Ye Olde Robberie

‘Twas a foggie night in the darke city.

Nary a manne could be seen traversing the colde cobblestone streets.

In the shadowes of the allys however, dangerous menne were afoot.

One of the menne was named Gilfred.

Gilfred lurked in the long shadowes cast by the streetlight candles.

He was growing impatiente with the night when he finally saw a shadow emerge from Ye Olde Apartments across the waye.

Gilfred licked his lips and readied his wooden knife.

He had been watching this particular marke for more n’ a weeke now.

Her name was Clarineta and she was weake and quicke to feare.

Gilfred knew tonight she was taking a big pile of monies to Ye Olde Savings and Loane, not a fortblocke away.

She walked across the street, closer and closer to him.

When she was near enough, he jumped out of the shadowes, snarling at her and flashing his wooden knife.

 

“Gimme that money! I know you gots it!”

 

“Oh my! Please don’t hurte me!”

 

Shaking, she handed him a large sacke filled with monies.

He started to cackle victoriously, when suddenly he was thrown back into the shadows of the alley.

He landed in a pile of rubbish, his hatte coming down over his eyes.

Gilfred quickly freed himself from the mess and slashed about blindly in the darkness.

He affixed his hatte correctly on his head, and wyldely looked about him in the alley.

He only saw Clarineta standing at the entrance, her eyes as bigge as saucers.

 

“Wytch!”

 

Gilfred started toward Clarineta but suddenly felt the back of his raggedy jackette become a-hook-ed.

He flailed thys way and thatte, but he was slowly lifted up into the air.

He felt behind him and where wytch magicke should have been, there was instead a hooke attached to rope.

Gilfred finally looked above him, just as the shadow manne pulling up the rope grabbed him by his vestments.

Gilfred quickly stabbed his wooden knife right into the man’s gut, but it splintered as if the manne’s clothing was some kynd of metal.

The shadow man spoke from under his maske, his eyes burning even in the night’s darkness.

 

“Vermin like you make my stomache turn!”

 

He shooke Gilfred and growled a horrible growle, frightening Gilfred to his very soul.

Trying to keepe from crying, Gilfred was barely able to speake.

 

“Wha-what are you?!?”

 

“Ye Olde BatteManne!”

 

With that, he punched Gilfred into complete blackness.

When Gilfred awoke, he was much ti-ed, be-bruis-ed, and asham-ed, dangling from a rope over the side of the building.

Clarineta was gone, along with her monies.

Ye Olde Battemann was gone as well.

Gilfred shuddered.

If that’s the scary sorte of thing that could happen to a fella just lookin to pull an honest cryme, Gilfred decided he had better find a new line o’ worke.

A few of Ye Olde Gotham Polycemenn had now gathered on the street below.

They all looked up at him as he twisted in the breeze and scratched on their heads.

A Crab With a Pinkish Hue

If I were a crab with a pinkish hue, I would tell all my little grandcrabs about how I escaped many years ago, while I was being boiled alive. I would tell them how I killed the chef with his own mustache. I would tell them how I had to hold my breath for 16 hours as I slowly scuttled my way back to the ocean. I would tell them how I live with one foot in the grave and they would all stare at my missing crabfoot, and their crabeyes would make their way up to my crippled crab crutch, clutched under my crabarm.

I’d tell them about when I got back and the girlcrabs were all over me.

I would regale them with a story of the time the mayor of crabtown offered me a medal for my heroic brave crabbery. I would write a memoir called “memoirs of a crab with a pinkish hue.” I would sell millions of copies in hundreds of crab-languages.

I would give motivational crabspeeches at renowned crabuniversities. I wouldn’t have a large crabhead about it though. I would maintain the crabmodesty passed onto me by my crabgrandfather, who was in Crab War II. I would try to go about my normal crablife without the crabpress or the crabparazzi sensationalizing the event. I would always tell people my story one-on-one, on my own terms, so they could understand the crabfeelings I experienced during my landtrials.

In my older age, I would start a new crabreligion, whereby crabyouths are forced to endure a landtrial of their own. That would be very native crabmerican of me, and I would feel a connection with mother sea. On my crabdeathbed, I would have every crab dear to my crabheart huddle around my crabfire and I would tell them how much they’ve meant to me throughout all my crabyears. Then, I would take the crabliverspotted crabhand of my dear crabwife and I would pass away quietly.

I would scuttle into the great ocean in the sky, ready to face my crabdeathtrials so I could enter crabhalla.

On quiet nights forever more, crabs would hear me whisper encouraging crabwords  to them as they faced great crabdifficulties in their crablives.

And for many crabyears to come, around crabfires under full crabmoons, my story would be told: the Legend of the Crab with the Pinkish Hue.