Medieval HOA:SVU 4 - Loudly Doth He Chew
Another in the continuing if somewhat irregular series
Welcome, friends, to another installment in the Medieval HOA: SVU (Snivelling Vassals Unit) series written with of .
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A Horse is a Resource, Of Course
Good Sir Walrich,
Now that the horse parking and the VIP horse parking are night-on complete, I wonder if this has bubbled upon thine notice: without any hovels in the fief, the peasants are far – far – too visible?
Mayhap, especially once Drowntowne is completed and filled with water-adjacent fetid goo, we should have the slaves build some hovels?
They are sleeping in the horse parking lots, sir. Under the horses. It is unclean. For the horses.
Yours,
Gideon Pucklenuts
A business venture.
Good sirs,
Please forgive my mode of speech. Like a chicken whose beak has a mustache, I am not good at metaphor.
I represent a business that would like to expand to your fief. In short, your peasants would use their own horses and carts to provide rides for one another. They would then pay one another for this service, and you, as the ruling elites, then take a slice of the money exchanged, cutting out, of course, another slice for us.
In this way you would serve as a hotdog upon a helmet.
You may well ask how any of this nonsense could turn a profit. Ha ha! A good question. You are like a fish with a lopsided bosom which is nevertheless oddly stirring.
We are funded by a king of great wealth from a faraway land called Salty Abradia, where he pumps gold out of the ground as though it were a liquid which would respond favorably to pumping. Truly, in terms of luck, his cockerel has met the Lord’s hat-rack.
If you agree, we will defecate upon you. I believe that is the word.
Please let me know as soon as you can. The sun does not abide long in the sky before the footman nods at the crow’s dad.
Ending phrase,
Gorgan Bundtlicker
Man of Stuff
A Kindly Letter
This town has really gone to hell. I miss the old HOA with the usual beheadings. You lot with your discounts and coupons make me sick.
I probably have fifteen kinds of plague. That’s how sick you make me. I can feel it over all the rest.
Sod off back to the forest where you came from you wide-kneed, blotch-faced, stinky livered turd-o-crats. You don’t have the wherewithal to build a respectable ale fart. Your livestock smash their pens to escape your putrid presence.
May God strike you in half and then half again,
Father Thomas Kindly
You Are Looking So Very Good
Attention Garthbrook,
I cannot help but notice that you have recently changed regime. Felicitations!
I have also noticed that you have razed your ramparts and walls for stone to create horse parking. I hear talk that this parking will serve your forthcoming strip mall which is, as I understand it, thus far unplanned and unbuilt. A bold choice to build ample parking first.
Anywizzle, I just thought you might like to know that I and my merry band will be along to kill you sooner rather than later. Walls might have kept us out. I stress “might.”
Looking forward to seeing you and, probably, your innards,
Murderous Viking Lord Scott
P.S. Just to be clear, I am not Scottish. My name is Scott. Murderous Viking Lord Scott.