Weekend at Vasey's II Chapter 2
Weekend at Vasey’s II, Chapter 2
Rating so far: T/PG-13, will probably go up to M eventually.
I don't own the rights to Robin Hood BBC, this work is only for entertainment, blah dee blah blah.
Read Chapter 1 first
Read the original Weekend at Vasey's first
Author’s note: due to gross incompetence, the entire arrow whoosh caption crew has been fired and replaced by a highly-skilled team of jellyfish.
“Sir Guy! Sir Guy!” shouted a portly castle guard, running up the castle staircase that led to the administrative quarters. He was nearly out of breath, as there were at least fifteen stairs, and he was halfway up. “Have you . . . seen . . . Sir Guy?”
Another guard, who had been vigilantly resting his eyes while guarding an empty wall sconce, rubbed his eyes drowsily and replied, “Hoozzatt?”
“Sir Guy, have . . .” a gasp, “you seen . . .” then came another gasp. This heavy breathing was too much for his attention span. “Know what, I’m feelin’ a bit peckish. Wanna go down to the kitchen and see if there’s any strawberry jam and scones?”
“Oh, I say, that’s a good idea,” the other guard replied, perking up at this suggestion. “I love strawberry jam.”
The two guards sauntered down the stairs together, their loosely girded swords slapping each other’s bottoms in the process.
“What was that you was sayin’?”
“’Bout what?” asked Jimsie, still winded.
“I dunno. I thought you’d said somethin’ about Sir Guy, is all. Is he still goin’ on about ‘guarding’ and how we’re supposed to be ‘protecting’ the castle, and all o’ that jibber-jabber?” asked the other guard, Christopher.
“I don’t think so. But I was supposed to tell him something . . . important, I think they said it was.”
“Oh, well, that sounds . . . know what, I think I’ll have blueberry jam instead of strawberry.”
Jimsie gave his colleague a withering glance. Blueberry, indeed. “I bet Prince John don’t like blueberry. Suppose we’ll be findin’ out soon enough.”
“Oh, why’s that?” asked Christopher, uninterested. He stepped out into the corridor of the lower level.
“Because he’s on his way here. Or his body double who looks totally different is on his way here. Or maybe Prince John is on his way . . . somewhere that sounds like here. I can’t remember. Probably not important . . . or very important, something like that.” Jimsie sighed, and his mouth watered. Blueberry. What kind of simpleton eats blueberry jam when he can have strawberry instead? The very idea!
It just so happened that Marvin was walking by at that moment. He was also on his way to the kitchen, not because he was also hungry for strawberry jam, but because he was actually doing his job. Upon overhearing the other “guards’” conversation, though, he wheeled around on them.
“Erm, what was that?” he asked.
“Oh, we were just sayin’ that some strawberry jam would do really hit the spot right about now,” answered Jimsie.
“Blueberry,” corrected Christopher.
“I can’t bloody believe you’d rather have blueberry than strawberry!” Jimsie shouted, losing his cool.
“Oh, good, because I thought for a moment you’d said that Prince John was on his way here,” said Marvin, interrupting them.
“Oh, he is, I think, or was it his body double?” Jimsie answered, then turned his attention back to more important matters. “As I was sayin’, straw-”
Marvin, not allowing himself to be sidetracked, even by such urgent philosophical discussions as this, pressed the issue. “And did he say when he was coming?”
Jimsie looked at him, clearly beginning to be annoyed by all these interruptions when there was strawberry jam to be had. “This afternoon, or was it this morning?”
“This morning’s over,” answered Marvin. “So it must be this afternoon.”
“Right. Like I said, there’s a magical quality to the strawberry jam that can’t be . . .” his voice trailed off as he and Christopher argued their way to the kitchen.
“Right, then,” said Marvin to himself, drawing a deep breath. “I suppose I’d better tell Sir Guy about this.”
****************************************************************************************
*tentacle slap*
Sherwood Forest, Prince John’s carriage
“I’m afraid I can’t do that, sire,” said Phillip, squirming.
Prince John sighed exasperatedly. “Fine. But this is the last time - if you can’t hold it in until we get to the castle, you’re bloody well out of luck! If you ruin my surprise entrance - ”
“No, my lord!” yelped Sir Phillip of Dunghill, fairly leaping out of the carriage and across the road, where he began to shimmy out of his Garanimal Grown-ups™ trousers.
Prince John quickly glanced into the sky, wondering wistfully if perhaps being blinded by the sun would not have been preferable to the sight of Sir Phillip’s pink bottom and skinny chicken legs.
