In response to the many requests (at least two or three, if anyone's counting
;-)), I shall once again take keyboard in hand and record a few more of the
ongoing death-defying chronicles of Tim, Dix and Rowan, their chills and
thrills (and spills)...Take me, I'm Yours,--oops, no, that's the song...
Once upon a time (last Friday to be exact), our intrepid trio were enjoying a
leisurely drive along the back roads of America. They had meandered through
Missouri, wandered through Wyoming and at present were drinking in the
atmosphere at a tiny township yclept Weasel Jaw, Nevada.
Tim: Look at that sign. What does Eat Here and Get Gas convey to you?
Rowan: That we are indubitably on the wrong side of the Atlantic.
Dix: Is there any of that cold pheasant left? I'm not prepared to deal with
chicken-fried inner tube.
Tim: Well, Frank looked hungry...
Frank, Tim's border collie, raises his head from the seat cushion between Dix
and Tim and burps gently. Rowan, in the driver's seat, raises his eyebrows
and sighs.
Rowan: Then I suggest that we check the map and see just how far we are from
civilization. Sleeping under the stars is quite romantic, but at times one
wishes to commune with a good hot bath and a sponge bag that need not be
checked for scorpions before use...
At that moment, the car's engine suddenly shudders to a stop with anguished
squeaks and gurgles. (It is Tim's Acura Legend and has now acquired nearly
50,000 miles of sight-seeing and detours and has decided that enough is
plenty.)
Dix: Have we run out of gas? Again?
Tim: No, we filled up at that Last Chance for 247 Miles place about twenty
miles ago.
He and Rowan get out and look under the hood. Rowan then closes the hood
with the air of someone screwing down a coffin lid.
Rowan: Cracked cylinder head, two broken fan belts and I didn't like the look
of the rattlesnake remains wound around the distributor.
Dix: Anyone up for a nice long walk?
Frank raises his head from its comfortable cushion and sneers briefly before
resuming his nap.
Tim, Dix and Rowan decide to look around for a place to eat before they start
the weary trek back to the last little town for an auto mechanic. They buy
hamburgers at Bertha's Big-Gut Breakfast Hut and wander toward a group of
weeping willows that overhang the banks of a stream.
Dix [stretching out under the branches of the trees:] Well, it could be
worse...
Rowan [examining the contents of his burger bun:] Yes. One might have
ordered the French fries as well.
Tim offers his burger to Frank, who wrinkles his nose and turns away. Taking
this hint, Tim crumbles his food and throws the pieces into the stream where
the ducks ignore them too.
Dix: This is too nice a day to be cooped up in a car anyway...what we need is
a good gallop over the countryside.
Rowan: Bite your tongue. It would be more nourishing than these sandwiches,
at that.
Tim: No, she's right...Pity we've no mounts.
Rowan [insincerely:] Pity.
SFX: The sound of hoofbeats cross the glade...actually, from upstream.
Our three look at each other in a wild surmise
AS
From between the willows come several horses, all of which have seated upon
them people in strange costumes. Medieval, in fact...
. . . . . . . . * . . . . . . . . * . . . . . . . . *
To resume: our friends, stranded by car troubles in Weasel Jaw, Nevada, have
fallen into the clutches of a band of medievalists. Let's listen in...
Dix: Look at that woman in the blue wimple -- she must be six feet tall.
Rowan: Nice moustache too.
Tim: Why don't we try to reason with them? After all, I do have to be back
on the set by Tuesday...
Dix: Don't worry, they won't start without you. Isn't that a pretty shield
that man on the black horse is carrying, yellow and blue with pussy cats...
Tim: Azure with or quarterings, two leopards passant.
Rowan: Aren't they couchant?
Dix: I thought you'd never ask.
Tim: Later,--I never feel rampant in a crowd this size.
The man on the black horse rides up to them. He is wearing a fur-trimmed
tunic and the mayoral gold chain and pendant.
Man: Strangers, what do ye in the Sacred Grove? I hight Sir Benedict of
Burley and these provinces be off limits to outsiders.
Tim: Sorry about that. Our car broke down --
Sir Benedict raises a gloved hand for silence.
