[Wonderful Labs] A wonderfully long short story

[Wonderful Labs]

Dearest Readers of Wonder,

	So.  Let me tell you a story...

	There once was a jester who was called upon to slay an ogre.  Now, why
this ridiculous state of affairs should come to pass (e.g. all the
proper knights being previously slain, a cruel lottery system, the
jester being a secret king raised by wolves and unaware of his proper
destiny, the jester just not being very funny and more suited for
scientific exploration of the digestive systems of ogres...), I cannot
say, but the fact was that a morning came when the jester found himself
clutching a mighty sword and knocking his knees, watching the hoary
silhouette of the ogre march out of the East with clear intent to turn
him into a jingly smear.

	Now, being a jester, our hero (or, at least, *protagonist*. Well,
agonist) had some experience in being kicked about.  He also knew a bit
about fighting, so long as it was close-up fighting against enemies with
their backs turned, or better still, asleep.  He'd said as much when
they put the sword into his hand, "Look, this whole battling big
monsters thing, it's not really my style.  Me, I'm good at, you know,
leaping on little girls.  *No*, not like that!"  But really, he would
likely have thrown one arm over his eyes, awkwardly hurled the sword
vaguely ogre-ward with the other, and high-tailed it for the next
village (changing his name to Chuck the Daring Mute on the way), had he
not made certain promises to a certain Lady.  

	Which is, you know, typical.

	Anyway, the ogre arrived with his mace and his armor and his girth and
his muscles and his blunderbuss full of bluster, thundering the earth. 
And the jester, ringing like an Edgar Allen Poe poem in a windstorm,
trembled out to meet him.  Oh! the clash of their weapons was terrible! 
Neither of them had any form to speak of.  You could have pushed a
haycart in between their swings.  But I suppose the point is this: the
jester did not die right away.  Either the ogre was not so gruesome as
advertised, or the jester maybe did have some sort of hidden depths.

	In fact, their battle lasted almost a week.  But at last, heaving, and
dripping with gore, the ogre gripped the jester's head betwixt its paws
and the jester pushed his dulled sword 'gainst the ogre's breastplate
and they both cried "Yield!"  It was decided that the contest was a
draw, for neither had the strength left to defeat the other.  But they
would meet again in a year, to settle the matter.

	The jester spent that year in training, barely pausing for sleep or
sustenance.  He had nearly beaten the ogre on natural talent, and became
convinced that he needed but a bit of skill to settle the matter.  He
fought any who would come within range of his sword.  He consulted every
text that mentioned war, and trained with every master who had the
patience to not rip the bells off his head.

	When it came time to meet the ogre again, the jester had muscles the
size of canteloupes which, unfortunately, also seemed to have developed
testicles that they'd all been kicked in.  Upon the open field of
battle, facing his enormous enemy once more, the jester knew a dozen
martial techniques to employ for his opening.  Also unfortunately, his
sleep-deprived mind could not decide which to use.

	Aching and addled, the jester could only watch the ogre swing his
massive mace.  He was clobbered and collapsed within minutes.  Much
money exchanged hands between the onlookers.

	The ogre, however, did not kill the jester at that point.  In fact, he
roared with displeasure, and stamped his thorny feet, and caused several
miscarriages in nearby cattle.  The monster declared that the contest
was unsatisfactory, that his opponent was not the man he had been a year
ago, and there would be no pleasure in slaying such a pale shadow.  They
would meet again, in another year, for three is a charm, and *then* the
blood of the jester would spread, steaming, on the battlefield and the
ogre would crunch his bones.  

	The jester did not know whether he should be grateful or not.

	But listen:  this is what happened.  The jester spent this next year in
quiet.  He listened.  He sat.  He slept.  He laughed.  He took care to
remember the Lady to whom he'd made a promise.  He rested.  He studied
French, because he'd heard there were some good jokes in that language. 
He, in fact, did not do shit to become a better fighter.  He spent the
week before the battle singing silly songs while being rowed around a
lake, until verse came to worst.

	When they met again, the jester did not even raise his sword to the
ogre.  He sat cross-legged in the field of battle, and allowed the ogre
to approach and then he stood up and he grabbed the ogre by the armor
and he kissed the monster on the lips.  He held out his hand and the
sword leapt into it, but the jester did not use the blade to slash at
the stunned ogre.  He instead cut a rope that had *not* been there a
moment ago, and yet had *always* been there, was always supposed to be
there, and stepped back.

	The tremendous anvil on the other end of the rope dropped square unto
the monster, flattening him into a wide, bristling disc.

	So, in the end, everyone got what they deserved, and a few people got
extra pie, mainly kings.  That's all one can ever expect from this sort
of story, really.  I mean, you can try to extract a moral or two (e.g.
"Magic is easy once you stop trying to do it." "Always get enough sleep,
ya idjit." "A kiss can have several meanings." &c) but in the end it's
just a story and you either like it or you don't.  If you like it, you
might have your reasons, but I doubt that the folks inside the story
would know what those were and that's okay.


Normal service will resume, my lovelies,
Mister Wonderful

-- 
Der Hexer

	"Some velvet morning when I'm straight,
	I'm gonna open up your gate.
	And maybe tell you about Phaedra
	And how she gave me life
	And how she made it end
	Some velvet morning when I'm straight..."

		- Lee Hazelwood,
		"Some Velvet Morning"

See London!  See France!
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