Well it is out there. The next instalment of the Tales of Fairy Hanny.
And now I am working on the third book, so I am putting a section here, for your entertainment. Enjoy.
“The Death of Kian.
“What was it that led you to kill the mullet headed Kian?”
A great question.
So great Hanny had to ask several times.
Before her sat the sons of Turenn, now united in sporting Curly perms. Though it could be said that Dennis had developed his look to be something like a curly mullet. And Wayne had grown his hare back. They sat there, dressed in orange and green, though sometimes they dressed in black and tan, especially when being total bastards.
Came three answers of sorts. Hanny thought they were about to shout, ‘Baby Jump’.
Hanny looked upon her new companions with awe. Bodies sculptured to impress the ladies; faces sculptured to win any gurning contest. Why was nature so cruel?
Gorgeous women with pea sized brains.
Physicists lacking social skills.
Politicians lying for a living while claiming to help.
Celibate priests buggering about.
And Princes raping young girls at twelve million quid a time.
There are strange things and strange worlds and strange rules and strange things from Uranus.
The sons of Turenn sat at the great table. They had been eating for hours and now the chicken legs, racks of ribs, Olives and jelly’s had all but disappeared. It was time to dismiss the rest of the revellers and reveal their revelations. Time to confess their misdeeds, without admitting the truth to All and Sundry, especially on Sunday. After all, All was one of the biggest gossips in the Turenn Household, and Sundry was a right twat.
Hanny would be thrilled to hear the truth, if it ever came out. Though coming out as the ‘truth’ was not quite the same as living in a closet.
So it came to pass, alack and alas, that Kian wanted to pass through the Lands of Turenn, on a secret mission to the west, at someone’s bequest though we don’t know the rest. He knew his ridiculous mullet would make him recognisable to anyone in the Turenn tribe. So, he conjured up a little bit of that old black magic, the type keeps you in its spell, that old black magic that you know so well. Then with a whiz and a biz and a fizz Kian turned himself into a pig. In more recent years it has become common place for Politicians to familiarise themselves with pigs, though at the time of Kian it was a novel approach; he wrote a book about it.
Kian, disguised as a pig, believed he could tootle his trotters across the Land of Turenn and continue with his mysterious quest.
“Stupid fecker,” said Brian. “As if we wouldn’t notice a pig with a mullet!”
Thus, it was that Brian, Dennis and Wayne chased the pig with the mullet and speared it. Then they ate fresh pork chops that night, having first buried the entrails in the local dung hill to keep the dogs away.
As he lay dying the pig/Kian cursed the sons of Turenn.
“At first I thought he had ‘spare’ wounds,” explained Wayne. “I am dyslexic, even though such a diagnosis does not exist in the Legendary Land of Faery. What could be so bad about a ‘spare’ wound? Hey how many wounds have you got? Any spare ones so I don’t have to go over the top?”
Hanny looked perplexed.
“When I realised they meant ‘spear’ wounds, I knew things could be falat!” continued Wayne.
“Falat?” asked Hanny.
“He means fatal,” said Dennis. “The dumb fuck can’t even say his lines dead proper.”
“Falat – that’s what I said!” said Wayne.
“That pork was rather tasty,” smiled Brian.
“You can’t beat fresh Prok,” agreed Wayne.
“Anyway, once we had scoffed the lot and stored some Kian sausages in the freezer, we got an angry call from Lugh,” explained Brian.
“Where is my mullet headed son?” cried Lugh.
“We turned him into pork scratchings,” laughed Dennis.
Lugh was as angry as Rottweiler on speed.
“Nobody kills my kin or my grunters!” shouted Lugh, for he was sad at the death of his dad.
And so it was that the sons of Turenn were beckoned to the High King Daffte at Tara to say goodbye to their freedom.
They admitted to their guilt at eating the porcine father of Lugh, but hey, a bit of crackling never did any harm. And what of the battle of the hairdo’s? To pay or not to pay, was that the question?
“Oh, wonderful King Daffte, what is so wrong about spearing a pig, even though it is sporting a mullet?” asked Brian.
Brian suggested that maybe an avant-garde pig keeper was very fond of mullets on his pigs. How were they to know? If a pig specialist had decided on interesting hair styles for his charges, how were the sons of Turenn to distinguish between black magic Kian and an audacious swineherd? The sons of Turenn felt they had won a logistical victory.
King Daffte turned to Lugh.
“What do you reckon? Reasonable mistake? Especially as they ate the pork!” said Daffte
Lugh lifted a pint of fine dark ale and cried copiously into his beer.
“Oh, marvellous King. Lord of Lords and owner of swords! Dou you have any boards? Or rope we can call cords? Or sections of circles, also chords, though spelt dead different?” screamed Lugh. “These twats murdered and barbecued my Old Man! They should die! Die! Di diddly eye tie die die!”
Daffte was not so daft.
“It could have been a genuine mistake. Some of the swineherds have taken to sending their pigs to hairdressers to smarten them up. A pig with a mullet is not that unusual these days,” said Daffte. “I tell you what; you suggest a punishment for these lads. It can’t be outright death, though it could be a fatal task!” said Daffte.
Lugh sat alone on his seat of stone and munched and mumbled on a bare old bone.
“Are you excited?” asked Daffte.
Lugh was planning his revenge.
“I have a list of eight tasks to complete,” declared Lugh. “If they get the lot done then I can forgive them, Plus I will be better off too and I can mourn my old fella.”
“Did your cock drop off?” asked Daffte.
The sons of Turenn, Brian, Dennis and Wayne, huddled together for a few minutes. They stood and looked directly to King Daffte.
“Whatever,” said Brian. “Whatever this knob end asks, we will do it.”
“Wow!” declared Daffte.
“We are Rick hard! Hard as Nials!” declared Wayne.
“Do you mean as hard as Nials the Merciless?” asked the King.
“No, I mean as hard as nials you knock into wood with a hamour!” said Wayne.
“Seems a little fishy,” said the King.
Hanny decided it was time for a parse into the narrative. Was it ok to make fun of dyslexics? She decided it was ko and let the story continue; it would still be a knockout.
“Ok what is the list of the tasks?” asked Hanny.
Brian, the oldest son of Turenn, stood with his hands behind his back, as though he was about to recite a poem about Father William.
He looked toward the ceiling, which was a wonderful counterpart to the walls.
“We have to collect three apples, the skin of a pig, a magical spear, a chariot with two horses, seven swine, a hound, a cooking spit, and then give three shouts on a hill,” he explained.
“It sounds straightforward enough,” said Hanny.
“Well, every single one is magic and none are in Faery!” said Dennis.
“Feckity feck! More travel!” shouted Hanny.
“Lots more travail,” said Wayne.