Bouffon Stories 2011 Read online

Bouffon Stories 2011

  by Jan Jacob Mekes

  Copyright 2012 Jan Jacob Mekes

  Struglend Tales

  Table of Contents

  Introduction

  Tantrum

  The Talking Rat

  1519

  A Royal Mistake

  Pirating

  The Fountain Pen Concocts a Plan

  Crash Landing

  Somewhere Over The Arctic

  Adolfo and the Cow

  The Double

  The Needle, the Haystack, and the Penguin

  My Head

  Is that me?

  A Question of Loyalty

  Confession

  The School Lunch

  Baking

  Reunion

  Elastics

  Sentenced to Broccoli

  Oops

  The Camembert Factory

  Inside Out

  Eternal Waltz

  For Science

  The Last Collector

  Spaced Out

  Fill in the blanks

  About the author

  Also available from this author

  Introduction

  You are looking at the first ever Bouffon Stories anthology. In it are collected 28 short stories I wrote in 2011. They're not just any stories though-each and every one of them was written according to a writing prompt. I'd like to thank the following members of the Telltale Games forums (note that I am not in any way affiliated with Telltale, although I do encourage you to play their games), who came up with the prompts that sparked the stories in this anthology:

  coolsome

  divisionten

  doodo!

  Giant Tope

  Jon NA

  lizbethlizard

  loveheart

  Profanity

  RetroVortex

  Ribs

  seibert999

  Silverwolfpet

  supmandude85

  tbm1986

  TomPravetz

  TonsOfChocobo

  tredlow

  WarpSpeed

  To find out more about the specific writing prompts for each story, please visit the Bouffon Stories page on my site. And now, without further ado, I bring you the stories. I hope you'll enjoy reading them, and if you do, please consider checking out my other books!

  Tantrum

  "I hate you!"

  "Lizzy!"

  "Yes, I hate you and everything you stand for!"

  "But? but why? We've always been good to you, haven't we? We love you, the people love you! They worship you like they do us!"

  "Yes, and that's exactly what I hate. They worship you, but why? What have you ever done for them?"

  "Lizzy, stop that nonsense. Listen to your mother, she is right. For heaven's sake, we created them."

  "So you keep telling me. But is that true?"

  "What do you mean is that true? Lizzy, I've a good mind to spank you!"

  "Now, now, Gaia, let me handle this. You know as well as I do, Lizzy, that it's true. If you don't believe us, then listen to the people, the people who love you."

  "You think? You really think they love you? They hate you! And some of them don't even believe you exist at all! You know what I think of your people? The people you supposedly created? This!"

  * * *

  "Brothers and sisters, we have gathered together here to pray for a swift end to this war. Please join us in a prayer to Lyssa, goddess of madness, that she may confuse the ranks of our enemies and turn them against each other!"

  A loud noise was heard as the temple shook on its foundations. The believers attending the service just stood there for a moment, blinking. Then they killed each other.

  By some stroke of luck, the priest who had prayed for this event to happen (albeit on the other side of the conflict), was miraculously spared. For a moment, he just stood there, blinking. Then he took the bronze statuette depicting Lyssa and threw it into the furnace.

  "Damn all this," he said, as he shut the temple door behind them for the last time.

  * * *

  "Lizzy! Don't ever do that again!"

  "I? I'm sorry? I don't know what came over me?"

  "Now, there, there."

  Gaia took the little girl on the arm and kissed her on the forehead. The goddesses smiled at each other. And below them, mothers and daughters cried when they heard news of what had happened at the temple.

  The Talking Rat

  "Have you heard, Alys?"

  "Oh, what is it now, Gawain?"

  "Look!"

  The boy handed a pamphlet to his sister. She read it aloud.

  "'Villagers, countrymen and lords! Come to the village square today, where you shall be treated to a happening of divine nature! A talking rat will speak out on the Black Death. If you seek healing, come listen to the words of this messenger of God! Come one and all!' Hmph. Sounds like a bunch of hogwash to me."

