Sunday, July 29, 2012

The Rage of Ognark: Part Three

Alright, this here is the usual disclaimer that these story bits are hilarious (to me, anyway) bizarro-type barbarian fantasy. Not for everyone. In fact, it might not be for anyone. If you get offended easily, think I have an agenda (I don't-- but still), take issue with "taboo subjects", or whatever, then Ognark is not for you. That said, I fully support your right to hate horrible shit for any reason you deem fit. I'm not saying "suck it up, snowflake" but "I respect your outlook; please respect my right to write terrible things". Saying "That Said", I don't think any of this is all that "Bad". But your mileage, as always, may vary.

I like to think that The Rage of Ognark incorporates influences from Monty Python, Red Dwarf, Blackadder, The Human Centipede, Brazil, Caligula, Conan, Thrud the Barbarian, Gor, Ass Goblins of Auschwitz, Slaughterhouse 5, Mother Night, The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, AD&D, FATAL, and a bunch of other awesome and horrible things. Some of it isn't even my cup of terribad tea, but it's still influential for me.

Oh, who am I kidding? I think Gor and The Human Centipede are the only things on that list that I didn't enjoy in some way, and Centipede only because I actually have never seen it. Okay, and I'll give you that Caligula is murderfacingly overrated poop.

I would like to dedicate this part to my buddy Aaron, whose birthday it is today. Happy birthday, kid! Here's some Ognark for you. I think you'll dig it.

Read Part I HERE
Read Part II HERE


Dirge of the Dirigibles 
By S.G. Saunders

[Now, this excerpt pulled from the painfully incomplete texts, now called the RCO-01, seems to link closely—linearly speaking—to that last excerpt in what is now called the RCO-01 Sequence. Hopefully I can… massage a better designation out of an eager student soon. Perhaps Fabio Thurderstromklien...--Perseus Fractalthorpe Benzene IV, associate professor University of Doron, Nova Texum]


Ognark could barely hear Doctor Steelstormface Esquire, the strangely dressed man with the goggles whose airship Ognark was now in. And aside from that being unnecessarily too long of a sentence, saying “in” is a little awkward, since it was more like “being in a basket suspended from a large, oblong thing full of fart-gas or something incredibly flammable, or so Steelstormface had said”.

Then Ognark of Yonder Waystes wondered… in the last town he was in, why was there a market square outside of the city walls? And was it a town or a city? Just what is the difference between the two? A city is bigger than a town, right? A which point does one use terms like “hamlet”, “thorp”, “village” and “murder home”? These sorts of questions tended to creep up on Ognark like a stealthy Malalian Yak; and milk him of his thoughts that creepy mind-yak sure did…


Our large barbarian hero placed his hand by his square chin, as if we are watching him right now, with Ognark deep in self-reflecting thought.

Was killing everyone in that market square wrong? Perhaps if he mentally placed a tavern around the market square… yes, perhaps then it would make more sense. Perhaps.

“Doctor Esquire, I require time to think. You are making the wind silent with your screams.”

Ognark Thistlespoon fashioned himself to be a bit of a philosopher savage.

Doctor Steelstormface Esquire hollered unintelligibly some more. Ognark tried his best to tune him out. The strange little be-goggled motherfucker just didn’t shut up, you know? He yabbled on and on. He talked about airships. He talked about vintage leather clothing. Hell, vintage clothing? What does “vintage” even mean? Steelstormface also talked about everything in “punk” terms. His weird horse thing that he also talks a lot about runs on steam, so that horse is of “coalpunk” and “enginepunk” technology. The airship is a dirig…dirigible? The dirigible is “Luftpunk”. This all confused Ognark greatly, as “punk” means a dry wood used to start fires. “Punk” could also mean that you are in great danger if someone calls you that whilst in a dungeon. This be-goggled man annoyed Ognark greatly. Ognark’s renowned patience was running thin.


Ognark helped Steelstormface up back into the basket thing. They were high in the sky… many lengths of tall men, to be sure.

“We are up high, Doctor,” said Ognark.

“Yes, lad,” he replied, frantically patting himself for some reason, “Why did you let me hang there for so long?”

Ognark looked around, “Is this… airship hard to put back on the ground?”

“Of course it is, you big lug. And don’t even think of asking me if you can learn how to fly Mistress Abney Palmer again… that’s how I almost fell out!”

Mistress Abney Palmer?

Doctor Steelstormface Esquire looked like he was going to have a stroke. He rolled his eyes-- and Ognark despised people who rolled their eyes.

“Ognark, you daft fuck, that’s the name of my airship. I’ve already told ye that, what, six times now?”

