Saga of the Thong, part C

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As I continue to extend my neck into this inviting noose, I offer part C

The Taoist mystic, Yun Go Xin, once said (translated loosely, of course), “As we, of mere mortal frame, may have very little influence over the mode and manner in which we leave a room, a wise and prudent man will endeavor to insure that his entrance will create a lasting memory.” Sadly the world was deprived of enjoying further embellishment upon his kernel of wisdom, as his next recorded statement, “I don’t see what’s so bad about these Hun guys”, resulted in his summary execution as a traitor. It is doubtless, however, that Master Xin’s perception has been a beacon of truth through the ages upon those who sought to insure their own fame.

To claim that the current entrant into the humble surroundings of the Elk Lodge ascribed to the dogma of the late Xin, would be an understatement. The spectacle of the entrance of the unknown visitor had been as carefully choreographed as a “Back Street Boys” show. As the vista unfolded before the awestruck and silenced guests, it was obvious that the new arrival was no simple gamer geek, rather a person of substantial power and charisma. In the far, darkened corners of the hall it was even whispered blasphemously that the new arrival was Tal, but of course there is no accounting the delusion that can accompany the over-consumption of warm beer.

The first to step through the open doors were a pair of stiff and brightly clad trumpeters, clad in tunics vaguely reminiscent of Confederate flags. They raised their long glistening horns into the air and deafened the room with a perfectly delivered “da da da, DA da DAHHH”. As the last tone from the brass section dwindled away, in the darkness past the doorway could be heard the beginning of a low, rumbling drum roll, while a small blonde headed girl, perhaps elfin in descent, appeared from out of the blackness. She was a cute as a bug, dressed in a flowing yet frilly white dress while she clutched a battered woven basket in her hand. In a most precocious way, she began to skip the length of the hall, scattering the white petals of some unknown flower from her basket as she went. Arriving at the head table, she curtsied briefly, and dumped the last of the flower petals into the pretzel bowl before scampering away.

The dancers came next, a strange cross between the Dallas Cowboy cheerleaders and an aerobics class; they swirled and undulated the length of the hall, to again scatter after arriving at the table bearing the high Mucky-mucks. The doorway was suddenly filled with a new apparition, one that caused a collective gasp from the enthralled throng. Four barely clad Amazon warriors stepped into the room, carrying a heavy wooden platform upon their rippled shoulders. With dignity and deliberation, they carried the platform and its contents past eyes that bulged and jaws that dropped, apparently oblivious to the worshipful stares of guys who had only known women who were pixilated.

The cargo on the plank was an odd lump, a shapeless mass covered with a dingy grey cloak. The warrior babes carried it with reverence, even tenderness, the length of the room, depositing the entire panel upon the head table, scattering bowls and bottles as they did so. Turning with an attitude strangely joining haughtiness with indifference, they twisted and stalked out of the room. As they disappeared into the dark, so ended the persistent drum-roll, and the simple Elk Lodge was left in silence with its new guest.

Blackthorne picked up an empty brown bottle, with the intention of poking the nondescript gray-ness before him, only to have the object move before he could complete the act. The lump seemed to literally throw itself into the air, lengthening and straightening into a human form as it catapulted off the table, performed a perfect 1080 degree axle in mid air (ruled as only a 720 degree by the French judge), to land on its feet in a plume of grunge. As the cloud of dust settled, the figure raised one arm to push back a concealing hood, as his voice echoed across the room, “Greetings, fair peeps!”

“SHRALP”, BTA was the first to regain his voice, “what the hell are you doing here, and where have you been!”

Shralp, appearing non-descript, took a small step toward the assemblage. From deep within his robe he produced handfuls of Euros, which he casually tossed into the enamored multitude. Without appearing to make an effort he spoke, “sorry for my absence, but for the last few years I’ve been serving as Secretary of Treasury for a small Eastern Europe former Soviet bloc nation, until they somehow ran out of funds”.

At his last words, the remaining Euros left his hand, precipitating a brutal fist fight between Grovflab and Shura, while Mystra picked up the coins and giggled. Shralp sighed audibly as he turned his back on the carnage. “But Blackie, I heard SP was in trouble, so I left nation building to the Bush admin and hot-footed it back here to see what I could do to help.” With a delicate pivot and pirouette, he jumped into the air and landed with a thud upon the Executive table. “By the way, whoever re-did the old Inn, kudos, I love the whole Teletubbies theme”.

Blackthorne’s eyes narrowed as he beheld Shralp’s beaming pseudo-angelic countenance, and he said slowly, “yes, Shralp, there is something you can do to help…”

“Oh no, Mister Thorne, before you make me the target of your barbs and envision me in the SP thong, I must let all of you in on a very well kept secret. I can not possibly wear the thong due to a very large and distinctive birth mark on my left thigh”.

BTA grumbled “there is no need to create elaborate lies, Shralp, you could simply say ‘I refuse’ and not waste our time with fanciful flights of your imagination”.

Shralp struck an indignant pose, as he rose to his feet upon the table. “Is this an elaborate lie, mister doubting Thomasina?” With a flourish he opened his robe, revealing the skin of his upper left thigh. The room was silent, and then a perceptible mumble seemed to grow, punctuated by Aikanaro’s shout “Whooo-hoooo, Shralp, that looks just like…”

Shralp snapped his cloak shut with the sound of muffled thunderclap. “I am well aware of how it looks, Aikey, how do you think I feel at the beach when strange women come up and slap me. Nevertheless, it should be obvious to all that I can not possibly wear the SP thong”.

“Obvious” growled Beren, “now do us all a favor and go sit down. We have people to hear from who may actually have some assistance to lend to our plight”. Shralp turned, muttering something about ‘people you just couldn’t love’, and took the seat that had just been vacated by Septic Yogurt, who was currently passed out on the floor.

Beren continued, “Perhaps we can redirect this meeting toward functionality by hearing about a very special project that Yerril has been working on”.

To be continued...

 

This is getting better and better (although you've apparently forgotten that there are numbers past 2, and now have to use the alphabet to identify the chapters ).

By the way, Grey, what did you do with Hacken Slash, and how did you get his password? This may not be up to your usual standards, but it's damn close, and it's way better than what H.S. could write.

 

Oh, but it's better than my stuff - I can't write over-the-top silliness like this. My style is too understated and dialogue-heavy. (Wait...how can something be "too" understated or be narratively described as "dialogue-heavy"?)

Hurry up with the next part, Hacken Slash! Your thongs...uh, I mean, throngs of admirers await!

 

*squeals girlishly* I'm in it!

 

For writing such flattering prose, I grant you last year's GDP of Belarus.

For revealing the secrets of a Shralp grand entrance, I sentence you to being depicted in the tattoo that goes on my right thigh.

 

You really want a tatoo of a devastatingly handsome stud hunk on your leg?

Maybe I need to edit Part C and change them to Chippendales dancers....