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darknation

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  1. David Mullan was questing for justice. He was a much maligned and put upon soul, a much blackened character. He was abused and sore, pissed off and pissed upon, and the Mullan would not take it anymore.

    Once, the great Scottish clan of Mullan was widely feared. They were hairy, wild and free, ravaging the lands and pillaging the sheep of their neighbours. Alas, on the night of this tale, such things were no more. From the kilt and castle the Mullans' had descended into cords and council estates. The genepool had been fouled with lesser blood sometime past, and the Mullans’ were a fallen and disgraced people. A shadow and a mockery of their former glory. Of legend and song they were no longer.

    Until this night, when David Mullan set his feet upon the path of The Quest and walked hence into history once more, dragging his families name from the dirt of the gutter and flinging it back up into the stars. Riding on the clichéd wings of the dark and stormy night, bards and poets again join their voices to sing the praises of the Mullan to the toast of the assembled publicans and the late night revellers. Beer is drowned and tributes ring the noble halls of Blairgowrie as the humble and the down-trodden pay tribute to the Modern Mullan, a hero standing proudly among the conquistadors of the new age.

    And so it begins.

    David Mullan was not yet questing for justice, contrary to the opening paragraph. David Mullan was, to begin with, questing for hometime. Aye, he sat, bored and bemused in history class amongst his pens and paper with a pair of scissor clasped within one sweaty paw and a glue stick within the other, less sweaty but more gluey.

    The Bastard Howie presided over affairs, holding court in the history class of 2B. He held the floor by dint of volume and foul temper, mincing back and forth upon the lino and bawling instructions to his charges.

    The instructions were simple, of little challenge to a being of superior intellect such as the Mullan. The class were to cut out and reassemble historical dates from a sheet of paper, preferably in the correct order. Alas, 2B was failing at the task with typical aplomb. Enthusiastic (if retarded) students chewed at the papers with their blunt safety scissors, gluing dates into their jotters seemingly at random. Debates were fought fiercely among the students, one pair coming to vicious blows over the precise date of the Battle of Hastings (1066, in case anyone was wondering) and being forcibly ejected from the classroom to continue their mortal struggle in the school halls.

    The Bastard Howie ranted and raved, spittle flying forth from his repulsive beard and spraying girl and boy alike as he foamed abuse and insults.

    The Mullan ignored the Bastard and instead focused on vandalising his tabletop, adding a penis and a large set of balls to the multitudes already carved and timeworn upon the laminate surface.

    Thus the Hero passed the time, with this and other small acts of rebellion as the riot of school continued around him. At some point, the Mullan disposed of his glue stick, and that is where the True Beginning of the Tale begins. For the Bastard Howie spotted the Mullan idly carving his mark into the ersatz-wood of the School Property Desk, and was displeased. With saliva glands in an overdrive of pure fury, the Bastard Howie swooped upon the unassuming hero and sprayed his displeasure and venom.

    The Mullan was nonplussed at this worrying turn of events, shielding his eyes against the inevitable rain of spit and calmly telling the Bastard Howie to “Fuck off ya fuckin’ cunt that ya are!”

    Howie demanded that the Mullan pick up his Pritt-Stikk glue stick and return to his labours, lest a beating mar his noble brow. The Mullan replied that he had misplaced his glue stick and would require a replacement in order to comply with the Bastard Howie’s unreasonable requests. The Howie raised his fist to smite the Mullan and demanded that he produced the errant glue stick within the next three seconds or, as much as it would grieve him, he would crack the Mullan’s thick skull open. Mullan raised his eyes heavenward in reply and incanted a dire curse in Latin. And there, above the heads of the protagonists, was a Revelation.

    The Mullan’s glue stick was currently glue stuck to the roof of the Bastard Howie’s classroom, suspended there and battling against gravity thanks to a wry flick of the cunning wrist of Mullan. And as the Howie cast his gaze upwards, gravity won the fight and glue stick separated from ceiling and went spiralling downwards, guided either by God or some other, darker deity.

    Down came the glue stick, smack slap damn and dash right into the middle of the Howie’s scalp. The Bastard yelped danced, much to the amusement of 2B, clawing at his curly hair and trying desperately to untangle the glue stick before it became irrevocably entrenched. At some point during his daft dance, his hands became glued to his head. And in his rage and desperation the Howie mistepped, a flurry of feet becoming entangled with each other and causing the Howie to spill headfirst into the linoleum with a grisly crunch of cartilage.

    For that, he earned a standing ovation from the class of 2B, who recognised good comedy when they saw it.

    The Howie was carted away, blubbering and sobbing through his ruined nose. A good half an hour passed in agony for the Bastard, having the hairs in his head plucked out one by one in order to remove the now legendary glue stick. He sat in misery in the nurses’ station, tissues jammed up both nostrils to staunch the stream of blood pouring forth and ruining his cardigan and with an ever widening bald spot being ripped from his scalp by the unsympathetic and brutal nurse.

    And all would have been well if our story ended there, the Bastard Howie wrapped in gaze and misery and the Mullan being paraded around the school shoulder high, pupils chanting his name into the frosty evening and waving their glue sticks in proper tribute. Alas, the Howie would have his revenge upon noble Mullan, and that in turn would set in motion and give motivation to the Mullan clan’s greatest achievement.

    Return to me next time, dear reader, for here begins The Quest…

    1. Show previous comments  1 more
    2. Danarchy

      Danarchy

      Heh, that reminds me of when we used to chuck pencils into the ceiling of the Jr. High gym which was coated with some kind of mystery insulation that the teachers told us not to "mess with" when it would periodicly come raining down. Of course, we later would try to launch basketballs into the stuck pencils to see them rain down on somone with bits of that nasty stuff in tow. Good times as always.

    3. Bloodshedder

      Bloodshedder

      Mystery insulation? Told you not to mess with it? Could have been asbestos.

      Back when I was taking electronics in high school, it was always fun to try to get components (resistors, capacitors) to stick in the ceiling.

    4. Danarchy

      Danarchy

      Bloodshedder said:

      Mystery insulation? Told you not to mess with it? Could have been asbestos.

      Most likely was. The Jr. High also featured a roof so leaky that when it rained (which was always), there would be puddles all over the floors. Once I was sitting in the computer lab and it was drizzling on my head. :/ Once, the ceiling to one of the locker bays collapsed in the middle of school. Pretty much everyone who had a locker in there had to forfeit their lunch that day. :P

      Anyway, awesome story dn.

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