Sir B.: Speak not of such devices that have naught to do with our humble
station.
Dix [sotto voce:] Uh-oh, must be a laughing-academy alumnus...
Rowan presses her arm and whispers: Let us handle this...I've dealt with
agents.
Sir Benedict withdraws and confers among the others while our trio takes
stock of the situation.
Tim: There are only six of them. Perhaps we can jolly them along and slip
away later.
Dix is busy with a piece of paper and a pen; jotting a short note, she
fastens it to Frank's collar and murmurs something in his ear. Frank takes
off like a shot down the creek bank, unnoticed by the group of chattering
medievalists.
Tim [to Dix:] I've never seen him move that fast,--what did you say to him?
Dix: "Fat, freshly-roasted pheasant." With any luck, he'll bring us some
help. I offered a juicy reward: an autographed copy of the first OTT script.
Rowan: That should fetch them.
They break off as Sir Benedict returns.
Sir B.: Since thou hast defiled this sacred spot, thou must accompany us to
Castle Morte for the purification ceremony. Sir Derek, Lady Agnes, bondsman
Baldrick, take them upon thy horses. We ride!!
Rowan: "Bondsman Baldrick?" [He looks suspiciously at the small unkempt
creature seated on a shaggy Shetland pony. The creature grins back and waves
a hand.]
Rowan: Didn't I send you down the Grand Canyon last week with instructions to
fill up our water canteens?
Baldrick: Yes, my lord.
Rowan: And I suppose that a friendly vulture with no sense of smell picked
you up and carried you to this distant spot?
Baldrick: It was a bald eagle, actually, my lord. How did you know?
Rowan: Just an educated guess. [He is interrupted by Derek, a hulking lout
who picks him up and throws him on the Shetland pony behind Baldrick.]
Dix and Tim are already mounted behind the tall woman in the blue wimple, but
Derek pulls Tim off the horse and across his own saddle. Tim grasps the
reins and gives the horse a hearty kick in the sides, but Derek manages to
swing up behind him and clouts him on the head for trying to escape...
. . . . . . . . . . * . . . . . . . * . . . . . . . . . . *
When we left off, our daring adventurers had just been abducted by an odd
group of mounted strangers in 12-century garb. After a short ride, they
arrived at...
Dix: "Castle Morte?"
Before them rises a stony monstrosity of gray hewn rocks with turrets in
unlikely places and wings that outcrop haphazardly from the central building.
Baldrick, Rowan riding postillion on his Shetland pony, draws up beside Dix
and her captor Lady Agnes.
Baldrick: Yes, Miss. It was shipped over -- by ship -- from England and
rebuilt here in this heathen land.
Rowan: And, evidently, they neglected to pack the instructions.
Tim has recovered from the clip on the head given him by Derek and gazes
around unbelievingly.
Tim: Odd-looking moat. I've never seen one with a waterfall before...
The horses clatter across a rickety drawbridge and into the cobbled
courtyard. All dismount and our trio are hustled into the Great Hall. Its
floor is covered with rushes and a long wooden trestle table stands against
one wall near the 12-foot fireplace.
Dix [sniffing the air:] Ahh...roast pork!
They notice a huge boar, apple in mouth, is the centerpiece surrounded by
wooden trenchers filled with other delicacies.
Tim stops in his tracks and looks closely at the boar.
Rowan: Something?
Tim: No-o-o-o...I thought for a moment that it looked a lot like that fellow
who gave "Over the Top" such a scathing review. Those mean little pig eyes,
that broad unkempt snout.
Dix: But the pig has a warm, friendly expression.
Tim: Exactly.
Ignoring our friends' longing looks at the victuals, Sir Benedict ushers them
to a heap of straw and rushes in an alcove and tells them to "entertain
themselves" until Neal the Necromancer arrives to pronounce judgment upon
them. Dix sits between Tim and Rowan and they put their arms around her
protectively.
Dix [suddenly squirming in discomfort:] Ouch!
She half-rises and feels around in the straw and pulls forth a small
dulcimer. She runs her fingers over the strings, then begins to play a soft
melody.
