|King Flaxen taking a stroll|
Due to an inexplicable rent in the space-time continuum, King Flaxen of the 10th century Tipton Saxons has been propelled forward in time to the Tipton of 2015. Equally unbelievable, Flaxen’s companion gray wolf, Loki, has also been transported, but in the process has implausibly transmogrified into a fluffy, white, diminutive, Maltese Terrier, called Bubbles……..
Scene 1: 12A
Tipton High Street
Flaxen and Bubbles find refuge in a bedsit which they share with a flamboyant homosexual by the name of Roger.
Flaxen sits resplendent and brooding over a steaming pot noodle (Chili chicken with veggies: gluten free) in a dilapidated kitchenette.
Roger enters stage left.
Roger, the fat poof: "Flaxen, dear heart, please take your elbows off the table, your chainmail chaffs the veneer something awful".
Flaxen’s hand flexes on the handle of his double-headed Danish war axe, 'Twat Cruncher' and his irritable bowel rumbles and lets fly a spray of gaseous waste. Bubbles topples and remains supine, twitching pathetically and gasping for dear life. Flaxen briefly considers relinquishing Roger of his turbulent, histrionic bonce but thinks better of it. Roger, after all, pays the landlord were-geld and provides Bubbles with small kibble and the occasional sweetmeat.
Flaxen, king of the Tipton Saxons: "Vex me no more Hrogar, afore I set my trusty wolf, Loki, upon your wretched be-rouged carcass. Go tear and rend, Loki"!
Bubbles twitches anew and then lies still, his tongue lolls and red flecks of foam be speckle his snow white fur.
Roger, the fat poof: "Oh, you are a card Flaxen, but don't forget you have an appointment with the Employment Agency at noon. Here, I've filled in your application form".
Flaxen, king of the Tipton Saxons: "Mincing knave go fetch my war-board, helm and my sword, 'Arse, Big Fat Arse Biter' (arse)".
Roger, the fat poof: "There you go Flaxen, but take care not to scrape against the wall. The scuffs can only removed with the most diligent of buffing".
Flaxen, king of the Tipton Saxons: "Come Loki, there is reaving to be done".
Bubbles slowly regains posture/composure and staggers toward Flaxen as if in an opium induced reverie........
Scene 2: Ensconced in Tipton Mall
Flaxen flings aside the great double doors and regards the interior with a wary eye. He spies the queue and draws his mighty sword, 'Arse, Big Fat Arse Biter' (arse) and sets about the thegns, smiting mightily, until at strenuous last he draws close to the man he seeks. He hands in his application with blood-soaked hands and gasps, "Ye Gods and by Thunnor's breath, this place smells worse than a piss soaked midden pit on the cleaners day off."
Thegn one: "Sir, that's because this is a Post Office and you have just smited a line of pensioners waiting to pick up their largesse". Methinks you want the 'Employment Agency', next door".
Flaxen, king of the Tipton Saxons: "Thank you thegn one. Loki, let us tarry no more- to the Employment Agency"!
Scene 3: Inside Tipton's premier Employment Agency
Thegn two regards Flaxen's resume with a critical eye: "I see you are king of the West Mercian
and are looking for a position which entails pillage, slaying, carrying off comely wenches and quaffing vast quantities of a honey fermented concoction, called mead. Let us have a look at your relevant experience and skills: Able to split a man from pate to breast bone with a swipe of your mighty Dane axe, 'Twat Cruncher'; can stack up the skulls of your fallen enemy to form a neat pyramid; capable of holding a blood feud and slaying transgressors even unto the little ones of the third generation. Also, I see you have finely honed interpersonal skills; can readily adapt to a fast paced, vibrant, work environment; work equally effectively as part of a team or alone and get on well with wolves. Well king Flaxen, I think I have the perfect job which will fully utilise your particular multifaceted and people focussed abilities. Have you considered becoming a real estate agent"? kingdom of Tipton
Flaxen gasps and briefly loses control of his once taut sphincter. A loud 'parp' ensues and a plume of noxious, noisome fumes rapidly rise and assail the olfaction glands of all present. Legs akimbo, Bubbles whimpers and collapses once more. A wheezing rasp escapes reluctantly from the Maltese terrier's slack jaw.....
|Bubbles prior to being gassed|
To be continued.
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