of the sun was suddenly dimmed as a rushing wave of grayness engulfed him and he sank to his knees, as more red sparks and bits of blue fire began to dance before his eyes, then everything went dark.
A silvery laugh cut through his dizziness, and his sight cleared briefly. There was a strangeness about all the landscape that he could not place or define, an unfamiliar tinge to earth and sky, but he did not think long of this because before him, swaying like a sapling in the wind, stood a huge woman. Her body was like a solid block of ivory, or marble, and save for a veil of haziness she was naked as the day. Her gargantuan bare feet were white as snow, albeit hairy, and her laughter, her laughter was more horrible to his huge ears than screeching of fingernails on a chalkboard and ladened with cruel mockery.
"Illaryhay," asked the Barbarian King, “is that you?”
"What’s the matter?" Her voice was more baritone than most men-he knew, but it was edged with a slight femininity.
"Please be quiet," he growled, grasping for his driver. "Hey, where’s my club?”
"I have it, so don’t worry."
He looked up into her deep set eyes, which he thought were brown. Now he saw that they were not brown, but a glorious compound of both green and blue. He gazed spell-bound. Her hair was like elfin-gold, striking which, the sun dazzled him. Her eyes were neither wholly blue nor wholly green, but of shifting colors and dancing lights and clouds of colors he could not recognize. Her full red lips smiled, and from her huge feet to the blinding crown of her billowy hair, her ivory body was as perfect as the dream of any barbarian. His pulse hammered in his temples.
"I can not tell," said he, "whether you are now friend, or foe?”
"Do you have any idea where you are and what has happened?" she mocked.
He pushed himself onto his knees and looked about at his surroundings. On the ground about him lay hundreds-upon-hundreds of fallen blockheads, the outcome of having been one of the most inept military leaders to have existed.
“Why am I still alive?” asked he.
“Oh, the Round Head chieftain thought that with a clown like your running the Jackass Empire you and those monkeys would be little threat. His exact words were, ‘What better way to keep the lowbrow, hairy apes in check than to have them be led by such and incompetent boob.’”
BamaOay’s eyes swept the countless cords of bodies stacked up around him seeking a way to disprove the Chieftain’s words. He thought of the millions of mindless followers who had elected and supported him as President, and yes, there were many similarities here in this world as well.
“Maybe there something to what the Chieftain was saying, what do you think?” chimed in IllaryHay.
The disappointment disappeared from his dull face. He realized that to the backward clans he was more than a man, he was like a Demigod whose slight mistakes would be forgiven. BamaOay glanced at his golf club, stained in crimson and dented, it still carried the engraved national emblem of the clans.
BamaOay glanced up at the blue, cloudy skies, then at the bodies strewn far-and-wide across the valley, then at IllaryHay who stood next to him and the barbaric soul stirred within him. A new day, a new quest, a time to reclaim what was his by birthright, only now he would have a furry-skinned Queen next to him...to love, to laugh with, to help him pillage the weak and helpless.
BamaOay looked at IllaryHay and nodded his agreement, “I must say you have got me to thinking.”
IllaryHay smiled, “Good, I’m glad you agree, now let’s get down to ruling these lowlifes.”
BamaOay grimaced for a moment, IllaryHay did likewise and the audible bond between the two echoed near-and-far.
Screech!
ScrowSucka (Illaryhay) threw wide her arms, as the deal was concluded, exclaiming, "Oh BamaOay, look at me you barbarian. I want you to take me, to crush me in your bestial arms, to make beastial love to me you bastard!”
“Hold on a second....”
She grabbed him in her beefy arms. "You are cold as the snows," she mumbled. "I will warm you with the fire in my perfect bosoms—"
With a desperate wrench BamaOay twisted from her grasp, leaving two handfuls of his single back hair in her hands. He sprang back and faced her in wild contemplation, his huge breastwork of muscles heaving, his beady, dark eyes blazing with terror. For an instant he stood frozen, awed by her terrible beauty as she posed naked among the cords of bodies.
And in that instant BamaOay, the Barbarian King flung his arms toward the skies that glowed in the rays of the late afternoon sun above him and cried out in a voice that rang in everyone’s ears for ever after:
"Gaia! Oh, my father, save me!"
About the Author
I decided to write a novel, or two, or three a half-a-century ago when I accidentally discovered I might have the penchant for putting pen to paper and I began writing in earnest in 2011 with my first novel Liars the News Industry. Liars is a hard look at our liberal-dominated media and the aristocrats who own them and are bent on changing the nation with their control over the truth. These publishers and their pawns in the Democrat Party have always believed themselves untouchable until one fateful day when their empires are attacked.
My second novel is WTF! This Is a Liberal Utopia! - a satire on liberalism which speaks to the issue of what America might look like by 2050 if the kooks on the left ultimately prevailed. Corn has become the bedrock of the American economy; what cars there are are either Mexican lowriders, or battery-powered bubble cars; rioting and something that looks like football, but with hockey sticks are the national pastimes. Yes, America had become a place turned upside on its head and you get to see it through the eyes of one of its staunches supporters, Ivy League Professor Felix Schwartz.
Now, on to a little more about my sojourn into writing began many moons ago before long hair, pot, surfing, driving and girls had come on the scene. The part of the 1960s I am speaking of is the part of that era when Simon and Garfunkel, the weekly television show Kung Fu and the comedy hour of Rowan & Martin's Laugh-In were voted most popular in our junior high year book. This was before Woodstock, drugs and long hair, so you were either a jock as evidences by their football jerseys, a hoodlum as evidenced by the pack of cigarettes rolled up in their short sleeve shirts, cool cats who wore their shirts untucked, uncool types with bad dental hygiene, popular like the handful of cheerleaders, a wallflower who slinked from class-to-class alone, a geek with pocket protector and slide rule, or another brainier type who took Latin, while the rest of us took Español.
The epiphany came to me one typical school day when I was sitting at a desk peeking out at freedom from a third-story window. The tardy bell would have by that time rung out echoing down the largely empty hallways. This was followed shortly by the English teacher closing the one and only doorway of my escape. I was getting great grades at the time, so it was not like I hated school...just English.
The hour slowly ticked by as the red second hand of the wall-mounted Simplex chronograph advanced with that hesitating, analog motion. As the minute hand closed in on the end of the period the teacher announced she would be reading a short story from one of her students, someone in one of her half-dozen classes who deserved meritorious mention.
She started reading the paper and I still remember thinking, “Wow, that’s really kind of killer...I wonder which goody two shoes wrote it!” It was not until the second or third paragraph into her monologue that I realized the teacher was reading mein paper...an ephemeral account of the last thoughts of a man on death row in the closing hours before heading to the electric chair. Macabre I know, nevertheless that was what I assessed the homework assignment called for and may have had something to do with being a preacher’s kid and a prisoner of sorts. Anyway, being put in the spotlight for that briefest of moments had never come up before and resonated with me, becoming one of my fondest memories.
I still call to mind the pride I felt as the classroom listened in near-riveted silence, and what’s more, ev
eryone in every one of her classes was going to be forced to listen to my wonderful brilliance...”Yea!” My conclusion had to be something like, I will finally be recognized for something! Sadly, what notoriety I might have gained was gone before I realized it, but the instance led to an idea that I might have a knack for writing, a revelation I promptly deep sixed, a far flung memory that would resurface a half-century later.
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