The Rage of Ognark: Part Two

So, hey, here's part two of "The Rage of Ognark". I hope there will be a part three soon... but you never know. I have shit to do, shit to get done, and shit to be paid for, hopefully. Christ, I still need to shave! Do you know how long I can go without shaving? My fingernails are even too long at this point. I'm going to start saving my urine in milk bottles, you just wait. The worst part is actually finding milk bottles.

Before you get to reading, you need to know that this crap is bizarro fiction, or my take on bizarro, anyway. It's about a crazy barbarian and the story is completely absurd. Thing is, while it's absurd, it's also totally not for kids. Like, if, Red Dwarf, The Human Centipede and Caligula all had a baby. I strive to be funny, but you may not find it funny. And that's cool. I will not mock your "delicate sensibilities". It's your life, after all, and I respect that.

I suppose if "rape gnomes" bothers you for any reason, stop reading right now. Check out my reviews or whatever, maybe. Avoid anything that says "Ognark". I write these prefaces (pre-feces? Hmmm) for you, dear readers. I know that some of you can be touchy about some things. Like I said: I respect that.

For the rest of you terribly twisted sick fucks: Enjoy?

As always, I love feedback. Let me know what you think of this terrible shit.

--

THE RAGE OF OGNARK: Part II

Narkpunk

By S.G. Saunders

[The excerpt continues following a chunk that appears to be missing. Information as to what cataclysm befell LZ-486c is still under investigation-- Perseus Fractalthorpe Benzene IV, associate professor University of Doron, Nova Texum]

--to which Mighty Ognark Thistlespoon of Yonder Waystes said, “I have no squirrel testicle sacks to trade, good madam. This here Ognark can go on no further unless he caresses one boob, at least.”

The Head Mistress of the Vorhees Haus of Pleasures simply sighed. She had dealt with this type before. Large, brutish barbarian types, who had nothing more to offer than a very large member. Most wielded said member like an unwieldy club.

“Fine. I’ll tell you what: You get me the venom-sacs from a poison goat, and I will accept that in Lay-Trade. Understand?”

Ognark understood.

It meant that he, of some tribe of he’s from Yonder Hills and Plains, would have his Lay-Quota filled for hours. Perhaps days. Okay, two days—but that’s not bad, really.

“May I feel boob for goodish luck?”

“Sure.”

Minutes later, after a goodish boob-rubbing, Ognark rejoined his life into Yonder Waystes and began trudging. And trudge he did… north… where the poison goat pickings were best.

Ognark HAD to remember not to eat the poison goats. Last time he had poison goats he fucked up and ate the beasts before he could turn them in for Better Food. This time it’s even more important. This time Ognark needed more boobies. This time Ognark needed a young woman—one who is willing—to spread her legs around his face and—

How long had Ognark been walking?, Ognark wondered. His thoughts had wandered, and thinking of women always made him think long and very hard. These things are tough, you see, as Ognark is a very visual thinker and he must make sure every detail is perfect.

Ognark is nothing if not a perfectionist.

Ognark was wondering what perfection tasted like when something had caught his attention. This was no mean feat, as hunting poison goats and blocking out things like deep thoughts was supposed to be hard or time consuming or something. But anyways, something was making noises further to the north. Banging noises. Evening was approaching, and Ognark, while not wanting to waste all these hours wasted in the Waystes, was curious to know about the banging noises and where they were coming from.

What was Ognark thinking about?

It doesn't matter. He’d figure that shit out as soon as he got to where he think he was going or needed to be… if he needed to be someplace.

Eventually, Ognark saw something. It was a large carriage thing that looked like it was attached to a huge squishy egg. That huge squishy egg looked like it might have been full of air—or farts!—it certainly smelled like farts, Ognark mentally noted.

By this Thing was some man dressed all funny-like in leathers and wearing stupid things over his eyes tinkering around on it. The man reminded Ognark of the Rape Gnomes of Zurnch, so now Ognark was a little wary.

Rape Gnomes are badass and they rape you.

You probably know this already.

Before Ognark could fully decide how he was going to kill the funny-like man, the funny-like man spotted the hulking brute who is the hero of our story.

“Hoy, yew there! Come on over, then, I’s won’t hurt ye—I means no ‘arm.”

What the fuck was this ponce saying? Well, Ognark approached, regardless.

“Who are you? And have you seen any poison goats? Answer me, for Ognark’s need is great.”

The man smiled, “I see. Uh, no poison goats here, mate. My name is Doctor Steelstormface Esquire,” he started walking towards Ognark, “and it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” He extended his right hand when he got to our hero.

It took Ognark a moment or three before he realized that this… Face Doctor? Wasn’t offering himself up to Ognark as a meal.

Disappointing.

Ognark took the Face Doctor’s hand.

“So,” Ognark slowly started, “You are a doctor of faces… and you… sing in a choir?”

“Wot? No, no, no, mate. I’m an airship cap’n. I ride the skies in search of ahvencha.”

“What?”

“Avencha… er, adventure.”

