And so I shall continue to recount my recent brush with death. For reference, when we last left off, I was explaining why I wasn't wearing clothing.
I had found myself inside of an inn and was explaining to a serving woman why I was naked. She seemed skeptical and, after completing my tale, she asked, "So a big'ol owl spoke to you? I find that hard to believe." She had ignored everything I had said and remained transfixed upon the rather minute detail of a giant, talking owl. I responded in the affirmative, "Yes, an owl communed with me." She nodded in assent, as if she were trying to comprehend that one, insignificant detail, and then asked me what happened afterward. I had just told her. In fact, I had spent quite a bit of time outlining my tale in detail, I was not about to repeat it. My blood, it was boiling. As my rage was about to spill over a giant crash sounded above my head. I dove to my right to avoid whatever was coming. A metal protrusion careened into the inn and lodged itself in the chest of the dense waitress. It was a uniform beam and appeared to be made of a tempered metal. It was a light brown color with a golden hue, except where it had penetrated the waitress. There the color only showed thick red streaks.
Before the moment had passed, the beam was hoisted back up through the ceiling. It was evidently still attached to some sort of mass on the other end. "What in the fuck?" quoth I. The waitress, who had since slid from the protrusion, collapsed into a rather vulgar heap of gore and proceeded to bleed copiously onto the ground. Panic had descended upon the patrons of the inn, they milled about running nowhere in particular. Where can one truly go when waitresses are being impaled upon the end of unknown protrusions?
The woman's death was untimely if not for any other reason than I was still in the nude and generally bewildered. I would like to take this opportunity to state that I have no issues with the human form, male or female. My immediate nudity was more a pragmatic concern. I feared scalding, tripping upon intrusive objects, small cuts, and a vast miscellanea of other problems that may befall a naked man. I was not about to rob the corpse of the waitress for her smock, which was soiled in blood and other varieties of detritus native to the floors of inns. I have tempted fate, but I was not about to tempt a urinary tract infection. My solution was to turn about and tear the curtains from the inns fixture. I wrapped the curtain about my waist and then peered out of the window. The curtain featured an antiquated floral pattern that I, in other circumstances, would have been rather ashamed of wearing, but the situation was dire. For beyond the approach of the inn stood a gargantuan metallic hulk, treading about, stomping upon things that apparently deserved stomping. I immediately attributed the death of the waitress to the machine; an apt judgement on my part.
The vessel was clearly not suited to be roaming the countryside. It's legs terminated in a point which sank deep into the soil. It evidently utilized a power-source that output tremendous amounts of energy for any ox of that size with hooves that small would sink into the ground, its muscles unable to budge the body. To even consider an ox the size of this vessel was quite ridiculous. Indeed, it appeared that several oxen could be comfortably housed inside of the hulk. The concept of an ox that could store other oxen inside of it is simply too strange of an idea to fully grasp. This machine was nothing like an ox, I was not even sure how my mind had begun to arbitrarily assign size units that corresponded to the average size of an ox. There was clearly a more pressing issue at hand, namely the metallic hulk, and to a lesser extent the floral-pattern tunic that I had clad my midriff in. I could feel the fabric emasculating me by the second, sapping me of my essential manhood.
As I pondered the nature of oxen and gender roles, the people in the bedding-establishment (I would rather not call it an "inn" for the sake of cadence in my sentence) had not ceased in their panic. They were invoking various deities to come to their aid or to send a savior. In the past I had styled myself as a "savior" so I looked from the window and volunteered my aid. I am not often forthcoming with my help, but in this case, destitute and barely clothed, I felt it would be prudent to establish goodwill with the patrons of the inn. A couple who had been cowering behind a table sneered and accused me of falsely declaring myself a hero. I don't think they meant that I was a coward, but they were certainly in disbelief that this man standing before them was capable of any feat of strength. Had they ignored my heavily muscled torso? The arms that had pulled down a hundred sacred groves and throttled a thousand druids? I supposed so. I gave forth a bellicose laugh and insulted their manhood. One declared that she was a woman and therefore lacked "manhood", but no matter! She was an ugly one at that! I would make short work of this hulk, I just required a weapon. The patrons gave forth a blank look and the proprietor, who had been, until recently, hiding in the kitchen, informed me that he was a dedicated pacifist. There were no weapons to be found in the inn.
The situation was perplexing. I had not been without a sword for many years. It was my nature to keep one belted to my body, but abduction in the night prevents one from leaving home prepared. Thinking quickly, I smashed a table and tore the leg from it. The tables leg had a satisfying nail driven through which, until that moment, had been binding it to the rest of the unit. With mirthful abandon I ran from the inn brandishing my improvised club, prominently featuring its iron spike, and made for the metallic hulk. Much to my dismay, I realized that the portion of the machine that I desired to attack was many rods above me (not quite a chain, but close). I was able to swing at the legs as they clumsily stumbled through the bogs around the inn, but my efforts did not prove fruitful.
