Previously in the saga:
Just scroll down, you lazy tits. Anyway, it has all gotten rather exciting, with our brave hero dangling by his fingertips above a seeminly bottomless pit, at the high heeled feet of The Englishman, cunning demon of GCSE English. What's he going to do now? Golly, this is exciting.
The GCSE Saga episode 4: The battle involving lots of dialogue
Sir Me was in a tight spot. He knew this. But he'd been in tighter spots before (he'd been an extremely fat baby and his mother, as well as having no arms legs or vagina, had been extremely thin, so his time in the womb had not only been rather cramped, he'd also spent a good month at the end pinching the umbilical tube, so he hadn't quite got enough oxygen to his brain) and he'd survived. Although they had been forced to chainsaw open his mother. The Englishman placed one GORGEOUS high heel on his hand and slowly leant on it.
"SO LONG, MY DEAR KNIGHT!" screamed the Demon happily as he applied pressure. "YOU FAIL TO BE A PROPER FOE TO ME!"
Sir Me knew that all was lost. He decided to make a brave speech then jump off to his doom. It was a speech that he'd practised many times before, in front of his dressing mirror at home. In fact, every knight who joined the fraternity was taught this speech, so that when future generations wrote down the legends of the knights of Arthur, they wouldn't end with "And the final knight died with a brave cry of 'DON'T KILL ME I'LL DO ANYTHING BUT JUST DON'T KILL ME I DON'T WANT TO DIE!". This was probably a wise move, as that's probably what Sir Me would have said if he didn't have anything else planned.
"It appears that your skill was too much for me, o demon!" he expostulated. "It's regrettable, but it seems to me that it's the end of King Arthur's Army of yore. You're the demon that was foretold by the prophet Clarkey, the demon to kill the last of our order and... uh... "
Then Sir Me forgot the rest of the speech, but figured that what he'd said was good enough, so attempted to push away from the cliff to his (actually quite pleasant) death at the hands of the torrent of blistering prose below. But he couldn't. Because, suddenly, the demon stood down hard on his hand, and the heel of his shoe went right through the brave knight's hand with a really cool squishing sound. Oddly enough, it didn't hurt, but pinned the knight to the stone.
The Englishman clicked his heels together and, just like MAGIC, the walls and floor suddenly reappeared, leaving Sir Me lying on the floor looking foolish. The demon skipped back, and Sir Me examined at the hole in his hand that wasn't actually there. He looked questioningly at the demon.
"It was a METAPHORICAL hole in your hand, ducky," said the demon matter-of-factly. "And that was a METAPHORICAL pit. You would only have died a rhetorical death, had you fallen."
Sir Me stared. The demon looked a bit disappointed (as only one eyed G headed demons can) at his obvious lack of understanding. He then continued.
"But your flawless use of apostrophes, plural and the three versions of 'your', all without grammatical inconsistencies, have shown to me that it seems you are more than the usual SCUM who come wandering in here. You truly are a proper match for THE ENGLISHMAN!"
As he said his name, a metaphorical fanfare trumpeted and he was surrounded by metaphorical flashing vegas lights.
Sir Me stared. He then slowly turned round and began to walk down the corridor. The Englishman squealed and clicked his finger, and a rhetorical cage appeared around our brave hero.
"NOT SO FAST, DUCKY! YOU STILL MUST FIGHT ME!"
Sir Me span round, the cage vanishing.
"Very well, demon. But I have no sword. I shall have to kill you with my bare, manly, hands."
He ripped off his wife-beater vest and jiggled his pecs around in a manly manner. At this, the demon threw back its evil G and laughed heartily.
[By the way, although it doesn't seem to have a mouth in the picture, it actually DOES. Just look underneath the hand.
Hahaha, did you scroll down and look? Sucker.]
"No, you cannot fight me with muscle and steel, brave Sir Knight. I am ENGLISH. I am LANGUAGE. You cannot kill language!"
Sir Me looked confused.
"Why not? I've already killed Spanish twice."
"BE QUIET WHEN I AM TALKING, PUNY HUMAN! You must fight me with WORDS! If you pass my challenge, I will let you live. If not, YOU WILL FALL INTO A METAPHORICAL PIT AND DIE A METAPHORICAL DEATH! MWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAH!"
