Russel sat down at a round, wooden table a legs length from the bar. Judging a legs length can be tricky and highly variable, but in this case there was a severed leg lying from the table to the bar. Russel nudged it aside with the tip of his boot.
Russel was a general. The kind of general whose voice could be heard miles away even when he whispered. Across the table sat Neil. Neil was a journalist. The kind of journalist whose written word was more often than not lost on the largely illiterate Roman population.
Russel cleared his throat. The table shook. "So you think my wifeīs been cheating on me?"
Nail sank. First a small wad of spit, then deep into his chair. "No-o-o-o .... but your wife has given birth to three children while you were away at war."
"So?"
"Shall I just write īImmaculate conceptionī?" Neil fumbled with his hammer, chisel and large slab of rock.
"Look. Itīs really quite simple ... " Russels eye caught hold af the sign over the bar. It caught hold and tried to wrench it down.
"Try Hop-Light. The ale with fewer body-parts."
"Thatīs not funny," he said without moving his lips. He ground his teeth. Neil plugged his ears.
"Thatīs NOT funny!" he said aloud. The bar fell silent.
"Hey! Pipe down!" the bartender yelled.
"Your sign!"
"Ah? Would you like a Hop-Light?"
"No. I want you to take down that sign ... "
"Oh?"
" ... eat it ..."
"Aha."
" ... crap splinters ... "
"I see."
" ... and die ... "
"I donīt want any trouble from the likes of you."
"Iīll bet."
"Which is why Iīve hired gladiators as bouncers. Timmy, will you handle this?"
An 8-foot, bald gladiator stood up. In one hand he held what looked like a small knife, but as he got closer it turned out to be a 3-foot scimitar. A scar ran from shoulder to shoulder and if it could run any faster it would probably have tried to escape his chest altogether. Benath the scar lurched pectorals as big as beach balls; Russel was at eye-level with them. He squinted at the scar. It wasnīt a scar at all. It was writing. Russel tried reading it.
"Is that Genesis?"
"Yes," replied Timmy surprised
"All of Genesis?"
"Yup. Iīve got Exodus on my back." He turned and displayed the entire Exodus written in one line on his back shoulder to shoulder.
"Impressive ... " mumbled Russel. "Shouldnīt you be out wrestling lions or something?"
Timmy opened his other hand and revealed a large lump og bloody fur and bones.
"He he," said Russel. "Nice lion."
"No, it wasnīt. It tried to bite me! Bad lion!"
"Look. Have a drink on me."
"A Hop-Light?"
"Yessssss," gritted Russel
"Less filling, you know."
"Iīm sure thatīs important to you."
Timmy strode back to the bar and Russel sat down.
"Whatīs with the ... uh ... " Neil pointed to the sign.
"Those greek phallus-carriers killed three of my best horses."
"You mean phalanx-carriers."
"Really? Do I?" If sarcasm was a sword, Neils slab of rock would surely have split. "Why do you think greeks, of all people, carry these abnormally long phallic symbols?"
"Because the have very large ... "
"Wrong!!!"
"Oh ... "
"Exactly! Quite the opposite. Same as bartenders hiring huge (Russel decided to pick his words with care) men as bouncers."
"Letīs get back on your wife. TO your wife! Sīcuse me ... She gets pregnant while youīre away."
"Iīm always on the battlefield. Occasionally, I go to my tent and hehehe, you know."
"Iīm really too terrified to guess."
"Pull out the old fertility stick."
"O ... kay ... "
"Then I fill a vial with hehehe, you know."
"I assure you I have no idea."
"With baby-batter."
"Ugh ... "
"Then I send it to my wife."
"By pigeon?"
"Are you an idiot? A pigeon could never carry that heavy a load."
"Load." Neil was chiseling away.
"We use storks."
Neil stopped. "Storks? Storks bring babies to your family?"
"Uh-huh."
"This is going to be difficult to explain to the children. Or maybe itīs going to be very easy.... Thank you, general."
"My pleasure. Does your expense account cover this?"
"But of course."
"See you in the funnies, then."
"Actually our news-slab doesnīt have ... "
Russel was out of ear-shot. But boy did Neil have a great story. One that would be told for generations. As unbelievable as it may be.
