Writers' Guild

It was a jungle out there. Knifes in the dark, stray shots, blood-curdling screams and sights that made you want to poke out your own eyes and those were only your friends; the enemy was much worse. You had to be on your toes all the time or else you bought a farm. It was unclear why would anyone buy a farm from the enemy with all the hard work you had to do around them but it was far better then being killed. Apparently these farms had a lot of buckets that needed to be kicked around.
There was a war going on, there is always a war going on. It is considered by some that the ability to wage war is the first step towards civilisation; ants go to war, monkeys go to war, wolves go to war, humans go to war. War is the ultimate source of propulsion for the advancement of civilisation, during which every aspect of civilisation gets a boost thanks to the individual's will to survive and outlast. It was self-evident, if you desired peace, you prepared for war, and if you desired war then it was your lucky day. There are few rules in war everyone should follow if they wanted to survive and thus win; kill them before they kill you, never pull sentry on an empty stomach, don't ask questions and most importantly never, ever get separated from your mates.

He got separated. The enemy shelled them and in the confusion and panic he went the wrong way. Now it was either go back the way he came only to be creamed or go further into enemy territory and try to do some damage on his own. Charlies were all around him and he was pretty sure that they would find him if he stayed there. He wondered if they would offer him to buy a farm. It didn't really matter, he had no money and he doubted they'd accept bubblegum as a valid form of currency.
Raian wasn't sure how he came to be in this situation. He remembered someone telling him about his people needing him, telling him about glory, pride and honour and how they were morally superior than their enemies and were a force of good. It was a rather nice speech, too bad it lasted only for about forty seconds.

Voices. They were voices, for sure. And sounds of footsteps. Raian hid in the shadow, took a bullet in his hand and prepared for the worst. There wasn't time for flashbacks, and pondering about your life, there wasn't even time to come up with some good famous last words; the enemies were just a couple of meters away. And then there was a scream, a high pitched girlie scream and he heard the enemy run away. Then he saw the shadow, whatever it was it was at least two times the size of Raian and he was pretty convinced that it was the thing that scared the enemy away. He placed his bullet in his sling, swung it and released the sling.

-Ouch! &%$*#@
A large hand came from the dark and grasped him by his collar and lifted him from the ground.
-Emil? Is that you?-
-Now what are you boys up to again? And why are there eggs all over this street? It looks like a very angry chicken coop came this way!- said Emil with a slight hint of anger in his voice and a rather large bump on his forehead.
-We're at war with the kids from the Street of Small Gods. They threw eggs at us.-
-I just saw the Charlie brothers, and they gave me quite a scare and now you give me a black eye and I'm not even in this war of yours! -
-Hehehe, I heard. One of them screams like a little girl.-
-No, that was me.- The anger now completely replaced by embarrassment.
It was hard to be afraid of Emil. He wasn't like other grown ups . He never pulled their ears or spank them, he never made them eat broccoli and he often gave them sweets, but not in the creepy, strange way.
-Do you mind if I ride with you, in case the Charlies come back?- It was the worst attempt at puppy eyes Emil had ever seen and it even disturbed him a bit.
-All right. I was to go to the Parcnoegdip square to investigate some religious disturbance, but I guess I can drop you of at your home. Just don't make that face again, it freaks me out.-

Potemujkin stepped out of his yurt, stretched and farted loudly. It made him feel rather good and even a bit proud. There are some who would call Potemujkin a barbarian but that was far from truth; he did not stutter. In fact, he was a very good speaker, he was literate and always said “thank you” after raping someone. He was also a warlord, he had his own horde and everything, and he hoped that very soon he will have his own kingdom, or rather warlorddom
It was early in the morning. The sun hadn't come up yet and the world looked gray and dull but the camp of the Germanium horde was very lively. There were sounds in the air, sounds that sounded very much like an angry barbarian horde preparing to barbarize something or someone. This particular time they were preparing to barbarize the city state of Larissa.
-Good morning, warlord.- greeted a voice as smooth as a baby's behind covered with butter and nearly as perverse.
-Aah, indeed it is, sorcerer! Soon I will be sitting on the throne of my very own kingdom!- he had his fist raised in mid-air and was looking at something years away rather than miles.
-As soon as you defeat the entire Larissan army encamped, across the river.- The sorcerer's words were appropriate but there was something in his voice which said:”I rolled a 74 on my intelligence score, rude is my natural colour of voice.”
-Yesyesyes, the army, danger, bloodshed, minimal chances for victory, been there, done that, bought a chain mail. I was wondering, can I have a harem when I'm king?-
-You can have everything you want, your warlordship.-
-Even ice-cream for breakfast?-
-No.-
-Awww...oh well, it was worth a shot. Let's get this horde on the road then, I have a civilization to crush.-

