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These scenes are taken from a few of the stories to allow you to get a good feel for the zaniness that awaits you.

Macbeth : The Sequel

Agatha opened the door to the Grubby Shoat. She paused, and, while her eyes adjusted to the gloom, a gust of wind blew a squall of rain through the door. Despite the fog of candle and fire smoke, she saw the elderly barkeeper turn pale. “Be at ease, old man. We seek more virile prey.”
She waddled to the bar, a rough-hewn plank set on empty barrels. The water dripping from her hooded cloak left a wet trail on the moldy rushes covering the dirt floor. The mildew stench from the rushes mingled with the odor of fetid ale to produce a miasmic bouquet.
She spotted five village men sitting on a bench. Exactly what she hoped to find, a flock of potential bed partners. The men sucked in their breath when they saw her, but she refused to let their reaction dampen her excitement.
When Bertha and Carla -- her sisters -- entered the tavern, a collective groan came from the table. One of the men jerked his knee, kicking the rickety table in front of the bench and scattered their leather ale cups.
Agatha opened her cloak. Underneath, she wore a dark kirtle a few sizes too small for her ample thighs and stomach. The men sobbed
Bertha smiled at the table. “Some of you lads will have an unforgettable experience tonight.” She and Carla opened their cloaks. Both were dressed similarly to their sister.
Agatha ignored the panicky response to Bertha’s announcement. Men always looked like doomed cattle when the sisters were on the hunt. She didn’t understand the reaction, but assumed it was quite natural.

Saving the Shore

Frido knew he had to save his beloved shore, but he didn't know how. He set a cup of tea in front of the wizard Mamzer who stared at the wall and wove his hands through his long white beard. Frido sighed. Mamzer wasn't his wizard of first choice, but he was the only one who had responded to the help-wanted ad. Mamzer's resume indicated he had been semi-retired for years and Frido couldn't find out if that was voluntary or forced. Despite that concern, Frido was desperate and he needed wizardly help.
Mamzer's preoccupation increased Frido's nervousness. This morning's meeting could decide the fate of the Shore and he needed Mamzer awake and alert. Frido cleared his throat, but the stoop-shouldered, large-paunched old man continued to stare into the distance as if in a trance.
A knock on the door startled Frido. Before he could respond, the round door opened and a tall elf-maiden entered. "I seek the wizard Mamzer," she said. "My name is Dementia." Her green eyes glared defiantly around the room as if daring Frido to challenge her. She had pretty features and shoulder-length silver hair.
"Come in, my dear." Mamzer broke out of his trance and smiled at Dementia. "Sit down." Dementia approached the table and dropped her bow and arrow and a leather-encased harp.
"I'll get another cup of tea," Frido said and left the room. When he returned, a fierce-looking dwarf had walked through the door.
"You Mamzer?" the dwarf asked. Broad nostrils filled the space over a small mouth.
"Indeed, I am," Mamzer replied.
"Name's Gimlet." He tossed a large war ax in the corner but kept wearing his helmet with a straw-littered spider web stretched between the two horns. He tucked his henna-colored beard into his belt, glanced at the cup Frido carried and said, "None of that colored water for me, boy. Fetch an ale."
"Gimlet, that half-pint is our host, not a servant." Mamzer chuckled. "Frido is the mayor of the Shore and we're all here to help him."

Zaftig the Magnificent

“You missed the office by a couple of miles.” Rhonda looked at the sign pointing to the Children’s Zoo. ”We’re in Central Park.”
“I was under a bit of pressure.” Zaftig’s eye stalks rotated at high speed as he examined the park. “What with setting up the coordinates and dodging laser cannons.”
“Wow! Look at the size of that one.” A woman pushing a baby carriage pointed at Zaftig.
“Must be a him,” a second woman replied. “Too ugly to be a her.”
The alien glared at the two women.
“Zaftig. Don’t you dare scare those women.” Rhonda had her left hand on her hip and wagged a finger on her right hand at the creature. “Now’s the time to practice not making enemies.”
“Hey!” a man called out. “You guys makin’ a movie?”
“Gawd! How can someone stay inside that costume?” an old man said. “It must be hot as hell in there.”
“Never mind the heat, what about the smell?” his buddy responded.
A warm, mild breeze blew from the south and, by now, the people north of us maneuvered to get upwind of Zaftig.
The fish were nervous about the crowd and blew bubbles.
“Where’s the cameras?” the lady with the carriage said.
“Maybe it’s like, a rehearsal. You know, like, on location or something.”
The air shimmered and another figure showed up. A pig-like creature appeared in our midst.
The crowd applauded. An oriental man in clothes that only a tourist would wear snapped pictures.
The bounty hunter stood upright and wore leather leggings with a pull-over sweater. A very large weapon hung on his hip. About four feet tall, and weighing a good two hundred pounds, he frowned and looked around, clearly flummoxed by the spectators.


© 2008 Hank Quense