Barbarian King
Page 33
to be coming directly his way!
BamaOay retook his seat only to witness as more-and-more Jackasses joined in a running, retreating herd of cowards.
"We'd best retreat," shouted Ig’Nollum now standing at his side; "else we'll all perish. Better to run and fight another day, Master."
"Bend to those Round Heads!" roared the President with a passionate gesture of his brawny fist. “Never!”
A distant whistle suddenly came to ear on the wind, from across the battlefield, from those nasty Round Heads.
“Look, Master!” shouted Ig’Nollum, “The Round Heads are recalling their attack dogs!”
“By Jove, you’re right! They are retreating!”
“Retreating? I’m not sure I would call getting our asses handed to us reason to retreat. It must be a trap!”
Embolden by the sudden change of events and too dense to understand the ‘Art of War’ BamaOay again attempted to stand on his throne. Wobbling, he shouted “Look there everyone, the Round Heads are retreating!”
Ig’Nollum responded with incredulity, “Uh, your Majesty, I’m not sure that is the right conclusion to draw.”
“What the hell are you talking about? Those bastards are clearly retreating. Ig’Nollum, you are giving me pause to consider your value in this world.”
Gulp! “Wait, I meant to say you’re right, Oh Great One. They are retreating!”
“Good, that’s better. Now be quiet, I must talk to the troops.” The President now banged his driver against the lifeguard chair several times. “Everyone, let me have your attention. Everyone, shut up! I need to have your attention for a second, please.”
Some toward the distant edges of the mass of bodies who had not yet fled clearly didn’t hear his Majesty’s command for silence and pressed on with their cries.
“Shut up I said!”
Some still had not heard his demand.
“Would someone please knock the crap out of those dickweeds who are still yapping.”
A few moments later, after a couple of dozen Jackasses had hit the turf under the bludgeoning from their fellow Jackasses he continued.
“Thank you, that’s better. Now, does everyone see that!” BamaOay yelled as he pointed off in the direction of the retiring mongrels. “You see, our lifelong enemies fear us. Clearly they’re retreating.”
There was a vast murmuring that spread throughout the mass of bloodied bodies.
“Now, I want everyone to know that we need to reform ranks.”
BamaOay with a nod winked to Ig’Nollum as if to say, “See, I remembered.”
“Now, I want everyone to hold hands.”
Someone close by was confused, had not learned they were supposed to raise their hand to ask a question of his majesty...but only after the question had gone through an approval process.
“Sire, why do you want us to hold hands?”
“Somebody, please hit that buffoon over the head.”
The Jackass fell to the ground under a few blows.
“Thank you, now to that primitive’s question. The reason you must hold hands is because we are going to reform ranks before we charge the enemy camp.”
A vast, much greater sort of murmuring now arose and worked its way around the body of bodies, many shuffling with discomfort.
After a time BamaOay had somehow managed to convince a few of his troops what he was saying was true, that the enemy had fled the field of battle because they were afraid of him.
The primitives grunted their acknowledgment heaving their spears, bone axes and bone knives into the air. Their muscles rippled and knotted, sweat dripped from their noses, some stripped off their animal hides as if fighting naked would have some sort of psychological effect on the Round Heads. Some of the splooges, likewise, mimicked the men.
“The timbers of your spears are stout!” shouted their fearless leader. “The bone of your axes and knives, they are somewhat sharp! Bang them together in unison now to show your viciousness to the enemy.”
Clack! Clack!
Stones suddenly fell like a rain about the Barbarian King and he found himself covering up under the sting of pain. All his warriors were similarly lying about the ground, or were slinking away, so as not to be pin cushioned and pelted again. BamaOay was now stuck with and evermore shrinking remnant of his once proud mob of Jackasses. His strained face muddled in knots of anger said it all.
Twang!
His steward, Ig'nollum, sank to his knees, a sharp edged stone sticking out of his skull. That would be the last anyone ever saw of the man, trampled into turf by a stampede of primitive feet.
Many shouted in confusion, “What the fuck do we do now?”
One shouted, “Let us run away!”
