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(Page 2 of 6) Some Knights Are Longer Than Others by Theodore LasloHeavy footfalls neared. He gripped his torch like a sword as a massive, three-headed cave-troll charged out of the darkness, swinging a broken tree-trunk for a club. Knowing that music could soothe the savage beast, Sir Richard broke into an a cappella medley of Neil Diamond songs and lulled the creature into a coma.
The corridor beyond widened into a dank, glistening cave wherein he came face-to-face with one of the deadliest, most hideous creatures imaginable: the terrible Medusa. She was a vicious, evil creature with coils of poisonous snakes for hair, a shrill voice that could shatter glass, venomous fangs that could suck out one's soul, and a hateful gaze that could turn a man to stone. But, because Sir Richard was already married, the creature's powers had no effect on him and he walked out.
The corridor ended in a massive double door, endowed with a set of big, brass knockers. The hair on his neck stood erect; he had heard tales of the Tomb of Valejo -- the legendary Viking warrior princess -- but scarcely believed in its existence. Groping for one of the knockers, he banged it against the door. The door jerked open by itself, its rusty hinges squealing.
The room beyond was cavernous with smooth, rounded walls that escaped into the darkness above. Poised in the center, carved of the purest, whitest, shiniest marble, stood a mausoleum. Statues of unnaturally curvaceous female gargoyles perched on its edges. Its walls were etched with pictures of similarly voluptuous Valkyries, wearing only loin cloths and tiny, shapely bits of armor that wouldn't deflect a mosquito's bite.
Remains of dozens of thick clay pots, all decorated with the same lascivious motif as the tomb, littered the floor. Hanging on the back wall of the cavern, a huge set of antlers loomed like a black cloud; flanking it was a pair of giant stuffed owls. An enormous treasure chest lay against the wall beneath them.
"Bloody hell," he spoke to the air, his whisper echoing in the still of the cavern.
The Fabled Chest of Hayek was rumored to contain the stuff of legend, but none had ever penetrated its secrets. Only the keeper of the magic words could cleave the enchantment on it and reveal the wonders inside. His palms sweating, codpiece tingling, Sir Richard knelt in front of the massive chest.
"Speak, brave knight," came a sweet, lyrical woman's voice that filled the cavern with warmth and left Sir Richard flushed and smiling. He thought for a moment and spoke.
"Abra cadabra." Nothing happened.
"Alakazam." Still, nothing happened.
"Open sesame?" Naught.
"Please." Nada.
"Pretty please?" Nope.
"Password." Diddly.
"Analnathrach, orth' bhais's bethad, do che'l de'nmha." Bupkes.
"Alohomora." Nein.
"Mellon." Goose-egg.
"Clatu verata nictu." Not a sausage.
"Ni?" Bugger all.
Having exhausted his arsenal of pop-culture references, he took a closer look at the chest; its surface bore cameo silhouettes of nude people contorted into shameful, carnal poses.
"Nice chest," he chuckled.
"Thank you," the sweet voice tittered.
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(4 ratings)