To Slay an Ogre

Old age catches up with all of us sooner or later. At 68 years old, diabetic and carrying a service connected disability, life has not only caught up with me, it’s run me over and is backing up for another try.

Thus I sit here in the confines of my dark little studio and write tales of humor and adventure. Mostly I write humor but every once in a great while something adventurous comes along. So it was when, while cruising the Internet, I came across the tale told tearfully by a lovely young maiden who was trapped in a dull job in a sweat shop located in the dark state of Pennsylvania by an ogre of a boss who kept her chained to something called a GR where scribes reproduced something called an E-Zine, — whatever that is.

I considered this tearful tale of woo for several days before deciding to take affirmative action. This poor young and very beautiful young lady needed to be rescued from her situation at the hands of this evil ogre where she was forced by necessity to preform unseemly tasks.

In my minds eye, I saw myself once again as a knight in shining armor riding my charger to her rescue. It was to be my last great adventure.

My first task was to dig my saddle out from under the pile of trash where it had lain for years, gathering dust. I dusted the thing and spent hours polishing the saddle until I could see my face reflected in it.

Then I dragged out my horse, dusted poor old Dobbin, washed him and brushed away twenty or so years of neglect with a good stout brush. Then I set him to pasture in front of 100 pounds of pure oats and watched him as he began to eat and show off the result of all my hard work.

Next I found my armor, where my pretty little wife had hidden it so I wouldn’t be tempted to do the very thing I was doing at the moment. She had hidden it under an old manure pile.

I couldn’t find a squire anywhere, you know how hard it is to keep good help, so I was relegated to polishing my own armor. Man, what a job that was.

Not only had a great deal of dust accumulated on the plate but water had dripped on it. The stuff was now rusty and it made awful noises as the plates rubbed together. The smell alone would have been enough to keep a dragon at bay.

None the less, two days later, I donned my breastplate and strode out into the sunlight in armor that glittered from every facet. Unfortunately, in doing so I stepped on the tines of a rake. The handle swung up and dented my shinny helmet right where my nose would have been. I was spared the pain but the armor, — well, back to the polishing room.

At long last I stepped out into the sunlight once again in my now repaired armor and literally dazzled all the farm animals except for poor old Dobbin who knew exactly what was going to happen next. Dobbin shuffled over to the crane that would eventually lift me and my armor onto his back and waited patiently.

The crane creaked and groaned as the combined weight of myself and two hundred pounds of armor were lifted from the ground towards the back of my trusty steed. Once comfortably seated on my chargers back, I snatched my sword from the rack and grabbed my lance with the other hand. I was off to the dark land of Pennsylvania to rescue the fair maiden.

In retrospect, I suppose I should have left at least a note for my long suffering wife but at the time the only truly important thing on my mind was rescuing this fair maiden from her oppressive prison and the Ogre who kept her there.

Charging forward ever faster with my little Balkan Cruz Banner fluttering from my lance tip, I must have been an impressive sight. I proudly paraded my trusty mount down the middle of the Interstate System.

There seemed to be an awful lot of people following along behind me, honking their horns in support of my worthy cause, — or was it for some other reason?

I hadn’t realized how far it was from Mount Perry, Florida to the dark and dismal mountains of Pennsylvania but I made good time and arrived at my ladies prison in good time.

Couching my lance under my arm, I charged through the front window of her shop and pinioned the Ogre against the back wall with my lance.

Then swooping the lady from her desk, I drew my sword and hacked my way back out of the shop, laying waste to all who stood in my way.

Once back in the street I headed South, carefully avoiding contact with the numerous police cars that seemed to be flocking to the scene of my rescue.

Once back home I proudly presented my rescued damsel to my ever loving wife, a recent immigrant from Feodosia, Crimea, Ukraine. Somehow, she was not at all amused. Her opening statement was, “You find DAMMED armor after I bury under manure heap!”

With fire lighting her eyes she went on, “You polish dorty saddle in kitchen and make mess I clean up.”

Smoke now belched from her ears as she went on, “You drag my poor old horse somewhere and no tell me where you go.”

Raising a large cooking spoon over her head and advancing on me in an ominous manner she went even further, ”Now, after you gone for two weeks, you come home with pretty young girl.”

Fortunately the armor prevented any seriously disfiguring wounds on my person but I did get the idea my little wife was not at all pleased with my rescue. Now, for the first time the subject of my rescue spoke up. I just knew I was about to be praised for my gallantry.

Instead, she turned to my wife and said, “Who the Hell is this guy? I had a good job up in Pennsylvania. This idiot charges through the front window and sticks my boss with a huge lance, then he drags me off on a stinking horse to this place! Gimmy that spoon, its my turn.”


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