Author: Phenom, the Berserker; Feb 1999
A Mammoth Buzz - a comedy
After a long hard day of buffing my rusty bastard sword on the hides of the arrogant Gnolls, I asked Friend and Clansman Tabot the Shaman to join me for a little sip of the good stuff at Fire Ciders. A brief and discouraging stop at the bank revealed that both of us were down to our last few gold pieces, meaning that our evening would be spent indulging in Rot-Gut again, rather than the "good stuff"... much to my smaller intestine's dismay.
I was able to purchase 6 short beers and Tabot 4. The big question that came to mind was where would be the most appropriate place to make arses out of ourselves. We determined that anywhere outside of Halas would be a waste of foolishness and drinking around the reputable stores would get us ejected from our favorite haunts again. And so the decision to consume our consumables in the boat outside of Old Smokies fish house was made... The last stop before crossing into Everfrost Peaks.
Drinking in a boat gives me a wonderful sense of kinship, bringing to memory the days in which, as a young berzerker, my Grand Pappy would drag me slowly through the water to attract a Sperm Whale. I can remember how I would splash joyfully behind the boat, dipping and bobbing dizzily with anticipation of the first bite on our lines. I have many pleasant scars --- 'ER --- memories of those days.
Actually, the vomiting after a good bout of drinking is what reminds me most of those days, as too much saltwater would often make me violently ill.
The first short beer was just as I remember it to be, bitter as a Barbarian Woman and as intoxicating as a freshly clubbed baby seal. I wont go into the details of the whole drinking process, as you readers are well aware of how it goes, but to my surprise I slid straight out of the boat in into a pile of Fish Entrails that Old Smoky left out for his sled dogs. Which incidentally have been missing ever since that pack of Polar Bears made a quick snack of them.
I was quite put off by the cold, rank smell of barely edible guts. I finished with haste my last two beers and went straight off (a wobbly kind of "straight" one can only perfect through the mass consumption of Rot Gut) to have a talk with Old Smokey about the location of his Dog Team, and to re-explore the theory that they weren't coming back, and how the piles of Fish Entrails tends to draw the attention of more Sled Dog Eating Polar Bears.
Old Smoky wasn't at as amused by my rantings as Clansman Tabot was, so after barfing on the produce, we went off for a nice swim across Lake Halas and passed on into Everfrost Peaks. The plan was to teach the Skelli-Bones how to get in a good workout and put a little meat on their bones. As it happens, Skelli-Bones go for a considerable amount of money, which naturally affords me more beer.
During a nice workout like Skelli-Swatting, I like to let my mind wander and I think about the day's events. People have said to me that when I am in this trance-like state I tend to look at my feet allot, and they must be right, because swatting Skelli's got me to thinking about how crusty my shoes were. Now, anyone who has been around knows that the most destructive element in the Barbarians lands is not the wind, nor the cold, nor even the Rot Gut, but are those semi-warm piles O' Mastodon poop which litters the Badlands. The acid content (as I am told by my elders) is so great that one could put a tarnished copper piece into a warm pile of Mammoth Poop and in a day or so, crack the dried pile apart and find a clean, shiny coin!
After repeated requests to the Mastodon Herd Leaders to put an end to the indiscriminate dropping of Poop (for which I attribute the loss of over seven pairs of padded shoes), and after repeatedly being ignored, I felt that something had to be done. But how? I am just a simple man with no true political aspirations, so calling for a boycott of Mammoth Tusks was out of the question. My mind spun dizzily.
Finally it came to me in a vision... I would get someone to kick some Mammoth Butt! And I knew just who to get to do it.
"Tabot!" I called to my friend who was busy crushing Skelli-Bones with his old rusty mace that I had pried from the cold dead paw of a Gnoll Guard. "Let's go see Snowflake."
The trip to visit Snowflake the White Wolf-Husky really seemed to fly, the canyon wall zoomed blurredly past as the peak of my beer buzz kicked in. "Tabot," I whispered. "Say 'Snowflake, find Megan'". He did. Snowflake gave a "woof, woof" and bound merrily out into the Badlands. I had taken this trip before, but never with a buzz or a companion.
Snowflake trotted off to the East, hot on the trail of Megan, the Girl of Arnis (Protector of the way to Black Burrow). Passing by a few Ice Goblins, Tabot and I decided to let Snowflake continue while we avenged ourselves upon these, our antagonists from our younger days. The 3 cowards fled under the blows of our alcohol strengthened weapon arms, and we swiftly ended their pitifully useless lives as is often sung of in the tales of our fathers.
We gathered our bearings and sprinted off in the direction Snowflake had taken. Snowflake had been doing a little avenging of his own, for we saw a large spider corpse along the route, and could see some commotion going on up ahead.
As we crested the hill we came to the realization of what was happening. Snowflake was attacking! My sweet vengeance upon those poop pile pacifists was taking place without my being there! Rushing headlong into the fray I saw that the full sized mammoth bull was hurting pretty badly and trying to escape. Finally, my chance to extract some pride from the whole messy situation. I slid my well-practiced rusty bastard sword into my pack and placed my shield onto my back and drew forth the Eliminator. My seldom used, seldom practiced, seldom seen, two-handed blade of Justice!
To my right I could see a grin of almost evil intent on the face of Tabot. Surely he was already planning an ivory pipe or two to be created from the large, battle damaged tusks mounted on the business end of our pal, Mr. Mammoth. He steadied his Mace, his fingers locking around its aging handle.
My eyes rolled into the back of their sockets as my mouth began to foam. Bodily orifices tightened in anticipation of the battle and my legs prepared for the pounce. RED! My vision exploded with the fireworks of bloodlust as I sprung forth, my valiant friend and clansman Tabot at my side. Ohhhh.. It isn't a pretty sight when Tabot berzerks. You think Mammoths make large piles? You ain't seen anything yet!
The Attack! I drove powerfully forward, striking open a large gash in the rear flank of our foe while its attention was diverted by the relentless gnashing of Snowflakes Teeth. Tabot swung left, striking powerfully at the knee joints of the foul smelling beast. The creature reared in up in pain, or perhaps surprise of our stupidity.
I looked in its eyes as I drove forward for the killing blow and saw not fear, or grim acceptance of its fate, but pity. Pity for the poor fools it would now have to trample beneath its immense feet.
It swung around, goring me with its right tusk, throwing me high into the air. My already cooling corpse must have shocked Tabot into action, for I saw him turn to flee just before I blacked out for the finally trip to Valhalla, where I would naturally be the laughing stock. My final thought: "Alcohol and Mammoths don't mix."
Damnit! What a waste of a perfectly good buzz...
Phenom
Warrior
Clan MacLear
(retired)