The Chronicles of Nightblood M.D. #1

Day One. Night.

The sun rose that morning like it did any other. As the orange light crawled in through the blinds on the windows of the Special Treatment Ward at Hells Goiter Hospital, a man strode powerfully along the corridor. 

Strands of his long, thinning hair whipped slowly like waltzing worms as he powered down the sterile, echoing hallway. He had his hands tucked into his white coat and held them out wide like a giant bearded bird, creating a vortex of air that cooled his sweat ridden back. He had been walking for some time. His scrub trouser legs looked weary from overuse, but in spite of this seemed to suit his grizzled demeanour. They were tucked into a pair of motorcycle boots. Which he wore for comfort and authority. 

Nightblood M.D.

"Doctor" Frightened nurses said, bowing as he passed them. Some escaped hurriedly into their nurse-holes, as he called any room a nurse went into, before he walked by. 

His destination came into view. Room 4. The layout of the hospital had always irked Nightblood and he reminded himself to remember to give McSchwartz a piece of his mind the next time he saw him. 

Ernesto McSchwartz ran Hells Goiter. He was an intelligent, successful  bean counting businessman. Everything Nightblood couldn’t stand in a Managing Director. They butt heads on numerous occasions, most recently over the hiring of under-qualified nurses, but the hospital layout had been a bone that had been picked clean, dipped in meat then picked again over the years. McSchwartz claimed that by moving the vertigo ward (rooms 650 - 800) to the ground floor they could cut down on nausea. The rooms that had been on the ground floor (rooms 1 - 150), used for those suffering from dementia and alzheimer’s, were then moved to the seventh floor in an effort to cut down on escapes. Wards containing tracheotomy patients were moved to a higher floor to discourage quick trips to the car park for a cigarette, while those suffering from depression were moved to a lower floor to discourage even quicker trips to the car park, for suicide. The moving of entire floors quickly got out of hand and the hospital had become, in Nightblood’s words “A retarded mess”.    

At last he rounded the doorway of room 4. There was a young female nurse there tending to a very old man. He had a long white beard, thin arms covered in what looked like skin, and brittle looking ankles. He stank really badly of human urine. 

"I don’t recognise you." Nightblood said to the nurse. She be one of the new hires, he thought. Curse you McSchwartz, he thought more. 

"Oh yes. I just started this week. Anna. Hi. Are you family?"

"Nightblood M.D. That means ‘MEDICAL DOCTOR’ in layman’s terms." Night blood said looking around the room suspiciously.

"I’m…I don’t think that is correct." Said Anna.

She had passed the test.

Nightblood nodded at her extremely slowly to the point it was uncomfortable. She quickly finished fixing the sheets and walked toward the door.

"I’ll give you some privacy, doctor."

Nightblood completed his nod and she left.

"So old man." started Nightblood, resting a motorcycle boot clad foot on the edge of the rickety hospital bed. "I hear you asked for me by name. Do I know you?"

The old man gasped for air quietly and pointed a crooked, horrifically old finger at Nightblood.  

"No, Nightblood. Not yet. But you will. You surely will. For you hold a secret. One more powerful than you can imagine. One that could change the world as you know it. The manuscript. You must complete the manuscript before…before…" The old man began to cough violently. "before the dark one finds it! You are our only hope Nightblood. Look into my face…I give this task to you." And with that the old man sighed and laid back. Suddenly alarms began beeping on the machines surrounding the old man. Nightblood M.D. called for the nurse.

"Nurse!" He called. 

Nightblood sat in the visitor chair, pondering the old man’s final words ‘Look into my face…’ he repeated. He looked at the old man deeply and made a startling realisation that rocked Nightblood to his core.

The old man had no face. 

50 Shades of No Way Jose, that’s not very good literature.

Ahoy sailors on the good ship internet. 

