Thuglyffe

I have really short legs.

Like sticks (apparently)

sticky? thats the price of going around with no-knickers

5

There comes a time (apparently) in any Fjordianlandian female artist's life when she is forced by circumstances beyong her control to share the bed for the night with a decrepid dirty old man and a pretty young Whelsh baggage carrier, and Thuglyffe found this to be, of all things true in Forumshire, particularly true one night in the Swiss town of Pogoprettzy. Luckilly, the Inn keeper of the Pretzel Tavern could only supply sleeping bags and so nothing except of a Family Friendly nature could possibly occur - at least, not if Thuglyffe or Orwell could help it, though it has not been handed down, whether in prose or verse, what Allygator thought on the matter, and the latter being of such a peculiarly esoterical personality, would anyone have understood her even if she had put her thoughts into words?

"It has been a hard day's walking through the frosty tips of the Fjordianlandian Mountains and the North European Plains and Tundras," Orwell said with a cavernous yawn that showed all his teeth yellowed, blackened and missing. "I imagine you two will not be wishing to have a ridiculous and/or sexually charged conversation before we head off to nod-nod land.

"I sometimes wonder what it would be like to not have such a conversation," Allygator mused.

"I don't," Thuglyffe offered, frowning in the dark after snuffing out the candle as she lay - perhaps like a police barrier - between Orwell and Allygator. "I don't see the point. Without the ridiculous or the sexual Forumshire would just not be the same."

"I fear the place would become a bit too Eruvian?" Orwell said softly, and a little worriedly. "Dull and plain and something like a cardboard cut-out universe, if you know what I mean."

"It might imbue itself with other interesting attributes," Allygator opined.

"What kind of attributes?" Thuglyffe and Orwell asked suspiciously.

"I don't know," Allygator complained. "Poetry?"

"We have that."

"No, we have doggerel, generally."

"I thought that was poetry!" Orwell said in surprise, his mind set racing by the shocking (and novel) suggestion. "Isn't it?"

"I don't see what you have against dogs, anyhow," Thuglyffe, her frown unseen in the Pogoprettzian darkness of that squalid tavern-room.

"I get tired, sometimes," Allygator sighed, "of all the vacuity and surface-dwelling and peurileness in Forumshire."

"No you don't," Thuglyffe and Orwell yelled at her. "You're not allowed to. It's Written."

"No, you have it wrong. People in Forumshire are free. Free to make their own choices and think their own thoughts."

"In theory that may be true," Orwell said thoughtfully. "My goodness! What strange gangrel thoughts you have, Allygator - especially in the dark."

"I am a poet," Alygator shot back, chagrined. "It is my wont to have such thoughts. I have them by day and by night. I am not constrained by by night or day, dark or light. I am a free spirit."

"That's what everyone here says," Thuglyffe yawned. "But we're no more free minded than anyone else. We just hope by saying that we'll all seem bright and intelligent and creative and worldly wise and thoughtful."

"And pompous and narcissistic," Orwell added gallantly.

"Some of us - I guess," Thuglyffe scowled pleasantly in the dark, thinking, 'Oh truly, what a boring old fart he is!'"

"What's that you're thinking?" Orwell asked, and when Thuglyffe told him, he was by no means pleased.

"I have half a mind to ravish you, Thuglyffe, like all my forefathers have ravished young Fjordianlandians since time immemorial, and more than half a mind not to, as that isn't the kind of thing I like doing, not with young attractive women at least."

"Which is just as well," Thuglyffe said, "for I'm tired and just now very much dislike the idea of such a smelly babboon coming near me. Though, I shouldn't mind breaking your neck with a karate chop if you should attempt such an immoderate act. Most people in Forumshire would, you know (apparently)"

Orwell glowered in the dark at that. Would no one ever take him seriously?

"I take you seriously," Allygator said, reading his thoughts. "If you were to ravish me, I should fight back, but not too hard."

"I'm not sure you mean that," Thuglyffe said, yawning again.

"I know," Allygator complained. "That's the trouble with these stories. You get to say things, and think things, that you wouldn't ever think in real life - though I like the idea I can read people's mind, that's kind of cool."

"I'd rather not read people's minds."

