ONE TWO DANCED THE PYRRHIC
Webster 1913's Greatest Hits
AN EVERYTHING QUESTS: SCARY STORIES EPIC
Those ancient Greeks sure knew how to dance, thought Ralph, as he silently observed the pyrrhicists dancing on the small stage at the other end of the hall.
The event had been staged by the local chapter of the SCA, who wanted to branch out into areas of history other than the medieval period for a change. This pleased Ralph, because he lived next door to a geek house full of SCA weekend warriors. Dancing, he thought, had to be better than the constant ruckus of swords clashing, chainmail clinking, and battlecries being shouted. Up until the preperation for this festival had begun, Ralph had felt caged in his own home.
Although he was enjoying the evening's festivities, Ralph thought that the only thing that could make it better would be a flagon of wine. He headed over to the makeshift bar near the entrance, Dionysian wine orgies playing heavily on his mind. When he returned to his seat, he was surprised to discover that it had been filled; in it sat a stuffy-looking Englishman wearing a black satin smoking jacket, who was deeply engrossed in a large hardback book. He seemed not to notice the one-two dancing pyrrhics nearby, nor even Ralph himself as he tapped him on the shoulder. Ralph, undeterred, tried again. The Englishman looked up, somewhat startled, and met his gaze. Despite his comb-over and extremely thick spectacles, he looked utterly serious and completely without humour. He stood up.
"Ralph," he intoned, "I am aware that you sometimes employ the use of other sobriquets, but this evening you must assist me ere the dawn, or the dawn may never arrive."
Ralph held his gaze, trying to see any sign of ultimate intent behind the Englishman's textbook-thick glasses. "Who might you be, stranger?" he croaked.
"What is to happen this evening that makes you so grave-looking?"
"Webster is my name. Webster 1913," he said. "I am the organiser of this soirée. As for my supposed graveness, I think you best follow me outside, where I can elaborate the goings-on of this evening in greater detail, and in lesser disturbance." He motioned towards the dancers, and then the door. He snorted politely.
With that, Webster turned and headed for the door at great pace, seeming just short of running, yet Webster still maintained the appearance of walking. His overall demeanor was extremely unremarkable.
Ralph hurried to keep up with the strange old man. When he got outside, the old man was gone. Just as he was about to return to the dance recital, he heard a deep, deep voice booming at the other end of the parking lot. Though Webster's voice had been anything but deep (indeed, it was rather pinched and nasal), Ralph decided to investigate.
The owner of the voice was an extremely large, hairy woman. She was wearing a Swiss maid's outfit, and had her thin hair braided on both sides. She was mostly bald on her crown. She was booming at a diminutive, cowering man that was kneeling before her; it was Webster.
"I do apologize, my dear pussy, I will finish noding the thesaurus when we return to Boston! There is deadly business to attend to this cockshut!" Webster carried on like this in his monotone voice for a number of minutes, and eventually the hulkish woman calmed herself. Ralph stepped out from behind an orange Pinto.
"Webster? Wha--" began Ralph, before Webster cut him off.
"Ah, Ralph. Allow me to introduce my archwife, Brunhilde," he said, without breaking his stride. "Brunhilde, before you is a being of many names, but for tonight, we shall call him Ralph."
"HULLO, RALPH! I BET YOU THINK YOU'RE REALLY COOL WITH A NAME LIKE THAT!" bellowed Brunhilde, taking Ralph's talon-nailed hand and squeezing it as if it were a grapefruit.
Ralph groaned and nodded. "Webster, what's going on here? Why have you lead me out here, when I was so enjoying the pyrrhic?"
"I will tell you," droned Webster. "Though I would not be surprised if you did not believe me. I, as you know, organised this event. What I did not expect was that I not only brought to the present an ancient and lurid style of dance; I have indirectly brought the Giant Sifilet of Ancient Greece to the present! It will wreak havoc on the modern world unless we hunt and kill it ere the dawn!"
"Wait a minute. How could you bring a giant bird of paradise to the present?"
"It was the dance. The pyrrhic. The energy produced by the dancers' waggling hips has brought it forth. Only the pyrrhic was capable of doing so, which is why, presumably, it hasn't been practiced or taught since ancient Greece," admitted Webster.
