FSN Goes to the Pantdraken

[Duke Speedy of Leighton]

And to your sanity!

[Sandinista]

Am I showing my age by admitting I thought of Una Stubbs as the "boy"?

Cheers
Ian

[Techno]

Ian.....Yes ! 

The only cost is that sometimes you may end up ... in the story.

Far too late for me to worry, then.

Cheers - Phil

[Orcs]

Unfortunately for my sanity this is getting addictive.

[d_Guy]

The only cost is that sometimes you may end up ... in the story.

As I look around I am a mere ranker (and dang few of us there are too!) - cannon fodder - used to the concept of it always rolling down hill 
So - no worries 

[Duke Speedy of Leighton]

Don't think you'll be a ranker for long chap.

[Tawa]

As I look around I am a mere ranker (and dang few of us there are too!)

Enjoy it while it lasts! 

The only cost is that sometimes you may end up ... in the story.

*runs and hides!* 

[Westmarcher]

A ranker.

Dearie me. Now you've done it.

(I have a feeling something Chinese is about to be included)

[DanJ]

Truly inspirational stuff, makes one appreciate the potency of modern pharmaceutical preparations.

I'm just wondering, if I print out FSN's parable can I roll it out thin enough to get the whole magnificent work into the Mother-in-Laws Cracker?  It would keep her quiet for hours but then she might start asking questions

[fsn]

Scene 3: PO

FSN had been walking for nearly 20 minutes and the unwonted exercise was causing him some distress.

"Wait!" He gasped. "I need to rest." He sat down on a convenient box and/or sack (GR44). Bert sat on an adjacent sack and/or box and put a flame to a cigarette.

"Nothing to say Bert?" Asked FSN.

"Nope."

"Sure."

"Kallistra! Absolutely certain."

"No pithy stories?" Bert assumed a look of hurt innocence.

"Nah." Fortunately, the sullen silence that descended upon them was broken into by a great shout.

"You there! I say! You fellows! You ... yes! The British Paratrooper with Sten (BR11) and the ugly one!" The hailer was a large figure – FSN felt a spurt of recognition.

"Is that Ithoriel in the wimple?" Whispered FSN, as he carefully dabbed with the hankie again.

"I'm afraid so." Bert watched the motley group hurrying towards them. "And that's definitely Mad Lemmey dressed as the washerwoman, and could be Westmarcher in the Chinese frock, but I don't know who that is dressed as the harem dancing girl."

"Must be one of the new chaps. Could at least have shaved his belly." FSN sighed. "You'd think we could get a girl to be a girl."

"On this forum? You're having an Essex giggle. We only had Marie, and what became of her? Then, of course, there's the other one."

"The other one? Which one?"

"You mean you don't know?"

"Don't know what?" The colourful quartet of transvestite gamers had closed to FSN and Bert now, and stood expectantly awaiting intercourse. (And by that I mean a chat – you dirty minded ...)

"Never!" Exclaimed FSN, carefully avoiding any more ejaculations until he could get the laundry done. "I'd have never of thought it.- of him especially. Jill from Dagenham?"

"True as I'm sitting here with a splinter up my BUM." FSN looked at Bert, who nodded that what he said did in fact follow the Dark Lord's (Mystic P) guideline on foul language. "Readers Wives, volume 4, Spring Edition. Look it up."

"I certainly will – would if I had a copy. Which I don't." FSN blushed slightly.

"Plenty of member will lend you a copy." At this, Lady Ithoriel, who seemed to be the leader of the colourfully, if not sexually-stereotypically dressed group, decided that she/he had been ignored enough.

"Enough!" Told you.

"Greetings!" Said FSN, in a cheesy, 1970's sort of way.

"Shut it, octopus face." Snarled the Lady Ithoriel.

"Yeah! Shut it!" Echoed Widow Westmarcher, fortunately without any attempt at an Asian accent. Washerwoman Lemmey laid a hand on the Widow's arm.

"I don't think you should be so ... well ... shouty." The Washerwoman spoke is a small, timid voice, then backed away as the Widow angrily shook off the restraining hand and glared at him/her.

"And you can stick a Skytrex right up your Ground Zero!" The Washerwoman shrank from the tirade, holding her washboard in front of her. She seemed to be on the verge of tears. FSN felt for her, but she slapped his hand and moved to stand by the duck.

"Wait! You never mentioned a Minifigging duck!" Snapped Bert. Sorry. Didn't seem important until now. *Sigh* The group of Pantdraken Dames were followed by a eight foot tall, white duck.

"Won't you introduce us to your friend?" Said Bert, quite obviously caring not a whit for the duck.

"This, said the Lady, is the newest member of our group. This is the flower of the mystic West Virginia. She is a cool as a mountain stream, as pure as clarified butter, and as wide as a Walmart aisle, if properly propositioned. This" dramatic pause "is d_Mary! A cadet – never been promoted."

