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WHOOPY ON TAP
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Seldom does the cause of a melee present itself for close scrutiny. More often it’s the unfortunate convergence of bad luck, unsettled emotions, ample supplies of alcohol and, perhaps, a full moon. Some unwitting bar-fly will make a harmless comment about the “grog” not being as good as the stuff “mom used to make” and before you know it the crowd erupts into a steam powered, pride-driven punch-fest.
Sir George Whoopsalot, the mild mannered (Okay, CONSISTANTLY mannered!) protector of peace and harmony in the Kingdom had been frantically summoned by one of the squires to the Wretched Monkey Tavern to referee a disturbance. Usually the mere appearance of “authority” on the scene of such a disturbance is enough to quell a fray. Other times, however, the arrival of such dominion simply casts “fuel upon the flames.” As was the case in this knock-down, drag-out.
George pushed open the heavy wooden doors of the tavern and took several steps inside to announce the arrival of law at the “party”. He drew himself up to his full and imposing stature to proclaim this “Donnybrook” would cease immediately in the name of the King’s law. The “combatants”, self absorbed with survival and vengeance, responded with a chorus of insults and medieval slang, all boiling down to open defiance of authority. It goes without saying that many frustrations and bad emotions were at work. A drinking chalice bounced off Sir Whoopsalot’s helmet as if to accentuate the point. Obviously this was going to require overtime.
And what a scene it was! There were several wrestling matches and one or two outright headlocks underway with at least one case of terribly bad breath. “Batting” practice was in progress in the corner. Luckily, so far, it was a “strike out”!
Mixed up in this social “disorder” was quite a cross-section of the more ill-behaved members of the realm. The Purple Shirt Gang was well represented. Many of the castle guard were present and somewhat accounted for. The “Cobbler’s Union” was obviously in town since a couple of patrons had been “hobnailed” to the floor. A bunch of the “ladies” from Duggit St had a hand in it and of course, as usual, the Bagel salesman.
You’d think he’d learn by now.
Instigating more than participating, the Dragon had taken up position behind the bar, swilling his beer, eating peanuts and occasionally roasting unlucky victims who ventured too close to him, taking great delight each time he did so. Rumor had it that it was he who actually started this rhubarb but that story was never confirmed.
The Tavern itself was a mess. Chairs and tables were splinters. Beer steins, plates and an occasional person sailed through the air, crash-landing with great noise and flair. The mirror behind the bar showed evidence of a protracted struggle with no clear winner. Someone had kept score on the wall with a piece of chalk and going into round five the women were dominating in point’s.
Of course, not always does a conflict of such proportions have a recognizable beginning or even a noble purpose. Just casualties, debris and injured pride. And it was up to the Knighthood to return this establishment to a peacefully profitable status. Sir George raised his faceplate and yelled to Squire Mumbly to call for reinforcements as a barstool sailed past his head and smashed against the wall. Sir George lowered his faceplate with a heavy sigh and charged forth. It was going to be a long day. A long day indeed.
Reinforcements did arrive and before long order was restored. Sir Beaner, Sir Lunchalot and several intrepid squires arrived on scene, employing the time honored methods of “stomp and drag” to restore tranquility. The most difficult time was had with the ladies from Duggit St. To a girl they had come to the bar with malice in their hearts and had set about to take it out on any man within their reach. It was a real slug-fest in which Sir Bounderbutt was assailed with particular rancor. Having taken his helmet to the blacksmith for a rivet replacement he was without it when he moved to assist the Knighthood. Overlooking this key fact and participating just as vigorously as always he was nailed right between “antlers” by a beer mug wielded by one of the women. As if to add insult to injury the Dragon bar-b-q’ed his Toupee’ as he sagged to the floor. He was later distressed to find out “Workman’s Comp” didn’t cover things like that.
This single act of teamwork represented about the only cooperation to be had in this altercation. For the most part it was everyone for themselves and may the righteous be victorious.
