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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/1936383-The-Grand-Arch-Prince-of-Reee-Ch-1
Rated: E · Fiction · Action/Adventure · #1936383
The first chapter of an epic tale that I wrote some time ago.
CHAPTER I

Our tale begins in a small town on the very edge of Nowhere called Figtreeton. In Figtreeton great things were afoot; for the mayor had recently won three pounds for his prize entry into the Very Most Excellent Goat Competition. This prize went towards the building of half a school in Figtreeton’s central square, much to the delight of the multitudes of small children who had previously been employed in nose-dancing and horn-making by the town’s principle ne’er-do-well - Mister Rudely.

But of course Mister Rudely was not likely to simply stand by and allow his workforce to be stolen away by philanthropy! He paid a gang of bacon-fiends to burn down the half-school, and on the predestined day the bacon-fiends gathered on the western edge of Figtreeton. Their leader was called Hubert Hedge and he was notable for his lack of arms and legs, thus having to be carried everywhere by his right-hand man – Johnny John Johnson Jones of the Foothills.

As it happened, on this day a young boy by the name of Craig Spoon was trapped in the school due to the confusing nature of the locks. Unable to escape, he had taken to a quite uncivilised lifestyle revolving around the hourly abuse of crumpets in a most despicable verbal manner. So, as the villainous Hubert Hedge and his gang of bacon-fiends approached the school, Spoon spied them from a small window in the first class toilets on the fifth floor.

“Diddly dee,” said he.

The bacon-fiends then proceeded to lay kindling and old persons about the base of the school; dousing the whole in Lapsang Souchong in preparation for rasing the establishment. When Spoon saw this he was much pleased for he wished for death over all other things, and so he descended to the ground floor where he constructed a makeshift coffin out of capricious mops and stray cats – in this he laid himself to await the end. Meanwhile, Hubert Hedge (quite unaware of Craig Spoon’s presence) ordered Popson Pippins to set fire to the Souchong-soaked kindling/old persons and these instantaneously took light with a series of deafening explosions and upbeat music. On hearing these noises Craig Spoon’s joy knew no bounds – and he was soon engulfed in the terrible inferno.

The town of Figtreeton would forever remember this terrible day. However Craig Spoon’s body was never found. The Great God Gregory had, unbeknownst to the townsfolk, decided that Craig Spoon was too strangesome to die just yet and had resurrected him. This new Spoon was ghastly pale and wore only the deepest black. He seemed to have aged infinitely and sported a white beard that dangled down to his very toes and a tremendously curled moustache that reached out sideways for several feet and ended in deadly sharp hooks upon which were hung bottles of brandy. He had changed his name to Pertov Maschischly so as not to be recognised by anyone.

On his first day of resurrection Pertov Maschischly took the train to Brobdingnagian – the capital city of Nowhere. Brobdingnagian was the home of King Great IV and his bilious government, but also (and to Pertov’s greater interest) the renowned poet Jomnin de Hedgeweedly. Upon arriving in the metropolis Pertov went straight to the nearest inn (which happened to be Noone Inn) and inquired after the great poet de Hedgeweedly.

“Diddly dee,” said he.

He was at once provided with the poet’s address (12.3 Beef Wellington Way) to which he hurried by way of a swift carriage pulled by a swarm of diminutive vicars. He arrived, hastened up the steps – tripped on his beard – hastened up the steps again and knocked upon the door. Jomnin de Hedgeweedly’s valet answered and forced Pertov Maschischly to rub some bread on his chest, after Pertov had completed this task he was admitted. The interior of the great poet’s house was grand indeed – there were even curtains!

Jomnin de Hedgeweedly himself appeared before Pertov: “What do you wish me to tell you, sir?”

“Diddly dee,” said he, and threw the aged poet out of his own window and onto the street, where he promptly caught a bad case of the Cornwalls and died within the minute.
© Copyright 2013 Sir Runcible Chichester (sirruncible at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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