Wednesday, October 17, 2012

Two Penny Saga: And By The Fury Of My Pillow My Enemies Shall Meet Their Doom

Thank you Karen for suggesting the following line.  I took it and turned it into the following story.

 When I make a pillow, I do it right.

I am not like others of my generation who just throws cloth and stuffing together and hopes for the best.  I spend months on it.  It has to be just the right wait.  I spend days on the corner that I will be wielding when I go into battle.  I pour over my family’s insignia (a red boar on a green field) so when my enemy’s skull meets my pillow they know that it was one of the Redhorn Clan that struck them down.

There aren’t many of us left.  The last one I met was over six months ago at the start of September.  I remember this because I was at the mall with my wife and two daughters shopping for their back to school supplies when I saw him in the food court.  He was an oak of a man with more hair on his face than a bear has on its body.  Slung over his shoulder was a black pillow with a golden eagle sewn into the fabric.  He was one of the Nightcroft Clan. 

My wife begged me to leave him be.  My daughters whined about how some boys they knew at school were watching.  If paid them no mind.  I approached the devil and said the words my father taught me when I was a lad.  “I meet you as a man of the Redhorn.  Prepare to taste my feathers.”

My pillow swung at his head but he was faster than he looked.  His pillow deflected mine and smashed into my chest.  I was thrown back into a woman carrying a tray full of Arby’s.  I pushed he back and ran at my foe.    

Our battle raged through the mall for hours.  We left the food court, passed Macies and Sharper Image and fought all the way to California Pizza Kitchen.  I fought better than I ever had but the fates did not smile on me throughout the battle.  Whether it was a lack in my courage or skill I cannot say but the giant struck my pillow out of my hands so it plunged into the fountain by the Pretzil kiosk.  Snarling, my foe pressed his pillow to my throat.  “Kneel and lick the grime off my boots.”

I did not weep or give in.  I only raised my hands and said, “My mother fought in the tickling pits for twelve years.  She taught me everything she knew.”

I was upon him, tickling his belly, his chin and his armpits until he was reduced to a spluttering ball of giggles.  The exhaustion was finally too much and he gave in.  I stood over my enemy, victorious once again.     

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