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The Adventures of Sir Spellsitrong and the Nites of the Sound Taybul

Installment #1 -- Funetics, by Doctor Elron Dullard


Sir Spellsitrong finally arrived at a meeting with the other Nites. He was over thirty minutes late, because he got lost in Corridor 3. Oh yes, THAT Corridor 3. The infamous Corridor 3. The corridor few dare to enter and fewer still escape unscathed, but I will not elaborate further. It is all too frightening, and my bowels are empty enough as it is. Suffice it to say, it requires a great deal of courage or stupidity to enter Corridor 3, and Sir Spellsitrong has an unhealthy dose of both.


As Spellsitrong walked into the Sound Taybul room, he saw the other Nites impatiently awaiting his arrival. There was a projection up on the wall that looked suspiciously like a piece of somebody's anatomy, which caused Sir Laffsalot to giggle uncontrollably.


"Where the hell have you been?!" bellowed King Author.


"I'm terribly sorry, King Author, I got lost down Corridor 3 and had to endure all sorts of horrible things!."


At the mention of "Corridor 3" an eerie hush fell over the other Nites. All except for Sir Laffsalot, who sniggered under his breath.


King Author raised one eye-brow in either disbelief or awe. Deciding that Sir Spellsitrong was telling the truth, however, he allowed the other eye-brow to join the first midway between his tired eyes and receding hairline--suggesting a certain level of permissiveness for the wayward Nite--and responded, "Well, see that it doesn't happen again. I have a kingdom to run, and I can't very well have my Secretary Nite gallivanting about with all manner of frightening things while the rest of us wait about for him."


"I'm sorry sir, you are correct. I shall be more careful next time."


"Thank you. Now I have called you all here for a reason. It seems a new threat has risen from the north. A giant by the name of Oxford has come to challenge us based on abuse of the English language. He has demanded that we send forth our bravest Nite to fight him--in a Spelling Bee TO THE DEATH!" The king paused for dramatic effect. He had spent all morning practicing this speech in front of his bathroom mirror, and was quite pleased with his delivery. Taking a deep breath, he continued, "Now, I have already attempted to contact Webster, but it appears the former gubernat-..."


"Bwahahahahahaha! He said goober!" interjected Sir Laffsalot. Everyone else remained silent. The laughter subsided, and King Author continued:


"As I was saying, the former Californian gubernatorial candidate can't get any time off right now, and is unable to assist us."

"Umm, Webster was played by Emmanuel Lewis, not Gary Coleman," interjected Sir Joeyscameo.

"Shut up," retorted King Author. These interruptions were starting to frustrate him. "Anyway, I also checked with David, as he seems to have some experience with giants, but God said he needs him right now, and there is no arguing with that guy. So, it comes down to this: One of us must go to face this giant. The future of our kingdom depends on it. Now, I would go myself, but I am kind of a coward. I mean, I got this job by stealing a sword from some chick in a lake. How much guts does that take? So, I decided I would be better off staying here to protect my faithful Lady Guinivere." This brought another snigger out of Laffsalot. "She sure was 'keeping the faith' last night, if you catch my drift," he said, while elbowing his neighbor knowingly. Sir Dozentgetit, the victim of the vicious elbowing, just shook his head and furrowed his brow in confusion.


Laffsalot's attention was pulled back to the meeting as he heard Spellsitrong call out boisterously, "I will volunteer my services! I will slay this giant! As secretary of the land, it is my honor, duty, and privilege!"


At this, everybody in the room started laughing. Tears were flowing, sides were splitting. Only Sir Laffsalot said, "That's not funny," with a somber look on his face.


King Author answered, "Sir Spellsitrong, I appreciate your enthusiasm, however I would not consider you the ideal candidate for this job. Your spelling is atrocious. In fact, the only reason that we fired that Merlin guy and made you secretary was to try to get you to practice. Well, that and I'm pretty sure that no-good wizard was stealing office supplies. Anyway, we thought that if you had to write things down all the time, then you might improve your skills a little bit. In fact, it's had quite the opposite effect. Your spelling is actually worse and we now have several years' worth of worthless notes and minutes from our meetings. I'd be surprised if any records survive more than a couple generations. People will end up making hackneyed action flicks and cheesy under-funded comedies, because all they'll know about us is the unintelligible drivel you call writing. I am sorry, but I do no think you should go."


"Please, your lordship, let me do this! I have been studying really hard! I took a "Hooked on Phonics" course, and am getting much better!"


"Well, seeing as how we have no other volunteers, I don't have much choice. The safety of the kingdom is in your hands. Do not fail us. You will have to journey to the hallowed spelling grounds. You shall leave in the morning with an array of my fastest horses and an entourage worthy of the greatest pop-stars."


Sir Spellsitrong bowed graciously and left the room. Like the man who choked to death on a banana, he had bitten off far more than he could chew. He walked away down the hall, and slowly resigned himself to his impending doom. The journey to the hallowed spelling grounds would take about three days. By the time he reached his chambers, his fretting had nearly worn a tooth-shaped hole through his lower lip. The sun had just barely set, casting an orange glow across the horizon, but he couldn't bear staying awake with only his thoughts as company, so he settled in for an uneasy night's sleep.


The morning came far too early for his taste. He got ready with the help of his chamberboy, and stumbled through the next three days in the mental haze of a death row inmate walking the green mile. Upon arrival to the hallowed Spelling Grounds on the morning of the third day, he was ready to accept his fate. Seeing the ground where so many others had died before him gave him a sort of clarity no mind altering drug could provide. He realized that no matter the outcome, he was serving a higher purpose. He went to his seat at the front of the grounds, and waited for the giant to arrive.