It is with a heavy heart and sagging gut that I have come to learn that the most popular work of ‘literature’ at the moment is something called 50 Shades of Gray. Now let me be as transparent as the brown paper bags of my local curry house after my order of ‘Ghee Bricks’ (Oh, don’t ask for them in your local take-away, they probably won’t sell them to you. After all, I had to lobby for weeks against my local MP, and health council, before they let me have mine. Nazis) I have no issue with new literature permeating the charts. It is good for all authors and readers indeed. Where I do have an issue however, is when this ‘literature’ is nothing more than the sex-crazed ramblings of an undersexed sex-person. It simply will not do. I attempted to read the first chapter of the glorified doorstop a few days ago and found that I simply could not. As I opened the first page the words throbbed at me like a throbbing knob—metaphorically, my spectacles steamed and, at the first mention of outward ‘eroticism’ my stomach twisted and I convulsed like I was having a stroke—not that kind. A bad one. 

A prude am I you ask, yes? No. 

NO. I say again. I have seen more genitals than you can imagine, and indeed have written about them in one form or another for years. Whether that be in my novels, in my many (unpublished) essays on the human form, or indeed during my common bouts with the porcelain god when I had but a biro and the cubicle door for company. I am no prude. The problem I found with whatserface’s book, and indeed as I have found with the esteemed George R. R. Martin (a close personal friend and somewhat of a protege of mine despite his age) is that their sexualisation simply does not fit the time and place of the world in which it inhabits! That is what revolts me so, not the mention of bollock-whipping or naval hair shaving so prevalent in whatserface’s book. I have often pulled up George on his linguistic inconsistency in this aspect, his ever-playful response being to cease contact—signed characteristically in the guise of a literary lawyer. 

Whatserface has the same issue. Young people today don’t talk of ‘breasts’, ‘nipples’, or ‘members’ They have their own beautiful and alien language. ‘Top-rockers’ , ‘cherry discs’ and ‘meatloader’ respectively. Whatserface (and you, George!) could take a leaf out of my own [many] books where I tackle sex, sexualisation, and sexiness. I have been ever vigilant in keeping my books truly authentic. Even, and indeed especially, when that authenticity is absolutely, and totally, irrelevant. 

Let me indulge you with some examples:

In ‘Where You Go, Buboes’ — my love-story set in a medieval village during the great plague, I tool care to replace any mention of anything that might be regarded as sexual today with something that would have been contextually relavent. Breasts became ‘chest turnips’, the male member became ‘mudded love-limb’ and the act of masturbation (a prevalent theme in the book) became ‘popping the fun buboe’

You see the difference a little research can make? I certainly hope so. And before you go and another penny or two the ever increasing money-pile of whatserface and my friend George R. R. Martin just stop and think ‘Does someone who singularly fails in creating authentic sex literature deserve my cash over an author who could do it with his eyes closed (and often does)?’ 

I think you know the answer.

Good night 

School of Doom (alt. title: Doom School)

Filbert Avery was just like every other normal overweight boy at Horsemount High School. He ate breakfast, caught the bus, hung out over a box of elevenses at morning recess, read his textbooks, ate lunch, did pop quizzes and then went home. He was just your average kid—except he wasn’t. He wasn’t because Filbert Avery was a warlock. Except just didn’t know it yet. Except all that was about to change. 

It was a day like any other. Filbert awoke to the sound of his mother and father arguing about each other’s supposed infidelity over the breakfast table. He rolled over and stared hazily at his alarm clock. It was nearly time for breakfast. He thumbed a fat finger in each of his podgy eye sockets, wiping overweight sleep form his chubby cheeks. Within minutes he was up on his thick legs, then in no fewer than forty fluid movements had fit his sausage-like appendages into their corresponding clothing-holes and was on his way downstairs. 

Breakfast, as usual, awaited him at the table. And, as usual, it was like a strung out hooker—utterly desperate. His mother, the primary breakfast chef of the household, had once again become embroiled in a foul-mouthed argument with father while cooking and in her fury had overcooked some of it, undercooked most of it, and forgotten the rest. He sat at the table staring into the thin, translucent film of undercooked egg. The blackened sausages stared up at him an a mock smile, and the bacon laughed at him from the fridge where his mother had left it. Rage took hold of him briefly and—just for a moment—he swore he saw the yolk move. It must have been the wind, he thought. There was probably a draught, he thought more.