There are two reason why the Larissan army was considered, mostly by Larissans, to be one of the best in the world. First, the Larissan army was comprised of battle-hardened professionals and cunning soldiers, brainwashed with the ideas of honour, bravery and dying for one's country, and second, their weapons and armour were real shiny. Every child knows that the man with the shiniest armour will win the day, and in their ways, Larissans were much like children: unruly, snotty, mean and rude.
The filthy barbarian horde didn't stand a chance. They were pretty silly thinking that they could defeat the mighty Larissan army, and they had a silly name too. Who, in his right mind, named his horde after a kind of metal; if anything it should be the other way around.

Sir Jonathan Prancealot was sitting atop his mighty steed on a hill overlooking the camp, but his mind was somewhere else, somewhere being Fat Molly's whorehouse on Tenth street. There was a storm coming and sir Prancealot didn't like it one bit. Storms meant rain and rain meant mud and mud didn't look good on your shiny, polished breastplate. Other than that he was completely carefree, and, frankly he didn't have much to be concerned about. The Larissan army had 25.000 footmen, 5.000 crossbowmen, 10.000 pikeman, ten war-machines, 5.000 horsemen and a thousand knights; every soldier heavily armoured. Even their horses, large thoroughbreds, were armoured. The Germaniums, on the other hand, wore only light leather armour, used bows and armour-cleaving axes instead crossbows and swords and rode small, wild horses which had a nasty habit of biting enemy horses and enemy riders and enemy footmen and frankly, anyone else who didn't smell like horse entrails. It looked like the gods were on the wining side, again. With their polished armour shining in the morning sun the Larissans were a beautiful sight, a sight that would throw most epileptics into a fit, and they were on the march (the army that is, not the epileptics).

Meanwhile...

-You c-c-can't rush it!- said a small, nervous man dressed in a ceremonial gown two sizes over. The sleeves went over his fists and he was having a hard time from keeping them falling over again and again. The man was Luster, god of things that are on the left and generally awkward.
-Rushing things always mmmmakes me fumble and botch them.-
-I'll bet!- said a plain looking man sitting right next to Luster looking upset with his hands over his chest. He had a three-day beard, a bald spot and bags under his eyes which said “shoot me!”. The man was in fact not a man but a god; Jacey, god of underdogs, the oppressed and the gullible.
They were sitting at a large, marble table in what seemed as a cleaning supply closet. There was a strong smell of lemons. Around the table were seated other figures watching and listening intently the discussion that was growing into an argument (as discussions usually do) and hoping it would grow further into a fight. There was Sotp, the dog of dyslexia, Bloody Mary, goddess of aunts from Russia (if you catch my drift), Miser, god of cheapness and some other minor gods who are not minor enough to be mentioned in this tale. There was one empty chair which belonged to Melvin, god of people who are mostly unnoticed throughout their lives. He figured that no one would notice him missing and was, in fact, right.
-I'm j-just saying that you should take it slow. Just bec-cause we are gods doesn't mean we're inv-inv-invincible.- Luster continued in his wavery voice. -You wouldn't want to be remembered as the new Zeus w-would you?-
-Zeus? Wasn't he the heavenly All-father and the god of adultery?-
-He was, until his wife found out. Currently, he is the eunuch god of young, nubile virgins.- said a voice which belonged to Jack, the god of minor plot characters.
-You see! It is not sssssmart to mess with the Greater Gg-ggg-gods. They are rather k-kkk-creative in their punishments.-
-I am terribly sorry for interrupting- a small god across Luster began -but couldn't we possibly postpone this meeting for say tomorrow or the day after that?- it was Nagarkistrakafagaratraja, the god of procrastination.
-Yes, a splendid idea!- said Jacey -and in the meantime I will make some...arrangements-
He then let out a strange voice that sounded like a minor sales clerk trying to laugh sinisterly.

