You and Your Cronies

The mob is the mother of Tyrants ~ Diogenes (or so the internet claims)

A dramatic re-telling of the battle of the true champion versus the pretender to the throne of excellence, as told by Trevor Record.

The valiant Sir Trevor Record of Burnaby, knight-errant of good taste and virtue, boldly strode through the vast misty bog of the Internets on his fierce black stallion. Where he trod holy fires spewed forth from the ground, and cowards and knaves alike fled as he approached. The very air, digital though it was, quivered with the magnificence of his presence. As I recall, there were also fireworks when he smiled and thunderstorms when he frowned. Through the hazy fog of the marsh he spied the shimmering phantom of St. Evans the Wise.

"Who goes there?" boomed the mighty Sir Trevor.

"It is I, the heavenly Evans of Pennsylvania, chooser of quality." The revered saint called out through the mists, "I have come to send you on a quest most urgent, oh worthy knight."

"Speak quickly then, specter!" Sir Trevor demanded, "and I shall determine if your task has any merit."

"Brave Sir Trevor, a great evil has tricked a great number of peons into electing her as their 'champion'. She has spread sordid lies about women who transform into wolves to appeal to the vulgar values of the naive commoner. This villain goes by the name Jaye Wells, and I would have you vanquish her."

"What nonsense!" cried the noble Sir Trevor, "A champion is not chosen by the people, a people are chosen by a champion."

"If she is not dealt with, people might choose for themselves what they think is good. She must be stopped, lest the glory those chosen for greatness be questioned." continued the phantom, "Seek out this menace to the east and stop her at any cost. Take this mighty quill and write up an untimely demise for the scoundrel Wells!"

A pale arm emerged from the swamp holding a priceless writing quill made from a feather of the legendary Thunderbird (which was extra rare ever since most of its furniture stores had closed down in the early 90s and it had taken to drinking). The noble Sir Trevor plucked the terrible pen from this mysterious rotting arm - the owner of which cried out "hey, give that back" in surprise - and held it aloft. He shouted to the heavens, or possibly the Ghost of Jason Evans and the zombie whose rotting detached hand was still gripping the pen:

"With this most divine of writing utensils, I scrawl thine doom in blood across the tattered pages of fate, Jaye Wells!"

**************

Intrepid Sir Trevor Record of Burnaby journeyed onward toward the den of Jaye Wells, imprisoner of the human spirit. As the sun began to set he came upon a fork in the path through the bog, where stood a burly, hairy man on a white steed. As he approached, the man called out:

"I am Sean, Duke of Ferrell. I have heard of your quest and wish to join you, brother. The road ahead is perilous and the demon Wells is as crafty as it is villainous. You will find my abilities second only to your own."

"I need no assistance in dealing with this menace, good sir." replied noble Record, "But if you could point out which path I should follow in my journey, I would be in much your debt."

"Ah, friend, I can do more than this for you." the hairy Duke of Ferrell offered, "From here the path becomes a labyrinth, and it is easy to lose one's way. If you so wish, I can accompany you and show the path to Jaye Wells' den of debauchery."

"I shall not attempt to stop you. It is a land of freedom, or so it shall be as long as power rest in my hands rather than the scaly talons of Jaye Wells."

And so Sean the suspiciously fur-covered led Sir Trevor the pleasant-looking through a winding, overgrown path. And just as the sun finished setting, they found themselves at the mouth of a massive cave. Strewn about the ground were the bones of innumerable animals and humans that looked as though they had been chewed upon by a dog.

"The way to the blasphemous Wells is through this cave, Sir Trevor." growled Sean, Duke of Ferrell, who had a string of drool hanging from his gaping mouth, "You can take the lead, good knight."

"What manner of treachery is this?" said valorous Sir Trevor Record, who was also several other good things that basically mean 'brave' I can not think of at the moment, "Clearly you think me a fool. Did you think I hadn't noticed you sprouted a canine's tail and ears as soon as the full moon showed itself?"

Sean, who had by this point almost finished transforming into a werewolf, fell off his steed and clawed at it as it fled, whinnying. He turned to the courageous (oh, that is a good one, see - I'm not out of bravery synonyms) Sir Trevor, let out a howl, and leapt. But peerless Sir Trevor, who was already one step ahead, pulled his mighty quill from its sheath and held it out towards Sean. The lycanthrope Sean bounced off Sir Trevor's gauntleted quill hand and fell to the ground, his attack impotent.

"Arrggg! A magic feather pen!" snarled Sean, "How did you know my only vulnerability?"

Mighty Sir Trevor said nothing as he strode to the cowering traitor Sean and began to write him out of the story. He started with the legs and arms, so that the werewolf might watch as his character disappeared from the narrative. Even though he is a champion of good and valour, Sir Trevor has a sick sense of humor and a twisted idea of what justice means.

"If I could have one last wish," cried the wolf man Sean just as his mouth was being edited out of existence, "it would be that I was invulnerable to supernatural quills!"

