By Jeff and Casey
Once, in an age now long past, there lived two wandering mercenaries by whose goodly names we now know as one Sir “Jack” (of House Chan) and Sir “Billy” (of House Lugosi.) Jack and Billy dwelt in permanent want for a permanent home and hearth; but being as they lacked both the fiscal means and – more importantly – the responsibility to seek same, instead, the peripatetic princelings blithely did prance hither and thither throughout vale and glen; daily they frolicked gaily amidst hill and dale from frankalmoign to fiefdom, forever furthering their iniquitous nightly quest of ill-gotten groats with which to finance their most crippling dependence upon the abuse (unlawful) of narcotics (illicit.)
To this ignoble end, the duumvirate of intrepid swashbucklers sought adventure wherever it be found (just so long as there was money in it.)
“That last job was bullshit,” the brave Sir Billy bitched, “Fuck helping farmers clean shit and bale hay. When are we going to get paid to Eiffel Tower a princess?”
“Or at least a milkmaid,” said Sir Jack, “What’s Eiffel Tower?”
“’Tis a task undertaken by dudes two; whereupon I, by way of mouth, and thou, by way of her moistened vulva lips, gangbangest a rare and radiant bitch from either end. And thence upon the rolling waves of the petite morte high fivest we. The trio in that stance appeareth as doth the great Parisian Eiffel Tower upon the spangled gleamings of the frosty morning dew,” said Sir Billy.
“Okay, but what’s the Eiffel Tower?” asked Sir Jack, “This is the Middle Ages, dude.”
“Oh, right,” said Sir Billy, “Well, my girlfriend, being Canadian as she is, didst divulge that the Eiffel Tower is an imposing structure that towers over the verminous Merovingians of distant France.”
“You don’t have a girlfriend. And there is no Canada,” Sir Jack chided fretfully.
“I have been granted visions by the fair Red Witch Elizabeth Sparrow,” said the gaily bedight Sir Billy, “I dreamt of apples. Apples of great power, whose Jobs shall bring great change. Heh, heh: gaily.”
“Nah, dude, I think she just gave you syphilis,” said the mighty knight Sir Jack, “Anyway, we approach the kingdom of the Crystal Skull a mere mouse-cunt’s hair ahead. Let us proceed hither into yon local inn and query for any vocation to be had.”
“I hope there’s no stupid aliens this time,” Sir Billy groaned as the duo slithered through the city gates in search of work (and ale. And weed. And hookers.)
As they entered the mighty Kingdom of the Crystal Skull, the first thing they took note of was the moot looking wench standing by the grand drawbridge and petting a horse.
“Excuse me, Miss Prostitute,” said Sir Jack, “We are visitors to your fair land, and we seek an evening’s respite in your local inn.”
“We also want weed,” said Sir Billy, “You know? Grass? Skunk? Mary-Juan-A?”
“I am no prostitute,” said the moot girl, “In fact I am the king’s daughter. I should have you thrown in the dungeons for such disrespect.”
“Disrespect? Milady, we meant no disrespect,” said Sir Jack, “’Tis simply that thou resemblest a hooker.”
“It’s your corset, mostly,” said Sir Billy, “Insofar as that comely garment emphasizeth thy buxom and bonny bosom.”
“He means your titties, wench!” Sir Jack chuckled, “and they are quite cummly, I cannot help but to agree.”
“Guards!” the hooker/princess screamed.
In one calamitous instant of misfortune, Sir Jack and Sir Billy found themselves accosted by a score of guards. As the true knight he was, Sir Billy had in mere moments drawn his sword and by a single gleam of sharpened steel laid ten men low; this even as Sir Jack had rudely defecated into his own opened palm a fearsome missile for lobbing at the unwary guardians of the mighty hold.
“Retreat!” the captain of the guard disgustedly exclaimed, “For the sodomites do fling feces most unclean upon us! Princess, thou art on thy own!”
“Cowardly dog! Impudent strumpet,” shouted the Princess.
“Hitherto aforementioned transitive properties verb!” shouted Sir Jack, “I don’t speak Old English well.”
“Do you see what badasses we are?” Sir Billy boldly boasted, “Now will you pay us to double-team you?”
“Oh, like the Eiffel Tower?” the princess smiled jovially, “Sure!”
LATER THAT NIGHT
As the princess hobbled back to the castle, Sir Jack and Sir Billy could at last petition the local innkeeper for a fertile source of coin and weed.
“My goodly man,” said Sir Jack, “It was brought to our attention by the maiden fair that you were the one to query upon regarding a quest.”
“Indeed, being an honorable innkeeper as I am,” said the innkeeper, “But as sure as my name is Patrick Neil Harris, I would not call that fair wench a ‘maiden’ any longer.”
“Nonsense,” said Sir Billy, “For ne’er did we penetrate her lady parts.”
“Indeed not,” said Sir Jack, “For I, Sir Jack, took the mouth just as Sir Billy here took the rusty wagon wheel. But ne’er did we violate her maidenhead.”
“Nay, milord! Merely her illustrious bum-fissure,” said Sir Billy, to which Sir Jack responded with an emphatic “That’s what I’m talkin’ bout!”
In the rolling of la petite mort high fivest they.
“But that is not relevant,” Sir Billy continued, “We seek work; as finance for for our luxuries, such as fine linens and succulent roasts.”
“And weed,” said Sir Jack, “And people. We can still buy people now, right? That’s not like, frowned upon, right?”
“Noble knights, indeed there be a quest I shalt set thee upon,” said Patrick Neil Harris, “For the wicked Dragon Queen Angelus has unleashed a fell dragon upon the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull. It must be slain.”
“Whoa, dude, hold the fuck up,” said Sir Billy, “A dragon? Can’t we just, like, help paint a fence or something.”
Taking his companion aside, Sir Jack delved into a fierce rebuke, “Dude! Isn’t this what we wanted? Why are you fucking this up?”
“I don’t know, man. Like, killing a pit of vampires would have been fine, but-“
“Vampires aren’t real, idiot! And they live in dens!” Sir Jack hissed.
“But dragons are?”
“Probably not,” said Sir Jack, “But if this dipshit’s willing to pay us to pretend we killed one, then so be it!”
“I’m right here,” said a miffed Patrick Neil Harris, “But if you’re willing to take the job, don’t come bitching to me when you get eaten by a dragon. It was last seen at the kingdom’s border, at the last house on the left.”
“Oh yeah,” said Sir Billy, “Is it by the Virgin Spring?”
“Bergman reference?” asked Sir Jack.
“I can be intellectual,” said Sir Billy.
“This is the past, you ass-vagina!” Sir Jack did rebuke, “but more importantly: is the Wicked Queen Angelus hot? I’d like to tear up her queenly arse-chasm, and her being hot isn’t a dealbreaker, but it would be nice-”
“Enough talk, varlets!” said Patrick Neil Harris, “Go kill the dragon! And may God have mercy on thy souls!”
Later that day, Jack and Billy died.