The funny looking man smiled.

“Are you a Rape Gnome, sir?”

The funny looking man coughed, “Uhm, wot? No, I believe I am not a gnome, my friend.”

“A Rape… Gnome. And friend? Rape Gnomes like to say that sort of thing. That they are your friend. Or wife. Or overly promiscuous friend of an old war buddy. Rape Gnomes are very decep—decep—very tricky.”

“Look, mate, I am not one of these ‘Rape Gnomes’ you keep jawing on about-- alright? You haven’t suffered from too much sun? A head wound I can’t see, perhaps?”

Ognark exhaled satisfactorily. There was no raping from terrible Rape Gnomes tonight, then.

“What are those weirdish things on your face, Singing Face Doctor?”

The man just sighed, “Singing Face… Right, so these are called goggles.”

“…I…see… and what do they do?”

“They allow me to see things without getting dust or bugs in my eyes whilst I pilot the Big Bird, ye ken?”

“Who’s Ken? Are you Ken?”

“No, I mean, do you understand… what is you name, by the by?”

Ognark beamed. “Please excuse my manners, Doctor. I am Ognark Thistlespoon, Mighty Marauder of the Yonder Waystes,” Ognark was pleased he had learned to introduce himself so well. Of course, Ognark still wondered if this Doctor Steelstormface was actually a Rape Gnome and just what the hell “esquiring” something could mean.

Was to esquire something to… bugger it like a Rape Gnome would? Those beasts were tricky. Oh, sure, at first they would be all fine and nice with compliments, and apologize for their kind—you know, the ones who end up raping people—but then they would lure you into a false sense of security. Usually with candy. Ognark loved candy.

Candy will never taste as sweet as it once did to poor Ognark.

“’Scuse me, guv, you somewhere else?”

Ognark had been staring at the Doctor. For how long? Ognark did not know. All he knew was that he should have deep suspicions concerning this man. While the Doctor was probably not a Rape Gnome, he could be in their employ. Those Gnomes: Tricky.

The whole “tricky” thing cannot be stressed enough.

“So,” Steelstormface said, “Would you like a ride in me airship?”

Ognark thought for a minute. Hmmm… To ride in this… airship… It would be fun. A lark. A hoot. A… an airship.

“I am scared of heights.”

“I see,” said the Doctor, “Well it’s quite safe, boyo.”

“Safer than a Vergontorpatersaur? Because one of those threw me. Hurt me bad. Been afraid of heights ever since.”

Doctor Steelstormface Esquire blinked. He took in a deep breath, “Look, Ognark, this is not a living animal. I can control it. It is perfectly airworthy, airsafe, and you will be rather comfy as we glide along the air at fast, but safe, speeds. Ye ken?”

Ognark furrowed his brow, “It’s not living?”

“No.”

The large barbarian of Yonder Waystes heartily laughed as he started toward the craft, patting Steelstormface on the shoulder.

The Doctor sighed relief, “There ye go, lad, that’s not so bad, eh?”

“No. Ognark is safe from being raped by a large flying animal.”

Our hero boarded the strange craft, noting that the fart-smell was coming from Steelstormface and not the airship…

***

The Rage of Ognark: Part One

Hello there! It's been a while, but I've been soooo soooo busy. I really should be getting back to this project I'm working on, actually, before I am beaten with sticks. But I figured I'd post this first. See, a couple years ago I wrote a very, very short bit called "The Rage of Ognark", which was intended to be the start of stories parodying Conan, Thrud, and stuff like that... However, I lost interest, got distracted, etc etc, and I never followed up on the 600+ word piece. Flash forward to recently. I have started getting more interested in bizarro fiction, so I thought I'd write Ognark bits in that style (and rewrite the first bit a little, expanding it to 1000+ words). If you know anything-- anything at all-- about bizarro fiction, you will know that Ognark stories just may not be for you. It's supposed to be silly, but "The Rage of Ognark" will be no doubt offensive and squicky to some. Perhaps many. Then again, if you know who I am and read my things on occasion, then you will know that while I'm a pretty nice guy, I have a really bleak sense of gallows humor and enjoy nasty jokes. So, yeah, this story is not for kids. And you may not want people reading it over your shoulder at work.

Anyway, your feedback is appreciated. Keep in mind that this is all done on a lark, and when I feel like it. I would love critical feedback, but I'm also not very serious about this stuff (so, feel free to let the love/hate/tacos flow).

And 'ere we go, 'ere we go! (Part II will be up soon, as it's already done. Yay?)

--

THE RAGE OF OGNARK: Part I
The Fruits of One's Labors
By S. G. Saunders

[This excerpt of something probably most horrible was found by Imperial archaeologists studying the now-dead world LZ-486c. Numerous translations have yielded only this result. More research is currently underway. As for the terrible fate that befell LZ-486c… that information is unknown at this time. – Perseus Fractalthorpe Benzene IV, associate professor University of Doron, Nova Texum]

Ognark viewed the scene before him.

Carnage.

