We must now return to the NW quadrant of the SE.

Fathead, Field Marshall continued, these illegal Angles are under some assumption that this is their island.  

Field Marshall, Dobbs answered but ignoring the moniker, I have actually heard one of these dogs say welcome to Angleland. Can you imagine the hutspah to claim our nation as their own? This immigration policy is not working. You can usually tell them from their teeth but I want to see a system of identification.  Everyone should have papers, identifying who they are and from whence they came.

I have attempted to make my own voice heard on this very issue.  Of course, Angles are barbarians and do not read. So I came up with a system of branding all our immigrants on their right cheeks, both of them. Not including the Roman Celts, of course.  By the way, what exactly is hutspah?

I heard that word from one of the money changers up north and it kind of struck me.  It means false confidence.  It is applied to other people when they overreach, when they assume they are in control when, in fact, they suck.

Let us proceed on horseback to the docks and see if the animals have returned. The Field Marshall and Fathead then mounted their steeds and, with their five hundred troops who were prepared as always, proceeded to the SW harbors located in the NW quadrant of the SE.

As they reached a hill overlooking the harbor, the Angles were seen sneaking back in their hollowed out tree trunks.  The unwelcome people were snorting in a most peculiar way as could be discerned from the hilltop. The leader of these beasts was about six feet tall and wore a bear skin, complete with the bear's head worn like a cap of sorts. He could be heard calling forth his troops:

WHAT WHAT WHAT. HERE HERE HERE. WHAT HERE. This chant changed to:

HEBEE JEEBEES, HEBEE JEBEES, HEBEE JEEBEES.

The Great Bear's troops began to organize, most of them wet because they were very bad at gutting tree trunks.  And their smell was atrocious.  Land crabs could be seen burrowing into the sand in a lame attempt to escape something worse than being eaten.  Fish could be seen swimming out to sea as if they hoped to become French in the immediate future.

Field Marshall gave the order to attack.  ATTACK, ATTACK, ATTACK. The Field Marshall always seemed to repeat himself as if he did not really have that much to say.

The Roman Celts descended the great tor onto the beach.  Screaming as they went:

BACK UNTO THE SEA, BACK UNTO THE SEA, BACK UNTO THE SEA.

The troops always liked to repeat themselves in case they were not properly heard.

The Celts proceed into the lines of barbarians when all of a sudden, the Great Bear's Soldiers
split into two flanks and the Celts poured into the enemy's midst. The Angles began hurling bear claws at their enemies with some sort of sling carried by each soldier. Hundreds upon hundreds of bear claws.

Fathead had had a difficulty being fitted for his helmets.  Simply because he had such a fat head. The best the forgers could do was to build the damn things in pieces with hinges. As Dobbs reached the Barbarians, his face guard fell to the ground.  When the bear claws plummeted his troops, Fathead yelled back at FM, where the hell do they think are, a bakery? And just then a great bear claw stuck in Dobb's face. At once blinding him and causing him to fall off his steed with great pain and anguish.

The Bear Clan, then on both sides began screaming:

MOTHERFUCKERS, BASTARDS, PRICKS, BITCHES SHITHEADS...

These chants from their homeland were meant to demean the foe.

FM turned to his lieutenant, I wish I knew what they are yelling.

It is just illegal Angle gibberish. Pay no heed, the lieutenant replied.

Yes, said FM, but I feel they might be giving clues as to what their master plans really are.

The Roman Celts began wavering in their battle plan and at last retreated on the say-so of FM and returned to the pavilions.

Dobbs was brought into the tent on a litter with the bear claw still clinging to his face. A medical doctor was brought in and removed the claw and applied some tree toad urine to the wound.

Fathead, disfigured and in pain, was given some honey mead of a strong sort.  As the pain began to ease he called to FM: Nid oo heee de hheeeb.....ees?

FM responded: What?

Nid oo heee de hheeeb.....ees?

Oh yes, screaming heebee jeebees. What rot!!! And where did they find all those bear claws?

Eee ot or buzz hhhhicked.

What?

Eee ot or buzz hhhhicked.

Oh, we got our butts kicked? FM translated. Well that's easy for you to say.

The battle planners went back to the drawing boards.

Meanwhile, at the forest our two heroes commiserated.

After chomping on some dried deer butt and grabbing a few wild apples, our heroes were able to finally relax.  

I do not know how we escaped those harpies, TT. I think sometimes, looking back at the times with the Red Knight and the Spruce Goose and the Evil Omen of the Great Cathedral, that God has a plan for me or I would already be dead. I sometimes think that there is a time when it is appointed for me to be no more. These adventures are all wondrous, except with that wart faced hag back at Dover.  I wonder though, does it mean anything?  Is there somehow a purpose in all of this?

Why am I here? And then I think, Jeez, I never even went to college!!!!

Tristan looked at Lancelot askance, LL what the hell is college?

Just then over the rise at 2 o'clock (Greenwich Time), a band of Marauders carrying a red pennant proceeded in their direction.

What's this, then? Tristan asked.

What's what, when?

There, at 2 o'clock.

Our time?

Lancelot and Tristan stood and drew their swords, the metal ones, and readied themselves for
the worst. Or at least the worse. You could never tell these days what with women who have crossbows and flying horses and everything.

What, ho, cried Lancelot to the band.

Ho, what? The leader responded. Are you calling me a ho?

Lancelot turned to Tristan and asked: What has gardening  to do with anything?

