Re: Party in Prim
Posted: Sat Nov 12, 2011 4:52 am
The barkeep and I just had an interesting discussion. It seems that he knows a guy, who knows a guy, who knows the owner of The Fallhaven Tavern. He proposed that in exchange for my discretion concerning the "recently" deceased shoe cobbler, that formerly resided at the corner table, he would arrange for me to have an honorary, private table for life at The Fallhaven Tavern.
Apparently, the barkeep heard rumor of some pending VFDA imposed guidelines that also included some regulations concerning drinking establishments and inns, and would prefer the locals to believe the cobbler's death to be more recent, and of natural causes. It's amazing that the small stockpile of yet to be repaired footwear back at his shop never aroused any suspicion.
I would like to offer more in the way of details concerning the cobbler's funeral arrangements, however, due to the carelessness of one of the volunteers who assisted in moving the body outside, and onto a nearby hay wagon, apparently came into too close proximity to the poor old cobbler's dried up body with his pipe, upon easing him onto the wagon, that he pretty much burst into flames, setting the hay, and wagon itself, on fire as well. Needless to say, this spooked the pair of horses that were pulling the wagon, into a frenzy that sent the whole works off like a fireball in the night. Realizing there was little we could do, we placed our hats over our hearts in an attempt to lend dignity to the handling of the remains, likening it to the honorary process of a Viking funeral. After the traveling inferno rolled out of town, and off into the distance where we eventually lost site of it, we drew straws (considering ourselves fortunate that they too weren't consumed by the massive blaze) to see who would be the lucky customer to track down and return the horses, and whatever charred sticks remained of their harness. Thankfully, fate spared me the task.
I returned inside after removing what I could of the soot from my face and clothes, to have a drink or two, at the old cobbler's table.
Apparently, the barkeep heard rumor of some pending VFDA imposed guidelines that also included some regulations concerning drinking establishments and inns, and would prefer the locals to believe the cobbler's death to be more recent, and of natural causes. It's amazing that the small stockpile of yet to be repaired footwear back at his shop never aroused any suspicion.
I would like to offer more in the way of details concerning the cobbler's funeral arrangements, however, due to the carelessness of one of the volunteers who assisted in moving the body outside, and onto a nearby hay wagon, apparently came into too close proximity to the poor old cobbler's dried up body with his pipe, upon easing him onto the wagon, that he pretty much burst into flames, setting the hay, and wagon itself, on fire as well. Needless to say, this spooked the pair of horses that were pulling the wagon, into a frenzy that sent the whole works off like a fireball in the night. Realizing there was little we could do, we placed our hats over our hearts in an attempt to lend dignity to the handling of the remains, likening it to the honorary process of a Viking funeral. After the traveling inferno rolled out of town, and off into the distance where we eventually lost site of it, we drew straws (considering ourselves fortunate that they too weren't consumed by the massive blaze) to see who would be the lucky customer to track down and return the horses, and whatever charred sticks remained of their harness. Thankfully, fate spared me the task.
I returned inside after removing what I could of the soot from my face and clothes, to have a drink or two, at the old cobbler's table.
So I finally arrive, already a bit tipsy from the six pack of backwater brews that I sucked down on the walk over. Pyrizzle being the first person I bump into, I tell him all about my much anticipated date that was supposed to be meeting me any moment. The backwater brews run right through me though, and I ask Pyrizzle for directions to the litter box, and with a smirk I didn't quite catch at first, points me to a door, way in the back of the tavern, in a secluded, dark corner. My full bladder being the only concern at the moment, I make my way through the crowded tavern like a pro-bowl running back looking for the endzone in a superbowl game. I swing open the door and rush inside, looking for the candle, in this dark, dank smelling room. Then all of a sudden the door slams shut, and I hear the loud clank of the iron locks clamping down, and securing the door shut. I started beating on the door, and screaming at the top of my lungs, only to hear a familiar cackle, I've grown to know as PRYIZZLEs evil laugh. I knew at this point, I was had. I screamed all night while beating on the door, with no prevail. I know that I ended up missing the party of the century, I could hear everyone partying for the next two days, pretty much non-stop. I finally gave up, and finished all my backwater brews, got drunk all by myself, and that was all I remembered until the door opened up today............ FOUR DAYS LATER! The light nearly blinded me as the door swung open and with me propped up against the back side of it, I rolled out into the floor at the feet of some craggy old bar keep. He opened the door looking for a broom, but found me instead, and it became obvious I had never found the men's room, when the stench of urine came rolling out of the broom closet with me. After drilling me for awhile about my presence in the closet, he finally let me leave......but on my way out, I inquired about the party, he said it was the best he's ever witnessed.........stating Pyrizzle was seen with the most beautiful young lass anyone had laid eyes on, and rumor had it, she made him quite happy that night. The bar keep stated he never understood why the young maiden 
kept referring to Pyrizzle as DirtyDingo, and that who ever DirtyDingo is, he better head for the hills, because there has been a peasant farmer searching high and low for him, coming into the tavern daily with a sharpened scythe, mumbling something about, if he ever catches up to the dirty scoundrel known as DirtyDingo, he would make darn sure the rabbit wouldn't die on any other farmers daughters, all the while keeping a Sharp edge on his scythe. I PROMISE YOU, PYRIZZLE........SOMEDAY, SOMEWHERE, WHEN YOU LEAST EXPECT IT, I WILL GET YOU BACK!!!!!!!!!