell's slow working face showed some grinding thoughtfulness, but then his face creased in a sudden smile. "The old rogue. Oh well, I can always hope he'll come through for me this time. Okay, hand over that coal scuttle - magic is it? Brings to mind my cousin, Harry.... Gotta laugh. Anyway, hand it over..."

But Petty was not so sure now. For some inexplicable reason, he smelled a rat.



To be continued.....

and that when you're not hanging around the front door of Mrs Figg's Eel Emporium with your hands in your pockets, you're seen slinking in and out Odo's rear passage on nefarious business. Odo Banks! Of course you know him!" "
I like this
"
Orwell's slow working face showed some grinding thoughtfulness, but then his face creased in a sudden smile. "The old rogue. Oh well, I can always hope he'll come through for me this time. Okay, hand over that coal scuttle - magic is it? Brings to mind my cousin, Harry.... Gotta laugh. Anyway, hand it over..."

But Petty was not so sure now. For some inexplicable reason, he smelled a rat."

5

The slightly soiled but impeccably kilted Scotshobbit was more than a little satisfied with how things had gone at the premises of Orwell Jackaboots, Potter. On the one side, he had handed over the family coal scuttle that had saved many a Scotsobbit from frozen death in his frozen northern homeland, but on the other, handing it over was a small price to pay to get rid of one Odo Banks with all his temerity regarding kilts. And as Petty pranced gaily down the Main Street of Needlehole, his gait had a certain savoirfaire about it. Not that he cared how it was spelled.

He stopped presently outside Mrs Figg's Eel Emporium, wondering if he should spend a penny at that salubrious establishment, and as he pondered, who should happen past on a buggy driving his pony speedily but Orwell Jackaboots.

Petty smiled.

"That must be him on his way to do the dastardly deed. I might just follow along and see what happens."

And off he trotted, kilts a'swirling; which turned many a lady hobbit's head in the street, and not a few gay young hobbit lad's head as well, for Petty's thighs rippled with muscles from much former trotting.

Presently, Petty observed Orwell haul his buggy up Odo's driveway and around the back. He stood at the ate, a sly grin on his face.

"Well, there's no mucking about with that Orwell. And there was me having a wee bit of doubt about his veracity and the joust of his knickers. But his knickers turned out alright in the end, as goes the old Scotshobbit saying, which no one who is not a Scotshobbit knows the meaning of, nor Scotshobbits neither."

Soon after, jolly voices rose up in joyous song from Odo's abode.

This eventuality surprised Petty somewhat, for he had expected to hear a bloodthirsty exhulation, the ring of steel, and a heartfelt pathetic begging for mercy... At least, according to what Orwell predicted to him would occur, this at that time, no more than ten minutes ago, when the coal scuttle was handed over...


to be continued....

Oooo-er

so that's what Odo has been up to all this time, off enjoying himself.

6


Six weeks passed and the slow to understand anything obvious Scotshobbit began to wonder why Odo was still about; indeed, and appearing to be more prosperous than heretofore, having suddenly entered the cut-price best-Scotshobbiton-coal-you-can-buy trade, and not the least bit disappeared without trace as agreed. At last, Petty stomped into the premises of Orwell Jackaboots, Potter.

"See here, Orwell..." Petty began, only to be interrupted abruptly by the rather splendid Julia Figg dressed in a rather nice long dress with flowers on it, nasturtiums and suchlike, and her red locks tied with more flowers, possibly daisies, and her shoes of the best quality from Paris, Buckland.

"Hey, shut it, laddie. I was here first. Wait your turn you chisel thighed handsome Scotshobbit! Now, where were you, Orwell my dear?"

"About to show you my latest potted arrangement. Lovely, methinks. And not at all mentioned in this tale for marketing purposes. I'll show you a photo."

"But I can see it in the flesh, I'm here!"

"But the reader isn't. And this is now an illustrated Wholeome Tale. Now... wait a moment, while I upload it on my palantiroonterndtodevicethiingeee..."

"What?"

"Never mind, and don't bother asking me to spell it, what with the autocorrect giving me headaches!"

Shortly after, Orwell posted his photo.

Except he couldn't work out how to do it, much to his vendorish displeasure...