The man had not seen BamaOay approaching him from behind as he uttered his cowardly call to retreat. He did the obvious by dashing the sunlights out of the coward’s head with his driver, eyeballs and teeth flying at the terrific impact.
"Up, you animals!" he roared, loosing with a viciousness most had never witnessed. "Bare your teeth and give those Round Heads a few bite marks before they release the dogs on us! Useless to chant and scream any more, they'll release those beasts on us unless we can come to grips with the enemy!"
In desperation, the few remaining supporters abandoned any attempts to flee and bared their teeth, their only real weapons. It was valiant display of the warrior code, but was otherwise useless. BamaOay estimated his small band had time for one final charge before the mongrels were set upon them, but his judgement was once again proven wrong. His warriors were soon running for their lives with slashing teeth of the four-legged beasts in chase. Grappling jaws snapped down on running legs as his running pack of Jackasses were assailed by flying stones at every step. The Round Heads were firing volley upon volley onto the heads of the running rabble, beaning those who fell and tearing swaths in the running herd of Jackasses. When one of them fell, their fall would trip others, who would also trip others, and so on, and so forth.
Meanwhile, their commander and King tore through his own ranks in anger at their cowardice striking them here and there with his silver knocker and helping to complete their slaughter. With a burst of fury he left a heap of dazed lowbrows about him all-the-while continuing to swing his driver wildly at anyone, or anything that came to sight.
BamaOay was the center of a hurricane, both his own warriors jabbed their spears at him, as he received a lashing from aerial assault from the Round Heads. He dashed around in a blinding blur of speed. Spears bent and broke under his blows, or stabbed at only empty air and his driver sang with the song of pain. The fighting madness of a barbarian had overcome him and with that red mist of nonsensical fury, insanity glittered in his blazing eyes. He dealt bruises, knots on heads, severed spears in hands, ripped off skins and clothes, all that littered about him, both ghastly in cost of human and primitive life.
Invulnerable with his driver he soon stood among a heap of unconscious Jackasses panting with rage and anger. Then, just as his own soldiers lifted their spears to cast them and he tensed himself to leap and die in the midst of them a shrill cry froze the lifted arms. They stood like statues, the Jackasses poised to spear their leader.
The calamity of men and men-like women had died away, the clangor of the slaughter was hushed; silence lay on the red-stained plain. The hot, bright sun that shone so blindingly from above cast a fly-infested light upon the rent bodies and broken heads, where the dead and unconscious lay in stacked heaps. His nerveless hand yet gripped the broken hilt of his driver: warriors, some in their final death throes, struggled grimly to regain their feet, as if in a last show of defiance before going on to Jackass heaven.
Across the drifts of furry bodies, two figures approached the Barbarian. In that utter desolation only they seemed to be moving along without injury. The sunny, blue sky was over them, the blood stained plain around them, the broken bodies of Jackasses at their feet. Slowly through the tumult they
came, as conquerors might come to put the final nail in BamaOay’s coffin.
Their blood-curdling dogs were close by, held in check by straining handlers, their weapons of both sling and spear in their hands. Mud smeared their fur corsets; their hands were red, their exposed bodies showed the marks of fierce claw and bite marks.
One spoke, he whose locks and beard were splashed red with some poor soul’s blood.
"Barbarian," said he, "you have lost, your Jackasses are defeated. There is no longer any need for you to be the last to fall under the stones from our slings."
"This is my answer," replied the black-haired warrior, "not in Hooterland, but in Valhalla will you tell your brothers of me...the Barbarian King."
The other man roared and and his sling quickly swung in a mighty arc one, two, three times. BamaOay staggered and his vision was filled with red sparks as the stone cracked into bits of blue fire into his mighty forehead, but as he reeled he swung his club with all the power of his great shoulders at the danger. His dented driver sailed true striking the slinger square in the face, teeth were dislodged, some of the bloody mess could be seen going airborne.
BamaOay stood swaying, trailing his driver, a sudden sick weariness assailing him. The glare of the sun was now only partly obscured by his deep-set eyes and single, protruding brow. His surroundings seemed shrunken and strangely afar. He turned away from the threat where now only one unbloodied bearded warrior stood. A few steps he took and the glare