Fool (english) Read Free

said:
    “With grave offense to daughters three,
    Alas, the king a fool shall be.”
    “Rhymes?” I inquired. “You’re looming about all diaphanous in the middle of the day, puking cryptic rhymes? Low craft and tawdry art, ghosting about at noon-a parson’s fart heralds darker doom, thou babbling wisp.”
    “Ghost!” cried the raven, and with that the ghost was gone.
    There’s always a bloody ghost.

TWO – NOW, GODS, STAND UP
    FOR BASTARDS!
    I found Drool in the laundry resolving a wank, spouting great gouts of git-seed across the laundry walls, floors, and ceiling, giggling, as young Shanker Mary wagged her tits at him over a steaming cauldron of the king’s shirts.
    “Put those away, tart, we’ve a show to do.”
    “I was just giving ’im a laugh.”
    “If you wanted to show charity you could have bonked him honest and there’d be a lot less cleaning to do.”
    “That’d be a sin. Besides, I’d as soon straddle a gateman’s halberd as try to get a weapon that girth up me.”
    Drool pumped himself dry and sat down on the floor splay-legged, huffing like a great dribbling bellows. I tried to help the lout repack his tackle, but getting him into a codpiece against his firm enthusiasm was like trying to pound a bucket over a bull’s head-a scenario I thought comical enough to perhaps work into the act tonight, should things get slow.
    “Nothing stopping you from givin’ the lad a proper cleavage toss, Mary. You had ’em out and all soaped up, a couple of jumps and a tickle and he’d have carried water for you for a fortnight.”
    “He already does. And I don’t even want that thing near me. A Natural, he is. There’s devils in his jizm.”
    “Devils? Devils? There’s no devils in there, lass. Chock full o’ nitwits, to be sure, but no devils.” A Natural was either blessed or cursed, never just an accident of nature, as the name implied.
    Sometime during the week, Shanker Mary had gone Christian on us, despite being a most egregious slut. You never knew anymore who you were dealing with. Half the kingdom was Christian, the other half paid tribute to the old gods of Nature, who were always showing promise on the moonrise. The Christian God with his “day of rest” was strong with the peasants come Sunday, but by Thursday when there was drinking and fucking to be done, Nature had her kit off, legs aloft, and a flagon of ale in each hand, taking converts for the Druids as fast as they could come. They were a solid majority when the holiday was about, dancing, drinking, shagging the virgins, and sharing the harvest, but on the human sacrifice or burn-down-the-King’s-forest days, there was none but crickets cavorting ’round the Stonehenge-the singers having forsaken Mother Earth for Father Church.
    “Pretty,” said Drool, trying to wrestle back control of his tool. Mary had commenced to stirring the laundry but had neglected to pull her dress up. Had the git’s attention hostage, she did.
    “Right. She’s a bloody vision of loveliness, lad, but you’ve buffed yourself to a gleam already and we’ve work to do. The castle’s awash in intrigue, subterfuge, and villainy-they’ll be wanting-comic relief between the flattery and the murders.”
    “Intrigue and villainy?” Drool displayed a gape-toothed grin. Imagine soldiers dumping hogsheads of spittle through the crenellations atop the castle wall-thus is Drool’s grin, as earnest in expression as it is damp in execution-a slurry of good cheer. He loves intrigue and villainy, as they play to his most special ability.
    “Will there be hiding?”
    “There will most certainly be hiding,” said I, as I shouldered an escaped testicle into his cod.
    “And listening?”
    “Listening of cavernous proportions-we shall hang on every word as God on Pope’s prayers.”
    “And fuckery? Will there be fuckery, Pocket?”
    “Heinous fuckery most foul, lad. Heinous fuckery most foul.”
    “Aye, that’s the dog’s bollocks, then!” said