Monday, April 29, 2002
The sword of Penguin gleamed brightfully in the night. The knight Bainbridge dangled it thoughtfully between his legs as he watched the road ahead. There was a dot in the distance, but as the dot got closer it was revealed a man—a man on a horse, or a centaur, he supposed that was possible.

“Halt, he who goes there! You, I mean,” he bellowed. “Identify yourself. Long version, please.”

“I am Luthor of Kuntnose, son of Emeril of Kuntnose, whose father was Dandelion Dan, but not of Kuntnose, but of some far off other place I’d prefer not mention.” The rider of the horse was a stout man with a long beard and wearing a crown of silver atop his head. He wore mail of silver on his chest, and packages on his thighs. His horse wore a bathrug of a metallic type on his back.

“Son of Emeril!” Bainbridge repeated part of the statement. He quickly bowed, fell over, owing to his heavy suit of golden armor, and propped himself up on one knee again. “Truly you are the long-lost lord!”

“I have always been found where I am.”

“But you have been lost to us until now!”

“Still, I knew where I was.” Luthor glanced around. “Guard you this place?”

“I’m sorry?”

“This place. Guard it, do you?”

“One more time?”

“Do you guard this place?”

“Indeed I do,” answered Bainbridge. “I am all that stands between invaders who travel the road into the kingdom of Nottlick.”

“What of travelers of ill will who travel ‘round the road, say the grass or through the forest?”

“That’s out of my jurisdiction.” Bainbridge stood once more. “Long have we of Nottlick awaited your return, Luthor of Kuntnose. We have been besieged by the enemy of the north, then sieged by the enemy of the south, then rebeseiged once more by the enemy of the north.”

“I must say, I warned father about moving to this country. You are surrounded by enemies.” Luthor dismounted his horse, mounting the ground. “Tell me, if you are under assault by enemies from the north and south, why so do you block the road of the west.”

“Actually, I’m not that good a knight.”

“Sorry to hear that,” declared Luthor. “I shall return to this kingdom at last from this road, good sir knight, and I will take the road again for my own. I shall be king of the road and control all who leave or enter, or just casually stroll upon it. And you shall be my faithful servant, good knight!”

“Pardon?”

“You shall be my servant, if you so wish, good knight.”

“I’m sorry, are you going to bed, sir?”

“Skip it. What do they call you?”

“Many things, sir, some of them referring to the comparatively tiny scale of my genitalia to my body. But my name is Bainbridge. Capital B, a, i, n—”

“Cease your spelling, good Bainbridge. I’m not writing any letterheads for you or anything.” The King of the Road, self-declared, held aloft his sword, the Sword of Tongue, and it whistled and farted to the moon, as it was embarrassingly prone to do at parties. “I welcome into my party the first of many worthy knights. Sir Bainbridge! Of something or other. Together, Sir Bainbridge, we shall reclaim the entire road. For carts and wagons!”

For more of this great story, buy Lemon Chester's novel
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