"But aren't you kind of interested to know what the likes of Orwell really think, Thuglyffe?"

"What? Boobs and bums and testicles and fart jokes! There are other things you know. Interesting things to ponder for genuinely active minds. By the way, have you realized yet that Orwell, deep down, hates himself, not that I'm really interested."

"This tale has suddenly taken on on a sad and disturbing quality. Do you really suggest Orwell hates himself, what with all his hair combing in front of the mirror?"

"Of course he does, the silly old arse-wipe. He is old where we are young. He is ugly where we are gorgeous. He is flatulant where we are free to choose. The really pathetic thing is, even now, he's surreptiously enjoying being the centre of attraction, no matter how negative my diatribe, because he's such a desperate and pathetic egotist."

"Do you mind!" Orwell complained.  "I am lying here, you know, and can hear everything you're saying."

Thuglyffe and Allygator giggled. They were, of course, young women and, therefore, quite cruel by nature.



to be continued...





 



 






"

6


After that fraught night in Pogoprettzy - or fraught for Orwell who did not sleep well, because something inside his chest was hurting which Thuglyffe told him was possibly his heart - the three companions set out for Noodlenymer in Germany. There they took directions to the House of Exquisite Landscape Paintings, which Thuglyffe only reluctantly agreed to attend, it sounding so old fashioned and passé, but Orwell insisted must be terribly exciting, he having once read about it in Readers Digest.

On going up Howitzer Lane, however, they passed by an ancient Eruvian Monastery. And who should be cutting the lawn with a small pair of scissors in self imposed punishment for desiring a chocolate cake, was his own long forgotten cousin, Father Frodo McOdo of the Buckland Clan of the Bankses.

Orwell was too late in hiding his face in his hood.  

"Orwell!" cried Father Frodo. "Well I'll be blown! I haven't seen you since I bailed you out of the Needlehole Lockholes for Pervery."

"Oh dear, dear Frodo," Orwell excalimed in apparent gladness when he knew he had been recognized. "I never knew you were an Eruvian Priest."

"No, it is not the usual trade of the McOdo family, and I daresay a surprise for you, but when the Lord called me to the Path of Righteousness and Good Manners and Freedom from Innate Sleaziness, I answered that call. Never nowadays do I ply the oily suculent road of depravity. When I see a handsome young woman, I see a Pure Soul not to be Tarnished with grubby hands."

"And handsome young men?" Orwell asked in shock before he saw the error of that question.

"Now, now. Don't tell me you still go down that oily succulent road! For shame! At least, seeing you with these nice young ladies who verily shine with purity, I thought you had changed your evil ways and now acted as an Innocent Protector of Good Eruvian Girls on Summer Vacation."

"Err... that's partially true at least.. I am accompanying them...."

"Oh such beauty they have shining in their beauteous eyes that glimmer like Eventime, blessed Virginally by Eru Illuvatar. I can see it so clearly. Veritable Joan of Arcs they appear to my eye! Like little flowers with lovely petals dipped in precious dew without one mere suggestion of Sin."

"Who the fuck is he talking about?" Thuglyffe asked.

Allygator shrugged, totally lost as well.

"Oh dear. Such language!" Father Frodo said in a voice become instantly stern. "Don't tell me, Orwell, that you have these girls in hand for any other purpose than Goodly Chaperoning! My goodness, one of them just used a ghastly profanity."

"Just a slip of the tongue. I'm sure you misheard her. She said, 'Who in all good luck is this Priestly relative of our dear Uncle-like figure, Orwell.' At least, I'm pretty sure that's what little Thuglyffe said, or thought..."

This Orwell said quickly - and desperately - in hope of preventing something very bad happening. But it did not work, because something very bad did happen. Father Frodo instantly insisted the three of them come into his Monastery for a cup of tea and a Cautionary Tale, which offer they could not refuse because Father Frodo whistled up his loyal hounds, Purity, Bliss, Grace and Amen - Rottweilers all.

As they were escorted up the Monastery pathway, Thuglyffe whispered to Allygator, "I hope Old Anon knows where he is taking this. I mean, this is a House of God and no place for the sort of adventure he normally writes down, no place to make fun off, else be struck down with a hideous scabrous disease, possibly leprosy."

