After a long quest, our brave hero, Sir Me, entered the cave of the wicked demon of Spanish Orals, Senor Orallo. After fighting it for a bit, the beast was fatally wounded and it fell into a pit. Sir Me drove off on his motorbike into the sunset. But little did he know, his quest had just begun...
The GCSE Saga Episode Two: Enter Harris
Tired after his battle with Senor Orallo, and running low on petrol for his Harley Davidson (ok, so we're not being 100% historically accurate here, but who cares?) Sir Me decided to stop at an inn for the night. After travelling through the dark woods of Practisepapers for what seemed like days, he came upon an inn known only as Thar Trayvelle Inne, run by a strange old woman. This old woman's name was Charleen (it said on her little pin-badge), but she refused to serve him. Here's how the conversation went:
Sir Me: Hello, old woman... Charleen... I am a Knight of King Arthur, Sir Me, and I require bed and sustenance for the night. I can pay you in gold tokens.
Charleen: Sorry, we don't take your sort here.
Sir Me: What?
Charleen: Knights. We don't take your sort here. Keep away
Sir Me: What? Surely that's discrimination. I demand to speak to your manager.
Charleen: Sorry, but it's company policy. Ever since all the attacks, we've got a ban on Knights.
Sir Me: Attacks?
Charleen: You mean you don't know? The townspeople are scared. Ever since that Black Knight rode through town three weeks ago, people have been stolen away by a demon.
Sir Me: A demon?
Charleen: Yes, a demon.
Sir Me: Really?
Charleen: Yes. And, you didn't hear this from me, but when they found the corpses, down by the old mine, they were unrecognisable.
Sir Me: Unrecognisable... in what way?
Charleen: The policeman said that they'd been... differentiated.
*Vaudenville music*
Sir Me: Good God... differentiated.
Charleen: Sometimes twice. Seemed like the demon wanted to see if they were the maximum or minimum point of the curve. But anyway, ever since the attacks, we've had a no-Knights policy. Sorry.
Sir Me: Intriguing. What do they call this demon?
Charleen: There are some who call him Az-Mac-Ma-Sheem-A-Rama-Lama-Ding-Dong-Azkamapheba, the beast of the 1000 numbers, the monster of the night of one thousand knives, the three-hearted demon of eternal plague, the...
Sir Me: Skip to the end...
Charleen: But I call it... Harris.
Sir Me: Well, you have nothing to fear now I'm here. I'll find this Harris. And then I'll kill it, differentiation or no differentiation.
*Sir Me leaves, wooping*
Charleen: Sir! You forgot your shield! Oh well. Perhaps I should've told him that all the victims were also repeatedly analy raped with surds... and that other poor guy was taken to the power of -3/2. Christ, there was nothing left at the end of that. Oh well. Tra-la-la.
Armed with this information, Sir Me progressed to the entrance of the old mine, right in the middle of the forest. The ancient trees tugged at his armour, so he stabbed one in the head. He was forced to abandon the Harley early on when he crashed it into a tree and it exploded. But finally he came to the mineshaft, a dark vaginal-like pit in the earth. There was sign next to the mineshaft, painted IN BLOOD. Or paint, as blood doesn't stay that red for long. Unless it's FRESH BLOOD. No, paint after all.
The sign read: Danger, Mineshaft. Demons, man. While Sir Me was reading this and wandering upon the implications, he heard something in the distance. The devastating scream of Senor Listenor, demon of Spanish listening! Sir Me raised up his shield to block the sound-waves of death, but to his surprise, he'd left it back at the inn. Fortunately, the Listening beast was a bit shit looking...
... so Sir Me was able to dodge its first scream, but the beast swooped down and shrieked again, waving it's foul flag of Randomspanishvocabulary. Sir Me fell to the ground, his sense of understandingthequestion wounded, but in a last ditch effort, he withdrew his sword of thetestiseasyanyways and flung it, piercing the beast through the head.
Senor Listenor didn't like this very much, and spat the sword back at Sir Me, who caught it efforletlessly, being the manly man he is, before leaping head first into the mineshaft. Behind him, Senor Listenor, being the easy motherfucker he was, exploded in a mass of blood, guts, and positive/negative opinions about school, leaving a crater that was 40 minutes (+5 minutes reading time) wide.
Inside the mineshaft, it was dark and damp. Water dripped from the roof. Lighting his holy torch of learntequations, Sir Me looked around, only to see several huge piles of corpses, each higher than the last. Sir Me couldn't guess the number of corpses, but assuming that the number of corpses in each pile grew by an arithmetic progression, and the first pile (a) = 2, the difference between each pile (d) was 1.5 (there were always a few legs in each pile), and there were 8 piles in all, the total number of corpses (Sn) = 8/2( 2x2 + 1.5 x (8-1)), resulting in a predicted total of 58 corpses. Solve for x.
Feeling ill, Sir Me turned one of the corpses over with a stick, and was horrified at what he saw. This corpse hadn't just been differentiated. No, that was too simple. She's been fucking integrated. Her head was where her knees had used to be, her spleen was two metres across, all her blood was concentrated in her left eyeball (now the size of a tennis ball) and there was a huge C sitting next to her like some sort of blooding letter of evil. But what really chilled Sir Me's manly bones was what he saw lying next to the body. His shield. And next to that, a name-tag. One word was written upon it in cheery font: Charleen.
Here's a transcript of the conversation that happened next:
Sir Me: NOOOOO!
But suddenly, he felt something. Something in the air. It was the smell. The smell of surds, a sticky smell reminiscent of quadratic formulae. Sir Me span, raised his shield of revision JUST IN TIME to block the concentrated blast of pure inequalities that was fired at him from the darkenss of the mine. He fell to the ground, and looked. And saw. And wet himself. Just a little.
This was the sight that greeted our hero:
And at the sight of this non-shit bit of photoshop, Sir Me knew that he was in serious trouble.
TO BE CONTINUED
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