The Grand Ambassador Plenipotentiary From Alice, Dark Lord, Ruler of All, to the Elves, the Shining Ones, the Bright, the Beautiful, the Comestible, Durk, was not what you would call an optimist.
He was a cynic AND a pessimist—like bread and peanut butter, the two often, but do not always, go together.
The last six Ambassadors had not returned. So Durk, who had a certain draw on the Imperial funds, arranged the following.
First, a full-body tattoo. He’d always wanted one. Why have call on Imperial funds of an evil empire if you’re not going to use some of them for yourself>
Second, he was pulled by eleven dray horses, majestic, slow, who carried not only his limousine, but it’s Hollywood-style hot tub right in the back. He stayed in the bath tub all day. It was filled with marinade.
When he arrived, to the dismay of the Elven Lords, all Princes and stalwart Men at Arms, who were hoping past hope that he might be a wandering eccentric, one of his basters pulled into his pocked and reached out a crumbled scroll which proclaimed the marinated Man to be Durk, Great Ambassador to the Mighty United Clans of the Elves.
This infuriated the Elves. Then again, every Ambassador so far had manage to infuriate the Elves within minutes of arrival. This was no difference, although the steam beginning to generate within each ear of his audience might have been new. They were, perhaps, angrier at him than at the time Alice sent the Mime.
They were destined to good fortune today; they’d reach a new height of fury, and is that not a blessing? For Durk through off his unseasonably heavy coat and revealed what was beneath.
He was inked from head to toe, presumbably even under the tiny breachcloth he wore for the sake of modestly, with butchers’ charts. The indicated the ribs, pointed out the heart, suggested avoiding the feet, and, upon his back, there were a series of very concise but quite helpful instructions for different ways of preparing the different kinds of meat, carefully apportioned by master butchers and drawn by Allison the Inksmith, into a butcher-shopper’s fondest dream and newest fantasy.
The volcanic response of the Elves might have spilled over and torn him messily limb from limb, except, except…
…this was so thoughtful.
When he produced his own special, homemade, handmade moonshine barbecues sauce, and asked to speak to their chefs…they simply nodded, and began gathering in an ever-larger circle of discussion.
In the Kitchen, the Chefs had knives which could slice Kraken, and sometimes had. Cutting u a human was no problem…
…but they could not help but feel a certain kinship. Here was someone who loved food so much that he clearly devoted the entire rest of his life, short though it would be, to the culinary pleasure of others…now that’s not something they say during their days of wrestling cobras and trying to stuff partridges with whole breast of wild goose, upon command.
It might be thought that his story would end quickly but (perhaps ) happily. But as they were talking about the benefits of various rubs, saltings, and spices, in walked a very Noble Elf indeed. “Come with me,” he said; and no-one in the room had any doubt whom He was.
The Prince said,
“My Father, the King, has heard of your consideration. It is”—he paused, struggling to put High Elven words in the proper tongue—“an appropriate gift to the community of your betters,” he said, as Durk struggled into his breeches and cap.
“We should like you to have dinner with us.”
* * *
Three hours later, in artful raiment which showed off his many positive attributes without revealing that which might cause harm to the female Elves, he was led to the banquet room.
There, prepared GORGEOUSLY, was one of the Elves which had jeered him as he came in, a high one. In convenient and savory pieces. Durk was led to a place of honor by the King’s left hand; the Prince Himself sat to the right.
“Perhaps you indigenes are capable of a certain true, if primitive, Art after all,” said the Kingdom philosopher.
Said the King, “Indeed. This is the first Ambassador sent who is not horribly rude.” He turned briefly to the lesser being to the one side. “You may stay, and even speak, for a while.”
Said Durk nothing at all. He was too busy connecting the hip bone to the thigh bone, and making liberal use of the sauce on both.
The Grand Ambassador Plenipotentiary From Alice, Dark Lord, Ruler of All, to the Elves, the Shining Ones, the Bright, the Beautiful, the Comestible, Durk, was not what you would call an optimist.
He was a cynic AND a pessimist—like bread and peanut butter, the two often, but do not always, go together.
The last six Ambassadors had not returned. So Durk, who had a certain draw on the Imperial funds, arranged the following.
First, a full-body tattoo. He’d always wanted one. Why have call on Imperial funds of an evil empire if you’re not going to use some of them for yourself?
Second, he was pulled by eleven dray horses, majestic, slow, who carried not only his limousine, but it’s Hollywood-style hot tub right in the back. He stayed in the bath tub all day. It was filled with marinade.
When he arrived, to the dismay of the Elven Lords, all Princes and stalwart Men at Arms, who were hoping past hope that he might be a wandering eccentric, one of his basters pulled into his pocked and reached out a crumbled scroll which proclaimed the marinated Man to be Durk, Great Ambassador to the Mighty United Clans of the Elves.
This infuriated the Elves. Then again, every Ambassador so far had manage to infuriate the Elves within minutes of arrival. This was no difference, although the steam beginning to generate within each ear of his audience might have been new. They were, perhaps, angrier at him than at the time Alice sent the Mime.
They were destined to good fortune today; they’d reach a new height of fury, and is that not a blessing? For Durk through off his unseasonably heavy coat and revealed what was beneath.
He was inked from head to toe, presumbably even under the tiny breachcloth he wore for the sake of modestly, with butchers’ charts. The indicated the ribs, pointed out the heart, suggested avoiding the feet, and, upon his back, there were a series of very concise but quite helpful instructions for different ways of preparing the different kinds of meat, carefully apportioned by master butchers and drawn by Allison the Inksmith, into a butcher-shopper’s fondest dream and newest fantasy.
The volcanic response of the Elves might have spilled over and torn him messily limb from limb, except, except…
…this was so thoughtful.
When he produced his own special, homemade, handmade moonshine barbecues sauce, and asked to speak to their chefs…they simply nodded, and began gathering in an ever-larger circle of discussion.
In the Kitchen, the Chefs had knives which could slice Kraken, and sometimes had. Cutting u a human was no problem…
…but they could not help but feel a certain kinship. Here was someone who loved food so much that he clearly devoted the entire rest of his life, short though it would be, to the culinary pleasure of others…now that’s not something they say during their days of wrestling cobras and trying to stuff partridges with whole breast of wild goose, upon command.
It might be thought that his story would end quickly but (perhaps ) happily. But as they were talking about the benefits of various rubs, saltings, and spices, in walked a very Noble Elf indeed. “Come with me,” he said; and no-one in the room had any doubt whom He was.
The Prince said,
“My Father, the King, has heard of your consideration. It is”—he paused, struggling to put High Elven words in the proper tongue—“an appropriate gift to the community of your betters,” he said, as Durk struggled into his breeches and cap.
“We should like you to have dinner with us.”
* * *
Three hours later, in artful raiment which showed off his many positive attributes without revealing that which might cause harm to the female Elves, he was led to the banquet room.
There, prepared GORGEOUSLY, was one of the Elves which had jeered him as he came in, a high one. In convenient and savory pieces. Durk was led to a place of honor by the King’s left hand; the Prince Himself sat to the right.
“Perhaps you indigenes are capable of a certain true, if primitive, Art after all,” said the Kingdom philosopher.
Said the King, “Indeed. This is the first Ambassador sent who is not horribly rude.” He turned briefly to the lesser being to the one side. “You may stay, and even speak, for a while.”
Said Durk nothing at all. He was too busy connecting the hip bone to the thigh bone, and making liberal use of the sauce on both.
______
Try No Right To Obey
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