Chief Mmrall was due back from his Alaskan cruise, and Monq was sure that the chief would serve him as a main course on the Royal Sunday Brunch Buffet table. Monq saw himself, filleted on a plate, right next to the scrambled, rare purple porpoise eggs.
Yes, porpoise eggs.
The jolly 400-pound chief had come back to the village and nothing was said about Monq’s transgression. Without any notice, one Sunday morning, two of the village’s largest warriors, Mmrush and Mmrove (Bob and Ed), knocked upon the door of the Monq family hut. Whish. Whish. (They were knocking on a grass door).
“It’s Mmus, Monq. Bob and Ed. The chief wants to see you for breakfast! Now!”
Monq, put on his best Sunday-go-to-eatin’ loincloth, kissed his wife a tearful goodbye and went to the chief’s hut accompanied by the two warriors.
“Monq!” said the jovial chief, Mmrall. “Have you had your morning kava yet?”
“Mmmmm. No, Your Highness.”
“Do you take fruit bat milk in it?”
“No, Your Highness.”
“No, thank you, Your Highness. Can I ask why you sent for me?”
“Have you heard of the mad Viking Edwin MacHeath??”
“MacHeath? Sure. He’s one baaaaaad…”
“Shut your mouf!”
“Sorry, Your Highness.”
“Just fuckin’ with you, Monq.”
“Our leader, MacHeath, needs a bunch of young, stupid, crazy bastards, just like you. There is going to be a battle. Go. Get your canoe ready. You leave at high tide. When you return, call me. We’ll have dinner.” The chief showed his ragged-toothed smile again. “Don’t worry. You’ll love our buffet. We’ll order pizza…with everyone on it.”
“Hah! I’m just busting your bolas, kid.”