APROXM: SHORT STORIES

SIR BELETHOR

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PREFACE: Something I intended to have span several chapters given by the fact that I wrote out a first chapter name. Or maybe this too was part of a "joke" with my then "sense of humor".



Chapter 1: The Knighting of a Grand Hero Who Probably Didn't Actually Deserve to be Knighted but was Anyway

His name was Sir Belethor. He had the aspirations of a glorious king, ruling over his country with an iron fist that shan't be broken. However, he was not a glorious king, but rather, just some guy living in the city sewers. However, he declared himself a Sir when he slayed the evil beast known as "a stinking goddamned rat." From that moment on, Sir Belethor dedicated his time to living the dream of conquering the ancient land of New Unoyla, which is just a fancier way of calling the land Great Britain, due to fantasy or world-building or something along those lines.


Um, anyway, Sir Belethor wanted to wander the land of Gre... New Unoyla, which by the way, was not actually new as there never was an Old Unoyla nor was there a regular Unoyla or perhaps a super form that could be called Super Unoyla, but point withstanding, there was not any other form of Unoyla. If you look in the history books in the Great New Unoyla Library of Great Books and Checking Out But Not In the Way You Think, you can find a historic set of documents detailing that the continent was named New Unoyla after the famous dragon "Nu Unoyla+" but due to the citizens of the country not being able to understand what that letter was or, for that matter, how they were simply able to know that that letter was a part of the dragon's name at all, they shortened his name to Unoyla. Some say that dragon is still alive today, roaming the countryside in anger of his extra letter being stricken from history, or maybe he just roamed for food and was not actually aware of humanity's butchery of his name. I believe I got off track, so let me back up and return to the brave Sir Belethor of Old Unoyla.

It was a fateful night, or actually to be fair, it was the process of becoming night known as dusk, in which Sir Belethor rose from the ashes. He climbed the sewer staircase and pushed the lid off of his domain, revealing the beautiful world of New Unoyla. It really wasn't that beautiful actually, as the city beleaguering the sewer was pretty out of shape, home to many different creatures and dead trees and possums. But, Sir Belethor spent the majority of the time reveling in an endless stream of piss and shit in his abode, so perhaps anything would be beautiful at this point. Sir Belethor yelled out to the world, "Hark! I am the world's next greatest hero! I am destined to destroy evil! Hark! Historic words! Clauses!" At this point, he reached for his sheathed blade when his hand confirmed a horrible thought: there was no blade nor a sheath to draw a blade from. It would seem that the fair Sir Belethor would have to accompany himself with a weapon if he chose to defeat evil more monstrous than rats and piss and shit. Sir Belethor descending back into his shit wonderland and laid out on his shit couch, which was not actually a couch made out of shit, but to be fair, it was a shitty couch.

"Hark! I wish I had a proper weapon to defeat the evils that plague my world," Sir Belethor cried, doing his finest to accomplish what little exposition could be done. He came over to his mirror and studied his features.

He had greener eyes than the rolling hills of Valhalla, and golden locks that could shame Rapunzel. His chin was sharper than the sharpest of nerds, and his beard was trimmed nicer than a metaphor my editor has advised me I cannot make. Sir Belethor immediately had the thought of singing a sad song, which would be just like those old Disney VHS tapes, which he then spent the next hour wondering what the hell a Disney VHS tape was and why he thought about it. He then got angry, sad again, more angry, hungry, a little bit sadder, and then sleepy. He didn't have a window with access to stars to look somberly upon, so he turned upwards towards the lid of the sewer and stared intently at the shining stars. It was at this point that Sir Belethor witnessed a true miracle: More fucking stars. There were at least 10 of them, maybe 12. That's quite a lot. Sir Belethor then rolled into bed and gave intense thought unto his day. He confirmed within himself that tomorrow, he would find himself a righteous weapon, and then he would sleep again, and then the next day he would fight evil, as long as evil weren't busy.

The sun shone through the crack of the lid, and the glorious stream of piss and shit gracefully flowed through Sir Belethor's unique domain. He awoke with a yawn, followed by a scratch, followed by another yawn. It was an uneventful morning. As the sunraybeams bounced off the water and also became a word that was previously nonexistent, Sir Belethor realized how to acquire his glorious weapon. The Fellowship of the Anonymous Bodies. The FAB building was loaded with beautiful blades and freshly stringed bows, and probably some really good food, which also would probably cost money and Sir Belethor didn't have much more than some pence and what appeared to be a miniature sail boat figurine. Sir Belethor got dressed in his armor, which was a finely tuned white tee and some crappy olive breeches. He also wore boots, but they weren't so much boots as pieces of cyrogenically frozen dung attached to strings. That wasn't a metaphor or exaggeration, Sir Belethor had somehow stumbled across cyrogenically frozen dung. The string part was all his handiwork, however. Sir Belethor once again climbed the daunt ladder and found himself back in the beautiful-but-not-really city of New Unoyla. The mountains were a beautifully stained grey, the sky was a majestic grey, and the buildings all came together to paint the perfect picture of one color: whiteish grey.