But all the doors were shut and the windows had recently been put in and were double glazed. 

Filbert got on the school bus and took his usual seat, that was any seat that no one objected to him sitting on. He was sat next to Craig Tones. He was one of those slight, ill looking children. His greasy curled hair hung over his expressionless, banal face. He was the kind of kid that bored you just by looking at them. His overly nasal breathing and periodic snorting riled Filbert at the best of times but this morning it was worse than ever. He stared hard at the side of Craig Tones’ face until suddenly a small acne spot popped, depositing it’s molten insides onto Tones’ cheek like a small red faced baby puking. What on earth was going on today?

At school, Filbert went to his locker. His fury hadn’t been helped when the older boys, Scott Chunderson and his cronies to be exact, had berated him from the moment he got off the bus to the moment he found a teacher to complain to. 

'Don't be such a taddle tale, Avery' Mr Brekowski had said. His bald head and bald face—save for a large beard covering most of his face, twitched as he spoke like it was being poked by invisible fingers, or an invisible fly was flying into it like it was a big bearded window.

Filbert threw open his locker door and stood in awe. Suddenly it all made sense. The moving egg-yolk, Craig Tones’ spot, one of Scott Chunderson’s cronies suddenly contracting gout as he poked fun at Filbert from across the yard…today was April 15. Or, to be exact, The Feast of the Warlock God, Ulranuku. Filbert had discovered this powerful daemon while hiding in the terrible literature section of the school library. The legend went that Ulranuku chose one follower every year to host his power and do with it as they will. All he requires in return is their mortal soul. Filbert had acted immediately, performing the sacred mortal pact with the book (and by extension Ulranuku) First the follower had to get a bowl, fill it with milk, peppercorns, the hair of a cat, and last but not least, a phial of the followers own blood. Naked, with a smarting finger, Filbert had stood above the bowl and performed the sacred chant:

Ulranuku, pha-so labu. Pha-so labu so. Uranuku so pha-la.

While simultaneously squatting, dipping his testes into the cool, hairy liquid, as the ritual dictated. 

Now the power was his. He suddenly felt it all at once. His hands turned to bright blue flame and his eyes turned blood red. He turned to where Mr Brekowski was standing and in a single thrust of his flaming wrists sent a fireball into his bearded face. His entire head ignited and Mr Brekowski ran like a panicked goat around the hallway, screaming for the pain to stop.

'Don't be such a taddle-tale!' Filbert cried at him in a demonic voice. The fact that it wasn't really a pertinent line to use didn't seem to faze him. 

Next on his list, Chunderson. He found him hanging out on the school steps and in a swift movement of Filbert’s arms had cursed him to such an extent that in fewer than 4 seconds Scott had gone from a smooth-talkign ladies man, to literally a giant, singular testicle. Which then exploded, spraying his gang with its insides. Which they also died from. 

Then he punched Craig Tones right in his boring, stupid face. 

Content with his own personal rapture, Filbert Avery extinguished his hand flames and walked home. See you next year, he thought.  

My story is water, be the sponge that drinks it.

Having sampled my smörgåsbord of fantasy fancies I imagine you are keen, as the edge of a blade you may say, to learn more about myself. How I came into being, when I decided to become an auteur—if you will permit—of mythical fiction. How did I become a powerhouse of avant-garde literature a la George Martin, Tolkein, Wodehouse? Well, sit on the shaggy carpet of your mind (a metaphor) and cross your legs of hearing and I will tell you. 

I began life as a sperm. Thick and salty I dwelled within my fathers ball-sack, warm and cosy betwixt his thighs. He was not a hygienic man, and I recall (you can recall being a sperm there are studies of which I have read at least eight) being shook about as he scratched, prodded and embarked on fruitless lump searches. I dwelled there, dormant—but totally sentient, for a number of days before being shot like a musket into my mother’s birth-hole. For nine months I toiled, slimy and stubborn with only her excess food deposits being intravenously pumped into my growing frame as if she were some kind of backward-inside-vomiting-bird. Come the end of the nine months I was ejected from my birth chamber and was squeezed out of my mother’s loins, like a cat throwing up a potato, into the wide, bright world. 

