Madness & Mayhem: 23 Tales of Horror and Humor

by James Aquilone

  The accused man nodded.

  The king motioned to his Minister of Honesty. The old man crept forward like a caterpillar. The M-of-H, as he was commonly called, detected untruths better than a fly detected excrement. It wasn’t known how he came upon his powers, but they were unquestionable. Therefore, all of the accused told the truth, and as a consequence, all said rather nasty things about the king’s poems. For all his love of poetry, King Rokenfort was an awful versifier. Sadly, passion doesn’t always equal talent.

  The M-of-H stood before the defendant and bore into his eyes.

  The king leaned forward, smiled thinly. “So, dear subject, what didst thou think of mine poem?”

  The defendant rubbed his legs. He twitched. He glanced at the M-of-H. The minister narrowed his colorless eyes. Some people say it is that lack of color that gives the M-of-H his power, that his eyes see more clearly. “Your Majesty,” the defendant said, “I found the poem to be—” He coughed into his fist. “I thought the poem in question was...oh, boy...” Then the words came tumbling out. “I thought the poem was amateurish and cliché. The imagery was awkward and juvenile. The rhymes were predictable, and I didn’t understand how a wheelbarrow could be like a frog.”

  It wasn’t often the king received such an articulate critique, but it also wasn’t often that he had a doctor of letters in his court.

  “Enough!” the king shouted, raising his hand. “I have a verdict reached.” The king inhaled, stuck out his chest, and said, “I, the King of Song, find you guilty of poaching—as well as hating poetry! I sentence thee to death by hanging. May God have mercy on your illiterate soul.”

  Three guards grabbed the man, who was now weeping, and carried him back to the dungeon. He was the sixth person sentenced to death that day.

  “Is the entire kingdom with hard-headed cretins filled?” the king asked, dropping back onto his throne. “Do any of mine subjects have taste? I almost pity them for their inability to appreciate good verse. This is the best poem ever I have penned.” He was correct. It was the best poem he had ever written. And yet it was still an insult to wordsmithery.

  The next defendant was brought before the king. It was Kilgore. He was not a man of letters. In fact, the only thing he had ever read was the Bible, and that only because he was severely beaten.

  Kilgore was given the parchment. He read it and returned it to the advisor.

  “And what didst thou think of mine poem?” the king asked in a bored voice.

  The guards stood ready. The M-of-H stared into Kilgore’s eyes. The king sat with a pinched expression on his face, waiting to pass another death sentence.

  “Your Majesty, I cannot lie,” Kilgore said in a bright and loud voice. “I thought your poem was swell!”

  All eyes were on the M-of-H. The old man squinted at Kilgore, cocked his head to the left and then to the right, he leaned forward and studied Kilgore’s face from every possible angle. He turned to the king and joyously shouted: “The accused is telling the truth! He truly enjoyed the poem!”

  The court erupted in applause. The king sprang off his throne. “Huzzah!” he shouted.

  “I found your poem beautiful and eloquent,” Kilgore continued. “My heart burned with joy and sorrow upon reading your words.”

  The king placed his hand over his own heart and beamed like a new bride. Then he did a little jig. When he returned to his senses, he said in a choked-up voice: “Kilgore Birch, you stand accused of theft. I, the King of Song, find you innocent.”

  Kilgore bowed. “Thank you, Your Majesty. It really was a fine poem.”

  When Kilgore got home, Martha said, between sobs: “How did you trick the M-of-H? No one has ever tricked that old codger.”

  Kilgore looked confused. “I didn’t trick him at all. I sincerely enjoyed the poem.”

  Martha’s eyes grew wide. “Phaa! You have no taste, Kilgore! You never did.”

  He grabbed his wife and held her tight. “That is not true,” he said. “I married the most beautiful woman in Song, did I not?”

  Martha smiled. It was a hideous smile, full of crooked and black teeth. It didn’t look much like a smile at all but an expression one gets while sucking on a lemon. Truth be told, Kilgore’s wife was as beautiful as a sickly toad. His taste in women was no better than his taste in poetry.

