The three remaining candles fought valiantly to stay alight, the dozen or so of their brethren having lost the battle, some still bleeding a stream of smoke. The tendrils of their tiny, all-too-brief lives rose to the ceiling like tiny souls being lifted to the heavens. The battlefield upon which their melted bodies were strewn was a half-score worn and ale-stained tables in a nearly empty tavern.
“And there it was, red and stiff as I’ve ever seen a cock, jutting from the furry mound of mud”
Eulummachus elbowed Ian, bushy brows flashing the wizard a knowing look.
“Am I right?” he asked in that over-loudness that spoke clearly of his generous consumption of wine. “I am!” he answered himself. “And it was the very… picture of virility!”
Now the old apostle’s arm flew around his friend, hand clasping the man’s shoulder and shaking him vigorously, for the benefit of the three drunk members of their audience. He moved his other hand towards Ian’s crotch, mocking to molest his manhood.
“It was a statue,” Ian muttered flatly, catching the old man’s hand before it ventured close enough to pose a threat, and shrugging out of the intended embrace. Eulummachus chuckled and beamed, pulling away. He had enticed yet another blush out of the wizard, which was no mean feat, due to Ian’s elven blood. Elves don’t normally blush as brightly, but then Ian was only half Astorani. His human side, it seemed, had plenty of blood for reddened cheeks.
“A statue, sure enough,” Eulummachus continued, “A mighty, large statue of the biggest manly member I’d ever encountered.” He winked and elbowed Ian, which redoubled the blush. “But before we could pull the bald-headed beauty from its nesting place, we had to deal with the slimy algae-monsters what were set on keeping us from retrieving the Groinstalk.”
Voices groaned mirthfully.
“They were horrible man-shaped, slimy fungus-men… and they were all over us like white-honey on a whore.”
Ian moaned, pinching the bridge of his nose, but the barkeeper and the other two patrons let out a guffaw of laughter, once they understood the reference. They may not be quick, but they were a fun group, Eulummachus mused.
The barkeep broke his mirth to ask, “Were the monsters some kind of spend from the great idol, set there to protect it from harm?”
“Nay,” Eulummachus replied, "if anything, they were manifestations caused by the sheer holy might of the huge wooden skin-sword. It “thrust” its will all about the mire, I think, and its physic residue is what made the spunk-monsters. It didn’t literally “jelly” forth and “spew” them out."
One of the dunk men fell to the floor, holding his sides, face bright red with laughter. The others were bellowing, red-faced and teary-eyed. Even Ian could not hold it in, a broad smile gracing his normally composed features.
“And their trees,” Ian interjected. “Don’t forget the trees.”
“Oh yes, we can’t forget those terribly strong trees that uprooted and battered us silly! They were commanded by the milk-monsters, and each of the animated trees were taller than this tavern. They were willowy and wiry as whips, and wider than this room. They’d bowled over our leader, Kumori and I thought they’d done him in. I myself was nearly choked to death by one of them. It got its branches around my throat and was squeezing for all it had. Thank Zheenkeef and the Maker that my friends were there to pull my ass out of the proverbial fire, although in this case, I guess it was the literal swamp.
“The whole place reeked of vegetation, and not the good kind like fruit and grapevines, but of the festering fetid foulness that one finds in a fen.”
He chortled at himself, and his impromptu alliteration. Oh yes, he was in his cups, and it was the best feeling in the world. It was his holy duty to his god. Drink, be merry, and spread the cheer. That was the third tenet of Zheenkeef… or was it the fourth?
“I was like to wretch from the stench, but they’d caught me about the neck, so my body was having none of it.”
“Go on, go on!” roared the barkeep, “So did ya pull the big prick from the swamp?”
The statement garnered a round of chuckles from the group. Even Ian’s smile spread wider on his face, such was his jolly mood.
“Aye, of course we did, once the slime-things and their tree-servants had been dispatched.
Eulummachus picked up the pitcher and poured everyone another round, more for need of a dramatic pause than to quench their thirst. But still, the wine was excellent, and none of the men refused, although a couple of them were still trying to catch-up their wind, they’d been laughing so hard.
