My friends, lift your oars and take your rest. We have paddled far, yea, to the very edges of Creation in pursuit of Honour, Glory, and Drunken Ass-Hattery. But, strenuous in our labours as we are, we must pause. For here, at the edge of creation…there be demons. We must needs keep our wits about us, for there is no demon more foul, nor more insidious, than the thrice-damned Mum Bird.

Do listen to me now, I beseech thee.

‘Twas a fortnight past the Solstice of the Bubbling Sunburn that those magnificent bastards Ringmaster, Hero, and Good Friend Too did once again steer their longboat upon the fabled river Ster Juhn We’er. Yet again did they seek the most flavourful, Holy Grail of watery beasts, the Mighty Pick-Rell, and they did accoutrement themselves accordingly. With them did they carry their angles and barbs…their bedrolls and pavilions…and approximately three, Imperial ass-loads of malted barley beverages. By Odin! They were resplendent with cargo and preparations, even to a small flask of dark rum Ringmaster had stashed in his pack in case the malted liquors grew repugnant to his toungue. The Ster Juhn We’er was once again lapping their gunwales with a liquid, Syren song of Angled Adventure…and they cared not that the reason its music was up to the gunwales was because three Imperial ass-loads of brew was really effin heavy.

Mercifully, they were unawares that fate most foul awaited them down stream.

Even before the Nones did they paddle forth upon the waters. The sun did blaze down upon them from a pale and cloudless sky, turning their skins bright, itchy red. The Ringmaster noticed the slow roasting of his flesh, but sublimely decided it was too late to do anything about it at that point. Bravely, and without any pretense of precaution, he gamely paddled on. It was so even unto Good Friend Too, the poor, brave, and ultimately damned soul. Pick-Rell awaited them in his lair downstream! So downstream they would go, crisping, sun-flayed flesh be damned.

After starting the quest in high-spirits and blissful ignorance, the trio soon realized they were making very poor time. After off-loading their beer, helicoptering their long-boat down some rapids, then re-loading the beer, they conferred amongst each other and smoked some leaf. Forsooth, they decided it was the very weight of their malted liquors that did weigh them and slow them. Good Friend Too, being the quick thinking of the three, decided the better part of valour would be to make their camp early and rid themselves of the cumbersome weight. They would awake upon the morn, fresh as lilies, and make mighty recompense for their lost hours.

And so did they put ashore, erect their pavilions, make their fire, and begin the meddlesome task of drinking away their barleyd weight. Yea, and there was Mak und Cheez most horrid, it being boiled in beaver-fouled water and cooked with tofu dogs. Good Friend Too, being the quick thinking of the three, did seize the offending pot and hurl its contents into the Ster Juhn We’er. They would sup not this night, save for what sustenance could be found in malted barley.

There was much rejoicing, but they understood not that their adventurous, barley-addled antics had awoken a demon most foul. Oh, woe!

On the far bank of the mighty river did the insidious Mum Bird awaken from its sulphurous slumber and begin to scheme against the trio of winsome knights. The sun sank ever lower towards its setting, and our Heroes did grow ever louder and more obnoxious.

At last, as the sky’s shining orb disappeared into the dark forest, our pilgrims finally felt the wrath of the evil they had awakened. Unseen by our heroes in the darkness, the demon-bird did sit up in its nest of offal and broken heroes past. It opened its slathering beak and let loose a sound so foul and hideous, the trio would find their hearts scarred with it; even to the end of their days. The forest and river echoed with its horrible shriek.

“Mum.”

At first, our heroes laughed at such a hideously ridiculous noise. But laughter soon turned to unease, then to irritation most vexing as the fell Mum Bird repeated its cries. Over.

And over.

And over again still. Every time the heroes thought they had defeated the noisome bird with thrown rocks and curses most blue, the Mum Bird would again let loose its hell-born screech.

“Mum.”

Skulls were clutched in agony. Ears were vainly plugged. Throats were shouted raw in many attempts to dislodge this irritating imp, but it was all for naught.

“Mum.”  In the small hours after midnight, Good Friend Too finally broke.

“WHAT?!” he shouted at the darkness, brandishing an empty bottle. “WHAT?! I’M NOT YOUR MUM! SHUT THE HELL UP!” Good Friend Too’s wits had utterly left him, and he drunkenly stumbled down the side of a beaver lodge and into the waiting waters of Stur Juhn We’er. He slipped and almost fell into the waters entirely, but he heroically righted himself and launched an epic barrage of obscenity at the Hell-bird, whilst simultaneously launching empty bottles in the demon’s direction.

Hero and Ringmaster’s wits had returned to them somewhat, and saw what peril Good Friend Too was actually in. Should he slip and get stuck betwixt beaver logs, or should he fall into a hidden, watery hole in the darkness, all would be lost. Hero strode in after Good Friend Too, and after some fiery discourse, encouraged the return of Good Friend Too’s senses. They both returned to shore where Ringmaster lent them a hand back to the realm of untwisted ankles and semi-cool beer.

“HA! WHAT DID I TELL YA?”, shouted a wet and angry Good Friend Too. “YA HEAR THAT? THAT FUKN BIRD HAS FINALLY QUIT!”  The forest was silent, ’twas true. But…

“Mum.”

“AH FER CHRISSAKES, I’M GOIN TA BED.”

Hero and Ringmaster soon followed…all slept fitfully in the wreckage of their souls, heads tucked under their sleeping bags against the incessant, vicious, unmitigated, night-time assault of the Hellacious Mum Bird.

From Hell.