|What Bobo the Monkey Saw.|
As one of the few men of letters on the distant frontiers of Wampus County I am ashamed of the items written in your papers by frail bespectacled men who have never felt the hammering retort of the shotgun's stock as it sends a cloud of thaumaturgic shot into the torso of a maniacal knife wielding demon fairy from scant feet away.
I was once of one of these ink stained ostriches of men forever head first in a musty tome, but the crisp air of the wilds and the strong drink favored by wild men has granted me a new perspective and the stamina of a bull snollygostor. Yet since I am a man of letters I must set right the record about the treasure hunters, explorers and settlers of Wampus Country, speaking for those who cannot or lack the time to speak for themselves.
recently me and my brave companions ventured into the ruins of Crumbletown, a boom town that acted as civilization's shield against the necromantic armies of the waste witch and suffered ruination for it's stalwart pride. Our precious foray allowed me to meet a debt to a local magic practitioner, when we encountered and slew a passel of dangerous devil fairies - my debt could be paid with their freshly severed heads. After a brutal ride of five days in the saddle, me and my servants returned from a quick visit to civilization, quick as for the true plainsman a day among the tawdry civilization of a town such as Thistlemarch rekindles the desire for the unspoiled plains. On our return we met a caravan of wagons heading to carve a new town from the wilds and found a wondrous brook overflowing with fish.
Still adventure does not wait for a trout lunch, and once again a foray into the ruins was arranged. Intent on rescuing whatever holy relics were within the Crumbledown castle shrine, we first climbed a defensive tower on the outskirts and discovered a working cannon - a rare weapon much valued on the frontier, that we will endeavor to recover at a later date. The decayed defenses, clearly smashed by the might of the necromantic legions, caused the contemplative among us to wonder on the futility of civilization's progress, while the view showed only the crushed city, its Western reaches swarming with giant insects. A fine manor house was noted on the way towards the castle and we resolved to inspect it.
The manor was in ill repair, its windows all smashed and scat visible through the ground floor windows. Longer viewing and a deer haunch flung into the home as bait revealed a strange blue wolf like creature. Upon entering the house out band discovered valuable wines in the cellar, a telescope in the attic and tens more wolf beasts. Never one to embrace destruction when it is not necessary, or to charge headlong at a pack of unknown beasts the wolves things were left alone, though our own savage warrior Iornwall sought out their companionship with limited success. The wolves provided us warning as we approached the keep itself, a dreary pile of broken stone with gates twisted apart as if by giant hands, by padding back to their manor house abandoning us. Inside the old castle's wall scene was bleak, bones and dessicated bodies in the blue and white livery of those that stood against the desert witch were scattered about. I took sorcerers' precautions to prevent their return, while my companion Slim Zad examined them for items that might be returned to their families.
While the bailey appeared empty, the largest tower had been recently rebuilt and behind its stout door we heard the sound of hooves. Hooves mean demons usually in my expert opinion, and we drenched the door in oil only to have an angelic minion in the form of a giraffe erupt from the tower and complain. Angels are jerks, that is what I learned from this meeting, but the snide divine creature agreed to trade whiskey for a map to the Devil Fairies' treasure and a way under the castle to its gold stocked catacombs. Never one to back out of a trade we are returning with whiskey, and if the angel lied, well we settle things on the frontier with bullets more often than not.
Now it's not that I want to shoot an angel, but here a man or speaking beast is only as good as his word or he is a monster of a man - and that big city readers is the lesson you can take from the frontier.
-Chauncy Woolstrike, Gentleman Warlock in residence, The Rat House, Thistlemarch, Wampus County.
A Paraphrase of the Tale of a Drunken Winged Monkey Wearing Implausibly Dainty Emerald Encrusted Chainmail told in in the bar of one of Frogport's better Hotels.
Your author, a man of good standing, relates this laughable tale as best as it was remembered so that it may stimulate both moral outrage at the sin of drunkenness, and for the purposes of amusement. The worst excesses of the Monkey's hooting dialect and all of his screeching gibbering demands for (dainty seeming) fresh fruit cocktails have been omitted.
The lumber men needed more lumber, and they had a monster problem. I, the monkey, and some others are monster hunters. I have killed deadmen before and they are bad monsters. Fire is the solution to monster problems. There were also some gun fighters, a nature man and Sir the Fist, who I once saved from deadmen and who is magic.
The lumber men had hired giants to cut the trees, and the giants were frightened of monsters among the trees. We talked to the giants, and they were still frightened, but had no description of the monster to kill - good fellows those giants, big but not honest enough. They fed us flapjacks the size of a monkey, which were good, as was the bacon.
In the forest it was empty - no monsters, a nature man with us (not really a wizard and not a master) talked to a bird, but the bird said there were no monsters either. We camped the night, and Bobo found a comfy tree. The tree was tall, and when we were woken by Sir the Fist there was something in the camp. The magic men made the something sleep - it was black and white dog rats that smelled. We left them behind as the nature man got upset when Sir suggested killing them.
Later we walked around with another giant and ate more flapjacks, right where he said there was a monster there was only a child's toy. It scared the giant and so I cut off its head with the magic sword I got from that weird castle far away. One of the gun men shot the toy to make sure. We kept the head to show the giants. On the way back we met uncouth monkey looking men - they were not monkey people and knew no language, they were not monkeys just hairy beasts. One of the large stinky creatures threw a rock at Bobo so Bobo shot him. The things ran scared, because Bobo is frightening when he is mad.
When we showed the Giants the toy head, they laughed at the giant who ran scared and Bobo also laughed. All the giants eat is flapjacks and bacon. I flew to see what else might be in the woods and found a cottage, it was full of the stinky beast-men rock throwers. We returned to the giants and they said some humans had been in the cabin, but the stink-men must have eaten them, because that is what they would do.
Our band went to the cabin. I flew high with oil bombs and when the stink men came out there was a big one with a big axe. The stink-men did not like Bobo's speech about not eating people and talking like civilized apes. Bobo was forced to burn them. The big one Bobo alone killed with fire, the rest the nature man tricked into brambles and while they were trapped the rest burnt them to.
Inside the cabin there was a box, and the bones of the humans that got eaten. The box had money and a picture of a girl with the toy Bobo killed. Perhaps the toy wanted to protect its girl, and thought the giants were like the stink-men. Bobo feels bad for cutting up the toy, it was loyal to its master, which is proper - except the master is dead just like Bobo's and it should have run free just like Bobo.