The better did prevail and eventually all of the scofflaws were brought to the lockup where the Kingdom’s excuse for medical help, (the Wizard), was attempting to mend and soothe. Sir George and Sir Beaner were in the front office accomplishing “after action” reports and inventorying evidence when a large and imposing figure suddenly occupied the front doorway. A towering, stocky, and muscular figure with a large snout, big hands and a gentle disposition stood before them. His large frame carried with it a real sense of power and wise restraint. One had to wonder where he found armor to fit. It was none other than the Queen’s cousin Sir Belcher Growly from a distant part of the upper Kingdom. He indeed possessed a gentle manner about him but when riled he could clear the decks in short order. He and the Dragon had locked horns on more than one occasion, usually to the Dragon’s detriment. Many a time he had stepped into a desperate situation to lend strength and character to the side of goodness. And, on at least one occasion, when they were younger, Sir Growly had saved George’s very skin for him when the Dragon had him cornered and was about to roast the armored neophyte.
Sir Growly took one or two more steps into the office and gazed with a grin at George and Sir Beaner. Sir Beaner had had a few misadventures with Belcher also.
“Well George”, he uttered. “It looks as if you’ve had yourself quite a day!”
Jumping up from behind the desk George hurried over to grasp the big and friendly hand of his honored compatriot.
“Why Belcher Growly! It’s been a “month of Sundays” since we’ve seen you in these parts! How’ve you been?” George asked with heartfelt gratitude of his old friend.
“It appears as though you’ve got a full house there George” said Belcher as they both looked toward the holding cells containing the lawless party goers. Both men, hands still clasped, surveyed the holding cells where the motley crowd of offensive subjects was incarcerated.
The “crowd”, incidentally, wasn’t quite through causing problems. Already they had been brawling within the very holding cells themselves. Alcohol was definitely a factor and hang over’s were setting in. The Magistrate was going to have a fine time with THIS bunch! Seven were charged with disorderly conduct and assault upon a constable. Four were charged with inciting a riot without a license and one was charged with arson. (Any guess who THAT was!?) At least one citation was written for illegal parking. The rest were simply “sleeping it off” in the “tank”. Sir Whoopsalot handed the keys over to the “night crew” and he and Sir Growly made their way home where Andessa had supper prepared. She was eager to hear of Sir Growly’s adventures and travels.
The conversation at the table abounded with stories, adventures and anecdotes. Sir Growly it seemed had been the only voice of reason at the Jester’s revolt a couple of years before. Their main argument was working without overtime pay and safety concerns regarding certain feats of magic that left a number of Jester’s without hair! They proceeded to stage a protest that gave way to all-out rebellion and Sir Growly had been there to restore calm.
Growly himself had led an uprising of sorts when a beer tax was levied by the King. Growly marched directly into the castle and demanded an audience with the King. And got it! Now, what was said in that meeting has never been betrayed by either side but the tax was immediately repealed and the King slept on the couch for several days!
Tale and ale eventually gave way to an expression of desire by Sir Growly to come “off the road” and settle down in his autumn years. He’d had enough traveling and had seen his faithful squire become a full fledged member of the Knighthood.
Sir Hissy’Fitt, as he had been christened, had already made a name for himself and his career was off and running as a protector and mentor of all things good. And now it was time to see things in a more constant setting.
The fire cast a warm glow over the great hall in Sir Whoopsalot’s modest castle. It made the notion of settling down all the more attractive to Sir Growly. Allies and friends were always welcome and the Kingdom would do well to have him close by. Tomorrow would dawn anew and it would be discussed again. But tonight the meal had been filling and the fireplace warmed soul and structure alike. Both men relaxed in front of the large hearthstones as the firelight danced around the softly lit room. They talked of old times and legends. Of history, and the people that had lived it.
All was peaceful at last.
The Dragon didn’t sleep well. He had a case of gas to beat everything. Every time he’d roll over in the cramped cell he’d have an episode which would wake up everybody in the jail and cause a chorus of insult followed by further jockeying for comfort in the dank surroundings. A right-cross here, an uppercut there and an occasional “pinch” followed by the smacking of someone’s jowls. It was a fitful night for jailer and jailed alike.
Tomorrow would bring fresh comforts.
Tonight however…
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