Sir Me defeated the kind of pathetic demon of english after a short, dialogue filled bout of death, but he was still trapped in a maze that would eventually give him every STI known to man. The demon offered him a deal: the way out of the cave, in exchange for some demon-killing duties. Having escaped the cavern... they emerge in The Meadow Of Death.
The GCSE Saga Episode 5: Now with 57% more pointless pop references and some more monsters!
They emerged in the Meadow of Death. For such a deadly meadow, it wasn't very scary, full of butterflies, beautiful yellow flowers and the smells of summer. A midget was playing the pan-pipes under a tree. Bambi skipped through the flowers with his biologically incorrect chum, Thumper the rabbit. Sir Me's eyes narrowed. He picked up a rock and nailed Bambi between the eyes.
"Fucking Bambi."
The Englishman looked nervously (his eye rotated 180 degrees round his G, which had pulled off the trick of being 1 dimensional, an intriguing disproving of every scientific principle known to man), and coughed. Sir Me looked apologetic.
"Sorry - it's just that... uh.. me and Disney... we have history."
The Englishman nodded.
"I perfectly understand. I too hate Disney, ever since they released the Lion king."
"Yeah, I hate that film. Didn't you think that the warthog and the little cat thing were gay? I did. But then I see gay metaphors everywhere. Personally, I thought that Beauty and the Beast was a massive gay rape metaphor, but that's just me."
"Not so much me. But I was up for the role of Mustafa, you know, the lion. But then they said my voice was too limp and effeminate to play the big macho character."
"No! You would have been a very cosmopolitan Lion King. Perhaps they could have been cleverly post-ironic, and renamed the film the Lion QUEEN? With a gay lion."
"I like it! But they didn't agree with me, so they gave the role to James Earl Jones."
"What, the guy who voiced Darth Vadar?"
"Yeah, him. I was up for the role of Darth, too, but then they cast me as C3PO. But then they re-dubbed me because they said my voice was too girlish and annoying."
"Short sighted fools!"
"I KNOW. Fucking Anthony Daniels."
"Yeah... what were they thinking? Hey, what century are we in again?"
"DUCK!"
Sir Me looked around, hoping it was Donald, who he could then kill, nastily. But instead, he was sent flying to the floor by a burst of verb-conjugations. He rolled over, a little dizzy, bleeding slightly, with a slight bruise on his upper-arm (if ANYBODY gets that reference, I'll be impressed), but otherwise ok. He looked questioningly at The Englishman, who pointed a finger towards the midget playing the pan pipes. But the midget was no longer there. In fact, the midget had run off as quickly as his teeny legs could carry him when he saw...
The beast was the size of a house, a kind of nasty hand-shaped thing that actually wasn't that scary. Sir Me looked at the spanish flags mounted to its back wonderingly. He could have swore that the conjugated verb that hit him wasn't Spanish. In fact, it had felt more like... but that was impossible. The beast looked at Sir Me questioningly. Sir Me drew his sword. Well, he would have done, had he been dressed in anything more than a skimpy pair of hot leather hotpants. The beast started lumbering towards him, murmuring dark mutterings about filling in blanks and suchlike.
Sir Me eeped. He eeped swearingly.
The demon threw back its head (hand, whatever), and spat out a massive burst of gap-filling exercises at the knight, who threw up his arm and prayed to Trevor Macdonald. Luckily, a quarter of a second before he would have been incinerated by the fiery bits of grammar-practise, a massive shield materialised on his arm and deflected the blast. Now fully clad in armour, Sir Me looked around, confused. The Englishman gave him a thumbs up.
"I created you some metaphorical armour!" he said happily.
"METAPHORICAL ARMOUR? Doesn't that mean it's not real?"
"Yeah, but he doesn't know that. And anything, this is a convenient plot twist that just happens to make sense and ARGH!"
He was sent flying from a burst of subjunctive from the left, and crashed into a cow, which exploded comically. Sir Me span from whence the subjunctive had come, but the monster was not there.
THUNK! Senor Hand hit Sir Me from the right with a nasty bit of vocabulary. Despite his armour, the Knight was injured. But he could have sworn that the beast was to the left... he turned to face the monster, waving his sword in a cool way. BLAM. KERPOWEY. CRICKKKETYSPIKKET. Something crunched him from the back and he was sent flying towards Senor Hand, which flicked him over a fence, where he crashed into another cow. The cow shattered into a thousand pieces wtih a miserable 'moo'. A farmer appeared from a nearby farmhouse.
