We have an excerpt from our comic chef Paul De Lancey and his new novel Do Lutheran Hunks Eat Mushrooms?
Huh? By Zeus, Joe Thorvaldes sure itched. He scratched his armpit through a hole in his mammoth-skin tunic. Nope, the itch was still there. But his ass itched more. He stood up to regard a bloody flattened helmet and a bent spear point. And, oh yes, there was a crushed face inside the helmet. A big, long-haired Argive sprinted across the body-strewn plains toward Thorvaldes. Joe shook his head. Why couldn’t he remember a thing? Must have been drinking too much fermented mammoth’s milk last night.The swift-running man in armor came up and put both his hands on Joe’s shoulders.
“Fast-falling Thorvaldes, son of Zeus and Atalena, comely shepherdess of Boeotia, you have again brought death to the stallion-breaking Trojans.
“God-like man, your harder than bronze ass has crushed the life out of another Trojan hero. You have slain the spear-throwing Ornitholestes of Lycia.”
“Swift-running Odysseus,”–Good, he remembered the name–“how by Zeus did I slay the spear-throwing Ornitholestes?”
Crafty Odysseus, king of Ithaca and spermatozoa of Laertes, roared. “Oh you slay me, fast-falling Thorvaldes, son of Zeus and Atalena, pretending not to remember. By Zeus, son of Cronos, you are far too modest. Sometimes I think you are not truly from Hellas.”
“But come,” said the noble tactician Odysseus, “let us go back to the wondrous catapult that the great goddess Athena gave us. The battle still rages. Helmet-flashing, stallion-gelding Hector still stalks the battlefield with the tenacity of a door-to-door telemarketer.”
The ten-fingered, ten-toed Odysseus pointed toward the Argives’ beached ships.
“Hark, here comes noble Agamemnon and fierce-fighting Achilles.” The noble tactician bent fingers in sequence. “With you and me, they will make four Argives at this bloody spot.”
Thorvaldes nodded slowly. “Well counted, gamete of Laertes.”
The noble tactician beamed like a royal mother seeing her newborn for the first time. “And fast-falling Thorvaldes, man whose ass is harder than bronze, I can even count up to one and twenty if I am naked.”
“Well done, fast-falling Thorvaldes,” said the arriving King Agamemnon. “Tell me, what noble Trojan shall you send to his doom when the catapult next flings you over the plains of Ilium? Shall it be helmet-flashing Hector, mighty son of King Priam?”
“Yea, Hector sounds good,” said fast-falling Thorvaldes.
But such a choice summoned forth the mighty, burning wrath of Achilles, son of King Peleus and the sea nymph Thetis, from his tent of gold and silk. Achilles, brave zygote of Peleus and Thetis, strode closer to King Agamemnon. The earth shook under the pounding blows of his hate-filled strides. “Noble Agamemnon, you humiliated me in front of all the Argives when you took the great prize Briseis from me. Now just when I slackened my burning rage to leave my tent to find a Swedish meatball and perhaps afterwards end our mighty quarrel, you dis me by picking fast-falling Thorvaldes for the mighty task.”
Odysseus, ten-fingered king of Ithaca, sighed and sat down. Fast-falling Thorvaldes set his harder-than-bronze ass on a rock. These tiffs between Agamemnon and Achilles not only proved fatal to the Argive army, but could go on forever. “How about a game of Rock, Blades, Parchment?” said synapses-firing, idea-laden, well-counseling Odysseus. Ass-hardened, head-nodding Thorvaldes agreed.
“Swift-running Achilles,” said Agamemnon, “Thorvaldes never quakes, never holds back when we take him to our catapult to be flung over the plains of Ilium. His harder-than-bronze ass crushes all spears, all swords, all helmets when he falls from the skies to deal doom to one stallion-breaking Trojan after another.”
Well-stoked hate blazed from mighty Achilles’ eyes. Winging words issued from his mouth, “Bite me!”
“While you,” said Agamemnon, “skulk in your tent, nursing your unquenchable rage, as useless to the Argives as a gyro without pita bread.”
God-like Achilles’ mighty nostrils flared with rage. “King Agamemnon, son of Atreus, brother of Menelaus, I know you are but what am I?”
Crafty, four-limbed, many-celled Odysseus said, “Fast-falling Thorvaldes, how about some games of tic-tac-toe?”
Careful-enunciating Achilles’ 32nd grave insult darkened the battle-hardened face of Agamemnon. The noble king of Sparta hurled back the stinging words, “Poc, poc, poc,” and flapped his arms like a hen from the plains of Thessaly.
Self-wanking Achilles, tallest and fiercest of all the Myrmidons, put his strong right palm not on its favored place, but on his Trojan-killing sword. “Sez you.”
The air sang songs of blood as he pulled his long gleaming sword from its scabbard. “I will make you pay for your insolence, dog!” said swift-running Achilles.
The noble tactician, Odysseus, man of great grammar, made his sixth ‘x’ in the soil and beat fast-falling Thorvaldes in tic-tac-toe for the twentieth time in a row.
Fast-falling Thorvaldes pouted. “Noble tactician, you have cheated. I can tell just by looking. You have six x’s marked in this soil of Ilium and I have but three o’s. And as all men of this army know six is greater than three by more than one.”
“Noble Thorvaldes,” said Odysseus, “fast-falling hero of all the Achaeans and
Argives, man whose ass has been hardened more than bronze by the gods, that is why I am called the noble tactician.”
Ass-hardened Thorvaldes shrugged.
Crafty, dual-nostrilled Odysseus drew another tic-tac-toe grid in the soil. “Care for another game?”
The fast-falling Thorvaldes shook his head. “My heart is not in it.”
“Why is that?” asked the noble tic-tac-toe cheating Odysseus.
“I mean,” said the hero with the ass harder than bronze, “why are we here? Why did King Agamemnon assemble all warriors, and those of his many allies to fight here for nine bloody years? Can Helen’s beauty be worth the doom of so many valiant heroes?”
Brave Odysseus laughed. “Noble Thorvaldes, it is plain to me that you have never seen loin-stirring Helen. Whooee! The jugs on that beauty! Why if they contained wine, a hundred babes could suckle on her from dawn to dusk and still not drain her.” Odysseus laughed again. “And my friend, I would be in line after them.”
Fast-falling Thorvaldes shrugged. “If that’s what you prefer, crafty tactician. My manhood soars at the thought of comely Briseis’ ass. Hers is the ass that could have launched 10,000 ships. I truly understand why the wrath of Achilles flared so when King Agamemnon took her away from him.”
Long-ranting Achilles’ voice roared over theirs. “God-like Agamemnon, in your dreams.”
Crafty Odysseus sighed. “By Zeus, those two are such windbags. Ah, but speaking of outstanding asses, how did you get one of such hardness?”
“A fair question, Odysseus, scion of Laertes. Suppose you’re staggering home at dawn after drinking pure wine at your local hostelry and you meet the fierce virgin goddess Athena.”
Thorvaldes paused to encourage the formation of his next thought.
“Well?” said the noble tactician.
Thorvaldes, man of slow-firing synapses hung down his head. “Let’s just say, it’s best not to moon her.”