Gull sat at his typewriter. Knuckles cracked. Cigarette lit. Tea brewing. Door locked. Dog drugged. "Lets make some magic," he said aloud. This is what he wrote.
"He stood before the grotesque behemoth and drew his sword. 'You will pay for your crimes beast.' The ogres hearty laugh assaulted the smoky remains of the village. 'Har Har, who dareth challenge I, destroyer of crops, devourer of food. Fiend to many, friend to few. Har har.' With that the ogre hammered the ground with his mighty fists so hard that the seasons changed.
'It is I,' said the hero, his long hair masking much of his face, 'The Death Collector.' There was a pause in nature as if all living things recognized the name and knew to fear it. "Foolish human," roared the slobbering creature, "I do not obey your financial laws."
Three hundred kilometers away, an elf chuckled, for he had notoriously good hearing."
It wasn't that Gulliver Ducquat hadn't tried to be a good writer, he had, but no matter how much soap you have, you can't clean shit. Shit by nature is dirt and Gull by nature was shit. At least when it came to writing. So it was a shock to many when he managed to get his work published.
Gulls mother would have been one of the many astonished at this apparent lack of sane judgment on the publishers behalf, but given the choice of reading Gulls first completed literary work, she choose the only available alternative to her at the time and died.
The story was set in an alien society where the government decided that dinner and sex, which had been freely available up to that point, should be banned. People were understandably upset and so it was no real surprise when underground speakeasy began popping up. Tasty dinner and sticky sex for only 12 alien credits? Lets go down to bargain town, whispered the horngry people.
An interesting tale, no doubt, but certain glaring elements killed it critically. For example, Gulls description of the early bird menu was without equal, the most disgusting thing ever written on page. A roast chicken and a newborn baby...to say anymore would be illegal. It certainly exceeded "Ass Injected Disease- The Freddy Mercury Story" in outright puke-ability.
The other major problem was that the book, titled "Meat and Two Vag," was like watching the most beautiful woman you have ever seen uncontrolably and agonisingly shit herself. It was the feeling that nothing would ever arouse you again. Not exactly a marketable selling point.
And yet despite the critical mauling, the book burnings and the death threats, Gull didn't stop. He liked writing and chooses to be oblivious to the hatred. Better than letting it get to him. Better than giving up. At least that’s how he figured it. And though he lived by this, it was far from a criticism proof jacket. He felt every sling and arrow.
Moving the setting for his next adventure into the darkly magical forest of Gothwood, Gull explored the sexual relationship between the humble woodsman Sebastian King and a forest nymph who inhabited a large dusty oak tree. The explicit love scenes inspired many raincoat wearing pocket shufflers to get back to nature and for a short period after its publication was blamed for the increased occurrence of penile splinters. "For King and Cunt Tree," died screaming like some horrible thing outside your window at half five in the morning.
People just couldn't understand Gull. He didn't settle in with their way of thinking, and thus they righteously figured, there must be something seriously wrong with the fucker. Some tried to supportively nudge him. "Why don't you get a nice normal job and fit in like everyone else?" Why don't you suck my cock is what Gull felt like saying back. But he didn't. He was alienated enough.
Others spent long periods of their time analysising Gull in a not too kind fashion. They came to some retarded solutions, perhaps because they themselves were retards. Even though these fools did this behind his back, he could always tell. It seemed that he was far better at reading than writing. It probably brought them some satisfaction talking about his oddness, like a warm reassurance of how normal they themselves were. He figured that nothing people did or said was in the best interest of anyone but themselves. So he wrote another book.
Following treachery, the King of the fabled land of Wangtown is dead. Having left no heir due to a defective doodle, the kingdom is thrown into turmoil. A distant blood relative is found who strangely turns out to be a giant grizzly bear. Hilarious! The people of Wangtown being heavily retarded crown the hairy teeth factory king and celebrate. Huzzah!
In the end, the King having eaten or frightened away every last servant and person sits alone slumped on his throne. In a rare moment of bear revelation, the King decides that he misses the company and that maybe things were better before the blood letting. And as if by some greater beings guidance a young man wanders into view.
"My liege, I come from the province of Spunkton to pay my respect. I am Trebder the Legend, so called because of my brilliance and the feats that I have performed. Let me regal you with tales of my consumption of ale." Around this point the bear King realized that he had been mistaken. Loneliness was an acceptable alternative to ignorance and he ate the traveler.
"Bear to the Throne." The most personal tale yet. Still rubbish of course, but inside he hoped it would shut a few mouths up. It didn't. And that is where we came in.
Gull uncracked his knuckles, put out the cigarette, threw out the tea, unlocked the door, kicked the dog and stood outside his house. He eyes were red, his throat thick with sorrow. Maybe he was just being stubborn, maybe he was just scared. He knew that one day he would give up. One day they would wear him down. Across the road a young boy shouted, "Hey Ducquat, I can't even read yet and even I know you suck shit." He turned his back on the insults. He turned his back on the world. You do it to yourself, thought Gull. You do it to yourself.