  "I know, but suppose it's true? Perhaps we could cure uncle."

  "If it's true, dear brother of mine, it is witchcraft. And you know what mother always says: stay away from witches."

  "Well, I'm going anyway. And knowing you," he said, poking his sister in the elbow, "you'll be sneaking along as well."

  Gawain was right. At noon, a crowd had gathered on the village square, and Alys was there as well. No talking rat could be seen however, just a curious box with a hole in it that measured a square foot.

  "See, nothing's happening," Alys said.

  "I wouldn't be too sure of that. Look."

  A rat appeared in the hole. The crowd fell silent as the rat scraped its throat.

  "My dear ladies and gentlemen," the rat said. "I know us rats have been giving you a hard time with this plague thing, but rest assured that it is not what we want. We have merely been sent by God to get you to repent! But there is still hope. If each of you gives me? that is to say, in my capacity as a prophet? gives me a hundred gold Nobles, then He will take this plague away from you."

  "Blasphemy!" a voice sounded from the audience. It was the local priest. "This is witchcraft! We need to expel the demon from this rat!"

  A murmur rose up from among the audience.

  "Begging your pardon," a farmer said, "how do we know this is not a prophet? It would sure be nice to be rid of the Black Death!"

  Now the murmur turned into one of approval at this last remark.

  "I say," the farmer continued, "that we pay this rat! And if anyone wants to stop us," he said, glancing at the priest, "we'll have to stop them!"

  "Yes," a woman's voice said, "let's go to the bank, get our savings and stop this terrible illness!"

  While the whole crowd was astir, one little girl had escaped their attention. It was Alys. She had sneaked up behind the box. She carefully poked a hole in it and looked through. Her eyes widened.

  "Hey everyone, listen! It's not a talking rat at all! It's a man with a sock on his hand!"

  1519

  "How is your leg, your highness?"

  "Oh, Joachim, come on, I told you to call me by my first name."

  "Yes. Excuse me, your highness. I mean, Maximilian."

  The Holy Roman Emperor covered his face with the palm of his hand. "Please, just Max, all right?"

  "Max."

  "Yes. Anyway, my leg is terrible, like every day. You know, ever since that accident, how long was it, twenty years? every day you ask me the same question, and every day I give you the same answer: it hurts like hell."

  "Yes, I'm sorry, Max."

  Disregarding Joachim Vadian, the Emperor went on: "You know, I think we have just about exhausted all options that current medicine can give us. Let's use that contraption that Stiborius built shortly before his death."

  "But sire, I mean Max, t
hat thing wasn't completed, he said so himself! And we don't know if it works. It might be dangerous?"

  "Well of course it's dangerous! It's a machine that supposedly travels through time! But I've had enough of this infernal leg pain. I need to find a solution. And it can only be found in the future?"

  * * *

  Vienna, 500 years later.

  "See? I told you it would work."

  "We're? in the future?"

  "Of course. Now, Joachim, please lead the way."

  "Uh? where are we going, exactly?"

  "Duh? to the library!"

  "Oh? right?"

  "Well, what are you waiting for then? Go!"

  "And what does the library have to do with this, again?"

  The Emperor sighed. "Do I have to explain everything? We're going to look through those books to see if the doctors from the future have a cure for my leg problem!"

  "Oh, right, right! Let's go then."

  Hours passed as the two medieval men looked for a cure. It was all in vain, since they could make head nor tail of the books, which were all written in modern German. To their initially pleasant surprise, they could understand quite a bit of it, being not that different from the Upper German they were used to. But when the books spoke of x-ray machines, computers, and all sorts of pills and substances that they'd never heard of, they quickly realized this task was beyond their capabilities.

  "Joachim? let's just go back to the time machine. I feel we do not have much time left."

  "Yes, I'm already beginning to dissolve, I think?"

  When they left the library, to their horror they found nothing there.

  "Dammit, where did I leave her?"