"Never mind that stupid iPDiddlypaddy thing!" Petty blustered at last. "What happened to our agreement?"

"You mean the one about me disappearing Odo for you?"

"Err..... I wouldn't like to say..." Petty said furtively, giving Julia Figg a furtive glance, furtively. "Isn't it.. Err... a secret..."

"Oh you must never mind me," Julia beamed. "I love secrets. And I only ever tell one person most of the time. But let me guess it first. I love guessing secrets."

"How ever can you guess..?"

"Stop talking! ... Now, is it a secret about a secret plot to disappear Odo Banks?"

"My gawd, woman, how did you ever guess that?"

"I'll let you into a little secret, shall I," Julia beamed again. "As Orwell watched you stomping up the street in our direction, he told me what you'd be coming here for. He is a very honest hobbit, you know."

"But he promised to keep the secret. Our lives depend on it!"

Orwell laughed awkwardly. "Well, not really,, as I never intended to disappear Odo in the first place. It was just a ruse devised by Odo, masquerading as a bandersnatch I believe, which is one of his favourites. He wanted your magic coal scuttle. Of course, once he had it, he realised it wasn't a magic one after all. So he has given it back. Here you are."

Orwell took a bucket from under his counter. "It looks like a lavatory bucket, I agree. But it's definitely your coal scuttle. Not in the least magical. Here you are. Good day sir. It was a pleasure doing business with you. Here is a copper penny for your trouble... Now, Julia, regards that pot we were talking about...."

"Wait on! What's this rubbish? This is no coal scuttle, however fine a bucket. You dastardly, Orwell! You cheat."

"Oh, I did forget to mention Orwell was a cheat and a liar," Julia put in helpfully. "He is honest and dishonest, depending on the occasion. I forgot to mention that earlier. I have, of course, known him a long time."

"I will have my satisfaction!" Petty growled with his chin jutting forward aggressively.

"Not with me you won't," Julia shot back. "Not outside the Eel Emporium anyway. I have certain standards to meet under the Needlehole Bylaws!"

"Have done, woman!" Petty cried and pulled forth a knife from somewhere beneath his kilt. But it wasn't a knife, and he quickly put it back, and pulled a knife out from beneath his kilt.

Orwell jumped back on his side of the counter.

"Fear! Foes! Fleas!" he cried. "Fear' Foes! Fleas!"

"What's all this clamour about fleas?" cried Halfred Alchemenical, rushing into the shop. "I'm currently doing a thesis on the sex life of fleas! What's that about fleas?"

But when he caught sight of the enraged red faced Scotshobbit, positively tearing out his hair in rage, his face turned pale.

"No need to get angry, Sir," says Halfred. "Everyone gets fleas in Needlehole this time of year. No need to pull a knife, honestly, there's not!"



To be continued....

7

Luckily, Halfwise had the presence of mind to contact the Shirriffs by palantir, and Captain Dave of the Needlehole constabulary arrived just in time and after a fierce struggle Petty was thrown in chains, and once shackled, dragged off to the Lockholes.

Soon after, he was brought before the Relieving Magistrate of Needlehole, Master Odo Banks, and due to Petty's rude behaviour on being brought before him, and due to his outrageous tales of Magical Coal Scuttles and Banksian scheming and thieving, that respectable Magistrate gave the unrespectable Scotshobbit sixteen years transportation and hard labour in the Banks Family Gold Mines in Kalgoorlie.

Of course, all sorts of rubbish was promulgated about the alleged Magical Coal Scuttle - predominately by the McCracken tribe - but decent citizens ignored it as best they could; the good part being that Odo was free of the mad imaginings and crazy anger of Petty McCracken - for at least sixteen years, that is - to build his lucrative business selling cut price coal, which was said to have been discovered under Odo's 's wine cellar. A fortuitous event by anyone's standard.



The End

""Have done, woman!" Petty cried and pulled forth a knife from somewhere beneath his kilt. But it wasn't a knife, and he quickly put it back, and pulled a knife out from beneath his kilt.""


A Bravo story again Have to say ? I think I notice Petty McCracken always ends up worse off ?...usually ?....sometimes ?.....maybe.

Petty sounds like a certain Republican nominee.

That certainly finished up in a sudden rush. Vacation coming up?