The Figs of May - Carpe Testicularum

Chapter 3

The Story The Authors

Twice the legal speed limit! It was the straw that broke the camel named Officer Hickey's back and it was at that very moment that the madness began to take over. At first, Matthew Hickey could feel the madness inside him, welling up and taking over, but he just couldn't fight it anymore. He would never again be the dutiful son, the upright citizen or the dedicated peace officer he once was. He went on a rampage that night, such as their peaceful little town hadn't seen since Jebediah Smith was laid off from the post office. cuddles

He started to cry due to fear, and the whole town beggd for him to stop the rampage of tears. bernadette

He cried and he cried until his tears ran out and when that was done he began to pout. He stomped and kicked and whined like a toddler until someone spoke up to stop him, Elizaeth

"settle down young-un," said the weathered old prospector from the top of his mule. "I says there's gold in them thar hills and we gwyne find it soon."
With that finally said and out in the open, wind-dancer wiped his eyes and drew his arm across his nose. "Yes," he said calmly.
The wind-dancer picked up his pick ax and began to shake a maracca over it. 'Nice samba beat," said the prospector. A very nice beat indeed. The prospector had not heard music for many moons, in fact not since Teletubbies made their debut on American television.
the shake shake shake of the maracca echoed through the canyon, rhythmically pulsing between the high walls of the canyon into the throat of the mine. The prospector began clicking his heels and snapping his fingers. The mule stood still, learing at the ballet unfolding.
The wind began to pick up speed as the wind dancer's music wafted through the canyon.
Press Snooze

These previous musings, random as they might seem to the unknowing looker-in-upon-Officer-Hickey's-thoughts, will infact do extremely well to illustrate the fissures in that tortured, pie-a-la-mode-bloated soul... For, time and again, his fantasies of revenge, domination and brutality were undermined by his genuine desire for sensitivity, mysticism, and yearning to commune deeply with nature, tattered copies of Iron John and Fire in the Belly clutched firmly in hairy paw — in short, within the apelike policeman squirmed a lithe, gossamer-winged wind dancer who knew the Elfquest sagas by heart and longed to twirl in mad supinity amongst the loftiest and most serpentine of zephyrs, and to hear the winding tales which came out in the hoary Viking gutturals of old Boreas, whitebearded god of the north wind. Oh, how he pined! And now — with mother gone ("That old bag," hissed Matt's inner wind-dancer, ringing its taloned finger along the edge of a crystal goblet given her by Baba Yaga, the Witch — while the rest of Matt screamed "NO no no it's not possible I could think such a thought!" and he stepped on the gas in hot pursuit of Jeremy) with his mother gone there was no one else to have to hide it from at home! He could climb to the gabled roofs and conjure pixies and hamadryads with his spirit-drum! He could sing along with Ultravox's "Reap the Wild Wind" every single night of the week ala Tom Cruise! He could pirouette at the tip of an ancient scarab-topped lightning-rod and exchange eldritch unpleasantries with the paracelsic salamanders, those lava-blooded denizens of the Plane of Absolute Fire... Philip

What irony, then, that his quarry (sirens spinning, wailing in mad pursuit) would be none other than that same Jeremy Crink who'd first introduced the future Officer Hickey to Dungeons & Dragons, back in junior high school on rainy Saturday afternoons with the grey exterior gloom spilling in through tiny high windows to co-mingle with the fake-woodgrain interior gloom of the basement "Rec Room" of somebody's house (Roger Weaver's house was the best because his mother bought the best snacks; Danny Grigorovich's a close second because his mother, newly divorced, was rediscovering her sexuality at the lovely ripe age of 36, and liked to test it out on Danny's friends — much to Danny's consternation — a reedy, chain-smoking questionmark of a woman in polyester hip-huggers and Jackie-O hairdo) —
AH, those basements, he remembered. And it was Jeremy Crink who held court as their resident "Dungeon Master," doling out the increasingly menacing foes to Matthew Hickey's wind-dancer who, with a couple of elves (Danny "Fire Orchid" Grigorovich and William "Mist Yodeler" Grant) and a useless cleric (Roger "Flatulissimax" Weaver) were crossing the dark land of Krysko to recover the purloined Fairy Jewels. Philip "Dragonslayer" Welsh

