“Grandfather, tell us the story about how you learned to shoot an apple off a man’s head from one hundred yards away.” My fat lazy grandchildren crooned. 

“Again children? Well why not, eh?” I said in my kindly old man voice. 

“I was a child when the apples came. I was out goat herding when I saw the smoke from my village far down the mountain. Pausing only to throw aside my favorite goat; I leapt down the hillside.

That my village of Fapdingle upon Croop was crude was without doubt, but the crude, stinking, crude, filthy mud huts that sheltered the equally crude, filthy and grotesquely crude inhabitants were the only home I had known.  I strode into the center of town, notable as such only for having a scintilla less human waste and offal piled around it. The squelch of yesterday’s goat potpies was masked by a familiar moan, one I knew all too well from the endless games of ‘find the sausage in my pocket and tug real hard’ played in the fetid darkness of his hut. Not too neatly torn in two and covered by chamber pot scrapings and his own intestines was my Uncle Raztus.

“You’re standing on my pancreas boy,” He wheezed.

“Whoops”. I gave the organ a gentle nudge with my foot. Unable to determine which half would benefit from the damaged uncle-chunk I kicked it between the two, hopefully to find it’s way home, like a baby bird that is tossed into the river will, by virtue of instinct, swim back to its spawning ground. My uncle rolled his good eye towards the pancreas and fixed me with his bad eye, an act that always filled my heart and my pants with dread and pee, respectively.

“Gnar, you have always been the promise of this village,” he groaned and bubbled “ever since we found you as an infant shipwrecked alone.”

 “But Uncle, I was eight when I was shipwrecked, and I watched the men from the village rape, kill, and subsequently rape post-mortem the other dozen survivors right before my tear-filled eyes” I interrupted.”Also you lit the false signal fires that caused our ship to founder upon the wrecking rocks.”

The dying oldster couldn’t resist a giblet-wobbling chuckle at the fond memories of rape, wrecking, murder and necrophilia. “No matter, my boy. Now is the time you repay your beloved adopted family in the only currency left to you – the moist, hot, sharp, bloody, metal coins of REVENGE!”

I stood uncomprehendingly for a moment while the old man prattled along about something, debt and honor or the like. It was hard enough to pay attention to him when he was whole, much less a half man-half not-man with a lot more leaks than usual on the ragged end. It was hot, and smellier than usual with the smoke and writhing impaled villagers moaning out imprecations and curses.

“Have you been listening boy?” My uncle bubbled through bluish frothy lips.

“Honestly no, you tend to babble under normal circumstances, but by the gods, y’know now, uh, wow” I extemporized. “ I gather I’m to kill the fellows that did this, though, huh.”

My uncle loosed an exasperated sigh and it was another three minutes before I realized that it wasn’t so much of a sigh as a death rattle. I gently closed his eyes and began to search his pockets for loose change. It is what he would have wanted.

After a light supper amidst the ruins, I hiked back up the hill to kill all of my ungrateful fucking goats.

I picked up the marauders’ trail easily as they had dragged the village hetman behind their stout mountain ponies for quite a ways. If there has been one thing I have learned from my seventy summers on this globe it’s this: it’s amazing how much stuff can fall off a human body. When I bent down and found a fragment of ear and scalp still warm, I realized they must be nearby!

In a rough clearing a group of shadows sat around a fire, stinking uncured hides served as their mantles and their keen spears were set near to hand. One of the spearheads still held Mrs. Horgab’s daughter Jenny’s head with as gape mouth and bug-eyed an expression in death as she wore in life.  If you didn’t see the spear, you’d never know. Life’s funny like that sometimes. As I contemplated this fact a throaty chuckle erupted involuntarily from my lips. The bandits, wearing the traditional apples woven into their hair turned to face me.  I knew then, beyond a doubt, that I was boned. Hard. All I could do was rely on my wits and youthful vigor to escape unharmed. I strode boldly forward swirling my goatskin cloak and veep-vip’ing my corduroy dungareed thighs menacingly. “Halloa me bold spearmen, a fine days plunderin’ methinks I see, O’ Ho!” I bellowed towards the bonfire in my best banditese.

“Who seeks grisly death at the hands of MacIntosh and his band of bone gnawers and bowel ticklers?” Growled the largest and no doubt smelliest of the tribe.

“It is I, Gnar, late of the previously less immolated village of Fapdingle upon Croop.” I ventured, calmly polishing my nails on rough homespun and goatskin.

“Seek ye revenge for the bloody murders of your kinsmen?” MacIntosh spat.

“Those guys, no… wait, fuck no. I really hated them. Honestly” I answered. “I was more looking for some travel tips and maybe a little cash…”

“You ask US for money? Red! Crab! Seize him!”

I was faced with a wall of razor sharp spear points, well, except for the one with the toddler head on it, but really that wasn’t much better once I thought about it for a while. My only hope was to offer them a wager, which being inveterate gamblers they would be unable to resist.  “Hold!” I cried. “I offer you a bet, if I can shoot an apple off of your fearsome noggin, chief, would you let me live?”

“You are a sportsman I see!” MacIntosh burbled. “But what do we get when you lose eh? We already hold your meager life and possessions forfeit.” Damn. For a skeevy looking guy, he was pretty smart.

 “Well reasoned old chum.” I winked. “But I happen to have a herd of fine looking and, uh, entirely non-make believe MAGICAL goats upon yon lofty mountain. Were I dead they would all scamper away to more temperate climes, for only I know the secret of keeping them bound by the iron grips of my will! But if I live I shall gladly teach you this secret” That should shut them up.

“A wager for magical goats, eh? I accept! You may use my crossbow” the bandit chief smirked.

“Excellent, for apparently I have left mine at home.” I said, accepting the weapon, which I immediately recognized as my own. “Nice workmanship” I sniped.

The land-pirate shrugged, smiling a coy smile of broken and browned teeth “It does the job”.

Quickly I paced out one hundred yards, MacIntosh remained behind. With trembling hands I held my crossbow, familiar hunting companion of my youth.  I had shot dozens of quail upon the wing with it and taken my first deer with it. The click of the trigger was loud in my ears.

I learned a lot with that wager, namely that you can outrun a bunch of fat hairy bandits on tired ponies with a hundred yard head start, and finally that you should never give a guy who hates you a chance to shoot you in the face from a hundred yards away.

Now fetch me more brandy-spiked mead you ungrateful striplings or I’ll dash your lice ridden inbred skulls to pieces upon the statue of Kreblow, goddess of kindness, that stands in the family shrine!”