"ARE YOU READY FOR SOME FOOTBALL?!" shouted Brunhilde, seemingly as a tension-breaker, as one of her gigantic breasts slid suddenly, under her ruffly shirt, from chest to belly. "AW, I CAN'T FIND A BRA THAT FITS RIGHT." She sighed.
Ralph pondered all that he had just heard. At length, he said "Perhaps you could get a bra custom made?" Webster scowled at him.
"I will help you on your quest, Webster 1913. But only because I once pretended to be you at a party so the cute noder girls would like me." Ralph grinned. "What must we do?"
Webster withdrew a buttocks basket from the back seat of the orange Pinto. He rummaged around it a bit, and took from it what looked like a policeman's cudgel and handed it to Ralph.
"What is this?" said Ralph, examining the smallish yet weighty baton.
"Why, it's a Wand of Vaginicola. Simply point it at the Sifilet, say the magic word, and the beastly bird will be engulfed in its millions of vaginal sheaths. There, it will be broken down molecule-by-molecule, and sent back to its own time." Webster seemed pleased with himself. "While we hunt the beast, I will send my lovely archwife to put an early end to the pyrrhic festivities. She will simply force everyone to accompany her to Earl's, the sports bar at the edge of town. They will be, shall we say, eager to go along. Isn't that right, pussy?"
"I WILL DO AS YOU ASK, BUDDY. BUT WHEN WE GET HOME, YOU BETTER BE READY TO FIST ME." Muttering, Brunhilde lumbered towards the dance hall.
"What are you going to do, old man? What is the magic word?" Ralph asked.
"I will lead you to the Sifilet, and you will instinctively know the magic word when the time comes," droned Webster.
"That's all? Leave the dirty work to me, eh?"
"I am old and frail. I'm 89 years old, you know! I do not possess the grace to fight such a formidable foe. You, Ralph, are strangely birdlike and full of grace; you should have no problem with a creature as birdlike as yourself," said Webster, in a reassuring monotone.
"Alright, I suppose if I must, then I must. Lead on, noble scribe!" Ralph felt like rallying.
The two climbed into the orange Pinto and drove away, Webster taking extreme caution not to ding any of the other cars they passed. At length, after driving for an hour or so out into the countryside, Webster pulled off onto a country road. This they followed for another hour, finally coming to an old barn, a stone's throw away from Amish country. They could hear the Sifilet clucking contentedly inside the barn.
"This is it. No turning back now, I suppose," Webster whispered.
With that, they quickly walked to the barn and threw open the door.
Inside, the Sifilet, itself nearly the size of the tractor parked outside, was sitting on a number of haybales. In its feathered hand was a white paper cup with a domed lid, from which a red plastic stroon protruded. In front of the beast was a large television. On it, three solid-colored blobs skipped to and fro, singing incoherent songs and occasionally stopping to watch the TV screens built into their abdomens. It was... THE TELETUBBIES!
Ralph recoiled in horror. "Quick, Webster, destroy that TV set! I'll activate the Wand of Vaginicola as you distract the beast!"
Webster took a ball-peen hammer from his jacket pocket and rushed at full speed towards the television.
"Now I see the real menace! FOR THE MOTHER'S WRATH!" he shouted, and shattered the TV's screen with one quick swoop with the "peen" end of the hammer.
With this, the bird became enraged. It seemed to notice Ralph and Webster for the first time. It carefully removed the stroon from its cup, licked it clean, and then threw the cup at Webster's head, on which it burst. Webster screamed as his face and hair were covered with cold white goo and crunchy brown and orange bits. "The wand!" he cried to Ralph.
Ralph knew what he had to do. He waited until the screaming bird bent down to clutch at Webster. The bird lifted Webster to its gaping maw, seemingly ready to devour him.
"The wand! THE WAND!" cried Webster, more frantic than ever.
Ralph took up the wand and pointed it at the beast. In a ravenlike caw, he shouted the magic word.
"HAECCEITY!"
The bird let out a raucous cry and was gone. Webster sprialed to the ground and sprained his ankle on impact. The Wand began to vibrate. Ralph broke it over his knee and cast it aside.
"It is done," he said. "I feel as though I've done my kin a great disservice, but I can't quite pinpoint why, exactly. Go back to Boston and molest me no more, old man! I am no longer Ralph, for the time being. From now on, you may sometimes call me 'Richard Nixon.'"
Quest note: This is an original work. It's also what will probably be the only fiction you'll ever find in my nodeshare.