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One day though, a handsome, young stranger rode into the middle of town on a majestic black stallion. He stood tall and proud in the saddle, and his armor gleamed in the midday sun. He removed his shinning helmet and stared about the village with a look of fierce determination. His hair was a sort of dirty blonde in color, but unlike the residents of Timbrook, his follicles were quite clean and sparkled with little rainbows of reflected light. This aura of luminosity, combined with the golden quality of his shoulder-length blonde locks, nicely complimented his rather darker, un-dyed roots.
His face was quite angular in appearance, with a strong jaw line and a feathery goatee that tufted from his chin. His lips were thin, as was his nose, and his entire face had that beautiful apricot hue that can only be found at the best tanning salons in Europe. His green eyes were full and piercing; the left one especially, for the eyebrow above it seemed permanently posed in the cocked position.
He wore a fine white silk shirt, which billowed out at the wrists and was covered across his torso by a shining breastplate of finely crafted steel. A golden eagle was emblazoned on the chest with several rows of an ancient script engraved in parallel lines that continued on across his back. A red cloak, neatly bundled, draped across his right shoulder and flowed down to his waist, where it was tied with a thin, golden rope and fastened by a silver broach encrusted with several bright, sparkling jewels.
Around his waist was a thick leather belt, which held the most magnificent sword anyone in those parts had ever spied. Its hilt was golden in color and wrapped with a black leather grip, while the blade itself was as shiny as any mirror made before cheap, foreign labor became the norm, and was covered with numerous engravings of strange and mystical runes.
More and more of the townspeople begin to gather around the magnificent figure. A small group came out of the pub, and a few more emerged from the local sewage ditch. Awe covered their grimy little faces as they looked up at the stranger. He seemed to notice their movement, but he didn't look directly at any of them. He instead continued to scan the horizon, as if looking for a lost pet or a good place to eat. He placed his left hand upon his armor-covered thigh so that he could rise a bit more in the saddle, and allow a ray of light to highlight his good side.
He knew the time was right to speak when the stench became a little too overbearing and his horse started to snort and sneeze.
"I am Oldsmobill!" he proclaimed in a deep, confident voice, "I come from the land of Allegoria, beyond the Ouji Mountains, north of Poutsland, across from the Macaroon River Basin, and just down the road from the city of Pooch."
None of this meant a thing to the townspeople of Timbrook — they all had a horrible sense of direction.
"I have been sent here on a quest!" Oldsmobill declared, before waiting a few seconds for that statement to sink in, but all he heard was the chirping of crickets. Undeterred, he continued: "Dear citizens of Timbrook, I have been sent here. So, heed my words...and listen to every one of them carefully...and save all of your questions for the end, when I will try to answer them all."
He looked about and quickly added, "Time permitting, of course."
He cleared his throat and then unleashed his sword from its binding and held it high above his head. It was too bad that no one had bothered to bring along a camera, much less invented one, for this would have made a very fine photograph, indeed.
"I carry with me 'Chinchilla: the sword of vengeance and retribution', to lead us all on this quest. Hear me! Oh, denizens of Timbrook. This sword has magical powers. It was crafted long ago by the one-legged trolls of Razzle-Bazzle, fired in the great smithy halls of SwordCo Industries and quenched in the waters of Lake Okefenokee."
Olds moved the sword around him so that everyone in the crowd could get a good look.
"The blade has been sharpened to the finest degree humanly possible and has the ability to not only hew a man in half, but can also make crinkle-cut fries. It slices! It dices! It's like three weapons in one!"
He spun it around once more. He couldn't quite tell how the citizens were reacting so far. With all the mud and manure on their faces, it was tough to make out anything other than their beady little eyes.
"Yes, my friends, with this sword in hand, there is nothing...and I mean nothing... that can stop us!"
He then leaned forward, and lowered his voice a little. "Good people of Timbrook, I have ventured to this fair and noble land to invite you to join me on this important quest. I have been found favorable in the eyes of some very powerful forces in the world, and they have compelled me to come here, to present you with the opportunity to do great things. To have an adventure that will most likely go down in history...depending, of course...on who's going to be writing it."
"Years from now," he continued, "Generation after generation will speak your names with hallowed breaths and minty-flavored tongues. They will put on their favorite smoking jackets and sit in mahogany-paneled rooms and eagerly read of your actions. They will reenact your bold deeds on dimly-lit stages in high school gymnasiums and in off-Broadway theatre houses. They will write great songs about you, and name bus stations after you, and have great feasts and parades, and whenever times are troubled, the people will huddle together and reassure themselves by saying: 'Remember Timbrook!"