"I fear the worst," Allygator replied sadly. "I only hope there's some of that Monastery Brand Buckie I've heard tell of which I hear is used for Sacraments."

"There's hope in that," Orwell brightened slightly, catching their whispered conversation.

But Father Frodo caught it too. "There'll be none of that. Just a lovely long Cautionary Tale about the victory of Olaf the Holy Whipper over Horrid Horrik the Flower Sniffer, and of the Severe Whipping Horrik received in great deservedness as a Sinful Enjoyer of Rose Scent and Lavender. Perhaps with a practical demonstration included for anyone I catch lacking concentration."

For once in her life, Thuglyffe did not know what to say.

to be continued...

the Archet Bugle wrote:
"Oh such beauty they have shining in their beauteous eyes that glimmer like Eventime, blessed Virginally by Eru Illuvatar. I can see it so clearly. Veritable Joan of Arcs they appear to my eye! Like little flowers with lovely petals dipped in precious dew without one mere suggestion of Sin."

"Who the fuck is he talking about?" Thuglyffe asked.

  Mainly because I've come to identify Thuglyffe with our Norc.

Funny it is that you should bring up that notion!

woah.. so many parts.. how will i keep up O_O

With what's been happening maybe it's best you don't keep up, Norc.  

well.. i've read part 3 (i think it was). I am just amamzed u put Petty in the centre of adoration and praise instead of, let's say Orwell and the fact that u seem to be a hell of a tumblr-shipping-fangirl i love the inuendos and well.. heh.. i dunno if i can live up to Thuglyffe's skills and draw and equally great portrait (i did plan to draw him remember, oh sure u do, you're writing about it)... it certainly gave me lots of ideas. some repulsive ideas though..  

Been meaning to catch up on this for a few days now but I was out all of today.

Apparently the backers of The Archet Bugle have put a ban on mentioning anything positive about Admins in this Glorious Artistic Tale. The rumour is that Admins are too Gossipy or something.

Norc wrote:well.. i've read part 3 (i think it was). I am just amamzed u put Petty in the centre of adoration and praise instead of, let's say Orwell :lol:and the fact that u seem to be a hell of a tumblr-shipping-fangirl :Di love the inuendos and well.. heh.. i dunno if i can live up to Thuglyffe's skills and draw and equally great portrait (i did plan to draw him remember, oh sure u do, you're writing about it)... it certainly gave me lots of ideas. some repulsive ideas though..  

I'm a little disturbed by Old Anon's portrayal of Orwell the Thirteenth. Family History admittedly does suggest he did have one leg shorter than the other, which caused him to have a slightly mincing gait when he sauntered, but we never thought there was anything more to it than that. Whatever the case, I hope you're not becoming any more repulsive than you already are. That could only be a turn to the worser, I'm sure.  

odo banks wrote:Apparently the backers of The Archet Bugle have put a ban on mentioning anything positive about  Admins in this Glorious Artistic Tale. The rumour is that Admins are too Gossipy or something.  

Oh yes, I'm sure the editors of the Bugle wouldn't know the first thing about gossip.

7


They passed a sign  on a doorpost - "No Admins Allowed' - before entering a Chapel. And once the three comapnions were seated on pews and Father Frodo had placed his Rottweilers strategically to prevent any hope of escape, the good Priest began.

"I will speak of a Cup, and not any Cup, but a Cup as had a Hairline Crack this morning..."

"I thought he was going to tell a Cautionary Tale about Olaf and Horrik or some such nonsense?" Thuglyffe whispered.

"Shush!" Orwell shushed her, he being very frightened of Holy Places and what Eru might do to him if Eru knew he was there. "Best not draw attention to ourselves, Ladies," he addded as his eyes darted left and right, most a'feared that Eru might actually saunter in and find him sitting there in a cold sweat, and catch him in the act of thinking any of his usual thoughts: his 'usual thoughts', if you know what I mean, and I'm sure you do.

Father Frodo's ears were sharp and he heard them all, including what Orwell was thinking.