Up until that point in my life I had always considered the height of my enemies a trifle. I simply operated under the assumption that everything bleeds when struck hard enough (other than buildings, but I don't often strike buildings, for that is a foolish endeavor). This was not the case with this perfidious contraption. It was as a building, but mobile like a clumsy draft-horse, yet many times the height. The situation clearly called for an ascension into the fuselage that the legs attached to, but I was unsure of how to mount what passed the colossus' legs. I had, in my travels, seen people climb trees in a curious fashion with arms wrapped around the back of the trunk and feet planted on the front. I assumed that it was not only the most effective, but the only way to climb the contraption. So climb it I did!
The ascent took moments. My aforementioned well-muscled body gave me considerable endurance and agility whilst climbing. The metallic beast could neither shake me nor harm me as I made my way up its leg. But, dear reader, do not mistake me, the trip was still harrowing indeed! When I reached the apex of the vehicles leg, there was access to a small platform that stood before a metallic door. I dug my fingers into the seam that separated the door from the hull and tore the damned thing off of its hinges.
My first look into the hulk was one of confusion and then bloodlust. Saxons! Thrice-be-damned! There was a score of them manning the controls of the machine. Perfidy apparently knew no bounds. I knew not how these godless barbarians had commandeered such a vehicle, for they surely had not constructed it! I have spent my life fighting Saxons and have always embraced the idea that one should know their enemy. Thus, I knew that Saxon's were a sub-species, a humanoid, but not truly men; as prone to smearing feces on their bodies as they were to worshiping trees and babbling in incomprehensible tongues like a nation of brain-dead children. That they were controlling a metal beast capable of widespread destruction was utterly baffling. Something was certainly amiss, although the fact that they had trapped the machine within a bog seemed to be a distinctly Saxon blunder.
This process of thought was interrupted moments after it began by the wail of a woad-painted barbarian running at me with his axe. Evidently, my arrival by means of the door-hole was noticed. I stepped to the side as the axe sliced the air where I had been standing. I fumbled for my club, which I had tucked into my makeshift tunic, but as I brought it to bear, a snag pulled the tunic off with it. As the tunic was ripped from my body, the oppressive shame of wearing an embarrassing piece of clothing went with it. My masculinity found itself immediately recharged (if I could quantify masculinity on an absolute scale of 1-10, 1 being hardly any masculinity and 10 being the apex of masculinity, the scale slid from somewhere around 3 back up to 10). I swung the club at the Saxon whose attacks were imminent. He had missed me with his axe once and that was his undoing! The club, aided by the nail embedded in its tip crashed into his face, ruining the barbaric visage and positively drenching me in blood and skull fragments. The body sunk to the floor and released its bowels... everywhere. Four other Saxons were upon me as I recoiled from the stench. The first one I stabbed through the chest with my club. The action initially struck me as unusual, seeing as clubs are generally blunt and not conducive to stabbing, but I accepted that the Saxon would no longer be dogging me in the fight. I unfortunately lost my club. The second I struck in the throat with my fist, which penetrated through the flesh and came out the back. Once again, I was somewhat confused. The flesh of these men seemed to be the consistency of wet paper. I chalked it up to inferior Saxon breeding. The third man I was able to grab as my fist flew through the seconds throat. I caught his face and squeezed. His skull exploded, sending fragments throughout the cabin of the machine. The fragments shredded the fourth Saxon and a handful of the machines pilots. Approximately nine "men" were left before me.
I delivered them an ultimatum, "Stop this evil contraption or meet the same fate as your comrades." They clearly could not understand my civilized tongue and only returned blank expressions. I made threatening gestures, graphically described the process in which their whore-mothers bore them, the union of unholy and bestial that was necessary to breed the Saxon race, and cursed their families. Once again, I was met with stares, drool falling from the corners of their mouths. "Bah!" quoth I. It was useless trying to communicate with savages.
As a heart pumps blood to the body, I assumed that something must be powering the lifeforce of the machine and allowing it to stomp about the countryside. There were gears churning behind me, much like those one would see in a mill. In my rage, I picked up one of the Saxon corpses and wedged it into the gears. The cogs ceased their turning and began to vibrate violently. This elicited a response from the living Saxons. They began to panic, smashing their fists upon dials and buttons of great variety. I felt as if I had finally succeeded in getting through to the savages, perhaps they would now acknowledge me. To no avail! The sound of explosions emanated from the depths of the hulk and it began to lurch to and fro. I had evidently caused some type of catastrophic mechanical failure. Had I known that my actions would cause such things, I would have refrained from pitching a corpse into the gears of the machine. It's not my fault that Saxon's don't know how to communicate like normal, god-fearing men. It was infuriating.
The machine ceased up completely for one brief moment and then I felt the distinct changes in my body associated with falling. My stomach rose into the upper reaches of my abdomen and my blood raced into my head. Thanks to quick-thinking, it occurred to me that it would be wise to brace for an impact and grabbed on to a strut for support. As the machine crashed into the ground, I clung to the strut for the sake of preserving my life, which is quite dear to me. The hulk crumpled and the remaining Saxons were crushed to death. I threw myself clear through the hole that the door had formerly covered. I was unscathed, the same could not be said about my foes.
I returned to the inn where its patrons had evidently been watching me, enraptured by my deeds. They welcomed me back, promising me food, drink, land, titles, animals, daughters. It was all very flattering. When they ceased in their exultation's, I requested pants. They were promptly brought to me. Once again, all was well in the world.