As I grew I began to slowly—well, quick for my age actually—realise my potential. I had written my first novel at the age of just three [later published by Crossblade FanFic 1999] called Marrow. When I showed it to my friends, the vast majority were impressed. ‘The characterization is as good as Pratchett’ said Bill Chuck, picking his nose as was his wont. ‘Agreed, very droll too.’ Other children would often pipe in. Lucy Potterhouse said it was the ramblings a chubby, deluded dimwit. ‘It’s just farts from an anus.’ She would say. But she was a frickin’ idiot. 

By the time I was 16 I had been alive for over fifteen years and had morphed into a streetwise young man. Gelatinous, well girthed, gut-full, sure— but definitely streetwise. I had transformed my chamber dorme (French for bedroom) into, if you like, a laboratory of literature. Except my experiments were sentences, and my apparatus were words. i would boil words into a grammar solution, and watch in awe as the sentences formed through the process of narrative osmosis, the good stuff penetrating the semi permeable membrane of my page, the other stuff being left aside like no food I have ever had on a plate in front of me. 

Twenty three now, well versed in the ways of the vagina—no longer a mysterious love hatch to my clumsy fingers, I had been able to incorporate romance into my work (as you can see in The Big Bosomed Slave Girl of Faridia - below) and wrote such scenes in an experienced, yet terrified, style. I had published three full novels by this time and had a growing fanbase, ravenous for more as I was for Pot Noodles (my crutch during my epic bouts of writing.) One family member joked that my keyboard looked like I had been using it as a trough and that I should get a job as I was ruining their life. The dry humour of my father. It was around this time that I embraced the world wide internet. The whole idea was still in it’s foetal stage (it was 2008) and like most people I was wary of its power and purpose. In a few short minutes though there was a queue of at least forty seven people waiting to quiz me on its wonders. I was a quick learner. Still am. 

I had many blog ideas around this time in my life but had aborted them all like the unwanted children of a high class prostitute. I was at my wits end, to be honest, but one fateful afternoon as I sat stroking my beard, picking out those dried peas you get in bombay mix, it came to me. 

'Riddle Bog' I shot up in my seat. My naked, spongy flesh squeaking loudly on the plastic like a dog being fingered (I was just out of the bath-shower [it's a shower with a bath attachment so you can sit down and be soaked] and was in the midst of my air drying ritual) and I began typing. The name had come to me as I pondered what I would like to do that day. it was a warm October evening and the idea of a bog bath, a family tradition in my household, was an appealing one. My parents used to periodically take me to the bog, throw me in and let me soak. My father, ever ingenious, turned it into a game and would often let me stew forbidding me from getting out until I answered a series of increasingly complicated and convoluted riddles. What greater tribute to the man than to name my greatest work after his greatest hobby? What is it they say? Life imitates art? Yes that's definitely it. Well in this case it was the other way around. Definitely. 

What you see before you is the product of that revelation. The beginnings of a veritable encyclopaedia of fantasy. And it really is just the beginning, for ideas that I’ve not even thought of yet swim through my brain like retarded mermen, bouncing off my skull and colliding together creating narratives and story archs the likes of which the genre has never seen. I cannot promise you will not cry at my sad scenes, laugh at my funny ones, vomit at my more graphic ones, but I can promise this: You can’t spell Riddle Bog without girdle (it doesn’t have to be in the right order, it’s still physically impossible to spell that word without these letters) and you’re going to need the strongest girdle in the world to hold in my ideas gut. That is a promise, to reiterate.


The Robes and the Red

He stood at the farside of the room, his stave raised above his head in his right hand. In his left he held nothing, except a large sack. He was cloaked in a cloak, it’s shade a dark red shade of blue. 