Absolute carnage.

Ognark thought of what he’d had to do to survive, he thought of his family and friends-- he thought of home. But not his home, nor his friends, nor his family could help him. No, all they would be is a carnage ridden mess if they'd been there. Ognark Thistlespoon let loose a low whistle. He was actually rather impressed with himself.

Ognark was impressed that he then remembered that any friends and family he once had were dead, many by his own hand.

Normally, it was unfortunate tavern patrons across the land of Evarmoore who would fall to Ognark’s mighty blade, wielded by his mighty arms which ended in mighty fists. Normally, there would be a maiden or two left over-- bar wenches, perhaps-- who would yell things like "ra-pree-shus swine!" at him, expecting a child of Yonder Waystes to understand any of that nonsense. But this time... this time was different.

What was different, exactly?

Ognark thought for a moment. Well, for one thing, the gentlemen at his feet had been killed with one of those stick things that held up a kiosk awning thing. Ognark had not expected some random person in the Market Plaza to be so daft-- or was it deft?-- at removing his mighty blade from his mighty fists. That fellow probably didn't expect the blade to instantly kill a near-by mule, but Ognark was digressing a bit. He was then distracted by the cobblestones and how all the blood--so much blood-- flowed between them.

So much beautiful blood.

The mighty bipedal mass of meat thought again. How many people had he killed? He tried counting a few times. One, two, three... fifteen, sixteen... twenty, twenty-one?-- it had to be scores. Ognark had trouble counting past the twenties, anyway. He didn't know what a score was, really, or how many victims that could represent; but Ognark was quite sure scores of foes littered the plaza.

At this moment, the morose silence was abruptly shattered.

"Hoy! What is the Seven Hells has happened here? By Flurgstein's enormous balls, this is madness!! You! You there! What has transpired here?"

Ognark saw a man dressed in what he believed to be the city’s garish colors yelling to him. The man had black hair, dark eyes and lots of facial hair, which was also black. Ognark decided to quit noticing him, because unless he was slaying him or loving him, he cared not for such trivial details.

Or entrails. Entrails are tasty if fried up right.

Ognark felt hungry all of a sudden.

"Trans... pired?" Ognark let the words flow slowly from his mighty jaws, "I don't think weather has much to do with this, friend."

The man screwed his face into an expression of sincere confusion. "WHAT? Who are you, sir? From whence do you hail? And what manner of creature was responsible for this slaughter?"

Ognark took in a deep breath. He then spied another dead body, this one covered in pieces of various fruits. Ah, that's right, he mulled (or is it muled?). He had killed that particular fellow with the contents of a fruit cart.

His voice now a proud growl, Ognark spoke. "I would be that port-icular manner of creature, sirrah. 'Tis me who purpose-trated this righteous fury."

The man looked ill. He seemed to be trying to catch his breath.

Men who looked like this, Ognark thought, should be put to death for the good of the women who will avoid them anyway.

Ognark continued. "I pray fear you are next, for mighty Ognark Thistlespoon of Yonder Waystes will suffer no fools... uh, fool."

The man whimpered. "But... but why?"

"Because ‘fool’ is all I can think of—Oh, uh, prices," Ognark huffed, moving his long, jet black hair from his mighty face with a mighty hand, "Now be a nice man and fetch me my axe. It's over there... in that rather portly fellow's chest."

The man dressed in the city’s garish colors promptly fainted.

“Useless,” Ognark muttered. People dressed as guards, or watchmen, or guards usually tended to be useless. Bribeable, sure, which made them slightly more useful when he needed to get in to places unnoticed, or hide in whorehouses, or to pay them to look the other way…

Ognark placed some coins in the trousers of the city guard (if that’s what he was). It was time to get going, and Ognark grabbed a nearby cart and started filling it with corpses. Finally, after a few minutes, locals began to show their faces, feeling safer in the fact that they could see what’s going on without losing said faces.

The barbarian looked around, made eye-contact with a few of those horrified faces and he smiled. He couldn’t really recall why he murdered all of those people. Was it a price issue? Did one of them aggress him? Hmmm… think to think about.

One thing was for sure. It was best to just slit the guard’s throat. The gold was left in his trousers… for the man’s family, if he had one. That was the right thing to do. Now Ognark had to leave this city, whatever it was called… he counted his blessings that everything occurred just outside the walls in the open market. He hated it when things got complicated and lead to putting yet another settlement on the list of places to avoid for awhile.

His mighty face let loose a mighty grin…

Once a mercenary captain he worked with, and eventually decapitated, told him that “it’s always best to look on the bright side of things”. Of course, the captain had said it when his head was still attached. His head didn’t say much after it was cut off, but once it was placed into a small burlap sack, local children seemed to enjoy playing games with it.

Our hero, heeding this dead decapitated mercenary captain’s words, continued to grin as he ventured back into the Wilderness. The cart creaked and the captured mules made unhappy noises. But Ognark didn’t care.

He now had meals and trade goods for his long and hunger-inducing journey.

***