Free Death by Cliché by Bob Defendi Page B

but to treat everyone so terribly?
    Damico felt alone. He could still talk to Gorthander, but that wasn’t the same. He needed companionship, female companionship. He needed to feel like he had a real connection with someone, like someone out there cared.
    And now, he hated her. Worse. She hated him .
    Gorthander just patted him on the shoulder but didn’t say anything, which was probably a good thing.
    Because the Said Bookisms were getting old, I assumed.
     

Chapter Eighte en
    “How do you spell ‘of’?… No, really… You’re kidding… That just looks wrong.”
    —Bob Defendi
     
    is name was Longshad. Say it fast , and it sounds like something out of the 2000 Florida election.
    He was the noble of legend, the noble of stories. When he was young, he bested a dragon and saved a handful of simple (and ugly) village virgins. Selfless. When he took over for his father, he gave the village mill to the villagers, allowed them to charge themselves the mulchure. When he was thirty, he was the first noble to stand up against Hraldolf and win. Hraldolf denied him at every point, but the Overlord kept his mask on throughout the whole meeting, so it was a moral victory. That same meeting, Hraldolf fed his favorite ally to a cage full of rabid hamsters.
    But I digress.
    Longshad was a good and honorable man. I’d say that three times as well, but I sense your attention wandering.
    He stood on the balcony of his manor house and watched the village below. It was a good place, an honest place. The people there lived wholesome lives. Not even the pets had sex out of wedlock. It made the finest wool in the land, not to mention being the number one exporter of doggy-sized wedding tuxedos.
    He loved his people. They loved him. The town girls showed up at his door almost every day with bundles of flowers. His house smelled like the bathroom of your church organist. What the ass of a bee smelled like after a hard night of carousing.
    Even now, the girls walked from house to house, chatting and talking. The boys nodded at them politely and played organized little games. The women cooked industriously inside. The men performed a field ballet using oxen and plows. Really. I wish you could see it.
    As he watched, the butler butled about behind him.
    And then it hit. He didn’t know it, but at that exact moment, the invisible line between Damico and that Artifact crossed through him. It was like having someone walk over your grave. In golf shoes. No, scratch that. It was like having someone walk over your naked genitalia ― in golf shoes.
    Longshad blinked.
    “Jeeves?” he asked.
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Bring Thelma to me.”
    After a few heartbeats, Jeeves showed up at his side with Thelma. He stopped, following his master’s gaze. Longshad watched the village below with a subtle smile on his lips.
    “How long have you been with me, Jeeves?”
    “Since you were nothing more than a bit of bad math in your father’s head.”
    “He never could count to twenty-eight.”
    “Yes, and how are your brothers?”
    Longshad ignored the question and watched the people below. “Am I a sporting man?”
    “You told the dragon you were coming, sir.”
    “Indeed,” he said. “Jeeves, I have a new sport. Hand me Thelma.”
    Jeeves slapped the heavy crossbow into his master’s hand. Longshad slowly cranked it up. Meanwhile Jeeves watched quietly, not judging. The butler’s easy stare.
    “How are your lungs?” Longshad asked.
    “Good, sir. Why do you ask?
    “Because I’m a sporting man. Yell ‘run.’”
    “Pardon me, sir?”
    “Yell it,” Longshad said, taking a bead on the first of the girls.
     

Chapter Ninete en
    “I stole a joke in this chapter from Night Court.”
    —Bob Defendi
     
    o then the proctologist says, ‘there’s my thermometer! Now where did I leave my pencil?’”
    They all stared at Gorthander. Then Damico groaned, and Arithian grunted. Lotianna didn’t deign to answer.
    Omar frowned. “I don’t get