[Ed. It is tradition that TheHusband and I exchange prose or some kind of creative work on various holidays. This is his contribution for my birthday this year.]
Oh Pookie Bear! As your trusty squire, shall I regale you with adulation of your bravery, your honor and your conquests of wanton maidens?
Shall I exalt your victories to the filthy commoners? Perhaps the tale of how you tamed the Nemean Lion, convincing it to perch upon your head for eternity, its mane becoming your mane! Or, your legendary slaying of the Hydra Aunt. Luring it out of the swamp with the promise of Thanksgiving leftovers and nickel slots. Only to charge it on your trusty steed Pugacles, lopping both heads off with your sword and bathing in the sanguine maelstrom of victory!
That isn’t doing if for you?
Shall I sing the bardic anthems elucidating your great beauty? The Song of the Resplendent Cheekiepoo is always a favorite among the grunge infested plebian mobs. Or, perhaps, one of favorites from the Primevalvision Song Contest? How did that Yotvingian tune go?
I have to tell you something
It’s been on my mind so long
Then he mentions something about the greaves he is wearing today, oned call love and the other called Hispania? It never made any sense to me; but you sure seemed to enjoy it.
Must you be so curt?
Shall I order up a doxy with a socially acceptable level of feculence to rub your weary shoulders? To massage your mystery lump? Your lone vulnerable ounce of flesh. Covered by a leaf just before you were bathed in dragon’s blood as an infant. No one knows about it but, I, your trusty squire, and, uh maybe the strumpet I’d hire as a masseuse.
Go to hell and die?
Really? That type of language is unbecoming of one so noble, one so fabled, one so grand, so….
Leave you the fuck alone? May I ask why?
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