Shortly before noon, the giant was visible over the horizon. First his head popped up, then shoulders. By the time his waist appeared, his head had eclipsed the sun, casting an unnatural shadow across the assembly. Simultaneously, the entire crowd gasped as his full 75 foot stature was revealed to them. One guy swallowed a bug as he breathed in. This caused him to cough uncontrollably, sending forth an army of microscopic bacteria into battle. As if of one mind, the infinitesimal phalanx forged forward to the giant's vacuous proboscis. Finding the fortress virtually undefended, they set to work, festering in the sinuses of the unfortunate fiend.

Before we continue, I must explain how a spelling bee to the death works. One contestant provides a word for the other to spell. The second contestant then attempts to spell that word. If he fails to spell it correctly, the first contestant imparts one blow to the other contestant--anywhere on his body, with any weapon of his choosing. If, however, he does spell it correctly, then he in turn gets to provide a word for the first contestant to spell. Play continues in this manner until, via the wounds provided, one of the contestants dies. The punishment for those who choose to violate these rules is, of course, death. Given that the battle is between a massive giant and a puny human, I'll leave it to you do deduce how many mistakes each one gets to make before the match is over. This may seem unfair, but most battles are in fact fought this way. Nobody picks a fight unless they think they can win, and, understandably, most giants think they can win.

Sir Spellsitrong walked to the center of the Spelling Grounds next to the giant. Well, more specifically, the giant's baby toe. The Grounds is better described as a garden, really, so there wasn't room for the whole giant. This proved very unfortunate for the poor souls sitting at the far end of the field who found themselves crushed beneath his massive callous-encrusted heel. But, fortunately, romantic literature such as this cares little for the affairs of poor people, which spares me the uncomfortable task of describing the rather gruesome injuries they sustained and the tearful wailing of the loved ones left behind. Let's just say that this particular flood was the stuff legends are made of.

With both contestants in place, the Master of Ceremonies, a swarthy young man with a fair and empty head, waited for the fanfare of trumpets to subside before announcing, "Gentlemen! Start your engines!" An awkward silence followed as he realized that he grabbed the wrong cue cards on his way out the door that morning. A nervous bead of sweat glistened on his proud neatly trimmed moustache. Regaining his composure, he said, "Uhh. Do the spelling thing. Oxford the Giant, you are first. Proceed."

By this time, the germs in the giant's sinus cavities had grown to an alarming number. They stirred their witch's brew of mucus as the giant prepared to give his word for Sir Spellsitrong. The breath inward before opening his mouth to speak so tickled his nostrils that the giant let forth a cacophonous sneeze: "AAAAHHHCHOOOO!!!!!!" The wind and phlegm spewed forth, giving the women in the audience a series of elaborate up-dos, each more startling than the next.

Sir Spellsitrong spoke with the characteristic foolishness and confidence that belied his shattered nerves. "Ahchoo. Ay, Aych, See, Aych, Oh, Oh. Ahchoo."

The emcee announced, "Please wait while our judges deliberate this response." Tense seconds passed. He finally received the decision and said, "Since 'Ahchoo' is not technically a word in the English language, any purely phonetic spelling would be acceptable. The decision is in favor of Spellsitrong. Continue with your word for Mr. Giant, if you please."

"Hooked on Phonics werked for me," Spellsitrong thought somewhat ironically. A moment later, he decided upon his word. "Convenient."

The giant was now visibly ill. His nose was red and swollen. His eyes watered incessantly. His head was swimming and he could no longer think straight. His voice as nasal as a Frenchman's, he began, "Com-been-yen. See, Oh..." And suddenly, with less warning than before, an even larger sneeze resounded from within the deep recesses of his head. The wind was so strong that chickens turned into projectiles. The sound was so loud that four old ladies in Connecticut stopped playing bridge just long enough to ask, "What on Earth was that?" The mucus, green and viscous, was so plentiful that it drowned a kitten. (Don't worry too much about this last part, though. The kitten was very racist. As cute as it was, it likely would have been the first cat to commit large-scale genocide. Thank goodness for small miracles, eh?) The sneeze sufficiently rattled the giant's head that he lost track of where he was in the word, and he continued with a disastrous "Vee, Ee, En, Tee. Com-been-yen."

The emcee replied, "I'm sorry, that is incorrect. Spellsitrong, you may inflict a blow as you wish upon the giant, after which you may provide another word for him to spell."

Spellsitrong nodded in understanding. He removed his sword from its sheath and ran headlong toward the giant's foot, ululating the entire way. His sword pierced the giant's calloused toe, reaching the soft tissue underneath. The giant grunted loudly in discomfort, leaving him predictably disgruntled.

His jagged nerves catching up to his confident facade, Spellsitrong shouted his next word with a genuinely happy lilt in his voice. "Predictable!"

This time, the giant barely had time for the word to register before he let out his biggest and final sneeze--the force of which was so great that his head burst open. His hair floated into the sky to make the clouds. His eyes rose to become the stars. His tortured nose landed in the north of India to become the craggy peaks of the Himilayas. As the crumpled remains of the giant collapsed to the ground, so did Spellsitrong's jaw. He was in shock. He had beaten the brute. Sure, it wasn't by any particular strength in his spelling, but he won nonetheless. A satisfied grin spread across the face of the erstwhile champion. It was the smile of Lady Luck, who, for unknown reasons, saw fit to shine her light on this most incompetent of fools. Though they may kill us for their sport, the gods may also extend the game from time to time--even if for only one period more.