"S'up!" Said FSN in welcome. D_Mary giggled underneath her face veil, and made as if to respond, but succeeded only in giggling again. Still giggling, she scuttled delicately to the Washerwoman who took her in her arms defensively and glowered at FSN as a perfect man-beast.

"Right. Nuff chat, " interjected the Lady "there's a wedding round here somewhere and I want food, booze and a good Tumbling Dice. If I wake up tomorrow in me own bed, and can remember what happened, then it's been a wasted night."

"Yeah. What she said." Echoed the Widow. Scratching her nethers with a painted nail. It was a 3" ringshank nail (A round nail with rings around its shank to make the fixing more secure. Use for tasks such as laying sub-floors and pinning exterior trim where the nail is unlikely to ever need to be removed) and the story of how the Widow came by the nail, and how it came to be painted is a curious one ...

"No time for that FOW." Interrupted the Lady. "You," she pointed a beringed finger at FSN, "the one who looks like my backside the night after a bad pint and a good curry."

"Yeah – stinky!" Added the Widow.

"We'll tell you what you want to know " offered Bert, "once you've sung us a song."

The four ladies went into a huddle for a moment.

"All right. But only one song, and no touching." Said the Lady.

"I wouldn't dream of it!" FSN felt a little bit of sick rise at the thought, but managed to choke it back.

"Yeah, well we would." Leered the Widow. "Especially her." She jerked a thumb in the direction of d_Mary, who giggled and spun on one foot, then giggled again.

The quartet took their positions. Surprisingly, the Washerwoman was thrown in front to sing lead. They all began to move in nearly rhythmic undulations of hips and shoulders. Feet apart, knees flexing as the Washerwoman began to sing in a remarkably fine contralto.

     "Yeah it's pretty clear I like World War II
     But I can make it, make it, like I'm supposed to do,
      'Cos I got the secret that all the boys chase,
     I can put flock in all the right places"

The dance was enthusiastically, if not skilfully done. They needed a little more practice there, but the singing was excellent.

     "Because you know I'm all about that base
     'Bout that base, no trouble
     I'm all about that base
     'Bout that base, with rubble
     I'm all about that base
     'Bout that base, corn stubble
     I'm all about that base
     'Bout that base... base... base... base"

The girls definitely had the chorus down – exquisite harmonies, even the bumping and grinding was more confident and emphatic.

     "I see the magazine workin' that Photoshop
     We know that HäT ain't real, come on now, make it stop
     If you got blue coated, infantry, just spruce 'em up
     with a fence they can carry from Bull Run to Little Round Top

     Yeah, my mama she told me "don't worry about the size"
     (Shoo wop wop, sha-ooh wop wop)
     She says, "add a little bit detail upon the side"
     (That bitty, uh, that bitty bitty)
     You know I won't stick no figure on without a wall
     Or a log or a shrub, oh go on, let's add it all

     Because you know I'm all about that base
     'Bout that base, no trouble
     I'm all about that base
     'Bout that base, with rubble
     I'm all about that base
     'Bout that base, corn stubble
     I'm all about that base
     'Bout that base... base... base... base"

At the end of the performance, FSN applauded. He noticed that he was the only one.

"Clap." He said to Bert from the corner of his mouth.

"I thought it was quite good." Retorted Bert, "but then again, I've got a tin ear."

"Right, Porcupine Breath, " said the Lady, waving a good sized fist under FSN's nose. "Which way to the wedding?"

"That way. You can't miss it. Said FSN, picking a random direction to point at.

The wedding party moved off. As she passed, d_Mary giggled and was gently pushed on by the Washerwoman.

"Have you got any laundry you need doing?" She asked, brandishing her washboard.

"Just this hankie." Replied FSN. He proffered it to her. The Washerwoman took one look.

"No skiddy undies?" She asked hopefully.

"Come on!" Roared the Widow from the front. The Washerwoman leapt nervously, then with a shy smile, hurried off to join the rest of her party.

"That Duck", said Bert conversationally, "has some really good ideas. Armies based on the signs of the Zodiac. Got a Canadian and a Mexican interested. One to keep an eye on." His discourse was interrupted by Techno, hurrying in at a great pace. He was wearing a gold leotard the wrong way round to expose his navel and nipples, and a red cape flowed around his bony shoulders. As he ran, his silver knee high boots flapped and he was forced to use one hand to keep his pearl encrusted tiara on his matted hair, the other clutching his air Moog.

"Hinchcliffe! He's gone the full Wakeman!" Screamed Bert. "Run!"

FSN and Bert bolted away from the crestfallen Techno, who consoled himself by trying to get his tongue around the finer points of "the Opening".

They came to a halt. FSN puffing like a steam train, Bert adding another fag to the assortment he was puffing on. He said something sotto voce. 