Tim: Nice tune.
Dix: Just a little something I've been working on. (She takes a folded bit of
paper from her blouse pocket and hands it to him.) Give it a try.
Tim scans the paper and joins in song:
The Troubadour's Song
Long have I wander'd
Foreign fields,
A slave to realm and duty,
And fame that
Reputation yields,
Till I beheld thy beauty...
I kiss thy hands,
I kiss thy feet,
I kiss thy lips
And eyes, dear;
And I do swear
These flowers sweet
The bee who sips
Is wise, dear...
Let down thy
Glossy tresses, love,
Wind them about
My heart,
Lit by the
Golden moon above,
And swear
We shall not part.
Then farther
Shall I no more rove,
For thou shalt be
My own love,
Wrapt in thy
Tender treasure-trove,
To live for thee
Alone, love...
Rowan: You forgot, "Hey nonny nonny." I know one too: "There was a young
girl who raised ducks,--"
Dix: Um, yes, Rowan,--we've heard that one.
Unnoticed by our heroes, the group of medievalists has drawn near, engrossed
in Tim's singing and now they break into applause.
Sir Benedict: Knaves and varlet though thou mayst be, yet hast bewitching
gifts!! [To Dix:] Didst write this sorcerous chaunt?
Dix: All my own work, none genuine without trademark.
Sir Benedict [to Tim:] In sooth, thy voice hast power to charm away
melancholy, strange Sir...
Rowan [feeling left out:] Ahem...I too have a hidden talent of sorts...
Dix: I'll say you do!
Rowan [blushing slightly:] ...But you must promise not to let my agent get
wind of it. Actually -- I tap-dance a bit.
Tim: That's the best-kept secret of the year. Well, let's see a sample.
Rowan gets to his feet and brushes the straw off his clothing...he walks to
the center of the hall and goes into a virtuoso example of tap-dancing,
finishing by running toward the wall, four steps UP the wall, turning in
mid-air and finishing with a flurry of taps and a flying split.
Dix and Tim look at each other in amazement, then begin to clap and shout
"Bravo!"
Sir Benedict also stares and a greedy expression comes into his face...
. . . . . . . . * . . . . . . . . . * . . . . . . . . . . . *
Whilst being inexplicably detained within a strangely-shaped pseudo-English
castle in the wilds of Nevada, our trio inadvertently exposed the fact that
the three of them have "marketable talents."
Dix: [to Rowan:] That was terrific! I didn't know about your Astaire side...
Tim: Perhaps we should form a partnership...I've always wanted to resurrect
those old Hollywood musicals.
Rowan [getting his breath back:] Well, all mechanical engineering and no
recreation makes Jack a dull Oxfordian...
Tim and Dix: Umm, right.
At this moment, Baldrick approaches them; he is now wearing a cap and bells
in addition to his usual wretched garments, and carrying a plate of turnips.
Baldrick: Excuse me, my lord, but there's a wicked plot afoot.
Rowan: What are you doing in that ridiculous headgear? And remove it while
you're speaking to me.
Baldrick [whipping off the cap:] Sorry, my lord,..we Baldricks as you know
find our highest satisfaction in living and dying in the service of your
noble line.
Rowan: I wouldn't give me any ideas if I were you. What was that about a
wicked plot?
Baldrick [looking conspiratorial:] That Sir Benedict is a business buffoon!
Rowan [bored:] Tycoon. I spotted that early on.
Dix [drawing aside a hanging tapestry to reveal a computer desk:] Yes, all is
not as Dark-Ages around here as meets the eye...
Tim: The prop food was another giveaway...[he holds up a wax apple that he
had filched earlier from the table in the Great Hall]. We've been playing
along in order to find out what his little game is.
A familiar voice coos in his ear: "I can tell you that...you've been enticed
into ChaucerLand."
Dix [turning to see who has just thickened the plot:] Christine Z.!! And
Frank... [bending to scratch behind his ears -- and smell his breath:]
You'll do anything for beef jerky, won't you, you little rascal?
Tim: How did you get into the castle without being seen?
