Once upon a time, there was a dipshit named Henry, who lived in a fucked-up village called Twatston. It nestled in a shitty, swampy valley in the kingdom of a vengeful prick named Jack. Because he was just that kind of a dick, King Jack preferred to be called The Jackal! Seriously, he made people spell it with the goddamn exclamation point. Most of the dim-witted shit-for-brains that lived in little Twatston shared the opinion that The Jackal! was pretty much of an all-around asshole.
The Jackal! had little time for bullshit like ‘ruling the kingdom’ or ‘feeding the people.’ “Oh no,” he stood on his portable stone parapet and shouted. “I yearn to be known as the most fashionable heriditary ruler in the known world, cocksuckers!”
With that stupid fucking goal in mind, The Jackal! announced a Great Haber-Dash-Off in his capitol city of Bungus. Every little podunk hamlet and shit-caked village had to send a representative with their most creative fucking fashion accessory within a goddamn fortnight. The town that created The Jackal!’s favorite new fashion would win some shit, while the town with his least favorite would be burned to the fucking ground.
Twatston’s local haberdasher was the aforementioned dipshit named Henry. He was a pretty shitty haberdasher, to be honest, and a lot of the Twatstonians were worried that they’d see their belongings go up in smoke if they sent that sorry fuck to Bungus. Henry could sense their unease, especially when they said things like, “Hey, don’t get our town burned down, shithead” or “Better come up with some amazing fashion, for fuck’s sake.”
The crazy fucking pressure started to get to Henry. He began spending his days shit-faced on gooberberry grog, his nights coked out of his fucking mind, chainsmoking and trying to come up with a new fashion idea. He’d usually pass out on his goddamn burlap mannequin about four in the fucking morning. Late one night, two jaunty little fuckers in green jumpers ambled by outside and saw Henry snoozing through the window.
“Jesus, will you look at this asshole?” said the taller elf. “He’s gonna burn the fucking village down way before the Haber-Dash-Off, falling asleep with his goddamn cigarillo burning!”
“Yeah,” said the shorter elf, “and these fucking fashion ideas are dogshit, too. Who the fuck wants to wear scrotum cozies?”
“Guess these humans are just fucked one way or another,” chuckled the taller elf, as the pair continued their jaunty ambling. Before too fucking long, though, their consciences started getting to them. They both knew that with barely a twinkle of their fucking eyes or jiggle of their elven asses, they could create a fashion accessory that would blow these peasants’ fucking minds.
The elves scampered back down the horseshit-strewn road to Henry’s bullshit studio. They waltzed right the fuck in, did some magical elf shit and left behind a smattering of fairy dust–as well as a spectacular fucking purple sable cape, with silver trim that minutely spelled out the lyrics of Benny and the Jets. When Henry woke up with a mean fucking hangover the next afternoon, he just about shat himself. “Who in the flying fuck made this cape?” he wondered aloud as he did a couple quick lines.
When the Twatston locals saw the cape, even those assholes knew their shitty village was safe. It was the most luxurious thing any of them had ever laid their fucking eyes on. Henry was sent on his way to Bungus with a raucous parade, the air full of tossed rose petals and sweetly promised blow jobs.
The Twatston cape placed eighteenth out of forty-seven villages. The Jackal! called it “regal, but ultimately uninspired.”
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