Oldsmobill accentuated his final words with a bellowing cry and raised his eyes and arms to the sky. He remained motionless for a few seconds, expecting a great cheer of approval to rise up from the crowd. He took a deep breath. 'Any second now...' he thought, 'the roar of applause would arrive...'
He took another breath.
All he heard was a couple of coughs, a sneeze, and a constant scratching sound.
He put his arms down and cleared his throat. Looking about, he saw that the citizens still stood all around him — sticking their fingers inside their noses and ears, scratching themselves, and looking up at him with the same kind of look that a dog has when it hears a high-pitched whistle or someone speaking Vietnamese.
He raised his eyebrows slightly and rubbed the thin hairs on his chin. He licked his lips, gave a shrug, and whispered, "Oookay..."
He then began to speak again, "Help me fulfill this mission that has been given to all of us. This small town is destined for distinction. It will be a light that shines throughout all of Europe. Imagine it! You, bringing this fair country out of the darkness and into the light once again! Timbrook will become a center for knowledge and understanding...a place where science will merge with the old ways of magic and nature! A place where all government offices be open on Saturdays! A place where we can begin to establish a foundation that all of western civilization can build upon...and we will share our knowledge...our foresight...and our hope, for the entire world to see! A place where compassion, freedom, liberty, and justice will be known by every man and woman throughout the land...so long as they are legal citizens and have a fairly good credit rating."
The shining knight's voice had again grown louder and louder with each syllable he uttered. He quietly thanked the publishers of "How to be a Successful Orator in Three Easy Lessons," for this valuable bit of advice.
By the end of his speech, his voice had become truly thunderous, rumbling out of the small village and bouncing off the encircling walls of creviced stone. The sound reverberated back and gave Oldsmobill's voice a large dose of echo and reverb, causing it to sound even more powerful. As he heard the last reverberations of his voice, he was amazed by how deep and strong it was. A great feeling of pride washed over him as he closed his eyes and heard the last, faint ripples of the sound as it entered his well-trimmed ears.
The townspeople blinked, scratched, and began to slowly look at each other in silence. A few peered up at the stranger that was before them ― his eyes were closed, his head was slightly perched upward, and he had a confident smile stretched across his beaming face.
Most of the residents though, just stared at his horse.
Olds slowly opened one eye and surveyed the crowd. He sighed again. 'What happened?' he thought. 'The Shrub-Gods of Quix never mentioned this...'
He suddenly frowned, and gave the crowd a long, silent stare. 'What is it with these people?' he quietly percolated, 'I did everything the Shrub-Gods told me to do. I even read that stupid book on oratory they made me buy...and I delivered a damn fine speech, too. But, these people...' He continued to wonder why they were not cheering, or applauding, or even asking for his autograph ― and why in the world were they all staring so intently at his horse?
His eyes widened as the confusion ― which he had been so good to keep hidden ― had now opened the doorway to his face and stepped out for a good look-see.
He began to think that maybe the people of Timbrook were all about as bright as a firefly with exceptionally low self-esteem.
He had more than just a slight inkling of this assumption when the crowd suddenly surged forward and pulled him from his horse.
Before he could say a single word recognizable to any species of life on this planet other than the yelping monkeys of Amblocuda, they had stripped him of his fine clothes, armor, and cloak, and then jerked the boots right off of his feet. They quickly emptied his saddlebags and took all of his gold coins, spare clothes, shaving supplies, shampoo, blonde hair-dye, fingernail clippers, prescription nasal decongestion tablets, saddle soap, hotel towels, and numerous bags of pork rinds. They even took all of his detailed maps of Europe, which they immediately ate.
He was almost positive that his suspicions about them were true when they took his jeweled broach ― as well as a small locket that was engraved with the words: "Don't Worry, Be Happy" on it ― melted them down, and formed the material into small figurines making numerous obscene gestures.
He became quite sure of it when they snagged his sword and ran around the center of town waving it about and screaming like a group of banshees on anti-depressants. They finally bent it into a zigzag shape, and scratched dirty words all over the ancient rune engravings.
He was absolutely, without a doubt, totally convinced of their mental shortcomings when they placed him on a catapult and launched his naked body over the mountainous ridge and into the swamps beyond.
After much laughing and cheering...they then ate his horse.
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