Christine: I know a [Rowan, Tim and Dix all join in:] Secret Entrance!
Christine: Unfortunately, I wasn't umm, *alone* when I saw Frank running down
the street with Dix's note tied to his collar...
A chorus of voices OS: Surprise!!!
Dix [sotto voce:] Oh, damn...
A bevy of Timbos, all clad in medieval costumes, surrounds our friends...
Rowan [smoothing his Blackadderian moustache:] Ah. Wenches...
Dix: No, Timbos.
Tim: My, this *is* a surprise. I suppose you've come to our rescue...?
LindaF [wearing a very low-cut wench blouse over her full skirt:] No...just
YOURS!!
She grasps his hand and attempts to lead him away quickly, but is blocked by
several other determined Timbos.
Carol Cuz [grasping LindaF by the wrist:] Just a minute, girlfriend...
Betty T. [reasonably, one arm around Tim's waist:] Now, we can work this out.
Lizz [pulling a popsicle stick:] No, we can't!!
Trish [attaching herself to one of Tim's ankles:] I'll save you, Tim!!
Bryan [autograph book in hand, plaintively:] If you could just sign right
here...
Other Timbos ad lib: "Take your hands off him!! So I can put *mine* on him!!
You'll give him the wrong impression!! He'll think we're all crazed
fanatics!!--"
Linda E. [holding up a scrap of material torn from Tim's sleeve:] Your point
being?
Dix [to Rowan:] This could get ugly...we'd better activate Plan B...
To Be Continued...
. . . . . . . . . * . . . . . . . . * . . . . . . . . . . *
To return to the mindless violence: the mob scene continues in the Great Hall
of Castle Morte...
Tim has disappeared amidst a gaggle of frenzied Timbos while Dix and Rowan
huddle together behind a fire screen near the large open hearth...
Dix:...Huddle a little closer, hmm, Rowan?
Tim's voice [Off:] Ladies! Women!! SIR!!!!!
Cap'n Martha, wearing a fetching laced smock with embroidered Union Jacks on
the bodice, tries to inject a note of reason and sanity into the scene:
Attention!!--Fellow Timbos!! TRY to conduct yourselves in a seemly fashion
here!!
She forces her way through the group in a ladylike manner...
Cap'n Martha: Ahh....what charming *socks* you have on, Mr. C....
SFX: Ripping of fabrics, buttons popping off articles of clothing, girlish
shrieks, masculine whimpering.
Tim [loudly:] STUNT MAN!!!!!!!!
Jamie's voice: Oooo, I got a shoe!!
Shona's voice: Give that back!!
Arlene's voice: Oh, all right, Dina,--we'll *split* the trousers,--[sound of
cloth tearing].
Lizz [reloading popsicle sticks:] Not so fast, you two!! That belt is MINE!!
[sound of belt snapping in half...] Oh, darn.
Rowan [shuddering:] Determined little things, aren't they? (He tries to
fasten his own shirt, which is missing most of the buttons as well as the
collar.) Must be a few Adderites in the group.
He grabs Baldrick who is standing by open-mouthed (as usual) and murmurs a
quick command into his ear. Baldrick nods and hurries away.
Betty B. appears in the knot of milling Timbos, waving one of Tim's shirt
sleeves triumphantly and grinning from ear to ear.
Betty B.: At last,--my own Tim-trophy!!
A hand reaches out of the melee' and snatches the ragged cloth away. Betty
dives back into the fray, snarling.
SFX Off: A trumpet blast.
From all entrances of the hall, a troup of halberdiers with nasty-looking
longhandled axes and accompanying cross-bowmen (well, *you'd* be cross too if
you had only a bow with which to defend yourself against a feeding-frenzy of
manic Timbos. Trust me ;-)) marches in and surrounds the crowd.
An imposing figure in long blue robes, with a white beard and necromantic
symbols adorning his cloak, steps forward.
Dix to Rowan: Wonder if that's Neal the Necromancer?
Rowan: I'm sure he'll tell us...And how did you know his name, by the way?
Dix: I read ahead...
Neal the etc.: Part, ye rabble, and permit our new minstrel to compose
himself...