“Meow,” meowed Lactica sympathetically.
Prince John gave the cat a distrustful, sideways glance, thereby causing himself to look again in the direction of Sir Phillip’s backside. He quickly looked stared back into the sun, this time praying that the blinding would be swift.
As it turns out, though, the sun was awfully dark all of a sudden. This was likely because it was being blocked by a masked man (actually, one eye was masked, the other was covered up with a patch) wearing a ruffled white blouse, striped pants and a rather flamboyant feathered hat. He had climbed into Prince John’s carriage and was now standing above that illustrious personage, having carefully angled himself as to achieve the maximum “wow” effect of the sun’s rays silhouetting him.
It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that Prince John did not cotton to this strange and unpermitted alighting into his personal carriage. In fact, he didn’t care for it at all. His ginger eyebrows drew together in a most princely combination of outrage and terror.
“What is the meaning of this, you - you - poorly-dressed ruffian?” demanded the prince, wondering at that moment where all his guards were, not to mention the driver of his carriage.
“Poorly-dressed? I’ll have you know my Master paid - ” came a voice from behind them.
“Not NOW, Mu- uhh, Mustard!” hissed the mysterious person in the wagon.
“Excuse me, do you mean to tell me I’m being held up by a person called Mustard?” commanded the prince, even more indignantly than before. “This is not to be borne!”
“That’s what your mum said. About you,” said the half-masked man, cheekily. Then, seeing that he hadn’t quite hit his mark, said, “When you were born, I mean.”
“Sorry, was that meant to be an insult?” asked Prince John, confused.
“Yeah, you know. Your mum!” chuckled the bandit. “Um, I mean, not that she’s not a nice lady, and all. So I’ve heard.”
“You leave my mum out of this,” seethed Prince John. “And perhaps then you could tell me just what the devil you’re on about. Or you could just bugger off. That would be even better.”
“My Lord!” squealed Sir Phillip, now behind the carriage. “I’m terribly sorry I can’t help you, but my button got stuck, and then this horrid fellow with a hook for a hand took me prisoner, and - ”
“Quiet, you!” said the other man, whom we shall assume is called Mustard.
“Oh, all right, then,” acquiesced Phillip. “But please don’t harm my kitty.”
“Arrrggh, THAT’S ENOUGH!” shouted the half-masked man, taking back his control of the situation. He also remembered that he was holding a sword in his hand, and he pointed this at Prince John’s neck. “Now, I think it’s time you handed over all your money to me. For, like, the poor. And stuff.”
“I beg your pardon? And I mean that in a facetious way, not as if I were actually begging. I don’t beg,” replied the prince.
“I’m robbin’ you, don’t you understand?” said the bandit.
“Haha, ‘I’m Robin you,’ good one, Master!” laughed the man we call Mustard.
“Shut up, Mu- -ustard!” snapped the mysterious bandit.
“I’m getting hungry,” moaned Sir Phillip. Being terrified always made him hungry.
****************************************************************************************
*polyp whip*
“MARIAAAAANNN!!” shouted Guy, his voice causing a small family of crickets down in the dungeon to wonder just what the hell all that racket was about. “Marian, where are you??”
Marian called up from the courtyard where she was trying to reason with some protesters. “Guy, there’s really no need to shout like that.”
“Oh, yes, there bloody well is!”
“No, there’s really not. I had speaking tubes installed in all the rooms of the castle, remember?”
No, Guy didn’t remember, and even if he had, he wouldn’t have used them at this moment. “Sod the speaking tubes, Marian, this is urgent!”
Marian didn’t care for Guy’s tone, especially since those speaking tubes had cost a pretty penny and had come out of her own inheritance. “I will have you know that -”
“PRINCE JOHN IS COMING,” bellowed Guy, nearly deafening a guard who was walking by on his way to naptime.
The lady’s mouth dropped open. “Wait, I thought you said Prince John was coming,” answered Marian. “Can’t you pick up the speaking tube? It’s right next to you,” she said, pointing it out to him.
“He is coming,” Guy said, after fumbling with the speaking tube for three-and-a-half minutes.
“Oh.” Marian’s mind raced, thinking of what this might mean. Finally she spoke back, “I suppose I’d better change into something more presentable for state visits, then.”
Will Phillip’s Garanimals make it out of his predicament in one easy-to-fasten piece? Will the identities of the very mysterious ruffians be revealed? Will Marian find something appropriate to wear? Find out next time in Weekend at Vasey’s II!
