Pig On A Stick (Open)

[Piggie]

“Damn so, what you're saying is, if I beat some swivver up in this Dansdel shit, I get a whole fikin' pig?”

“Yes sir, that is what I said, sir. That is the prize.”

“Fike! I'll bust that swivva ass up right now! Ain't none of them swivvas can fike with me!”

The bureaucrat behind the counter sighed and brushed a speck of dust off the golden hem of his robe. After several years of organizing registration for the fight-league known as the Dansdel, he'd become used to dealing with ruffians—even a few real “swivvers,” as this man might call them—but never one quite as foul-smelling as this. Nor as foul-looking. Dreadlocks made from congealed dirt hung from the rogue's head. Brown tatters of cloth barely covered his tall frame. Dirt blackened the spaces under his fingernails and in between his teeth. The bureaucrat twisted his head and surveyed the trail of mud the fighter had spread all over the priceless hand-woven rug. He sighed again. “I'm afraid I cannot allow you to register,” he said.

“What? Swivva, you don't even fike with me. I ain't a motherfikin' joke. You know who you're talking to? I'm the fikin' Pork, swivva.” The ruffian coughed and hocked up a glob of green mucus onto the carpet.

The druids congregating in the hall fell silent and began to stare. The bureaucrat coughed the cough of a general about to charge into war and smiled like an icicle. He, Lageon Lief'lemnelthior Llamados, son of Glaerben Smellthedien Llamados, son of Aendaer...(and so on,) did not need to put up with this pig shit. “Sir,” he said. “I would allow you to register as a warrior, sir, but I'm afraid registration requires that you be able to read and write.” There! The dagger in the heart, the final blow, the coup de grace, and he could finally be rid of–

“Oh, that's not a problem at all,” the ruffian said. He winked. “Can I have the form, please?”

The bureaucrat flinched. He pulled the registration form from beneath the deck with trembling hands and placed it into the fighter's dirty sausages. Aghast, he watched as the man picked up a quill pen and filled the forms out with flawless penmanship. For a minute, the quill's scratching made the only noise in the room. Dust motes have made more noise than Lageon Llamados in those moments.

When handed back, the form read as thus:
Name: Gapelmir Lossëhelin
Age: Twentie Four, I Thinke
Race: Elfe
Occupation: Traveleing Adventureur
---Ande Whenfe you Cooke my Pryze Hoge I desire Stronglie that it be Cooked not Qwyte thorowlie; so that in the Meat the color Bloode Red maye still be Scene. Thanke You---

After reading this, the bureaucrat druid's face took on a glazed, slightly shell-shocked expression. “Druid Tharduar?” he called.

A druid in brown robes walked up to the desk and Lageon handed him the note. He read the mysterious scrap. The ruffian known as Gap grinned at both of them and whistled between his teeth. The druid stared at the note for a good half a minute, then stared at Gap for quite a bit longer than that, and then seemed to resolve himself to his fate.

“Congratulations,” he said weakly. His eyes went to Gap's feet, where two blocks of wood tied with string failed to hide his yellowing toenails. He could see every color of the rainbow in Gap's toenails. His eyes took on the same glazed look as the bureaucrat's. “You're now an official warrior in the, er, prestigious Dansdel league. I'll show you to your arena.”

“Yeah!” Gap shouted. He raised a fist in the air—an action which released a putrid pocket of air from beneath his arm. “I'm a fikin' one man army! I'll take all these swivvas out right now, today!”