Wednesday, October 15, 2014

Why Fantasy Is NOT My Preferred Genre

Roscoe the Flannel, the 12th level wizard, stood with his party on the third level of the dungeons of the mad lich Krendlezeit.  The party consisted of Nanoc the barbarian warrior from the Hellblasted Hills, Sister Chastity the cleric, and Scroat the rogue.  The first two levels had been troublesome with Scroat having to use his considerable skills to disarm many a deadly trap and Nanoc nearly entering his special bersarker rage twice when the opponents had come just a little too thickly for tactical comfort.  Sister Chastity had used many a prayer to her patron goddess, Treetits Mossbush, to save Nanoc's life and now they were, exhausted but undaunted, staring at yet another locked door inside the third level, moving ever downward.

"I've got this, chums," declared Scroat.  He pulled out his magical thieve's tools and began to work on the lock.

Nanoc had little patience for the finer points of dungeon delving, preferring instead the smell of blood, the sounds of battle, or the froth of ale served by full-breasted and pliable wenches.  Sister Chastity flipped her cloak back to catch a cooling draft, exposing the metal plate cups of her brassiere, the sacred navel ring glinting as her bare midriff caught the light of the torch she held.

There was a loud click.

"I got it!" Scroat yelled.

Without warning a dozen Ogre-kin warriors appeared from the darkness.

"Battle!" Nanoc bellowed as he rushed headlong toward the enemy, foam flecking his manly lips.

I hate my fucking life, Roscoe thought.

The End


  1. Nanoc, Treetits Mossbush. That's some funny shit right there. As you know, I like the old fantasy fiction before there was a genre called fantasy fiction (REH, Tolkien, Lewis.) New stuff just reads like someone's D&D game turned into a story with the irregular geometric shape of modern culture forced into the square peg of fantasy. (Is that metaphor forced?) Anyway, I guess it's the writer's fantasy being played out in modern novels, as in old novels, but I like Howard's fantastical world better than the more recent stuff. I used to read the Dark Sun novels, but got bored with them and went back to REH. Guess I'm just old and set in my ways. Keep entertaining us, Rook. Later.

    1. REH's work is more down-to-earth, if that can truly be said. It's more on the level of the man, not the planet.
      On the other hand, I'm just a sad, sad copycat. I stole Treetits Mossbush...from a comic I did last year. I have no shame.

    2. Gasp, stealing from yourself. For shame.

  2. It's the little things that make you laugh, like the sacred navel ring and exposed midriff. This is not My first dance with Treetits Mossbush but it never fails to make me chuckle. I'm with you Eddie. I cant stand to go to the bookstore any more. I used to enjoy it but then came the vampire fad and the werewolf fad and the zombie fad and the deamon fad and the zombie, vampire, werewolf, daemon fad. You look down the rows and all you see is the flavor of the month it's depressing really. I remember eagerly awaiting a trip to the bookstore to discover something new. Those days are long past now you pick up a book and go hum something different and then you glance down the rows and see three more with similar covers and sure enough they are about a succubus/ghost/vampire. Who's really not bad and has to discover her dark past to save the kingdom from some unspeakable banal evil (Yawn) wasn't this a Buffy episode?

    Nightwisp Daggermoon devotee of Treetits Mossbush

    1. Can't argue with that, JW. Now when I'm in a book store, it's with the kids to pick up some Dr. Seuss or a Jesus book for kids. If I want something for myself, I go to amazon. Reading Martin Caidin's Operation Nuke at bedtime. Recently finished the first Steve Austin adventure, Cyborg. Before that I re-read Sir Gawain and the Green Knight as translated by Tolkien. My plan is to tackle Malory again, since I've never made it through Le Morte de Arthur. I'm easily side tracked. Also, Tim Dorsey novels are fun listening in the car. Thanks again for introducing me to the ever exciting psycho adventures of Serge and Coleman, Rook.

    The origin of Treetits Mossbush, tart of the forest.