Dix and Rowan both flinch at the atrocious pun.
The Timbos draw apart reluctantly and Tim limps over to join his
associates...his hair is mussed (becomingly, of course), he has lipstick
marks in odd places and most of his clothing is missing. Due to some
oversight, he still has on a pair of dark blue boxer shorts, tastefully
embroidered with the Curry crest on the torn waistband, and one shoe.
Neal throws him a monk's robe and he gratefully pulls it on. Neal then
signals to the troops and they march the muttering Timbos toward the
dungeons.
Tim to Neal: Thanks. Now suppose you get rid of the whiskers, Josh, and tell
us how you managed to get here in the nick of time?
Dix: And what have you done with Sir Benedict? Not to mention Christine Z.?
Josh [removing the whiskers:] Why, nothing...why, do you think I,--ouch!!
[Tim, Dix and Rowan have all bopped him one for pulling this chestnutty
line...]
Josh [rubbing his bruises:] It's a long story,--[he flinches as they give
him a warning look] -- come into his office and I'll tell you all about it...
. . . . . . . . . . * . . . . . . . * . . . . . . . . . *
Led by Josh, who has doffed his "necromancer" disguise, Tim, Dix and Rowan
enter the private office of "Sir Benedict of Burley."
Josh: His real name is Mortimer Plotz...
Mortimer is sitting behind his desk nursing a large lump on his head; behind
his chair stands Baldrick, toying with a battle mace.
Lady Agnes enters hurriedly from a side door and walks up to Josh, smiling.
She removes her wimple and pulls off her moustache.
Dix: Hi, Cindra.
Cindra: Hi. Did Josh tell you what's been going on here?
Josh: I was just about to. You see, I've been, well, keeping track of your
tour,--
Cindra: He put a bug in Tim's Legend...
Josh: Well, yes. And when it stopped reporting in at Weasel Jaw, I thought
you might be in trouble...
Cindra: And since I was familiar with the layout here...I infiltrated the
ranks to be on hand just in case.
Mortimer [groaning:] So tell me, it's so wrong to want to give Disneyland a
little competition, huh? I mean, why should a singing, dancing mouse be the
only one with his own amusement park?
Dix: "ChaucerLand?"
Tim: I suppose that waterfall over the moat is to be one of the rides?
Mortimer [glumly:] The "Serfs-Up Slide." But that's nothing,--I got ideas
for the best attractions you ever thought of,--the "Dungeon of Black Death"
where you get your choice of a real Iron Maiden or a rest on the Rack, --hey,
I even got trained tarantulas for atmosphere...
Rowan: And you saw your chance to import a little extra talent in us, did
you?
Mortimer: I woulda give ya a percentage.
Dix: Sorry, but we're all booked up...Let's go, fellas.
Tim, Dix, Rowan, Josh, Cindra and Baldrick cross the courtyard, Frank
trotting behind. A sleek black limo is standing outside and the chauffeur
touches his hatbrim respectfully.
Dix [to Cindra:] Say, you didn't mention what became of Christine Z.?
Cindra [not meeting her eyes:] Oh, she went up into the turret to get
something and I think she accidentally locked herself in...
SFX: The sound of breaking glass; one of the turrett windows splinters and
Christine Z. clambers out, looking annoyed.
Christine: There are *tarantulas* up here, Cindra!! You said it was the
best place to use my cell phone and call the limo,--"better reception," my
butt!!
She swings over the sill and lands in a small wooden dugout that slips
forward and carries her over the waterfall and down to splash in the moat...
A few minutes later, after fishing a soggy Christine out of the moat and
prying her hands off Cindra's larynx, our little band are snugly seated in
the limo and on their way back to civilization.
Dix: So you're not going to bother to pick up the Legend, Tim?
Tim: No. Let Big Bertha make it into a planter or something.
Rowan: I'll help you to choose a vehicle more in keeping with your image,
something trustworthy, yet,--
Dix: Sexy?
Rowan: I suppose so.
In the driver's seat of the limo, the driver glances into the rear-veiw
mirror and winks... Yes, it's LindaF...
The End (?)
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