  “That’s all well and good and I’m glad you’re alive,” Martha said, “but we have nothing for supper. I heard they’re looking for a new stablehand in the next village.”

  “Let’s not rush to that,” Kilgore said. “I’ll figure something out.”

  That night they went to bed hungry, as they did most nights. But Kilgore stayed awake and thought and thought and thought. Just before drifting off to sleep, an idea came to him.

  In the morning, Kilgore was sitting at the kitchen table when he heard Martha wake up and call him in a shocked voice. He never awoke before Martha. Most mornings she had to beat him with a broom handle to get him out of bed.

  “Are you ill, Kilgore?” Martha shouted.

  Kilgore grunted in reply.

  “Well, I hope you’re not hungry, because I have nothing to fix for breakfast,” she said as she shuffled out of the bedroom. It was true. Their lone cow died a week ago. The chickens hadn’t hatched any eggs in two weeks. There was no bread in the larder, and meat was a distant memory. Kilgore hadn’t had a decent breakfast in weeks.

  When Martha entered the kitchen, she rubbed her sleepy eyes in disbelief and exclaimed, “Kilgore, you rotten thief!”

  He grinned, popped a devilled egg into his mouth, and then swept his arms over the table, which was overflowing with food: roast duck, fresh cream, steaming loaves of bread, apples, figs, pea soup…

  Martha sat down and hurriedly filled her plate. As she sucked the meat off a chicken bone, she said, “No good will come of this,” and then began on the roast duck.

  Seconds after he took the last sip of pea soup, there was a loud knock on the door. It was the king’s guards. They arrested Kilgore.

  After a brief stay in the dungeon, he was brought before King Rokenfort.

  “Didst thou read mine new poem? I penned it yesternight.”

  “I have, Your Majesty.”

  “And what is thine opinion?”

  “I found it better than the last. Your Majesty has outdone himself!”

  The M-of-H nodded his approval to the king.

  The king threw his arms up over his head and laughed in triumph. He seemed relieved. A tanner, a fool, and a scullery maid had already been executed for detesting the king’s latest work, an ode to chamber pots.

  “You do me honor, fellow,” the king said. “I find thee innocent of all charges.”

  When Kilgore returned home, Martha threw her arms around him. “Escaped twice!” she exclaimed. “You must have the worst taste in the world.” Her ugly face burned with joy, though you probably couldn’t tell; it was filled with so many warts and wrinkles.

  “I’m famished,” Kilgore said. “Give me supper.”

  “There’s nothing left. I ate it all after you had gone. I was filled with such grief.”

  “Never mind. We will never go hungry again.”

  Kilgore immediately left the house and stole two cows, three chickens, a goat, and a barrel of pickles. He barely had time to finish three of the pickles before he was arrested again. It was a mere formality. After declaring the king’s latest poem “a tour de force,” Kilgore was allowed to keep his “possessions.”

  Over the next several months, Kilgore stole two dozen horses, four chests of gold, and three diamond rings for Martha. He was arrested each time and each time found innocent of all charges. He saw no fault with any of the king’s poems (even the one comparing his love to a well-seasoned ham). In fact, it seemed to Kilgore that they were improving. Of course, all the other defendants in Song despised them and were, consequently, executed.

  Though Kilgore was now one of the richest men in the land, he wasn’t satisfied. One morning, h
e awoke early (well before Martha) and stole the entire Kingdom of Song. He did this by breaking into the Hall of Records, crossing out the names on every land grant, and entering his own.

  The next day Kilgore was arrested for fraud and brought before King Rokenfort. Usually when Kilgore was arrested, the monarch was overjoyed. This time he looked like a defendant puzzling over one of the king’s metaphors.

  “I am afraid I have run out of poems,” the king said, and shrugged in apology. “Thou hast read everything I have ever written. Therefore, I have no choice but to execute thee.”

  Kilgore was locked in the dungeon to await his execution, via decapitation, the next morning. While lying in his cell, he thought and thought and thought.