Mr Cartridge was a regular church goer too. He belonged to the Church of Afternoon Fishing And Talking About The Weather, and he took his responsibilities as an Afternoonist very casually like every good Afternoonist ought. Every evening he prepared a fresh can of worms, checked his tackle-box for the next day and polished the Holy Rod in a clearly asexual way. Mr Cartridge went to the church a lot, he had a lot to atone for; what he wanted the most to a-tone was his wife. He used to be a Reading-in-your-rocking-chair-and-smoking-ist, but he saw the error of his heathen ways. What made him see the light was his wife who thought that the only sentences men should know are: "yes, dear" and "no, dear" and therefore don't have to, or for that matter be able to, read. Mrs Cartridge also thought that most books are unsanitary and bad and should be hanged or burned or used in No. 2 emergencies; well at least she was right about that.

But today was different. There was a storm raging, so the church had to be canceled. Mr Cartridge had two options: he could stay at home with his wife or go out into the storm; he chose the latter because he could hear himself think in the storm. Not that he had anything special to think about, it was just nice to know that he could if he wanted to. He was in the Street of the Small Gods when the wind broke his umbrella and blew off his cheap taupe in to the river. He decided that it would be best if he found some shelter just until the storm settles. It was then when he first noticed a small temple literally cramped between two larger ones; he quickly went in. The temple was actually very big compared to his outer appearance, but was small enough to leave the image of a warm and cozy place. There were a few people sitting on the benches and it looked as if a sermon was about begin. Mr Cartridge, not having anything better to do, took a seat.

If anything, Mr Cartridge was a good listener, after all he had thirty years of listening to Mrs Cartridge behind him. There were two things that separated the little priest holding the sermon from his wife: the first was that he didn't talk as loud, and the second was that he had no mustache. Although the priest's voice was dull and his tempo slow, Mr Cartridge actually enjoyed the sermon. There was talk about ancient prophecies and pacts between the God and Man; there was talk about old hermit prophets that wash once a year and about wars fought over a borrowed lawnmower. And then there was talk about a messiah, a Heavenly King who will come and deliver the meek from the yoke of the oppressors. It was warm and cozy, and Mr Cartridge had a hard time staying awake, and at one point the dreams and the reality became indistinguishable. He dreamed he was the messiah, the chosen one, and he was leading his people across vast expanses, made of, for some unknown reason, vanilla ice-cream. It was a good dream, and much like all the good dreams it ended at the best part. He was just about to separate the Cherrycola Sea, when a large hand came from the heavens and shook him in a rough manner.
-Sir, the sermon is over, go home- said the little priest that was holding the sermon.
Mr Cartridge got up and walked out, still a bit disoriented and groggy from the dream.

-It was nice- Mr Cartridge said as he was walking home, -too bad it isn't real-
He would really have liked being a messiah, but unfortunately it just wasn't possible; he could never be a Heavenly King because: firstly he was born in a barn, literally, and he was pretty sure kings weren't born in barns. Secondly, he didn't have his kingdom. It's the thing with kingdoms, if your father had it, most probably you will too, provided you are not too squeamish about killing your way to the top. Mr Cartridge wasn't even sure who his father was. His mother explained to him when he was old enough to know the details; she awoke one morning after a strange dream and knew she was pregnant, then she then dressed and left the party. Be that as it may, Mr Cartridge was feeling good and was happily humming; there was one more tiny feeling that he hadn't felt since his youth; Mr Cartridge was feeling brave. He pulled up his belt and started towards home. He'll show his wife who's the boss, just after he's finished doing the housework and washing her feet. That ought to show her.