Did you ever feel like writing a short story in language that would challenge a 14th-century English scholar? Yea, me, too...
Ol' Geoff Chaucer Sucks A Saucer
“And, thereby, passes the lordly realm of all things persiflage uncommon to any who might chance become beholden without due recompense. It is sworn before me on this thirty-ninth diurnal passage of summertime investitures concomitant with the agreed-upon duration forthwith and guaranteed by all authority bequeathed of preference in this matter. It is so ordered and brandished with and by the Royal Order of Peccaried Diadem!”
No more had I dribbled tincture upon the sodding bilgehooch than I ignobly sustained a blunt blow from a brandished bustard swung hither and yon by an impecunious wastrel unknown to me. Whereupon thence came a squire begging sustenance, I challenged him to square his bill with harlequance bound by honor in the field of trifling nobility.
“What say ye, varlet, accept the gauntlet of broader virtue set in fire or pander thy braided locks in honey-dipped farthings suckled far into the blackest night?”
“Swash my bloody buckles, I recompense no other than softest tresses set by noblest crests of scurried blather”, he called to me, his too-round swale of pig-oaf buttress offensive to my frenzied sight.
From my bearded scabbard flew the jaded wrath upon which all contrails of ne’er-benign fury rest until the frosted breath of inner sanctum’s purloined passion call them out to finer times set in nature’s breast. “Doth not the object cheer your heart, m’lord?”
Fierce swelter came upon his moistened brow, as once his trembling hands bid me naught but lustless swill from haggard bowels. “Are you not of grueling sort, quick to nescient plunder, caring neither more for men than zen?”
“What say thee? Beyond the reach of bended knees at rest in sodden mire thy countless sins abound, no more than ample treat I suspect and duly void ‘til once a votive plaint is heard on yonder echoed dale? Speak up, lest I once again curse thee to a place of sanction lacking all but licit charm!”
Softened clouds of envy cast upon him and gnarled his oaken stumps as once again his newfound crimson soul came flaming out of conscience held in strictest safehold. “I am but a nozzled lute, my liege, strung from none-fine gut and left to rot in torrents past— safe from none and from all, a gifted instrument by which thy pleasures flow, if a half-quaver out of tune and lacking holy tones of roundness.”
“Far-freaking-out!” I bellowed, “Come… sit… eat your fill, then we shall taunt each other once more.”
Then sated truffles once beaten passed from within, sent bounding upon the scales, free from rent and bother, curious of scented breeze and loftless curse, nigh to twice-baked pleasures scaffolded upon our ponce.
Good people, gather 'round. 'Tis the end, I fear, though none would raise a hand to check me should I opt to proceed. The loss... 'tis but yours.