Russel was a general. The kind of general whose voice could be heard miles away even when he whispered. Across the table sat Neil. Neil was a journalist. The kind of journalist whose written word was more often than not lost on the largely illiterate Roman population.
Russel cleared his throat. The table shook. "So you think my wifeīs been cheating on me?"
Nail sank. First a small wad of spit, then deep into his chair. "No-o-o-o .... but your wife has given birth to three children while you were away at war."
"So?"
"Shall I just write īImmaculate conceptionī?" Neil fumbled with his hammer, chisel and large slab of rock.
"Look. Itīs really quite simple ... " Russels eye caught hold af the sign over the bar. It caught hold and tried to wrench it down.
"Try Hop-Light. The ale with fewer body-parts."
"Thatīs not funny," he said without moving his lips. He ground his teeth. Neil plugged his ears.
"Thatīs NOT funny!" he said aloud. The bar fell silent.
"Hey! Pipe down!" the bartender yelled.
"Your sign!"
"Ah? Would you like a Hop-Light?"
"No. I want you to take down that sign ... "
"Oh?"
" ... eat it ..."
"Aha."
" ... crap splinters ... "
"I see."
" ... and die ... "
"I donīt want any trouble from the likes of you."
"Iīll bet."
"Which is why Iīve hired gladiators as bouncers. Timmy, will you handle this?"
An 8-foot, bald gladiator stood up. In one hand he held what looked like a small knife, but as he got closer it turned out to be a 3-foot scimitar. A scar ran from shoulder to shoulder and if it could run any faster it would probably have tried to escape his chest altogether. Benath the scar lurched pectorals as big as beach balls; Russel was at eye-level with them. He squinted at the scar. It wasnīt a scar at all. It was writing. Russel tried reading it.
"Is that Genesis?"
"Yes," replied Timmy surprised
"All of Genesis?"
"Yup. Iīve got Exodus on my back." He turned and displayed the entire Exodus written in one line on his back shoulder to shoulder.
"Impressive ... " mumbled Russel. "Shouldnīt you be out wrestling lions or something?"
Timmy opened his other hand and revealed a large lump og bloody fur and bones.
"He he," said Russel. "Nice lion."
"No, it wasnīt. It tried to bite me! Bad lion!"
"Look. Have a drink on me."
"A Hop-Light?"
"Yessssss," gritted Russel
"Less filling, you know."
"Iīm sure thatīs important to you."
Timmy strode back to the bar and Russel sat down.
"Whatīs with the ... uh ... " Neil pointed to the sign.
"Those greek phallus-carriers killed three of my best horses."
"You mean phalanx-carriers."
"Really? Do I?" If sarcasm was a sword, Neils slab of rock would surely have split. "Why do you think greeks, of all people, carry these abnormally long phallic symbols?"
"Because the have very large ... "
"Wrong!!!"
"Oh ... "
"Exactly! Quite the opposite. Same as bartenders hiring huge (Russel decided to pick his words with care) men as bouncers."
"Letīs get back on your wife. TO your wife! Sīcuse me ... She gets pregnant while youīre away."
"Iīm always on the battlefield. Occasionally, I go to my tent and hehehe, you know."
"Iīm really too terrified to guess."
"Pull out the old fertility stick."
"O ... kay ... "
"Then I fill a vial with hehehe, you know."
"I assure you I have no idea."
"With baby-batter."
"Ugh ... "
"Then I send it to my wife."
"By pigeon?"
"Are you an idiot? A pigeon could never carry that heavy a load."
"Load." Neil was chiseling away.
"We use storks."
Neil stopped. "Storks? Storks bring babies to your family?"
"Uh-huh."
"This is going to be difficult to explain to the children. Or maybe itīs going to be very easy.... Thank you, general."
"My pleasure. Does your expense account cover this?"
"But of course."
"See you in the funnies, then."
"Actually our news-slab doesnīt have ... "
Russel was out of ear-shot. But boy did Neil have a great story. One that would be told for generations. As unbelievable as it may be.
[This message has been edited by Lordamighty (edited 01-24-2011 @ 03:38 PM).]