Rating so far: T/PG-13, will probably go up to M eventually.
I don't own the rights to Robin Hood BBC, this work is only for entertainment, blah dee blah blah.
Read Chapter 1 first
Read the original Weekend at Vasey's first
Author’s note: due to gross incompetence, the entire arrow whoosh caption crew has been fired and replaced by a highly-skilled team of jellyfish.
“Sir Guy! Sir Guy!” shouted a portly castle guard, running up the castle staircase that led to the administrative quarters. He was nearly out of breath, as there were at least fifteen stairs, and he was halfway up. “Have you . . . seen . . . Sir Guy?”
Another guard, who had been vigilantly resting his eyes while guarding an empty wall sconce, rubbed his eyes drowsily and replied, “Hoozzatt?”
“Sir Guy, have . . .” a gasp, “you seen . . .” then came another gasp. This heavy breathing was too much for his attention span. “Know what, I’m feelin’ a bit peckish. Wanna go down to the kitchen and see if there’s any strawberry jam and scones?”
“Oh, I say, that’s a good idea,” the other guard replied, perking up at this suggestion. “I love strawberry jam.”
The two guards sauntered down the stairs together, their loosely girded swords slapping each other’s bottoms in the process.
“What was that you was sayin’?”
“’Bout what?” asked Jimsie, still winded.
“I dunno. I thought you’d said somethin’ about Sir Guy, is all. Is he still goin’ on about ‘guarding’ and how we’re supposed to be ‘protecting’ the castle, and all o’ that jibber-jabber?” asked the other guard, Christopher.
“I don’t think so. But I was supposed to tell him something . . . important, I think they said it was.”
“Oh, well, that sounds . . . know what, I think I’ll have blueberry jam instead of strawberry.”
Jimsie gave his colleague a withering glance. Blueberry, indeed. “I bet Prince John don’t like blueberry. Suppose we’ll be findin’ out soon enough.”
“Oh, why’s that?” asked Christopher, uninterested. He stepped out into the corridor of the lower level.
“Because he’s on his way here. Or his body double who looks totally different is on his way here. Or maybe Prince John is on his way . . . somewhere that sounds like here. I can’t remember. Probably not important . . . or very important, something like that.” Jimsie sighed, and his mouth watered. Blueberry. What kind of simpleton eats blueberry jam when he can have strawberry instead? The very idea!
It just so happened that Marvin was walking by at that moment. He was also on his way to the kitchen, not because he was also hungry for strawberry jam, but because he was actually doing his job. Upon overhearing the other “guards’” conversation, though, he wheeled around on them.
“Erm, what was that?” he asked.
“Oh, we were just sayin’ that some strawberry jam would do really hit the spot right about now,” answered Jimsie.
“Blueberry,” corrected Christopher.
“I can’t bloody believe you’d rather have blueberry than strawberry!” Jimsie shouted, losing his cool.
“Oh, good, because I thought for a moment you’d said that Prince John was on his way here,” said Marvin, interrupting them.
“Oh, he is, I think, or was it his body double?” Jimsie answered, then turned his attention back to more important matters. “As I was sayin’, straw-”
Marvin, not allowing himself to be sidetracked, even by such urgent philosophical discussions as this, pressed the issue. “And did he say when he was coming?”
Jimsie looked at him, clearly beginning to be annoyed by all these interruptions when there was strawberry jam to be had. “This afternoon, or was it this morning?”
“This morning’s over,” answered Marvin. “So it must be this afternoon.”
“Right. Like I said, there’s a magical quality to the strawberry jam that can’t be . . .” his voice trailed off as he and Christopher argued their way to the kitchen.
“Right, then,” said Marvin to himself, drawing a deep breath. “I suppose I’d better tell Sir Guy about this.”
****************************************************************************************
*tentacle slap*
Sherwood Forest, Prince John’s carriage
“I’m afraid I can’t do that, sire,” said Phillip, squirming.
Prince John sighed exasperatedly. “Fine. But this is the last time - if you can’t hold it in until we get to the castle, you’re bloody well out of luck! If you ruin my surprise entrance - ”
“No, my lord!” yelped Sir Phillip of Dunghill, fairly leaping out of the carriage and across the road, where he began to shimmy out of his Garanimal Grown-ups™ trousers.
Prince John quickly glanced into the sky, wondering wistfully if perhaps being blinded by the sun would not have been preferable to the sight of Sir Phillip’s pink bottom and skinny chicken legs.