  In the morning, he was brought to a wooden platform in the center of town. On the platform were a block of scarred wood and a hooded executioner with a large axe resting on his shoulder. As Kilgore mounted the stairs, Martha broke free from the crowd of spectators and embraced her husband. “Oh, Kilgore,” she said, her hideous face streaked with tears, “you finally did it, you dumb scamp! Now what will I do?” Kilgore kissed her on the cheek (though it was actually a wart that his lips touched) and then gently pushed her back into the crowd.

  A guard led Kilgore to the block of wood. King Rokenfort rose from his palanquin and joined his only admirer on the platform.

  “Any last words?” the king asked.

  “Actually, I have a request.”

  “Certainly.”

  “I have written my own poem. I ask to be judged on that.”

  The king thought for a moment and then said, “Very well.”

  From his back pocket, Kilgore removed the poem, which he had written moments after awaking that morning, and handed it to King Rokenfort. The crowd watched in dreadful silence as he read. Martha hid her head in her armpit from nerves. Kilgore whistled tunelessly.

  When the king finished, he crumpled the paper into a ball and said, “That was the most artless, baseless, and horrid poem I have ever read. It was an insult to the parchment upon which it was written.” And it was.

  Kilgore threw out his chest and, in his most impressive voice, said, “Seize that man!” And they did. After all, only a godless, cretinous malefactor would speak so harshly of a poem.

  King Rokenfort was immediately beheaded in Kilgore’s place, and Kilgore was given the throne of Song. Martha did a little jig in celebration, though it looked more like someone angrily stomping grapes.

  Kilgore’s first act as king was to abolish the absurd practice of trial by poetry criticism. Thereafter, the subjects of Song were allowed to love and hate poetry without fear of execution. In Kilgore’s opinion, there was something more true and beautiful than even poetry, God’s truly greatest gift to the world. From that day forth, guilt or innocence in Song would be determined by the defendant’s opinion of Queen Martha’s beauty.

  Princess or Poison

  (Originally published in Allegory magazine)

  The knight defeated them all…the dark wizards, the axe-wielding dwarves, the dwarf-wielding giants, the berserker orcs, and the krakens—even the one with three heads. It wasn’t difficult. He would merely swing his sword and limbs would separate from bodies, heads would pop off their respective necks, and bodies would drop to the ground. He was pretty sure the basilisk had a heart attack before he even touched it.

  They came in waves to Shadowmere after hearing of the knight’s newfound invincibility and all paid the price for their foolishness.

  Now he sat on the western shore, bodies littering the beach, and wept. Soon a fool traipsed through the killing field. “Would you mind if I rummage for a pair of shoes, sir?” he said. “Mine are terribly worn.”

  “Take anything you want,” the knight said. “I am not looking for spoils.”

  As the fool slipped off a pair of boots from a fallen wizard, he said, “Why do you weep, sir? Have you lost a comrade on the battlefield?”

  The knight wiped his wet eyes. “Nay. I weep for myself. I cannot lose in battle.”

  “Is that not a boon?” the fool said. “I know many a man who would beg to be in your shoes. I wouldn’t mind myself. They seem a good fit.”

  “You are a fool,” the knight said. “The witch who enchanted me also cursed me. Life is now dull and without challenge. Victory was much sweeter when it was tempered with the occasional defeat. But I cannot lose now even if I tried.”

  “There is an easy fix, sir. Get the witch to un-enchant you and return you to your former state.”

  “Fool, fool, fool. And give up invincibility?”

  The fool walked in a circle, trying out his new boots. The bells on his cap jangled. “What if you fought on another field?” he said.

  “I have fought on every battlefield in Shadowmere and I have been victorious on every one.”

  “No, sir. Not a battlefield. I mean an entirely different field.”

  “Ah, I could fight in the marketplace, perhaps. But I do not think it wise.”

  “No. The field of love, sir. The ’chantment would have no dominion over you there. You could lose in the field of love and win on the field of war. You will have balance then. You are out of true, sir. That is why you are without joy.”