"It is well," said he, "that you curb all unbecoming conversation and thoughts here today, for is this not a Holy Place of God Almighty? Bless Eru! Praise Illuvatar! Cleanse your thoughts Orwell, wipe away all whims and fancies and other estoteric and peculiar sexualized mental or sensory paraphenalia. And you, Allygator, there will be no poetic thoughts, not here, not today, not ever again! Ah! Good lass, Thuglyffe. Keep that scowl, it befits you! For does not Eru prefer a pinched expression? Good Girl!"

"I haven't got a pinched expression, have I?" Thuglyffe demanded to know, genuinely worried.

(The only sound that was heard for a moment was Orwell and Allygator swallowing nervously in their throats).

"Shush you, I say!" Father Frodo rebuked them. "Now as to the Cup with the Hairline Crack. It is a Cup of which I am much acquainted, having had the cup since last February. A plain Cup, as God loves all Plainess. It is unadorned and sternly made. And, yes, I cracked the lip  for good measure so as to cut my lip each morning at the Blessed imbibing of my scalding Bitteroot Tea..."

"I thought Bitteroot was poisonous," Allygator whispered.

"It is," Father Frodo cried in sheer joy. "But am I not a Holy Man? Doesn't  Eru Himself protect my bowells?"

"I shouldn't really like to ask," Allygator said.

"Is this story going to be about the Cup you drink your breakfast beverage from?" Thuglyffe asked, blinking.

"It is my Cup, but by talking of the Particular I shall touch upon more Universal Things," Father Frodo answered with a benign smile. "For when I saw that Hairline Crack this very Cock's Crow in my Cup, I thought: 'Should I cast it in the Flames of our Sacrificial Fire where usually we Sacrifice Young Evil Doers abducted from outside the Gay Bars of the Town --- but 'NO', I thought (like as to a crescendo), this Cup has served me well this past thirteen months and eleven days, and, surely, the crack cannot marr the drinking of my Bitteroot Beverage imbibed in the Love of Illuvatar, not for many more days anyway, and only at a day of Eru's choosing, for He shall, and He only, shall choose the time and day for the breaking a'sunder."

Father Frodo fell into a ponderous silence, and by now even Thuglyffe was too terrified to speak.

"Ha! thought I," Father Frodo exclaimed so suddenly, the three companions jumped. "'This Hairline Crack has been sent to me as a token of Eru's Wrath, for Somewhere,'" (and here Father Frodo set his eye firmly on all three of them, or so all three believed), "'there must lay a flaw in my Perfected Notion of God.'"

Father Frodo nodded somberley. And the three companions nodded back in abject imitation, too scared to do anything else.

"And then God spoke to me: 'Son, I have seen the Flaw that which you have in your Perfected Notion of Me, for in the night while you lay sleeping, you dreamed of a chocolate cake, and so today you must meditate about Me without distraction. Not even for a  second must you distract yourself in thoughts of yummy chocolate cakes, for I hate people thinking of yummy chocolate cakes and not Me, for am I not the One, the Thrice, the Only?' 'That you are, Beloved Lord', saith I, 'You surely have read my bestial thouhts upon the subject of chocolate cakes while I lay dreaming last night and was careless in my thinking. What Penance should I perform and so thereby re-win your Holy Affection?' 'You must cut the lawns with a pair of scissors, My Son,' answers He. "All the lifelong day shall Ye do that. And if three Evil Minded Forumshirans chance to pass your front gate in all their sweaty Sinfuless, you must bring them here to this Chapel and tell them this Story of the Hairline Crack so that their Souls might be Saved."

"I thought he said he was going to tell us a Cautionary Tale about Olaf and Horrik," Orwell whispered in a tembly voice. "I mean, surely he's getting a little mixed up..."

"Forsooth!" Father Frodo cried in instant wrath. "Here be a Sinner if I ever I did hear a Sinner at whisper!" His face went a violent red, and he began to breathe heavilly. And then he began to do strange aggresive movements, like Berserkers do. He looked so terrifying, even the Rottweilers looked nervous, and they crawled out of the Chapel on their bellies whimpering.

"I'm making a break for it," Thuglyffe hissed.

Orwell could but agree. They made their move, unintentionally leaving Allyport behind. They only realized she wasn't with them when they were half way across the lawn on their way to the front wall of the Monastery.

"Should we go back?" Orwell  asked.