  "Oh come on, Joachim, how could you lose a machine like that?"

  "I?"

  "You really can't do anything right, can you?"

  "Shut up, Max. I know I parked the time machine right here!"

  "Really?"

  "Yes, really. Well, that's it. I guess we're doomed."

  Emperor Maximilian I started crying. Here he was, stranded in a time that wasn't his, with the same damned leg, still hurting like hell. He couldn't take it any more. He went to sit down on the library steps, but failing to notice how slippery they were with frozen water, he fell to his death.

  "Yes! It worked! The old fool fell for it!" said Joachim. "Now to return to the time machine, and I will be the new Holy Roman Emperor!"

  * * *

  Joachim Vadian returned to the year 1519 AD to find the Empire in political turmoil. He quickly realized that this was not the sort of life he was cut out for, and decided to retreat to his birthplace of St. Gallen, to lead a quiet life. Perhaps he should marry. He always liked that girl, Conrad's sister? what was her name again? Martha, that's it! Yes, he would ask her to marry him. Let the idiots at the top battle it out for the mastery of Europe. Like Max's grandson, Charles. What a twit, thought Joachim. Now local government, that's where it's at?

  Months later, Charles V, grandson of Maximilian I, would become one of the most famous rulers of the Holy Roman Empire. Joachim Vadian would go on to marry Martha Grebel, and in 1526, he was elected mayor of St. Gallen.

  A Royal Mistake

  A young man kneels down before a stone. The moon shines its light on the stone, revealing the words "Here lies our king". The young man is wearing something on his head. A crown. He speaks.

  "Father? I never wanted this burden. And I would bear it, I would, if only I had some help. But I have none. Everybody died in that battle. I'm the only one left of your line and I haven't got the mettle to prove our strength. Oh, father, if only I would have had another year in peace with you. I would trade this crown for that? even just a day of being with you, sitting at a banquet, entertaining and being entertained, not a care in the world. Now I have nothing."

  He takes the crown from his head and studies it carefully. He smiles. It is a sarcastic smile.

  "Ha! They said you would always be here with me. At the moment of my coronation, those silly, stupid, idiotic priests? they said you would be with me from that moment on. What do they know!"

  The man hangs his head. A black bird looks at him curiously.

  "All that studying of holy scriptures? where did it get them? Where did it get you, me, our kingdom? Nowhere, that's where!"

  The bird, a crow, approaches the young man, who has spotted it.

  "Oh, for heaven's sake, go away! I'm in the middle of something here."

  The crow, startled, jumps back. It flies off.

  "And what a stupid religion we had. Really now," he says, turning the crown around in his hands nonchalantly, "who would be so stupid to believe all the kings of old would reincarnate in this, a man-made piece of gold?"

  The man hangs his head. When he looks up, he sees that the crow has landed on his father's gravestone.

  "Caw."

  "Look, what do you want? I have no food. Just, go away?"

  The bird comes closer. It gently nudges the man with its beak, in an unmistakably affectionate fashion. The man's eyes open wide.

  "You mean? oh! Oh, I get it now! Those priests with their books, they couldn't even read properly! The old kings don't reincarnate in a crown? but in a crow!"

  "Caw! Caw! Caw!"

  Pirating

  The air was thick with smoke, as the two wig-wearing gentlemen, dressed in richly decorated brocade suits, laced cuffs peeping out from under their sleeves, sat staring at the chessboard in front of them. One of them, wearing a green silk coat, coughed.

  "I say, you really should stop smoking that pipe. It completely messes up my play. I just can't," he said, coughing again, "concentrate."

  "Nonsense. You are just play-acting, sir. It is your coughing that distracts me from the game."

  "Oh, for heaven's sake, just make your move."

  "These things take time, you know. One can't force a gentleman at making a move. That said, I'm going to just move my knight over there like this?"

  "Ah. I hoped you might do that."

  The man with the pipe quickly moved his hand in an attempt to pull back his piece.