  “It will never work. Who wouldn’t love an invincible knight? I am doomed.”

  “But there is a princess….” The fool removed a ring from a dead giant’s finger and pocketed it. “She has been ’chanted too. She cannot love.”

  The knight leapt up. “I must find her! It has been so long since I have known defeat. I crave it as a bee craves honey.”

  “Go then to the Kingdom of Mora.”

  When the knight arrived at the castle of Mora, he was led directly to the king. Immediately he made his desire known. “I am here to take your daughter’s hand in marriage, Your Majesty. I am prepared to face whatever challenges you set before me. Fire, ice, torture, three-headed krakens—”

  The king held up his hand, halting the knight’s speech. He said, “There will be none of that. You will have only one challenge to face if you want my daughter’s hand: her consent. Receive that and you shall be wed.”

  “I accept the challenge.”

  “Then promise me this, foolish knight: If you do marry, please, do not return her to me.”

  He was brought into the garden, where the princess was sitting upon a stool. She wore a white dress and a black rose in her crimson hair, which flickered in the breeze like candle flame.

  She did not look up as he approached. Instead she busied herself by plucking the petals off a daisy.

  “I am here to—” he began, but the princess interrupted him.

  “Scram, oaf!” She spat, and plucked the final petal from the daisy, discarded it, uprooted another, and began the process anew.

  “I do not wish to leave, my lady.”

  “Very well,” she said, and then placed the daisy on the ground, picked up a stone, and hurled it at him. It bounced off his cheek, leaving neither bruise nor scratch. The knight snickered. This irritated the princess further. “Perhaps I didn’t throw it hard enough,” she said, and launched another stone. This one struck him in the forehead. He did not flinch. Her emerald eyes burned like a dragon’s and a frustrated scream burst from her throat.

  As she bent for another, larger, stone, he said, “Like you, I am enchanted. I cannot be defeated in battle, I cannot be physically harmed. Hurl as many stones as you like—” And before he could finish, she was standing before him hurling all manner of objects in his direction. The stool burst against his ribs. A wicker basket grazed his ear. Finally she pulled the black rose from her hair and flicked that at him, too, perhaps hoping a thorn would draw blood. It did not.

  She stood before the knight, her chest heaving, her face red as blood. “You weren’t lying?”

  “That is why I am here, princess. I tire of the staleness of victory. I desire the rush of defeat. As you cannot love, you can frustrate my success in the field of love. You will
give me balance and thus fulfillment.”

  The princess raised her eyebrows, thought on his words, and then said, “You don’t sound awfully bright.” She picked up her daisy. “So you want me to hate you?” she asked, her eyes fixed on her hands as she dissected the flower.

  “Aye,” he said. “With all your callous heart.”

  A wicked grin blossomed on her face.

  Their union was officiated a fortnight later. They moved into a castle in Northern Mora, which the princess thought too small, too drafty and too far from anything of interest. Nothing pleased her. Yet the knight never tired of trying. He brought her flowers, which she would immediately stomp on; he sang her songs, which she would laugh at; he gave her jewels, which she would lock away in a chest. He even returned to the battlefield in an effort to impress her. It was all for naught. His magnificent and numerous victories never so much as elicited a smirk. Often she was seen yawning as he would decapitate an ogre or wrestle a dragon into submission. “If it wasn’t for your ’chantment,” she was fond of saying, “you would’ve been dead a long time ago.”

  The princess had defeated the knight. His life was now balanced, perfectly: victory on the battlefield, defeat at home.

  His satisfaction, however, was brief.

  The more he lost the more he desired victory and the princess’s impossible love.

  Perhaps it was pride or his competitive spirit.

  Perhaps it was the monotony of losing. Constant losing, he discovered, was just as dull as constant winning.

  Perhaps it was her beauty. She was exceedingly beautiful.

  But most likely it was because he had fallen in love with the heartless thing.

  One morning he poured out his heart to the princess.