Thuglyffe frowned in annoyance. "What's that silly Whelsh twat doing? Bugger her! Leave her I say. If she wants to become a Noodlenut for God, then let her..."

"But what if she becomes a Noodlenut for God," Orwell whimpered, "and decides - through some strange revelation - to come and Sacrifice us to Her Vengeful God at a later date?"  

"Do you think that at all possible?" Thuglyffe asked with widened eyes.

"This is as good as a Wholesome Tale! Of course she will." Orwell cried, and started to cry.

"Alright, you blubbering excuse for a man, we'll rescue her."

And they did. But sadly, the damage had already been done, her sensitive soul sorely mangled by the experience.  

to be continued...

btw. this is the weirdest thing ever, but it is really funny

Norc wrote:btw. this is the weirdest thing ever, but it is really funny

If it's weirder than Anon's previous stories then I clearly need to catch up ASAP.

i dunno of it is weirder.. but yeah, do catch up. there is a gay Orwell in it.

So the same as regular Orwell, right?  

Yes, that Great Great .... Great.... Grandfather of mine, clearly lived in far happier times, but perish the thought he was always gay. I mean, traipsing around the countryside with those two insufferable - however beauteous - girlies made him, at times, anything less than gay, something I think is made obvious in Thuglyffe's rollicking adventure, methinks. I mean, those girlies clearly made him quite crabbity at times!

And as to Orwell the Thirteenth's admiration of fine young men's thighs (well male thighs generally, if we consider his admiration for Petty Tooklemyer's), that was but an artistic leaning of his, or so it's said in my Family History, which of course is based on fact not fiction.  

8


Allygator was a poor sad pathetic creature after the events at the Monastery. Indeed, she was very much like she had been before the events at the Monastery. But now she was less poetic and feelingly and more purely esoteric, or, at least, impurely esoteric, it's hard to tell with that kind of thing.

Thuglyffe immediately demanded they not go to the Landscape Painting place anymore - however glowing the Readers Digest recommendation had been.

"I fear the road ahead be full of all sorts of peculiar happenstances, and purely because you have chosen that road, Orwell," Thuglyffe grumbled. "Nothing ever good happens when you have the direction of matters. Henceforth, I shall be in charge. You must call me Captain henceforth."

"But that's what I'm often called," Orwell protested. "Captain, Orwell, Captain Orwell. They are what I am referred to as. I can't be without one of them as that would be dull beyond measure."

"Dullness abounds you like a pinorkle," Allygator said softly.

Orwell glanced at the little Whelsh tart severely, but turned his spleen on Thuglyffe instead. "Well, if that's what's to be, then I'll take your other name in response."

"What?"

"Hencefore you must refer to me as Girlie."

"I'm not called 'Girlie'".

"Yes you are. I always call you that - at least, under my breath. I'll be either Girlie, or Orwell, or Girlie Orwell from now on." And Orwell proudly stood tall now to his full six foot height and stuck out his chest like it was something to be proud of.

"You really have some issues, don't you," Thuglyffe commented, her face a study in Nordic contempt.

"He is like a girl with a boy's body grown fat and old with manboobies," Allygator said softly.

Orwell glanced even more severely at the litle Whelsh tart. But to Thuglyffe he grated: "I don't care what you think. And I give you this warning, sooner or later you will hate hearing me referred to as Girlie Orwell."

Thuglyffe could not help herself. She giggled.

Orwell was about to say something really really horrid to her, but he thought better of it when he saw her steely gaze, and so shut his mouth like a trap.  

"Girlie Orwell is like a panda except not black and white but puce."

Orwell gave the little Whelsh tart another, even severer glance.

"Come on you two," Thuglyffe said in a commanding Captainy way. "We head straight for Tuscany. We have a mysterious white stain to attend to."

And she trudged off south eastward looking, to judge from her fine scowl, very pleased with herself.

Allygator followed her, saying softly, "Girlie Orwell, Girlie Orwell, Girlie Orwell..."

Orwell reluctantly followed them, seriously wondering if he had made a mistake of some kind.


to be continued...  

"We head straight for Tuscany. We have a mysterious white stain to attend to."

 

Nothing to fear, Mrs Figg, no, nothing at all, this being a Family Friendly Tale.