No Naked Ads -> Here!
No Naked Ads -> Here! $urlZ
Whos 4 a treasure, p.1
Larger Font   Reset Font Size   Smaller Font       Night Mode Off   Night Mode

       Who's 4 a Treasure, p.1

           Bryan Haggerty
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26
Who's 4 a Treasure




  Knothear is a planet in a solar system in a galaxy that thinks a good time is having a few friends over for a game of forfeit coinage. It is a place where the laws of physics applied, but were rejected and told to go get a job elsewhere, there was no place for its new-fangled ideas. Each action having an equal, but opposite reaction, actually that one seems to work out all right, but the others are rejected. The body remaining in motion junk, everybody knows that a body stops for no apparent reason and goes and buys a pint. Well I suppose that is an outside force. Okay, so there is a little physics, but no one really pays it too much attention. What I’m trying to get at is that Knothear is a place where anything can happen, invariably does, and then demands its t-shirt, a round of drinks and someone to cuddle, preferably that good looking girl in the corner, no not that one, the one in the cheerleader outfit with the pompoms. You get the picture, and if you don’t, read on, I promise you will.


  Two thousand years ago the civil war of Barock was entering its final battle. The men loyal to King Regal were finally gaining the upper hand. Prince Poorson, the rebel leader, sat in his field tent reading the daily scout reports. It was obvious from the reports that he would meet the king’s men in battle on the plains of Wickness. He would have the geographical advantage, but King Regal would have almost three times his numbers. In six weeks it would all be over one-way or another. Prince Poorson was going to lose! He had one last roll of the dice. In the corner of his tent sat a cast iron chest. Inside was his people’s only salvation and greatest treasure.

  He called his second in command into the tent and gave him instructions. Lord Da’Loose bowed his head to his commander and promised he would not let him down. He loaded the chest onto a wagon and left for the fabled city of Heldslong. It was said that the black smiths of Heldslong made the finest weapons in all the land. It was the start of the rainy season, but Lord Da’Loose kept up a good pace of two DW’s (days walk) per day through mud, rain and landslides. Fighting off bandits and thieves, he kept the pace all the way to the Eagle Mountains. (Now called the Horn Mountains as the last eagle was shot and eaten over five hundred years ago). His last stop before scaling the heights was Hardpassvil Inn in the village of Hardpassvil; well technically the Inn was Hardpassvil.

  “Sometime when you roll the dice it comes up snake eyes.” This was Prince Poorson’s last thought before the executioner chopped his head off. (Excerpt for: ‘The true facts of the myths and legends of Prince Poorson the trusting.’ Pick up a copy today, not only is it a good read, but can help cure any gullibility.)

  For two hundred years treasure hunters searched the mountain pass for the great Poorson treasure, but everyone knew that Da’Loose had taken it and probably bought his own small kingdom way out east. To this day the word Daloose still means spending someone else’s money. (You may notice a discrepancy between the last official search and today, some sixteen hundred years. They are important. It means that the idea of looking for the Poorson treasure can be lost in the mists of time and pass into the realms of myths and legends, which really helps my story out.)

  In truth this is not really the story of a treasure hunt, although there is one on these pages. Nor is it the tale of four incompetent friends blundering from one misadventure into another hopeless situation; although you may be forgiven for thinking so. Oh no, this is a tale about luck.

  The men with long grey beards (Sometimes called Wizards, sometimes Professors, but mostly called Old farts.) working in dusty old basements (Sometimes called libraries, but mostly called dusty old basements.) working on old manuscripts and scrolls (Sometimes called, well only called old manuscripts and scrolls) have come to the conclusion that there are three types of luck. Good, Bad and Blind. They decided that ‘bad luck’ could be broken into ‘No luck’, ‘Worse luck’, ‘I told him not to mix his drinks luck’ and finally ‘Who would believe that that whole army would just disappeared when that thing fell out of the sky luck’. That last one becomes important later. More types of Bad luck have been discovered, but while out celebrating the discovery, most discoverers fall victim to ‘I told him not to mix his drinks luck’. So before he has a chance to write it down, have it notarised and let it stand up to a panel of his peers, the discoverer normally runs into one of the following, in no particular order: (Most statements collected posthumously and notarised by Mrs Maude’s Palm, Tarot and Tea readings incorporating Sun, Moon and Stars Séances including Bill’s notarising and past life civil attorney at law. As they have paid for this product placement there will be more on them later.)

  “I was just following/running away for the big pink gargoyle when a carriage came out of nowhere.”

  “Always say sorry and buy a fresh round when you spill One Eye McCready’s or Giant Bob’s beer. ‘Out of my way peasant’ is not acceptable as an apology.”

  “How was I supposed to know that you had to pay all loses at McCready’s casino.”

  “I can’t believe I couldn’t swim across the Valmic River”

  “King Clement does not take kindly to being mooned.”

  “Sometimes when you imagine a horde of barbarians baying for your blood, they are real.”

  The list goes on, but as I have limited parchment I will stop there.

  Good luck is the rare stuff of dreams that only happens to other people. Sometimes it is called urban legend. “My friend’s cousin’s boyfriend’s sister’s neighbour’s uncle won money at McCready’s casino and lived to spend it.” Or “King Clement only had the mooning old fart flog to death.” I know it sounds ridiculous, but as they say fact is stranger than myth and legend. Which brings me to the final point: Blind luck.

  There has been a lot of talk about this luck, maybe too much talk. Most people agree that it doesn’t exist, but I hope to prove them wrong with this Honest to Gods true tale. (If you don’t believe me check the genuine Bill’s notarising and past life civil attorney at law stamp on the front cover.) Oh, before I start I will explain what blind luck is. Just before you die, Death rings up the God, devil or time-share where you will spend eternity, to confirm a delivery date. The deity checks their ‘Don’t let them in’ list and if you are on it you receive a little bit of blind luck. I.e. The guy about to stab, rob and rape you, not in any particular order, suddenly remembers that he left the stove on and rushes home to turn it off before his wife finds out and gives him an ear full. Death then receives a bank transfer; a silver-plated tea set and a note saying no thank you, but that nice looking man that just ran home would look perfect in my new atrium. To sum up blind luck, it is when an omnipotent being takes a thorough disliking to you and prevents you from dyeing. This can be a double-edged sword, as they say some things are worse than death. I.e. One eye McCready deciding your left testicle would match quite nicely with your right in his Balls of the World collection.

  Let the tale begin.

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26
Turn Navi Off
Turn Navi On
Scroll Up

Other author's books:

Add comment

Add comment