"What did you say Bert?" Asked FSN testily.

"All I said" said Bert "was that there seemed to be a great chasing about around here, and all for love. As the Normans would say, 'Hue and Coeur'."

[Duke Speedy of Leighton]

 

Well played sir, well played!

(Did anyone understand a word of that?)

[d_Guy]

Scene 3: PO

"...and as wide as a Walmart aisle..."

HAR!! snort <giggle!> and dang true that!

But as we keep explaining, poor fellow, d_Mary was the ward nurse BEFORE the lobotomy - she went home days ago.

[Westmarcher]

Grippingbeast!   

[Techno]

 

Cheers - Phil

[Orcs]

Scene 3: PO

Techno, hurrying in at a great pace. He was wearing a gold leotard the wrong way round to expose his navel and nipples,

NO!! NO !! NO!!  I do not want this image in my mind 

[Sandinista]

NO!! NO !! NO!!  I do not want this image in my mind 

Made me think of Nik Turner in his Hawkwind days

Cheers
Ian

[Tawa]

NO!! NO !! NO!!  I do not want this image in my mind 

If we have to suffer, then so do you...... 

[fsn]

Scene 4: What it Really Is

FSN and Bert had run for what FSN considered to be a long distance. Bert too was disconcerted, as the ash had fallen off one of his fags and he'd been hoping to get that one right down to the filter without losing any ash at all.

They ducked under another of Mac's Missiles and were confronted by a small, run down building. It was red brick, two stories and many lighted windows. Bert sniffed.

"Stale beer. Chips. Disappointment. Puke. - It's a pub!" He trotted off towards the welcoming bar. FSN chose a more circumspect approach, partly because of a natural animal caution, and partly because the stitch in his side was giving him gyp, and his vision had not yet returned to normal. As the pink haze receded, he saw that Bert's olfactory diagnosis had been correct. From an unvarnished wooden post hung a gaudy sign. It depicted a pair of heavily stylised forearms – one whose hand was in the act of releasing large quantities of bank notes, the other groping towards an equally large quantity of small metallic figures.

"The Pendraken Arms!" (Mystic P) Exclaimed FSN, who was wary of ejaculating at this late stage of the game. This revelation quickened his pace and he skilfully avoided the tripwires, bear traps and punji pits that discouraged the less that fervent seeker of a good pint, a stale sandwich and topical banter.

He skidded into the bar at the precise time that Bert should have taken to have ordered, been served and most importantly paid for two pints, and perhaps a bag of salt and vinegar crisps. Alas! Bert stood forlornly surveying the hostelry. Chairs were placed on tables. The lights behind the bar were off, and most telling off all, the pumps were covered in cloths.

"Perry me! It's closed!" Said Bert in a more than disappointed tone.

"Heroics and Ros! It's enough to make anyone say the 'P' word!" Returned FSN, suffering the twin blows of not getting a pint and not getting Bert to pay for it.

"Oh hello!" Called a friendly voice. Bert and FSN could only stare as three short figures appeared as if from nowhere. The tiny trio grinned equally stupid grins, and stood in equally odd positions, and wore equally odd costumes of red caps, blue chef's tunics, yellow and green striped trousers and purple clogs.

"Renaissance fans, I'll be bound." Whispered FSN from the side of his mouth.

"Well it ain't Lemmey. He's out looking for a good time." He peered closely at the heavily made up faces in front of him.

"Orcs? Is that you?" One of the trio nodded enthusiastically, a hitherto unseen bell on his cap setting a merry tinkle. Bert examined the other two.   

"Sandy! Sandy Nista! And let me see, well if ain't little Tawa! Kallistra, I ain't see you two since ... well, erm ..." The trip waited patiently for a denouement to the sentence, fixed grins fixed in place.

"Is the bar open?" Cut in FSN, less from a desire to aid his companion and more from a desire to get a pint, even if he had to pay for it himself.

"Not yet," said Orcs, grinning just a little bit wider.
"We have to" added Sandy
"redecorate first." Finished Tawa.

FSN felt a cold shiver go down his spine, pause at the crack of his backside then retrace it's steps back to his neck where it knocked at the skull as it had important information to impart. He looked round. The walls had been stripped of any art work, decoration or the heads of patrons who didn't have sufficient to cover the cost of the comestibles they consumed. A long plain table had been set up on which stood rolls of wallpaper, and dotted around the place were buckets, wide enough to put your foot in, filled with a cold and gungy looking goo.

" Magister Militum!" he breathed. "Bert, we have to get out of here." His eyes darted around the rooms, taking in step ladders, large brushes (even bigger than an 4) and planks of wood.

"Why? We just have to help these guys decorate the bar and then we'll probably be given a few jars as a reward." FSN clutched at Bert's arm, swung to face him and said slowly but urgently.

