| Subject: I give you...*dramatic pause*...Tomato: a Generic Redwall Tale and Parody, by Dakkan Strongrudder... |
Author:
Dakkan
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Date Posted: 23:17:32 08/15/03 Fri
In reply to:
Dakkan Strongrudder
's message, "Dakkan tries some comedy..." on 23:14:48 08/15/03 Fri
There was a flash of lightning! A clashing of swords! The guffawing of drunken vermin!
A band of weasels tottered unsteadily down the path, taking long pulls of grog and singing raucously at the top of their voices. Their leader was a scrawny beast who went by the name of Stinky Dirtfur. As they rounded a band, he noticed a huge sandstone building glowing blue with the soft moonlight. Stinky belched loudly and giggled, “Hey, let’s conquer that!”
The building was Redwall Abbey (duh, what did you think?), and inside there was a feast going on. It was the Feast of Half-Past-the-Second-Week-of-Summer. The table had long broken under the weight of breads, cheeses, pastries, trifles, scones, cakes, rolls, pies, ales, cordials, wines, beers, and grogs (for any vermin in disguise). There were also fruits, vegetables, chocolate, cinnamon buns, biscuits, cookies, rice, Cheetos and lime Jell-O with carrot bits…
Mice, squirrels, moles, and half a dozen other species of cute little animals resembled furry balloons as they eagerly shoved food down their chubby faces. Many of the elders were now tackling their 2,458,689th feast and weighed well over 75 pounds (quite a feat for those who were mice).
But one mouse stood aloof, lean and buff for absolutely no reason except he must be the hero. (That or a warp-speed metabolism.) Just as the intoxicated weasel outside slurred his intention to conquer Redwall, the mouse passed out cold.
The others stopped eating and looked over quizzically. Heart attacks were common among the average Abbeybeast due to rampant obesity, but the young mouse Tomato was too “in shape” for that.
Abruptly Tomato stood up and cried, “Martin appeared to me…there’s a horde of vermin on the warpath!” As he said this, the legendary sword of Martin the Warrior suddenly flew off the wall and slid to a halt at the young mouse’s footpaws. Picking up the weapon, Tomato struck a heroic pose and dashed outside.
One or two of the other Abbeybeasts made as if to follow, but they simply rolled out of their seats, gave up, and resumed eating.
Stinky Dirtfur threw aside his empty tankard and became sober very rapidly. His band, also alert (despite their blood alcohol levels of 50%), drew their weapons as they noticed a lone mouse running toward them with a very shiny sword.
Super shiny.
So shiny they were mesmerized by it.
Stinky let his cutlass drop to the dusty path, a trickle of drool at his mouth corner, staring at Martin’s sword. “Pretty…”
CHOP! SLASH! JAB! TAP!
“Tap??” muttered the last living weasel confusedly, rubbing a bump between his ears.
Tomato’s eyes were harder than last season’s fruitcake as he gestured with the sword. “Didn’t you read the Vermin Code? When you narrowly escape with your life, you’re supposed to call your reinforcement horde.”
“Reinforcements?” puzzled the weasel, but two seconds later there was a great shout.
“KIIIIIIILLLLLLLLLLL!!!!!!” And 256 score ninja weasels ran out of their hiding places and surrounded Tomato.
The mouse was undaunted. “Hiiiiiiiiiiiya!” Miraculously outmaneuvering all 5,120 vermin, he slew every last one of them within ten minutes. Wiping Martin’s sword unconcernedly, he trotted back to the Abbey.
“256 ninja weasels?” came the muffled voice of the Abbot, who was so fat he couldn’t see over his stomach even while standing.
“256 score, Father,” corrected Tomato gently, laying the marvelous blade on the floor.
“Brave warrior, my son,” wheezed the Abbot. “I…irk!”
“Heart attack,” diagnosed the plump squirrel healer before the fat mouse hit the stones.
“That means,” cried a spherical hedgehog excitedly, “that Tomato can be our Abbot now!”
“And champion! And Official Ninja-Weasel-Slayer!” other voices yelled.
The new Abbot/Champion/Slayer smiled as the replaced Martin’s sword on the wall and went to the table. Picking up a scone, he scarified it in one bite.
And gained a pound on the spot.
“See, he’ll make a fine Abbot,” remarked a vole to her shrew companion.
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