'Children of the marsh! Hear me, Xhor Xhob Xhzok, grand wizard of the Church of Cumberloin. I bring the words of the demon god Koggite. There is a usurper among us!'

Loud hushed gasps spread across the room where about thirty-four people stood. Many were holding their hands to their mouths, staring wide-eyed at one another in surprise, shock, and no small part astonishment. Most, that is, but one. One face did not portray such an reaction, and the hand that belonged to that face (via the neck, shoulder and by extension, arm) was not covering it’s face’s mouth (via the same route but vice versa) with itself. No, this  hand clutched at the greasy limb of some unfortunate turkey-boar which had been charred within an inch of tastelessness. And this face, as big as a giant fucking plate, smiled a smile as smug as it was irritating. 

'It's gone a bit queer in this temple.' One lice festered pig-wench, who was standing next to the man with the face and hand (and all other body parts that make up a significantly limbed human man) said. 

'Actually, it's not a temple. It's a Mithraeum. It's been carved out of the Earth you see.' He answered confidently.

Given it hadn’t been a question, the woman looked at him confusedly for a moment.

'Right yeah' she said. 

The robed man spoke again. 

'The gods, and there are other ones apart from Koggite but that is just the one I mentioned earlier, as you all know our religion is polytheist. The gods have bid me to name him in front of you all!' With that he lowered his stave and then raised it a bit again so it was betwixt where it had been earlier and then where it had been when he lowered it fully, and pointed into the crowd with the pointy end of it. He moved the stave from side to side, as if it was homing in on the usurper like a dowsing rod for bastards. It rested on a young stable boy momentarily who was so frightened that he released his bowels, well more threw them to the floor is a splatted panic, really. But the stave did not linger there long and suddenly shot back across the room at the wide faced hand man with the turkey. 

'USURPER!' The robed man yelled quite loudly.

'Did you say supper?! The faced man retorted in a contextually ordinary volume. 'Good! Becuase I have an appetite…for DEATH.' His hand dropped the clean turkey-boar bone and went to the hilt of his sword. 'YOUR DEATHS!' He shouted, to clarify what he meant earlier. And with that unsheathed  his steel sword and held it aloft. It's point glistened like the bead of sweat on a fat mans back in the sun, it's blade was clearly metal—and probably magic, the central ridge was so fine that it seemed to be drawn in a beautiful kind of pencil and it flowed into the fuller like a stream into a valley but all made out of metal too, the rain guard—the chappe—was a golden bronze and had guarded against lots of rain. The cross-guard had been fashioned into the shape of two mating sea horses and the grip was a dark well worn duck-leather. 

'AYYYYYYY' He screamed in a belch of fury and he brought sword edge down into the face of the pig-wench. He wrenched it free and began swinging wildly into the crowd, slicing through limbs like processed noodles through the internal passages of a diabetic food-whore. The stable boy who had shat his bowels out all over the place earlier slipped in them as he tried to escape and only found the point of the blade in his shoulder blade as he was cleaved in twain. Many were cleaved and twained as the minutes past. Before long he was stood in front of the robed man. 

'What…what are you?' The robed man said.

'I AM YOUR GOD NOW.' He cried and grabbed the man with both hands and feasted on his face. 

He left the room, covered head to toe in blood and walked into an inn. 

'Honeyed wine and a pot of giant snails.' I've worked up quite the appetite.

The Big Busomed Slave Girl of Feridia

The ship, named Chamberlain’s Chode, rocked in the dark port like a food morsel in a glass of dark port. A creaking hulk, toing and froing and making other noises that I could hear. There was one like a shoooooshhhh, and then a whifffffffffuhhhhoo sort of thing. But I was hungry and so paid little attention. A limping deckhand passed me and muttered,

'Aye. Thar be the sound of ghosts be sure for.' His hobbling, weak body, gaunt and wirely like an ill giraffe, doing nothing to stave off my increasingly voracious appetite. 