Sir Me stood up, dazed, then threw himself to the ground as TWO bursts of grammar fired at him from different directions. Thankfully, they both missed and nuked a newly born baby calf instead.
"WILL EVERYBODY STOP BLOWING UP MY ANIMALS?" screamed the farmer, before he had a totally non-related heart attack and imploded. Sir Me, lying flat on the ground, peered up at the meadow. What he saw chilled his heart. There was Senor Hand, who was lumbering towards him, leaving a huge dent in the ground. But riding him... that couldn't be. The figure on top of Senor Hand vaulted off and minced towards the knight.
"BONE-JOOR... MOAN-SURE!" it screamed with a reediculous accent.
It couldn't be.
But it was.
"Mister La Monsieur," muttered Sir Me. "We meet again."
Sir Me stood up, holding his shield in front of himself, wondering what the hell he was going to do. One language, he could deal with... but TWO? AT ONCE? It was unheard of. He cursed the damn GCSE examiner schedulers who'd thought it was a good idea to put French AND Spanish on the same day. Twats.
"Bone-jour!" repeated the pastry-headed demon. "How are we to-zay, eh?"
Sir Me looked at him, then held his sword in front of him in a duelly manner.
"I thought you were dead, you croissant-headed tit," he said diplomatically.
"Ah yez!" said Mister La Monsieur. "Vell, ve all remember notre last meeting, nestpas? We, we. I will never forget how tu defeated MOI at le battle of le Disney."
Sir Me nodded. That fateful day had caused so much pain in his life, and was the beginning of his lifelong hatred of Disney.
"I remember, you frenchman. And now you've come along to hanging around with SPANISH? I mean, come on. It's not even a proper language."
He motioned at Senor Hand, who was eating Bambi. While Mister Monsieur was looking at him, Sir Me quickly drew his Potion of Spanish verbs and, hoping it was enough, lobbed it with all his strength at the exploded remains of a cow lying next to the fence.
Mister Monsieur, being French and, thus, incompetent, smiled in a breadish way, and drew a long baguette from his beret.
"Aha, tu may mock le moi, but do I CARE? NON. Parce que I am FRENCH. And I am zus far smarter than YOU."
"Uhuh," said Sir Me, looking at the Englishman, who he'd nutted in the head with the potion. The demon looked, confused, at the writing on the bottle.
"I eat CHEESE. Ze cheeze I manger ees strong enoof to kill tu, tu stupeed foreigner."
"Yep." Mister Monsieur looked at Sir Me, who grinned in a manly way. His teeth glinted. They even made a 'ting' sound.
"AND ALL OV MY WOOMEEN ARE BELLE! FOR JE AM LE FRENCH! AND WE ALWAYS BEAT TU AT LE EUROVISION!"
"Course."
"AND NOUS DON'T VOTE FOR THE EUROPEAN CONSTITUTION!"
The Englishman looked at the bottle. Then he looked at Senor Hand, who was slowly lumbering towards him with a determined glint his eye. Either that or dandylion. Then he lobbed the bottle at the beast.
Amazingly, he managed to land it directly in the creature's mouth.
"SCORE!"
Senor Hand bellowed as the liquid melted his FACE with its pre-learnt use of ALL THE TENSES except the past which is, to be honest, crap. It ran around. The Frenchy looked round with an over-theatrical scream of horror as his companion dissolved. Sir Me took his chance to try and stab the demon in the back. However, almost instantaneously, the frenchman span round and drop-kicked him to the floor. He turned on his baguette, which glowed red and made a zinging sound. Senor Hand continued to bellow.
"Oh, shuttez-vous up!" screamed Mister Monsieur, and blew him up with a well placed listening-exam. The hand-shaped demon was sent flying backwards thirty metres, and landed on top of the farmer's wife, who was trying to administer CPR to her husband's crushed corpse.
"Now, monsieur, tu don't knowez-pas what happened to moi after tu defeated me. I met a wise man, ze Dark Knight, and he taught moi ze ways of combat. AND NOW I AM NO LONGER GCSE! I am... le AS."
Sir Me wet himself, just a little. An AS demon? He didn't know that such things existed. They were an urban myth, like Yetis, Aliens, or thin Americans. He was about to scream and run away like a girl, when the Frenchman stabbed him through the chest with his baguette-sabre.
OH MY GOD? Is THIS the END? Not sure why THIS was in capitals. But is it? I don't know, but, to be honest, unless I suddenly die, it isn't. But find out whenever, anyway.
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