Tristan shook his head and soon the Marauders were upon them.

We are Tristan and Lancelot Du Lac of Camelot.  What business do you have in this peaceful forest? Inquired Tristan.

I am Shitfer of the Moat and Sewage Workers Union 476 and these are our Union Officers.

Well Sir Shitfer, your accent tells us you are from up north in the land of the Picts.

Sir. Sir. I aint no Sir and I never will be. And I aint no goddamn pict either. But I bet you are members of the Ruling Class. I can tell these things just from the look of yer fancy steeds, and fancy shields, and fancy swords and ...and fancy language.  Let's just do em in right here and now boys.

Shitfer's assistance, Mr. Gary spoke up.  My Goth, Thitfer, we have no enemieth here and we are to proceed to the Cathle of the Red Knight to rid the plathe of thab workerth and demand a contract. Mr. Gary said with impetus and determination with both hands on his hips.

Tristan looked at Lancelot.   What in God's name are they talking about?

The two knights crossed themselves fastly.  Your right hand man makes thense er sense.  Why goeth for all here and now, when ye can better be prepared and rested for your further adventures?

Yeah, sure, responded Shitfer. The next thing what you are going to claim is that we is just attempting to foment class war fare for no good reason and no real aim.  That's what you always claim with your fancy horses, and fancy talk and....

Thhut the hell up, Thitfer.  Don't ya thee that we have no quarrel here?  That thethe two ladth have no more to do with moatth than beeth have to do with hiveth? Mr. Gary thaid..er..said.

What? The two knights thought.

What?  The marauders thought.

What?

Never mind!!!! Responded Mr. Gary.

Would you kind gentlemen know where to find the Cathle of the Red Knight?

Well it is over yonder, Tristan said pointing in a generally easterly direction.  But it is no longer called thus.

Why? What is it called now? Asked Shitfer.

I heard that it is now called the Castle of the Puce Knight. We killed the Red Knight two, maybe three twelthmonths ago.  No two, two twelthmonths.  

So you killed the mangy bastard did ya? Well good for you, said Shitfer.  That calls for a drink.Come on boys. A little rest and relaxation with our new friends.

And the ten union officials climbed off their nags and brought out the barrel of ale and a good time was had by all. They all shared stories of lost days and fun secrets in the manner of wooing damsels and even compared their golf scores. And they proceeded to lie to each other about a number of other things too. A good time was had by all.

It turns out that Shitfer was dubbed Shitfer by the previous President of the Union who was laterkilled and eaten by the evil Red Knight.  Shitfer originally had actually been Christened Thomas Brains. He subsequently took over the union and business was getting better and better.

Good by Tristan and Lancelot, the Union called back as they left for other adventures.

We bid you good journey and adieu Shitfer Brains!!! bade the two knights.

NOW WE MUST RETURN TO CAMELOT

The knights were all lined up in one row except for Gawain and Gareth, who were on the other side of the room.

WHAT DID I TELL YOU TWO?

You told us, Sir Bedivere, to line up on the right side, right where we are.

ITS MY RIGHT SIDE YOU IGNORAMUS. AND THAT WOULD BE YOUR LEFT!!!!!

Oh. And with that the two Gs proceeded to the correct queue.

It took two hours for the 72 knights less one to singly empty their pockets and purses and boots and helmets and leggings.  After they had all been 'cleaned' so to speak, the knights were dismissed for the day with orders to report to the Room of the Roundish Table for further deliberations the next morning after Mass.

Bedivere was packing up and getting ready to leave with Blaise and Beau when he noted a knight in the back of the room.

Present yourself young knight, this instance.

The tall and skinny knight approached the front of the room. I am Quinn of Dover.

Well Sir Quinn.....

I do not become knighted till the morn.  I was nominated by Sir Marhaut after he had brought me over from Ireland.

All right Quinn.  Were you with the Tax Attachment?

Yes Sir.

Well, empty your pockets.

I will not.

Why, why would you defy this sacred order when all the other real knights had no objection?

Because of the Magna Carta and the rights bequeathed all of us under its terms.

What the hell is the Magna Carta?  

Merlin suddenly appeared and intervened into the discussion.

The young novitiate is using the grand charter in his defense only it will be 700 plus years before its implementation.

How came you to know of this yet to be sacred document, Quinn? Inquired Merlin.

I was schooled as a child at Oxford and my master was Taliesian.

Oh, that explains it.  Quinn there are no rights now.

But there should be, oh honorable Merlin. There should be.

You have nothing on you. I know these things. You received no bonus and no commission and have nothing but your mother's pearl necklace and a letter from your father.

Have you been tapping my phone? All this and without a warrant. I will not take this kind of disgrace...

BEAU, TAKE THIS MAN INTO THE DUNGEON AT ONCE.

Beau Manes 'escorted' Quinn in an upside down kind of manner,  and carried him to the dungeon.

Merlin. What are we to do about this? And what is all this about 'rights.' Nobody has any rights except the King.  And what is a phone?

Rights are something individuals will begin having fourteen or fifteen hundred years or so from now.  These so called rights really will only be feigned. They will not really mean anything. By that time there will be no King as such and only the rich will rule.  It is much better now, really.

Merlin continued: Why do we not just let this Quinn be in the dungeon for the night and then release him to Marhaut in the morning after morning Mass?  I will discuss this matter with the Irish knight.  I am telling you, the kid has nothing.

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