Five times. Ognark was counting. Steelstormface continued to fume. Ognark had tuned him out for a few moments. He thought of pleasant things… like butterflies and how they must make screaming noises you cannot hear when you pull their wings off; like desert foxes, who look at you so, so innocently as you politely explain to them that they are being turned into fur coats.

And then Ognark noticed the meat flaps, on the face of a man with strange facial hair, moving up and down. Up and down. Warm air being pushed through a meat hole.

This punkman may be worse than any Rape Gnome, or even a dreaded Dire Gazebozelle, or rightly feared Soul Gargler.

“…well, what do you have to say for yourself?”

Ognark simply shrugged.

“I’ll figure it out.”

“You’ll figure what out you fucking oversized moron bastard—HEY!”

Ognark grabbed Steelstormface’s goggles. The little punkman was weak and small, and so it was easy to tear off the goggles and wrap them around his punkneck. But first, Ognark decided he would tear off Steelstormface’s funny moustache and teeny, dwarf-woman beard.

Doctor Steelstormface Esquire screamed. It was music to Ognark’s ears. Music that didn’t suck. Blood began oozing out of the annoying man’s face. His eyes bulged as Ognark wrapped and squeezed. The glass in the goggles broke and was promptly pushed into Steelstormface’s throat. He looked to Ognark, his terrified eyes full of the knowledge that he was most certainly doomed.

Doompunked, thought Ognark.

Steelstormface tried to pry Ognark’s mighty, meaty fist-hammer from him, but to no avail. If he wasn’t being choked, he could have easily convinced Ognark that he was a petty excuse of flesh and weak and sad about something, like a woman leaving him for another man with fancier clothes. But this is probably why Ognark went for his throat first. That is where the “talky spirits” lived. Ognark must kill them all.

Wasn’t he supposed to be looking for poison goats? Ugh, our mighty pile of muscles thought, I am severely lurking in focus and organizational skills.

Lacking. Whatever, you damned mind-thing.

Within seconds, Doctor Steelstormface’s talky spirits had been shushed on a permanent basis. Ognark could still feel his Rage growing.

“Come now, you esquirey, stringy, limp piece of fuck-shit! Let’s see how YOU land.”

And so Ognark threw his former comradepunk out of the basket place thing. If the poor, unfortunate and funnily-dressed man had survived the meaty barbarian’s assault with his mighty meat-hammer fists and god-killing grip, then he would most likely die on impact a few moments later.

Ognark looked around to find what Steelstormface had called a “spyglass”. Ah, there it was. Ognark put to his right eye and quickly tried to see where the Doctor was… and was amazed that he was easily spotted due to all the frenzied writhing he was doing in midair. Ognark lost sight of him as he fell into some trees.

Wait. Trees? Shit, this meant they had gone farther than Steelstormface had said! There were no poison goats to be had in the woods. Ah, perhaps this was why Steelstormface insisted on doing most of the journey above the low-hanging clouds, citing excuses like “safety” and “navigation”. He also has spoke of needing to be higher up for his astro… laid? Lame? Laybe? Something like that. Something about his astrolaything working better when he could see the stars at night.

Now, how the tears of countless dead babies could help you find anything, anything at all in the world, baffled Ognark, but Steelstormface seemed to know what he was talking about.

Unless he didn’t. That is entirely possible. Anything is possible, including, but not limited to, quickly aged cheese that is safe to eat.

Ah, Ognark hungered so. He had forgotten to save the Doctor’s body for some vittle-snacks. All that was left to eat on the Mistress Abney Palmer were crackers and dried vegetables. And rice. Was it rice? Whatever it was, Ognark promised himself that he would immediately disembowel any travelling companions in the future who claimed to be a part of some cult that worships a god called “Vegetarian”.

Ognark needed to land the airship. He looked up at the gas-filled bladder thing suspended above him. He seemed to recall Steelstormface pulling on some ropes. He did so, and the airship lowered a bit. Ognark shrugged and tore off the javelin launcher that was attached to the side of the area he was in.

He pulled on the ropes again. And again. Ognark looked over the safe. Lots of tress. He was still pretty high up, but the gas should release faster—but not too fast, as that would mean falling to his death.

Ognark launched a javelin into the airship’s float bladder.

He hadn’t been told that the javelins were explosive. The gas inside of the bladder was explosive, too.

The Mistress Abney Palmer engulfed almost entirely in flames, she plunged to the forest below. Ognark just smiled. He wasn’t on fire yet. He may survive the rapidly impending doom that was spelled “Airship Disaster”.

There’s always a bright side, you see.


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