The Story	The Authors
Twice the legal speed limit! It was the straw that broke the camel named Officer Hickey's back and it was at that very moment that the madness began to take over. At first, Matthew Hickey could feel the madness inside him, welling up and taking over, but he just couldn't fight it anymore. He would never again be the dutiful son, the upright citizen or the dedicated peace officer he once was. He went on a rampage that night, such as their peaceful little town hadn't seen since Jebediah Smith was laid off from the post office.	cuddles
He started to cry due to fear, and the whole town beggd for him to stop the rampage of tears.	bernadette
He cried and he cried until his tears ran out and when that was done he began to pout. He stomped and kicked and whined like a toddler until someone spoke up to stop him,	Elizaeth
"settle down young-un," said the weathered old prospector from the top of his mule. "I says there's gold in them thar hills and we gwyne find it soon." With that finally said and out in the open, wind-dancer wiped his eyes and drew his arm across his nose. "Yes," he said calmly. The wind-dancer picked up his pick ax and began to shake a maracca over it. 'Nice samba beat," said the prospector. A very nice beat indeed. The prospector had not heard music for many moons, in fact not since Teletubbies made their debut on American television. the shake shake shake of the maracca echoed through the canyon, rhythmically pulsing between the high walls of the canyon into the throat of the mine. The prospector began clicking his heels and snapping his fingers. The mule stood still, learing at the ballet unfolding. The wind began to pick up speed as the wind dancer's music wafted through the canyon.	Press Snooze
These previous musings, random as they might seem to the unknowing looker-in-upon-Officer-Hickey's-thoughts, will infact do extremely well to illustrate the fissures in that tortured, pie-a-la-mode-bloated soul... For, time and again, his fantasies of revenge, domination and brutality were undermined by his genuine desire for sensitivity, mysticism, and yearning to commune deeply with nature, tattered copies of Iron John and Fire in the Belly clutched firmly in hairy paw — in short, within the apelike policeman squirmed a lithe, gossamer-winged wind dancer who knew the Elfquest sagas by heart and longed to twirl in mad supinity amongst the loftiest and most serpentine of zephyrs, and to hear the winding tales which came out in the hoary Viking gutturals of old Boreas, whitebearded god of the north wind. Oh, how he pined! And now — with mother gone ("That old bag," hissed Matt's inner wind-dancer, ringing its taloned finger along the edge of a crystal goblet given her by Baba Yaga, the Witch — while the rest of Matt screamed "NO no no it's not possible I could think such a thought!" and he stepped on the gas in hot pursuit of Jeremy) with his mother gone there was no one else to have to hide it from at home! He could climb to the gabled roofs and conjure pixies and hamadryads with his spirit-drum! He could sing along with Ultravox's "Reap the Wild Wind" every single night of the week ala Tom Cruise! He could pirouette at the tip of an ancient scarab-topped lightning-rod and exchange eldritch unpleasantries with the paracelsic salamanders, those lava-blooded denizens of the Plane of Absolute Fire...	Philip
What irony, then, that his quarry (sirens spinning, wailing in mad pursuit) would be none other than that same Jeremy Crink who'd first introduced the future Officer Hickey to Dungeons & Dragons, back in junior high school on rainy Saturday afternoons with the grey exterior gloom spilling in through tiny high windows to co-mingle with the fake-woodgrain interior gloom of the basement "Rec Room" of somebody's house (Roger Weaver's house was the best because his mother bought the best snacks; Danny Grigorovich's a close second because his mother, newly divorced, was rediscovering her sexuality at the lovely ripe age of 36, and liked to test it out on Danny's friends — much to Danny's consternation — a reedy, chain-smoking questionmark of a woman in polyester hip-huggers and Jackie-O hairdo) — AH, those basements, he remembered. And it was Jeremy Crink who held court as their resident "Dungeon Master," doling out the increasingly menacing foes to Matthew Hickey's wind-dancer who, with a couple of elves (Danny "Fire Orchid" Grigorovich and William "Mist Yodeler" Grant) and a useless cleric (Roger "Flatulissimax" Weaver) were crossing the dark land of Krysko to recover the purloined Fairy Jewels.	Philip "Dragonslayer" Welsh

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