'Ghosts.' I spat. Not through disgust, but pondering on a meal of giraffe had me salivating like a plump hound. The deck hand had failed to realise this and returned the gesture by spitting in my eye before scarpering. Had it not been for my colossal bulk, I'd have caught him and run him through for his insolence, plus his almost paralysing limp seemed to somehow give him only an increase in speed. Or so it seemed to me. 

I turned away from Chamberlain’s Chode and walkedtoward the nearby town. Three hours later, half naked, panting and sweating like a cheese left in the sun, I had marched the mile and a half to the seaside town of Nurk. I opened, half—fell half—barged, the door to the closest inn. Half mad with hunger, and the other half hungry with hunger I slammed a hairy paw on the bar and shouted,

'Mead, gods damn you! And hot honeyed bread. And a slice of Sommerwell pork fat. And a hose of deer eggs from the Wild Shores. And a rack of giant Mukrak ribs (sort of like a camel but with five humps that each have a hump) And a peppered Mammoth teste. And be quick about it gods damn you.'

I feasted like a mighty three hundred oar ship crashing into a sea enema. By the time I had had my fill the bar was in ruin. My jaw ached, my fingers were bloody and sore from cracking the camel bones—and the wrist of the young girl who attempted take away my only seven-eights eating Mammoth teste—and the patrons in my immediate vicinity were awash with entrails. 

Only then, bulging and creaking like the ship I mentioned earlier, did I see her. I don’t know whether it was simply the grease in my eyes but she seemed to move as a blur. Her skin shined like grease, and her greasy hair hung down over her shoulders like a beautiful, greasy mop. I shifted in my stool, the chair that is, I hadn’t shit myself. 

'Bar wench! Who is that?’ I bellow, chunks of pickled seal pepper her face like salt from the seas crashing against rock. 

'EEEE be gum, she be some tart slave girl frum t' Feridia. Yon Island due Sarth!' Her accent was as thick as my swollen thighs. 

'I wish to make use of her services. Prepare a room, you horsefaced barge.'
'Eeeeee be gum, aye sor.' she said, scuttling away upstairs like a two legged, fully dressed crab. 

A few minutes later, once my food had settled—into my tunic, I opened the door to the upstairs chamber. A cool wind blew in from the open seaward facing window. It explored my wiry beard like a team of icy orienteers, and turned my nippled stiff as frozen grapes. She lay on the bed, tits like two curled up dogs hanging in her corset. A glint of fear in her eye—no…more than a glint. She was more beautiful than I had remembered, her oily skin glistened not unlike a skewered pig. Skewered, how apt.  I chuckled to myself loudly and obnoxiously.

Mere minutes had passed before I had escaped my woollen, seas-sodden linens and crawled like a giant fat man-sized baby onto her tender busty frame. She smelled much like me, though that may in fact have been me, I outmassed her five to one and doubtless her scent had gotten lost, hunted down and brutally murdered, by my own orcish musk. In three short stokes I was done, quivering like a horse-bag full of jelly in a gale. I wiped away one of her tears with my sausage thumb and rolled off. I draped my tunic across my glistening back and exited the room. 
'Wench! A flagon on honeyed wine and three fox brains.'

I had worked up quite the appetite.  

Salutations Traveler

Greetings! Welcome to Riddle Bog. Fantastical, outlandish, wondrous…these are just some of the phrases one might use in describing this veritable feast of fantasy fiction. Fiction? I hear your brains gasp in collective incredulity. But the images, characters and places your words evoke are so lifelike that we assumed you were just calling them up from memory. Or, you know , like, you were an alien or a time traveller or some shit.  I also hear your brains say.

Well dear reader, I have but one thing to say when you ask whether my concoctions of fantasy are based at all on some real-life adventure, or whether I had—excuse me as the very thought makes me barf with outrage—somehow PLAGIARISED these ideas from some other popular work of fiction: Actually, not a sausage of this is not a product of my own brain; my cave of wonders, my fantasy farm, my…my fat-addled cranial plane of magic and mystery. 

Eat well and dream true, children of wonder, and prepare for a journey into the eyes of joy, the gut of drama, the anus of torment. 

Carpe Diem…carpe diem by its ogreish balls.