"Bert. We are in a Games Workshop of a mess. We are stuck in a pantdraken bar which needs redecorating, with three grinning idiots whose clothes are designed to show every spot of wallpaper paste and paint that drop, spatter or splash on them." Bert looked round, his smile slowly draining from his face.

"Kallistra!" But it was too late. The doors had been locked. They were trapped.

"Not the kind of lock in I like." Said Bert fatalistically.

"Before we" started Orcs
"decorate, we" added Sandy
"have to ..." Tawa was acutely and uncomfortably aware that he had said the same as the previous two, but  there was still sentence unsaid. He tried to remedy the situation.

"Before we decorate," began Tawa
"decide the rules" added Sandy.
"we have to." Finished Orcs uncertainly.

"Proud Yoda would be" commented FSN, in his best Star Wars voice. The trio went into a huddle, then rearranged themselves before trying again.

"Before we decorate," started Sandy
"we have to" chipped in Tawa
"decide the rules." Finished Orcs.

"No biting, gouging or getting paint or paste on FSN?" offered FSN hopefully.

"Indeed not!" Piped up Sandy.
"Rules for" Continued Tawa.
"Biblical warfare." Completed Orcs.

"Why don't you tell us about it?" Asked Bert, an evil glint in his eyes, or perhaps a bit of paint was coming loose. The trio nodded, then conferred in a huddle before emerging to sing the following. For the avoidance of doubt they did sing one line each, but it would be terribly tedious for everyone to indicate who sang which line, so just use your imagination, will you?

     "Well we got no choice
     Between PIAT and Boyes
     Loosin' all your poise
     'Cause you got new toys
     Though you went to Salute you
     Can't paint a flag
     Lemmey would help
     But he's wearing drag!

     Rules are out for Sumer
     Rules are out forever
     Rules been blown to pieces

     No more bases
     No more charts
     No more umpires stoppin' starts!

     Well we got no class
     And we got no principes
     And we got no hastati
     We can't even think of a word that rhymes

     Rules are out for Sumer
     Rules are out forever
     Rules been blown to pieces."

"Have you considered adapting the Warband rules?" Asked FSN as the trio reached the end of their song. The diminutive trio clapped their hand and laughed and jumped about and hissed and wheezed and finally came to a halt.

"Good" from Orcs
"Idea" added Sandy
"Pal." Finished Tawa, his tiny chest still heaving with the effort of both the song and the celebration.

"Right, let's get this bar decorated, and then have a couple of pints ..." Suggested Bert, clapping his hands together in a manly manner.

"Then we" Sandy
"must go" Tawa
"to the ..." Orcs. His little face furrowed as he realised that something had gone wrong.

"Wedding?" Added FSN helpfully. The diddy decorators nodded fervently and their little bells tinkled down their backs.

Two hours later, Bert and FSN stepped from the Pendraken Arms (Mystic P) much refreshed.

"That wasn't too bad." Said FSN.

"Indeed not. Those little chaps were most efficient. I think Lady Lemmey will be very happy with that wallpaper. What was it? Spiderman?" FSN nodded.

"And clean too. Not a drop of paint spilled! Nice work on the cutting out on those window frames." FSN made to put a friendly arm around Bert's shoulder, partly because a feeling of camaraderie, partly because of the three pints of Old Painter's he'd consumed. Only Bert knew that FSN had been supping pure turpentine, but he moved away from the proffered arm.

"What did you say Bert?"

"I was" said Bert, wondering if he lighted a cigarette FSN would catch fire, then philosophically he didn't give an Old Glory and lit up. "I was thinking about the time when I was stationed with this bloke who made figures. I watched him one day sculpt a little dog out of dried putty. Just hacked away at it with a craft knife until it looked like this street dog, you could see every muscle under the coat, head up, teeth bared. I reckon you could even see the glint in the dog's eye, you could almost tell its story from that one sculpt. All in 10 mil too. Best workmanship I've seen – ever."

"Really?" Asked FSN, who hadn't worked it out yet.

"Really. Hewn cur."




"And where", I hear you ask, "is Techno?" Alas, poor Techno, he had pursued FSN and Bert to the Pendraken Arms (Mystic P) and had seen them enjoying the merry miniature minstrelsy from outside the bar, his nose pressed against the glass, his foot caught in a bear trap. He felt the unfairness of the world well up in him, and as he limped away, his cloak wrapped tightly around him (because he was becoming self conscious about his nipples being on show), his air instruments clutched under his arm, a tear of self pity and frustration formed in his eye, and rolled down his leathery cheek. 

[fsn]

Just so you can get the tunes in your head:

Scene 2: Be Fair

Scene 3: PO

Scene 4: What it Is

The full album will be available from FSN only £19.99 in a collectors "FSN Goes to the Pantdraken" sleeve. 

[skywalker]

Brilliant piece of Christmas cheer. Well done