Friday, September 11, 2009

A Feaster Travels to the Land of Port

In my native province, I had overheard copious banter concerning a famous mead hall in the Land of Port; a legendary hall in which even the most herculean men had fallen prey to the strong spirits and the intoxicating women. As a feaster with a particular appetite for fine ale and a penchant for lascivious adventure, the prospect of a long voyage to a strange land filled me with eager zeal. After proudly sounding the feasting horn, thus rallying my fellow feasters to my side, I quickly chartered a wing-ed chariot destined for the unwitting city that would soon be victimized by our unrelenting ribaldry.

Upon arrival, we found a local inn. I noticed that the proprietor had the mark of the feast, so I calmly explained the purpose of our voyage to him: "Hey man, I was interested in finding the legendary mead hall where I can, like, bang hot chicks." He, being a fellow feaster, gave me a knowing wink and rewarded our zest with a salutary gift basket and the finest suites available. The accommodations were so luxurious that the loins of Bacchus himself would have quivered with coltish mirth at their very sight. Bathed in opulence and scented with decadence, the rooms seemed to call to us, yearning to be vessels of the feast. We would soon oblige, but at the moment, were consumed by another endeavor: the legendary mead hall.

My breathing was lusty and heavy as the crudely hewn oaken doors, groaning under the pressure of my feast paw, opened to reveal a magnificent circus of sin. Standing upon a gilded stage, awash in beams of colorful glory, played a jovial troupe of minstrels. Their string-ed gourds, leers and pan-pipes offered a liquescent melody, a smashing cover of "If Loving You Is Wrong" by Faithless, to which the hoards of revelers undulated hypnotically. Seduced by the sounds, feminine trollops laid languidly across benches—offerings to the feast gods--and tawdry ingénues coquettishly toyed with lumbering oafs. The air was filled with their tittering chirps and their dulcet aroma. The place was an assault on the senses which was made worse by the distracting siren song of the flirtatious young wenches. But I, as a feaster of renown, had seen many battles, and knew exactly how this one would begin.

In stride with my carousing comrades, I stepped up to the bar and ordered the booze steward to appease me with fermented libations. And then we drank. We drank deeply and hungrily. We drank like beasts, the sweet mead streaming down our faces and dripping from our jaws like the blood of a freshly killed fawn. T'was extraordinary drink, the sweet mead in the Land of Port, for it rendered us fierce and barbarian. My eyes gleamed malevolently as I surrendered to the dark triad within. I was ravenous and the hunt had begun. My credo: no fat chicks. Alas, the feast gods have allowed me to sink in the whaling mire in the past. On this eve, my bed would not be strained under the weight of a beluga, but tickled by the feathery delicacy of a naughty minx.

My victim was a fearsome nubile trophy. She contemptuously surveyed the hall while her strip-ed shirt clad, oafish, glad-handing male sentinel stood guard. I watched him speak, "So babe, I just got new mud tires on my 4X4. Why don't we get out of here and I can give you a ride." She entertained his advances. I lurked, like a lion in the night tide high grass, watching her, calculating, awaiting my moment to strike. I had not long to wait, for her strip-ed sentinel adjourned to the water closet. Invoking the lechery of Eros and the insatiable appetite of Bacchus, I pounced! Incidentally, so possessed with the feast was I by this point, that my memory fails me. T'was as if the feast gods themselves used my body as a vehicle for their mischief and mirth. Fortuitously for thou, dear reader, my fellow feasters neatly recall my dastardly exploits.

By displaying my masculine prowess and virility and after much strutting she was nearly made mine. Employing an ancient technique, I rubbed my crotch upon her eager rump, which swung to and fro as a pendulum. The tribal beats of Lil' John and the East Side Boyzzzzz ushered me to success. By this time, her simpleton escort had returned. The stip-ed sentinel, not willing to be party to my evil machination, inquired firmly as to whether or not I would depart, thus leaving him to slay her freely. "HEY BRO!" He bellowed, "The lady said she doesn't want you here. Nobody likes you, BRO. BRO, why don't you just get out of here." His excessive gallantry proved to be his fatal misstep, however. I attacked his vulnerable flanks with a ruthless and coldly composed blitzkrieg of invectives, besmirching him publicly.

"My good man, you are acting like a buffoon. There is more than enough room in this bar for us both,” and then defiantly, albeit childishly, "I am not going ANYWHERE." Like a sad young hound rapped on the nose for the first time, he permitted me, much to his chagrin, to verbally beat him about the ears, all the while losing ground to his sacred prize. She stood stolidly upon the pedestal he constructed for her, impassively smirking as he groveled and groped for her continued approval.

"I said LEAVE, bro!"

What's this? The lady takes my side? Why, of course.

"Chad!" she shouted, "You are being such a jerk!" I let out a celebratory victory howl—an homage to the feast gods. I prepared to lay the beaten carcass of Chad's psyche before them as a sacrifice. But just as I thought he had been beaten to a hasty retreat, the wave of rage, so common amongst strip-ed sentinels in defeat, burst forth.

"FUCK YOU BRO! I'm gonna beat your fucking ass!" The angry gorilla started beating his fat chest. He lurched towards me, his teeth gnashing and his face twisted into a mask of violet rage. I smirked mockingly as he advanced, but he was stopped by his queen, who commanded that he retreat from her presence immediately. He departed with his head bowed in shame, shuffling his Vintage Wolverine Boots across the floor sullenly.

The minstrels struck a merry tune (a lively ballad by Warren Zevon) to celebrate my victory, and the entire bar rejoiced. The nubile young lass I had conquered took her rightful place at my side, slightly behind me of course, as my feast queen. The greatest bard in all the Land of Port wrote an epic poem in remembrance of my heroism and strength. As Feast King, I requested an audience with the booze steward to collect a reward, but he was not wont to provide me complimentary libations. Unbeknownst to him, I helped myself to the wares of the mead hall by pilfering two immense flagons of spirits.....a classy bottle of Fire God jalapeño flavored tequila and a half-handle of Canadian Hunter. My nubile slattern trembled with orgasmic ecstasy upon witnessing my theft, delighted by the promise of danger. With her loins ablaze, she begged to accompany me to my lair. I obliged.

By Jove, what ensued was good, old boy, rattling good! With my fellow feasters but a stone's throw away, separated from my smoldering romance by naught but a door, I laid waste to the holy of holies. The fury and power, sweat and screams, and carnal delight reached its zenith, pausing for a moment, just a brief instant, before bursting to the summit. I bellowed deeply like a beast from the beyond as my queen shrieked in accompaniment. Energized by my conquest, I leaped from the crumpled sheets and grabbed the gift basket, which happened to be filled with condoms that the sage hotel proprietor had left for me. I scrambled to the door, and with my mighty foot, kicked it open, sending my colleagues, who had sat with ears pressed, sprawling across the room. Ethereal smoke and trumpeting heralded my entrance as I stood over the threshold, naked and powerful, basking in triumph. "FEAAAAAAAST!" I yelled. I saw that my companions had not yet seduced their wenches, and therefore took it upon myself to ignite the flames of the feast torch. Like a spritely wood nymph celebrating the solstice, I frolicked mirthfully, one armed crooked to hold my basket of contraceptives, the other tossing condoms as though they were petals from the most vibrant flowers.

The Land of Port is ripe with feast.

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