Sir Belethor strolled up to the building's gates and studied the architecture. At this point, a long paragraph would have come up, detailing all the incredibly boring details of such a guild hall, but Sir Belethor's eyesight was interrupted by a shrieking ghost! Sir Belethor stated in a dull tone for it to shut up, and once the up had indeed been shut, they entered a dialogue.

"Who art thou, wickedest of ghosts?"

"I am Sir Belethor."

"You are what?"

"I am Sir Belethor."

"No you aren't."

"And I have come to... Excuse me? Did you tell me just now that I am not Sir Belethor?"

"Yes."

"You're incorrect."

"I am not."

"Yes you are."

"No, you are not Sir Belethor. I am Sir Belethor."

"You?"

"Yes."

"You're lying."

"Oh shut up. I need to get a great weapon from this great hall and I cannot accomplish this task with such a great annoyance."

"Oh, so I am an annoyance now? Sir Belethor, you make me, Sir Belethor, quite upset."

"Off with ya, you dandel."

"What did you just call me?

"A dandel. Off with you."

Without skipping a beat, Sir Belethor brushed aside the ghost, and by that, he actually just walked through him while considering the gross possibility that he was inside himself, and he then ventured forth into the Hall. Or at least, he ventured towards the door. At the door, a servant awaited guests. The guest called out to Sir Belethor and greeted him to the guild hall, followed by a brief explanation of the various little commodities and weaponry that was stored in the ever expanding building. In the middle of the servant's speech, somewhere after "Our swords are refined and sharp," but before "I lied, they aren't sharp at all. Probably not refined either," Sir Belethor noticed a passerby on the road. At the same time, the Sir Belethor who wasn't a ghost noticed a long blade on the servant's hilt. Sir Belethor took up an inquiry.

"I want that sword."

"You wot?"

Sir Belethor then proceeded to sock the servant in the face. He laughed, then realized he shouldn't be laughing, so he took the sword and ran. Then, he came back because he forgot the sheath, and then he ran, again.

He passed by the ghost of Sir Belethor and called the ghost a dandel once more. The ghost yelled back that that was a stupid word and nobody in their right mind should use it. But Sir Belethor didn't care. Sir Belethor now had a mighty and righteous blade, fit for slaying of dragons and warlocks and goblins and cheesecake. He then reflected upon his statement that perhaps he couldn't slay a dragon, as dragons probably have hide tougher than the scales of a molten volcano, fused with a tortoise shell and hard candy, but mostly the hard candy. Sir Belethor then accepted that his blade could probably take out cheesecake. The bottom line was that Sir Belethor loved his new blade, so much so that he decided to name his blade Belethor, followed by knighting the blade. And so, Sir Belethor walked over to the gate that separated the brave hero from glory. A lone guardsmen stood strong, with features so incredibly complex that mere typing could never do it justice. His armor shone bright in the sunraybeams that so desperately wanted to mate with the armor. Sir Belethor recognized this guard as a brother, not in blood, but kinship, except not really in kinship either, but more in just an overarching rule of cool. The guard spoke softly.

"Halt there citizen. We have reports of a local man masquerading as a servant having a fist greet his face. His sword was stolen. Have you seen anything?"

"I want that armor."

"You wot?"

Sir Belethor then proceeded to sock the guard in the face. He laughed, then once again realized that laughing wasn't too appropriate for the situation, so he stopped laughing, took the armor, and then attempted to run, except he found that running with the armor was severely detrimental to his speed, so he stopped and donned the new radiant armor and then ran. He ran right up to the gate and attempted to use the door handle, but realized that the door handle was a mere farce. Sir Belethor instantly entered a realm of anxiety as he realized that guards were taking notice of the fallen guard, as well as the fact that the goddamn door was not going to work. He slammed his fists into the door and attempted to slice open the door, but alas, the door was not cheesecake. Sir Belethor was on the verge of tears when he witnessed a caravan strolling through the gate. He then realized he had been pounding on the gatehouse door instead of the actual gate. Sir Belethor apologized to the door and then swept through the gate and into the wild.

Finally, Sir Belethor had escaped the harshness of the city, yet also left behind the glamor and comfort of the sewer. It was a bittersweet moment, but Sir Belethor knew that change had to occur. So when Sir Belethor viewed the beauty around him, he was swiftly assured that the change was for the better.