Mad, Bad or God

The Story Unfolds

The reader is directed to suspend disbelief. Everything related in the following tale is totally valid, true and not the demented conquering's of a man with a tenuous grip on reality who is also imbued with the disconcerting proclivity of bollocking down two bottles of Creme de Menthe in a single sitting.

Consider, the cruel Winter of 984 AD. Our Hero is out for an invigorating stride across the snow besmirched land of the Mercian hinterland. Our story begins...

Whilst out strolling with his wolf, Loki, Flaxen, king of the Tipton Saxons became entangled in a space/time vortex which perchance connected to rent in the space-time continuum. Hence, Flaxen and Loki were transported through a time portal to finally alight in the Tipton of 2026. After catching the number 27 bus from Dudley.......Before you berate me for concocting impossible scenarios, I suggest you consult the latest in theoretical physics which, no doubt, will bestrew my tale with a sprinkling of verity itself.

For some strange reason which will never become apparent or satisfactorily explained, Flaxen and Loki managed to find agreeable lodgings with a flagrant/fragrant homosexual called Roger. After a lamentable event in the local post office where several aged folk were propelled to Valhalla before their allotted time (only just), Flaxen managed to secure gainful employment as a local estate agent. I will relate how this came to pass, and the successful interview process as it actually transpired, in the next gripping, paragraph. Oh yes, and for reasons that shall remain veiled in mystery and wrapped in a puzzle, Flaxen's trusty wolf became transmuted into a white fluffy Maltese Terrier, called Bubbles.

After the unfortunate episode of miscommunication in the post office, our intrepid time traveler found himself ensconced in a local corner shop. It is here that Flaxen embarked on the potential purchase of a quart of ale and a packet of pork scratchings. Unfortunately, the Blackamoor who owned the establishment baulked at accepting Flaxen's proffered silver groats. Twas a grave mistake as tenth century West Saxon groats in mint condition where worth considerably more than the comestibles Flaxen elected to purchase. Unfortunately for the shopkeep, Flaxen was not a man accustomed to being thwarted in his daily proceedings (he was an only child). Thusly, Flaxen, with a swift repost, unsheathed his sword, 'Arse, big fat arse biter' and with a deft flick of burnished steel the ill-favoured store keep's noggin was rent asunder and sent a scurrying to finally come to rest atop a packet of cheese and onion crisps.   

It became apparent to Flaxen, that in order to flourish in this future environment he needed to gain fruitful employment, and thus he applied for the position of Estate Agent as proffered in the local Job Mart. Surely, there must have been a dearth of suitable applicants as our hero managed to secure an interview the very next day.

The Interview

"So, Mr Flaxen, from your CV it appears that you have extensive experience in reaving and blood feuding with wandering warbands of interloping Frisians and Jutes. Also, you have an eclectic and extensive pinna collection, taken from fallen foes slain in battle. You have interpersonal skills and can work alone or in a warband. In addition, you have shown initiative in usurping the previous incumbent king of the West Saxons after he committed suicide by repeatably stabbing himself with a sword before falling down a disused mine shaft. After due consideration, and after noting that all other prospective candidates have mysteriously succumbed to a sanguinous demise in the interview waiting room, it is with great trepidation that I welcome you aboard as our new member of the Sales Consulting Team.  Mr Flaxen, your first viewing is on the morrow".   

You may think it strange and incongruent that a tenth century barbarian could converse with the denizens of a thousand years hence, but reality is not as it seems, especially at the quantum level. Anyway, if we are living in an infinite universe, as many very clever physicists believe, then everything is possible. Therefore, from logical inference it follows, and by force of argument aver, then every possibility denied to the imagination of Man, is also possible. I will not delve deep into the realm where classical philosophy and nonclassical physics coalesce. Suffice to say we would be entering an epistemological wonderland that transcends the intellects of mere mortals. Back to the saga. 

The Viewing

"As you can see this is a well-appointed 3 bed residence with grand views toward Tipton's only midden pit. The bathroom is bijou and superbly appointed...''

Mr Mugumbo (who else?): "Excuse me king Flaxen of the Tipton Saxons with hegemony over the wester marches and parts of Dudley south, but what are the schools like hereabouts? I wouldn't want little Joachim to go to a school full of brain fucked, thieving gypos''."You have raised a fair point Mr Mugumbo. Let me assure you that the 'Gypo Quotient' is within the 10th decile as we speak and the only dark folk allowed on school grounds is the janitor and only after full egress of the student body. As I was saying, as you can see, we have a sharply appointed kitchen type area with all the amenities of running cold water; some of it from the tap. The 'rambunctious room' would be ideal for a snooker table or an area for storing the skulls of your fallen enemy". "What is that strange crunching noise emanating from the compact but deceptively spacious bed roomette". "Don't mind that, tis only my trusty wolf cum Maltese, Loki/Bubbles feasting on the entrails of the previous viewer who had the temerity to criticise the flock wallpaper in the amply spaced dinerette designed to maximise your lifestyle requirements. Foolish accountant dared trifle with King of the Tipton Saxons and thus with a swift blow of my sword, 'Arse, Big Fat Arse, Biter', I removed his impudent bonce with celerity timely born.  Well, Mr Mugumbo, what do you think of the wallpaper in the tastefully appointed living area''?

"Well to be honest, I prefer a more understated effect with subtle, vibrant tones......".

As if in dream Flaxen reached for his double headed Danish war axe, 'Twat Cruncher', and in a heartbeat severed Mr Mugumbo's head clean orf his less than bespoke torso. 

Flaxen picked up the severed head and entered the easy to maintain bed roomette and skillfully placed the head atop the mound of noggins. Loki/Bubbles playfully relinquished the accountant's entrails and gleefully latched onto Mr Mugumbo's blood rimed corpse with his pitiless maw and thus provisioned began to drag it slowly into the sumptuously attired, feature garagette.

     

Next week Flaxen receives 'Estate Agent of the Month Award'.