***************

"Bring me more blood," screamed the tyrant Jaye Wells from atop a throne of skulls, "I must quench my unholy thirst for the life force of innocents."

"I beg of you, please reconsider comrade Wells," pleaded her groveling servant, "the only innocent we have left in the castle is my precious daughter. "

"You don't say," cackled Wells, the dictator of the proletariat, "bring her to me, I like my blood --"

But before Wells could finish, she heard a loud crash from the entrance of her castle of terror, which was in the process of renovations. Since it was a time share, the previous month it had been a princess dream castle and was still hot pink in some rooms.

"Drooling College Pro morons, what have they done now?" Grumbled Wells, "Guards, bring me the heads of those inbred baboons at once!"

Her guards, decked in leather straps and rubber gags, rushed down the staircase to the entrance. She heard several loud clattering noises, and shouting. Her guards ran back up the stairs along with the College Pro workers, screaming and crying like children. There was trouble, it was written on their faces. "Jaye Wells, you are in trouble", had been written on across their foreheads in what she could only hope was red ink.

"What the hell is the meaning of this?" Jaye screamed at her whimpering guards and minimum-wage paid college morons.

But before they could answer, she noticed Sir Trevor Record ascended the stairs and was posing dramatically in his saddle (he had refused to dismount despite the protest of the College Pro painters just moments before). Creepy organ music played and an extreme close-up of both Jaye and Sir Trevor's scowling faces was shown. Lightning struck and thunder roared through the halls of the dream castle of terror. I think there may have been a brief commercial break at this point.

"Y-you!" said a visibly terrified Jaye Wells, "I-I thought that werewolf I sent out would have finished you off."

"Don't you know I'm more than a match for ridiculous supernatural beings, fiend?" Sir Trevor laughed, "I shall best you in a duel of wits, scoundrel, and restore my place as the unchallenged champion and hero of this land."

"Hero?" Ask Jaye as she drew a pathetic chicken feather quill from its sheath, "Actually, you're kind of a jerk, that's why they all voted me in as their champion. Even though I'm a black-hearted vampire, they would rather have me than you. My stories are way more accessible, and I don't spend two weeks singing praises for myself after a relatively minor amount of recognition."

"I've had just about enough of your godless communist egalitarian foolishness of encouraging people to choose what is good democratically!" said Sir Trevor, "Good writing is the sort of thing that should be forced down the commoner's throat involuntarily. It should make them feel ashamed for their terrible taste in literature. Why, if we allowed the unwashed masses to choose what was good without responding with a condescending sneer, who knows the absurd consequences we might face. The books we demand they recognize as "good" would sit dusty on shelves, our nation's hedonistic homosexuals and upper-class alcoholics would be out of work. Women and men would be named national treasures for writing nonsense tales of secret society conspiracy theories or boarding schools for devil worshipers!"

With that Sir Trevor jumped from the saddle of his horse, which he had ridden into the castle for this reason alone, and struck down Jaye Wells with a powerful string of cursive from his pen.

"Do your worst," said Wells, wounded by the brutal onslaught of prose, "you can finish me off, but in my place another will come. And then another!"

"What insolence!" said Sir Trevor, “Do you think me a quitter? Do you doubt that I will hesitate to hunt down each and every writer that comes after you to put them in their place? Do you really think that I have anything better to do?"

And with that he lifted his quill above his head to let out one final, deadly sting of expletives and imagery. But just as his pen came down, the daughter of Jaye Wells' slave leapt out to intercept the blow.

"No! What Have I done?" cried Sir Trevor.

"*hack*...Mommy..." Coughed the little girl, "Why do I *hack-hack* taste pulp? This pulp... It tastes a bit *hack-shameless-hack* stale."

"Pulp? Stale???" Asked Sir Trevor, "What are you trying to say, little girl? And what do you mean by 'hack', are you coughing or trying to make fun of me?"

"Well, your stories do tend to be a bit much, Sir Trevor." Said Jaye Wells, enemy of mankind's eternal soul, "And I don't know if I would call them good or original so much as just really, really weird."

Sir Trevor, gallant knight-errant and generally great all-around guy considered this for a moment.

"In the interest of tolerance," He finally said after an awkward extended silence, "And in memory of this little bitc- er- darling little girl who I accidentally felled with the awesome might of my majestic penmanship, I propose a cease-fire. But only under the condition that you stop tormenting the innocent and draining the life source of the meek and poor."

"Agreed, but under the condition that you stop writing about yourself in the third-person" offered Wells, crusher of adorable puppies and kittens.

I accepted her counter-offer. Then I apologized for riding a horse into her timeshare castle, since it had by this point defecated on her Persian rug. Which was already stained with the blood of countless infants and priests, I might add. After another uncomfortable silence I excused myself, muttering under my breath. Ah, yes, muttering good things about our new friendship, of course.