Sir Me considered his options. He could run for it. But he had no clue where the devil he was, and this weird little fellow (the demon was only 5ft2, a size known in the ancient world as 'Paulish') obviously did. And anyway, this maze - The Labyrinth of Short Stories, Poetry and Prose - it seemed inescapable, even with directions. He couldn't run. Then that only left one option. He'd have to fight, and hope like hell that this demon wasn't as powerful as he seemed to think. He didn't like the idea of a metaphorical death.
"Ok, Demon. Do your worst!"
The demon cracked his knuckles.
"ALRIGHT. TO AVOID DEATH, SIMPLY ANSWER MY QUESTIONS THREE!"
Ignoring this obviously archaic use of language (rather old fashioned for a demon of GCSE english), Sir Me nodded.
"WRITE ME AN ESSAY DESCRIBING HOW SHERIFF CREATES DRAMATIC EFFECTIVENESS IN THE OPENING PAGES OF JOURNEY'S END, HOW THE ENDINGS TO GAMES AT TWILIGHT AND PIECES OF SILVER ARE DRAMATICALLY EFFECTIVE AND A DISCUSSION OF HOW PEOPLE AT HOME ARE AFFECTED BY WAR IN TWO SEPERATE DIFFERENT POEMS, ALWAYS REFERRING CLOSELY TO THE TEXT AND USING QUOTATIONS TO BACK UP YOUR POINTS! MWAHAHAHAH!"
Sir Me stood, stunned. He raised an eyebrow.
"Did you just give me a GCSE english literature paper to do?"
"MWAHHAHAH! Yes, I did," said the demon defensively. "NOW DO IT AND DIE!"
"Oh, very well then," replied Sir Me, and did the paper. When he was finished, he handed it to the Demon, who read it quickly and screamed girlishly.
"You're... good at english?" murmured the demon incredulously.
"Damn right, beeyatch. It's pissy. And now I'm off."
He span on his heel and began to purposefully walk down the passageway as The Englishman deflated behind him into a puddle of miserable letters. This wasn't supposed to happen. People never succeeded his Test of Literature. Why, the last guy who passed through here had only done two of the questions before being trapped in a web of rubric infringement and imploding. Suddenly, though, The Englishman had an idea. It floated across his brain like a ship across a sea of love, to paraphrase a made up saying. The demon scrabbled up to the knight.
"But Sir Knight, you may have defeated me, but... how do you plan to escape these caves?"
Sir Me ignored him, so the demon poked him in the back. The knight turned and slapped him.
"What do you want now?"
"I can let you out of here before you die a slow, painful death. They don't call this the Maze of Genital Leprosy for nothing, you know."
Sir Me stopped, and scratched his groin.
"I thought it was the Maze of Short Stories, Poetry and Prose?"
"No, it's the Labyrinth of Short Stories, Poetry and Prose. It's the maze of Genital Leprosy. And the Convoluted Pathway of AIDS. And the Befuddling Network of Herpes. And the-"
Sir Me cut in.
"And you know the way out?"
"Why of course, master. I can show you out, I can lead you to where you want to go, I can be your loyal servant... all you have to do is to agree to do one thing for me."
"What?"
"Kill a demon for me."
Sir Me thought about it. On the one hand, he didn't trust this little letter-headed midget. But on the other, he didn't want to get every STI known to man while he wandered, lost. He nodded.
"Very well, Englishman. I shall kill this demon for you if you show me the way out."
They shook hands.
"GROOVY!" cried the demon. "Right, to escape from the Nexus of Gonorrhoea, it's really very simple. Just always turn right."
"RIGHT?"
"Yes. Oddly enough, every single right turn brings you immediately to the exit. I don't know why you hadn't escaped before. It's a bit of a shit labyrinth, really. But when they built it, nobody wanted siphilis, so they made lots of quick-escape routes. Too many, I guess. Oh well."
They turned the next right, which led immediately out into a fair meadow. Sir Me's manly mind was churning. So the letter telling him to always go left had been... A LIE? It had been a trap. Someone was trying to kill him, or at the very least, give him crabs. He felt betrayed, and suddenly resolved to find the author of the letter... the BLACK KNIGHT.
But he had bigger fish (or in this case, frogs) to fry.
*Dramatic music*
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