  "No, no! I'm afraid it doesn't work like that, my good man. Here."

  The gentleman in the green coat moved his queen in a bold attack. "Check."

  "My dear fellow-" the other began, but he was brusquely interrupted by a loud sound coming from the door.

  When he looked to the source of this racket, he noticed the door had disappeared. It was replaced with a heap of splinters, and a band of ruffians holding swords. One of them, a particularly nasty character with a beard and an eye patch, spoke.

  "Arrrr, ye landlubbers! Belay that!"

  The men panicked. "What? What? Please! I have a wife, and children," one said.

  "Yes, I have a child, and wives!" said the other, who didn't even realize that what he had just said was really rather silly.

  "Arrr, avast I say! Stop your blabbering and give us what we want!"

  "You? you want our money? Take it! I'll give you all of it, but just leave us in peace!"

  "Nay, we cannot do that, ye mangy scoundrels! Ya think we be interested in money? That we be really so? shallow? Aye, is that what ye think?" the bearded pirate said, pointing his sword at the man with the pipe, which promptly dropped from his mouth, much to the amusement of the other pirates.

  "Gulp. No? but? what do you want then?"

  "Yer game."

  "Our? our game?"

  "Aye. Ya know, the days on a pirate ship can get mighty long, an' we would kill fer some entertainment. Problem is, the moment we approach a game shoppe, the shopkeeper locks up, thinkin' we come to plunder 'is store."

  "Ah, I see?"

  "Aye. So now we be forced to resort to pirating games."

  "Oh?"

  "So just hand me the board and pieces, and nobody gets hurt."

  The pirates left the room with their unusual plunder, leaving the two gentlemen utterly baffled. Then, one of them started chuckling.

  "What's funny?
" the other asked.

  In answer, he reached into his pocket and took out a little figure of a king. "Good luck to them finishing a game!"

  The other laughed as well, but quickly stopped when he looked to his friend, who had a pistol pressed to his neck.

  "Hand over the king, and no jokes now?"

  The Fountain Pen Concocts A Plan

  "Is he gone?" the fountain pen asked.

  "Yes," the door creaked, "he just closed me behind him."

  "Okay."

  The pen rolled over to a blank sheet of paper on the writing desk.

  "Man, he still hasn't written anything? Not even in pencil?"

  "Nope," the pencils in the jar answered in unison.

  "I'm afraid," the paper ruffled, "our Writer is suffering from? ah? what do you call it now?"

  "Writer's block!" a dictionary quipped from the bookshelf.

  "Ah, yes? writer's? block? oh well, gives me more time to sleep."

  The paper curled up at the corner and fell silent.

  "Listen, guys," said the fountain pen, "we just can't let this go on. I mean, the man has to eat, right? If he doesn't write this book, what will become of him? So, maybe we should just write it for him."

  "No, no, no, you can't do that!"

  "Who said that?"

  "Hello? Up here?"

  "Up where?"

  The ceiling lamp switched itself on.

  "Oh. Hello up there. So, just why can't we write for him?"

  "Because? well, quite simply, because he'd go crazy. He'd think you were haunted or something."

  The fountain pen gasped. "Really?"

  "Yes."

  "Mmmhmm," the desk lamp said, nodding in agreement. "What you need to do, boy, is create the perfect circumstances. Inspiration, right?"

  "Well? how??"

  A loud coughing noise came from the bookshelf, which was accompanied by a cloud of dust being blown into the room. It was an old copy of ? la recherche du temps perdu. Fortunately, it was a bilingual edition, so it spoke and understood English pretty well.

  "Allow me to interject, mesdames et messieurs. A good way to stimulate the mind is by evoking a certain smell. Do we know what smell our Writer is particularly fond of?"

  "Mfgh," a muffled voice sounded in the kitchen, followed by some clattering. "Sorry, I was closed. Can you hear me now?"

  "Yes," the fountain pen said, "we can hear you. Who are you?"