The Random Thoughts of Ejaka of the Sadaar

Be warned! This is a dangerous collection of dangerous thoughts about dangerous things that is dangerously wrong. Is your head refusing to interperate the dangerouses now? Good.


THE PRICKLY FIRST SECTION


Now, this section is pure prickly. Beware.


It is about...a play on words. And wordplay. And weird excerpts.


With the the playing of the words done (what? I didn't say I'd DO wordplay; I just made the words play), I'll give you a strange excerpt from an even stranger story.



Back, long ago, long before your great-grandparents' great grandparents were born, back when dragons still roamed the earth, when people did not have guns and resorted to hacking each other to pieces with swords instead, there lived a short, bald man in a small thatch-roof cottage.

This particular man had a habit of smoking his pipe on his porch at eight o'clock sharp. He lived quite happily, except for the nuisance of the dog next door. It barked like mad every morning, always watching the smoke drift upward in a spiral. The smell, too, enticed it and drove it crazy.

Presently, at eight o'clock, the man--his name was Rilo-- sat down on his creaky old rocking chair and smoked his pipe.

"O," he said with a sigh, "Ol' Eighty. Best smoke around." Rilo was smoking it, as he considered the present day a great one indeed.

Some time back, when the honeysuckle covered every clearing in sight, he looked on
the field one day and said, "This be a fine one. The Lord has outdone himself." He marked the day, deciding to take a smoke of Ol' Eighty, his finest harvest, on that day in remembrance.
That sunshiny day was four seasons ago to the day, and Rilo had cracked open the small cask of Ol' Eighty for the first time that morn.

Rilo decided that it was his finest harvest ever.

Just then, the Dog next door began barking. "Oi! What's that smell?" he panted in Doggish. But, of course, Rilo couldn't understand Doggish, as he was a human.

The smell curled up in the Dog's nose, and he took a deep whiff. "Ah," he sighed. He stopped, his doggy mouth open in surprise. "I am speaking Humanese!" the Dog exclaimed, shaking his fur in astonishment.

Rile, too, was open-mouthed. "You a-mean that you was a Talking Dog all this time?" Rile asked.

The Dog's feelings were ruffled. "Talking Dog? Talking Dogs be the worstest Dogs there ever been! Stuck-up, just because they could make different soundses in their throats!"

Rilo was puzzled. "Then what are you, Dog?"

The Dog jumped up on the fence. "I am Sir Muffle, son of Sir Tuffle, whose grandfather fought a dragon and lived! Which he got knighted for by the Doggish Committee of Tussling."

Rilo wondered at that. "He did?"

Sir Muffle made a snorting noise. "Well... It was a baby dragon."

Rilo shrugged, and glanced at his sundial. "Tis time to break my fast. Farewell, Sir Muffle."

Sir Muffle scrabbled at the fence. "Could you share? I am hungry."

"No."

Sir Muffle whined. "Please?"

"No." Rilo's flimsy door slammed shut.

Sir Muffle, put off by Rilo's reply, curled up by the fence for a good sunbathing. After all, not only the hated Cats needed the sun.


**************


Far, far, far away, there also lived an old, strong dragon, who, incidentally, has something to do with this story.

Legend has it that when this dragon was born, he ate his eggshell, belched, and said, "More." Since then, the dragon has shown a remarkable tendency to eat everything edible, grow stronger, and hoard large quantities of gold--all admirable traits in draconic society. Also, he hasn't ever gotten a stomachache.

The cats of the known world name him 'Flame', whereas the dogs name him simply 'Eater'. Fortunately for this story, the dragons and Men alike name him much more originally; Teghaw.
Now, as it happens, on the day that old Rilo began smoking 'Ol Eighty (which was to go down in history as a historic day and marked as the beginning of the decline of dragons), Teghaw was chewing on the bone of the Patriarch of a nearby town--who managed to dig out his rusty old sword and throw it into the river before being eaten. This, however, may be too much information to the weak of heart, so let it be sufficient to say that the Patriarch died in a horribly unpleasant manner.

Presently, the great Wyrm finished his bone and went to go and lie on his bed of jewels, gold, and who else knows what. He noted, however that a gold coin and one of his favorite tiny diamonds (he had thousands of them, but he only had a dozen or so favorites) were missing and promptly flew into a towering rage.


Dragon-historians, chronologists, and general knowledgeable people all agree on the fact that the dragons know, at all times, the location of everything that belongs to them in their hoard, down to the last penny. Unfortunately, this has never been proved, as most of the brave (but obviously stupid) dracologists have been eaten.


Teghaw perceived that there was no tracks in the room and realized that the guilty thief must have been a bird, one of the annoying jackdaws most likely. So, images of death, rage, fire, and doom upon that poor, stupid jackdaw searing through Teghaw's mind, he set off to search the winds for news of his prey. Which, fortunately for the Towns nearby, and unfortunately for the dragon, eventually led to his doom.


**************


Meanwhile, Rilo was about to shoot the Dog. With a bow.

However, Rilo did not own a bow, so he let the thought go and instead shot verbal versions of the sort at the eloquent, ever-talking Sir Muffle, which had awoken from his nap.

"Shut thy trap, O Dog! Thy tongue is long as the day, and it presently grows tiresome!" Rilo waxed eloquent and kingly in his speech when in a rage worthy of a King.

Sir Muffle jumped up, setting his front paws on the fence. "Traps are bad."

Rilo very nearly screamed his frustration, and stormed into his house, violently slamming his door, where it promptly tore the hinges out of the door-frame and crashed to the deck.

A slightly muffled "Ooh..." from Sir Muffle came through the window.


Comment, if you will.



THE STINGING SECOND SECTION

This section may sting you, so if you are on a laptop that is in your lap, I'd recommend putting it on a table where it won't sting you.


I have brought to you today...a plot. Or the start of one. Feel free to steal it to make a novel/la out of it. :D


******

Single widower is at work, working late. His teenage son, who is alone at home, calls and asks him if he's coming home soon. As he's replying, a unearthly shriek sounds through the phone, and the phone line goes dead.

The man calls his son back, but instead of his son who anwers, strange words, spoken by a deep voice, greets his ear--and then hangs up. He attempts another call, but there's no answer.

The man hurries out of his work to his car--but the car is gone. No one is in sight--everyone else at the place, save for the few night-workers on the other side of the sizable building, have long since gone home.


******



THE DANGEROUS THIRD SECTION


This section is extremely dangerous. Read on at your own risk.







...Rabbits. See previous post.


--
Jake