My Turn!
The Inside Story
and Adventures of
Don Dorcha (a.k.a. The Dark Lord)
I came into being during a dark, vague-y hazy sort of Neo-Prehistoric time in Hibernia when everything was still a peninsula of what would later be called "Europe." We just called it That Place Over There Where the Sun Hangs Out at Night. Being both out-of-the-way and easy-to-get-to, Hibernia was often visited, sacked, and overrun by Cro-Mignon tribes from nations that hadn't even been named yet. (Yes, I meant "Cro-Mignon" because that was who they were: little short guys. The MAgnons came later, six-footers with something to Crow about.) Of course, the mere humans didn't bother us Lords much, but they did influence us just by being around. From the guys from Proto-Iberia, we picked up "Don" as a title of respect. From the someday-to-be-Gauls we got "De" as a preposition meaning "of." (As in Sir Front De Boeuf = Forehead of Beef = Meathead.) When it came time to give me a lordly name, my god-father, the Great Lug, took me on a namequest. (Hey, he was kind of a god, and definitely my father; what else would I call him?) Anyway, we wandered over the land and then put out to sea where we encountered what you'd call a killer whale and the humans call Orcha, (meaning Shamu, my a**. That thing has majorly TEETH!) I was able to cleverly catch it in several of my war zippers and counter-tab it to death. From this exploit, the Big Lug named me "Don D'Orcha." (Actually, I was sorta hoping for something like: "The Big Zipper!") Thus ends Chapter 1.
I didn't set out to become a bad guy. Nobody says "I want to be an evil lord when I grow up." Things sometimes just turn out that way. (To paraphrase that great feminist philosopher Jessica Rabbit: I'm not Bad, I'm just Choreographed that way.) After several thousand years, pagan worship had declined to where no one was invoking The Big Lug anymore and he faded away. The world was just getting ready to get into the First Celtic Run-up (you know, CuCuCuChulain the Stutterer, Cooley and the Cattle Raid Gang, etc.), so I started taking dancing lessons to fit in with the latter day Cro-Magnons - you know, the ones that the Scholar said that the Romans would call Keltoi. (Think about her description of the Keltoi and then think of how the Anthropologists describe the Cro-Magnons. Interesting, no?) We were a strange looking group of mesomorphic warriors and otherworldly demigods, all lined up trying to master the double time step. One of my classmates was so bad that we called him Conan The O'Brian [O'Brian being Old High Keltic for Klutzerer]. "Don, baybee," he would mutter, "Vat is dis Verdammt shuffle-ball-change sh**s?" Later on he gave it up and went looking for Hollywood. The last I heard he was doing voice-overs for NeoNazi war films. Some considerable time later, I had recruited a group of warlike humans, run them through my Academy, switched them from green to black and started looking to take over the world with my killer Fascist dance steps. Thus ends Chapter 2.
Well, the suspenders just don't do it, do they? I didn't realize it until I was locked into my path of destruction, but there has never been an Uber-Macho-Killer Tough Guy who wore suspenders. Anyway, I had my men all trained, my dance routines down pat, and my black masks polished to a fair-thee-ill. I was ready to return to Ireland and take it over, when my scouts began warning me about a dangerous potential rival. He wasn't divine, of course, or even semi-divine, or even hemi- semi- demi- divine, (or even Andy Devine) (or even Andy Warhol's Divine) but had the genes (and the ripped jeans). But I knew he couldn't be a serious threat unless... somehow... he got sprinkled with spirit dust. But Hey! No Problem! I figured, what are the VA Lotto-like odds on THAT! Well, you can see it coming, can't you? The next thing I know, Erin, Goddess of All is wandering around with a cordless mike and a gigunda sound system, some little Goldijumpsuit is dry-spritzing dust and tootling what should be MY song all over the Emerald Isle, and I have trouble (WITH A CAPITAL "T" AND THAT RHYMES WITH "D" AND THAT STANDS FOR DANCE-OFF!). I know, I know, I shouldn'ta busted the whistle, but you know how guys get when they're out with guys! Well, after I Had my ears X-rayed (!), I took my Best Shot (Literally). But there's an old showbiz saying about the guy with the open shirt always winning in the end. This guy didn't even WEAR a shirt for the big fight-dance-off scene. Oh well, all in all, it could have been worse. The LOTD gave me a curtain call, I got the center stage spot for the Finale, AND I got in some quality time with that little minx Morrighan. Heck, the Phantom of the Opera didn't do THAT well!