“As for the nine foot staff of life, we soon were set upon snatching it from the moist and giving ground.” He shifted his weight and raised his brows, then said, “It took eight men and a contraption of pulleys and six horses to unbury the thing, but in less than an hour we managed to pull it out of the mire with a great, slurpy, sucking sound.”
Eulummachus laughed loudly, adding “Ha! That reminds me of a wild night of orgy we once had back in Io, but there were only two horses at that party… and as I recall, they were centaurs! I think they were centaurs.”
The rise of laughter filled the small tavern with a sound that was truly joyous to Eulummachus’ heart. The one fellow had returned to the floor, and was gasping for breath, a begging gesture for mercy adorned his features.
Ahh, this was true bliss. Any time Eulummachus could turn a tale randy… that was a tale worth telling. And this event – finding the great, lost phallic statue, the “nine-foot erection,” to return to its rightful home in a proper place of worship – would give him no end of tongue-in-cheek ribald tales for years to come.
It had started a few weeks ago when Eul had been having some very arousing dreams, more vivid than his usual frolicsome erotic dreams. It seemed Zheenkeef herself was telling him of the lost statue. It had apparently been dumped into the river decades ago, by some zealous and overly righteous priests who were ridding the capitol city of Rzhevka of all its idols. It was all part of some long-ago failed religious revolution, destroying all idols. Many were dumped into the Dniepar River, sinking to its bottom. This holy phallus, however, was constructed of wood, and given a shellacking the likes of which those zealots had not considered. Heh. Shellacking.
The giant floating penis made its way down (river), only to bury itself in a wet, muddy ox-bow in the river. The river eventually closed off the ox-bow, leaving the statue mired in nature’s cunny, as it were. The big stiffy would remain buried there until the goddess decided it needed withdrawal. Eulummachus, along with a local libertine and seducer, a man called Borya, were given visions of the mighty statue, as well as an overpowering… urge… to pull it from its swampy resting place and take it to a new home. A home where its grandeur could be fully… appreciated.
Other than an annoying delay during a terrible thunderstorm, complete with a vampiress who nearly killed several of the party, Borya’s statue-induced lust and the matter of taking a village girl’s virginity necessitating a round the clock vigil on the randy Rüs, the travel up through the capitol city of Rzhevka was otherwise uneventful. The ground was sodden, the weather only mildly cold and wet. Borya’s brother, Zhenya Nikolaevich, effectively curtailed the libertine’s sexual activities, mainly through threat of the slicing off of the offending appendage. Eulummachus did not believe Zhenya up to the task, which was severe in the extreme, but Borya seemed to believe his brother, and the threat. Despite Borya’s curse of losing his short-term memory, no more women were violated, to Borya and Eulummachus’ woe.
“Tell us, priest of the grape,” the barkeep slurred, “Once you got the giant tonsil-tickler out of the mire… what then?”
Eullummachus burst out in mirth. “Tonsil-tickler,” he mused, “I’ll have to remember that one. It’s great, that is.”
“Great like the Uncle Wiggly!” spouted off one of the patrons. The laughter died as everyone looked at the speaker, the man who’d now thrice been rolling on the floor. The dead air lasted only a moment, for Eulummachus burst out once more, decrying “Uncle Wiggly!” as he raised his goblet in toast.
“Vagina miner,” cried a patron.
“Whore hammer,” barked the barkeep.
“Rump wrangler,” chortled the other reveler.
“The one-eyed giant!”
This last euphemism was added by Ian, who had ultimately been fully overcome by the coarse frivolity of this night’s revelry.
The dim, smoky room was as noisy as if there had been a score men within, not just five. Any further conversation was impossible, the wine and the crude humor had obliterated any further, sensible thought or speech. As the last candle sputtered out, Eulummachus lay his head on the table, pride in his heart. This night he had been immersed in his element, and he was overjoyed. The rest of the tale would simply have to wait.