Krahl The Warrior King
or My Fantastical Adventures in India and Beyond
by
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We watched in eager anticipation as Krahl showed the dull-witted villager a drawing of his missing bride-to-be and her kidnapper. And for the fifth time this week, yet another villager shook his head 'no' and Krahl headed back our way, his head bowed with despair. He tossed his sketches down on the ground.
"We have come all this way in vain. I will never see my beautiful Sierra Myst," he said.
"Wait a minute..." my father said as he picked up the sketches Krahl had done. he unrolled the parchment and revealed to us what Krah had been showing the villagers--crudely drawn stick figures. To his credit, Krahl had given Sierra a big, sunny smile and curly hair and he had given the villain an evil grimace; but that was the extent of it.
"Perhaps Nil could do something with these sketches. Now, don't get me wrong, Krahl," my father said, making certain not to say to a man armed with a sword that his drawings reeked like last month's dirty laundry. "They are good--but I think they can be--better."
"And just what can Nil do that I can't do?" asked Krahl, reaching for his sword.
Before my father had a chance to elucidate, Nil had managed to contort his body about so that his chin was touching his butt, which sickened all of us.
"Apparently, he can kiss his own backside."
"I can't do that," Krahl conceded.
Nil then utilized a nearby fallen tree as a balance beam and performed a series of feats so astounding that he had to pull his undergarments out of his buttcrack.
"I can't do that, either," Krahl said. Then he brightened. "But I can pull my undergarments out of my buttcrack."
"That's good," said my father, patting Krahl on the back. "That is very good. However, I was thinking that Nil could improve upon these sketches--for he's a graduate of The Correspondence Art School For Those Who Can Sketch Turtles and Pirates Very Well."
Everyone gasped and gazed upon Nil, for they were both greatly impressed by his expertise and left wondering how he had managed to instantaneously produce a framed 11 X 14 inch copy of his diploma.
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About the Book
ABOUT THIS BOOK
In the midst of town a handsome warrior comes, riding on his great black steed. Who could it be—now? Will the villagers have to treat him to a hanging, as they are wont to do to all blackguards, jackanapes, and Histories of Herodotus salesmen? No…wait, it is only a distant relative, so a good pickpocketing is certainly in order!
Thus mostly begins the greatest book ever written in this—the greatest of all centuries as Varnos, Abraxas, and the rest of the crew embark on the adventure of a lifetime; or, at least their lifetimes. Is it possible they can actually help their long lost relative find his kidnapped princess? Come join our unlikely heroes as they struggle through a bizzare landscape filled with wild-haired tribesmen, savage animals, mythical creatures, angry pygmies, even angrier kings, and giant gold hoarding ants. Travel with our characters as they ride a giant over Bifrost, the Rainbow Bridge and travel back again on Naglfar, the great ship made of dead men’s fingernails. Will Krahl the warrior ever see his princess again, or will they finally be stopped dead in their tracks by the next village’s craftily worded nuisance ordinance?
And what about the tribes of hairy tree dwellers—the tribes known collectively as Munki? Will these most craven little people ever be convinced to wear a simple pair of shoes—or, better yet, a sylish pair of pants? Pick up a copy of this book, dear readers, and you will soon find the answers to all of these silly questions—and much, much more.
About the Author
Little is known about the author of this book. Who, exactly, was this Varnos Goodshoe? Where did he grow up? What, exactly, was his shoe size? Granted, the ancient text as translated by Professor Schtupenheimer provides us with a few paltry clues--yet when we go to investigate them, we are left completely in the dark.
Where, for example, are these Plains of Despair? When we look to the text we find references to large mountains, rocks, and sand--but I think you'll agree, there are a great number of places on the globe where all of that can be had. And these whizzing, flying snakes--now, that--that should have been a sterling lead but our trained team of investigators found little evidence to indicate that they ever existed outside a few references to them in some ancient texts. When our crack team of investigators then turned to the alleged translator of the text, Professor Schtupenheimer, we were again left without a pot to boil a pig's ear in or a window to throw it out (though why we would want to do either of those things is a complete mystery to me).
Finally, and only as a last resort, our determined team of investigators turned to the author of the foreword. There--now, there, they actually found something. Oddly enough, they did manage to find a Nancy Maloney hiding out on the periphery of some obscure town known as Hallsville, Missouri. But this woman, who refuses to be interviewed, seems to be a most unlikely author of any books about anything. Indeed, how could a mother of six girls find the time to do aught besides weep and tear out her own hair, I ask you? And so--the search for our mystery author goes on.....