“Meow,” meowed Lactica sympathetically.
Prince John gave the cat a distrustful, sideways glance, thereby causing himself to look again in the direction of Sir Phillip’s backside. He quickly looked stared back into the sun, this time praying that the blinding would be swift.
As it turns out, though, the sun was awfully dark all of a sudden. This was likely because it was being blocked by a masked man (actually, one eye was masked, the other was covered up with a patch) wearing a ruffled white blouse, striped pants and a rather flamboyant feathered hat. He had climbed into Prince John’s carriage and was now standing above that illustrious personage, having carefully angled himself as to achieve the maximum “wow” effect of the sun’s rays silhouetting him.
It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that Prince John did not cotton to this strange and unpermitted alighting into his personal carriage. In fact, he didn’t care for it at all. His ginger eyebrows drew together in a most princely combination of outrage and terror.
“What is the meaning of this, you - you - poorly-dressed ruffian?” demanded the prince, wondering at that moment where all his guards were, not to mention the driver of his carriage.
“Poorly-dressed? I’ll have you know my Master paid - ” came a voice from behind them.
“Not NOW, Mu- uhh, Mustard!” hissed the mysterious person in the wagon.
“Excuse me, do you mean to tell me I’m being held up by a person called Mustard?” commanded the prince, even more indignantly than before. “This is not to be borne!”
“That’s what your mum said. About you,” said the half-masked man, cheekily. Then, seeing that he hadn’t quite hit his mark, said, “When you were born, I mean.”
“Sorry, was that meant to be an insult?” asked Prince John, confused.
“Yeah, you know. Your mum!” chuckled the bandit. “Um, I mean, not that she’s not a nice lady, and all. So I’ve heard.”
“You leave my mum out of this,” seethed Prince John. “And perhaps then you could tell me just what the devil you’re on about. Or you could just bugger off. That would be even better.”
“My Lord!” squealed Sir Phillip, now behind the carriage. “I’m terribly sorry I can’t help you, but my button got stuck, and then this horrid fellow with a hook for a hand took me prisoner, and - ”
“Quiet, you!” said the other man, whom we shall assume is called Mustard.
“Oh, all right, then,” acquiesced Phillip. “But please don’t harm my kitty.”
“Arrrggh, THAT’S ENOUGH!” shouted the half-masked man, taking back his control of the situation. He also remembered that he was holding a sword in his hand, and he pointed this at Prince John’s neck. “Now, I think it’s time you handed over all your money to me. For, like, the poor. And stuff.”
“I beg your pardon? And I mean that in a facetious way, not as if I were actually begging. I don’t beg,” replied the prince.
“I’m robbin’ you, don’t you understand?” said the bandit.
“Haha, ‘I’m Robin you,’ good one, Master!” laughed the man we call Mustard.
“Shut up, Mu- -ustard!” snapped the mysterious bandit.
“I’m getting hungry,” moaned Sir Phillip. Being terrified always made him hungry.
****************************************************************************************
*polyp whip*
“MARIAAAAANNN!!” shouted Guy, his voice causing a small family of crickets down in the dungeon to wonder just what the hell all that racket was about. “Marian, where are you??”
Marian called up from the courtyard where she was trying to reason with some protesters. “Guy, there’s really no need to shout like that.”
“Oh, yes, there bloody well is!”
“No, there’s really not. I had speaking tubes installed in all the rooms of the castle, remember?”
No, Guy didn’t remember, and even if he had, he wouldn’t have used them at this moment. “Sod the speaking tubes, Marian, this is urgent!”
Marian didn’t care for Guy’s tone, especially since those speaking tubes had cost a pretty penny and had come out of her own inheritance. “I will have you know that -”
“PRINCE JOHN IS COMING,” bellowed Guy, nearly deafening a guard who was walking by on his way to naptime.
The lady’s mouth dropped open. “Wait, I thought you said Prince John was coming,” answered Marian. “Can’t you pick up the speaking tube? It’s right next to you,” she said, pointing it out to him.
“He is coming,” Guy said, after fumbling with the speaking tube for three-and-a-half minutes.
“Oh.” Marian’s mind raced, thinking of what this might mean. Finally she spoke back, “I suppose I’d better change into something more presentable for state visits, then.”
Will Phillip’s Garanimals make it out of his predicament in one easy-to-fasten piece? Will the identities of the very mysterious ruffians be revealed? Will Marian find something appropriate to wear? Find out next time in Weekend at Vasey’s II!