That Which Cannot Be Explained

Chapter 6: The Intoxicated Village

"Am I blind?" asked a very terrified and bamboozled Michael of the Manor. He was on his knees and tumbled about. Everything around him was shadows and colors of black; naturally, he thought he was blindfolded. Through the fogginess of his vision, he could catch glimpses of light and dark figures shuffling around him like if he were a child hiding behind a cupboard peeking through the crack at his whole family freaking out to where he went. Sounds of children running around and laughing like little devils rang in Michael's earlobes. He could hear shouts and hollers of unmentionable sayings and what an awful experience it was, indeed.

Alas, Michael was in fact not blindfolded. He found it to be that the reason for his unclear sight was the great fumes he was greatly fumigated with. All around him in the air were great toxins and if you had been there to see it from afar off at a safe distance, you could see the great pollution. Michael of the Manor could feel the vapor around him, and it slightly stung at his precious skin. His eyes were burning like a strong white fire and tears of acid trickled down his cheeks. A red line marked the trail of tears as he wiped them away. Slowly gaining his vision back, those who mocked him continue to shout in his face and shove him to the ground several times refusing to let him get back up. Soon he could see that along with the children there stood men.

These men were not ordinary, in the least. Oh, what a terrible sight they were to the eyeballs. They were quite hefty men and to put it lightly very fat. Long, thin, stringy beards hung from their chins and their hair stood on end every which way as if it had been pulled out, which most likely did occur. And their breath! What nasty smells! What a wretched reek. As they spit at him and blew stinking winds up his nose, Michael could tell immediately just what that stench was. It reminded him of pink water-fire with a very strong mix, yet it was devastatingly drowned in a sea of foul odors from who knows what. At once Michael knew exactly where he found himself to be found: The Intoxicated Village!

"Now stop that!" shouted Michael swinging at his bullies. The Intoxicated merely laughed and paid no attention to the scrawny looking young fellow. "Stop it! I warn you. I am no fearful coward to run scurrying from the likes of you! I will have you know this instance that I am a respectable man who will not be treated such way."

"Respectable girl who will not be treated!" mocked an Intoxikid. This caused such an upheaval and burst of laughter that Michael's face turned redder than a preteen handing a weed thinking it was a pretty flower to his crush and her brutally rejecting him in front of all her friends and his face also turning red.

"You brutes! You drunks! You—" he was interrupted with a splash.

A handful of the Intoxicated grabbed a bucket of pink water-fire with a very strong mix and dumped it onto Michael without his permission and without his knowing it, too. Constant laughter befell the village and it got quite out of control. With the Intoxikids rolling on the ground in laughter, the Intoxicateens slapping their knees in laughter, and the Intoxicated wheezing out of breath in laughter, Michael could not help himself to join in. After all, there's no need in being the only sore on a foot. Pooping parties is never the way to go. And before anyone knew it, a choir of hiccups echoed throughout the village.

"Look! Its Drunkard Wino! Our fair Lord of the Tipsy." shouted an Intoxicated.

"All hail! And prevail! And sail! And...and...whale?" hiccupped another.

Just then a very tall thin man approached the scene. From the front it seemed impossible to Michael of the Manor that this could be Drunkard Wino, but when he turned to his side, a great big beer belly appeared as round as an elephant and plump as a hippopotamus. The shirt he wore was greatly stretched but covered no part of his stomach which was red with hairs. His pants were undeniably too short for him and the belt was a joke to any who saw. He wore no shoes for they were not his style, and rightly so. None ever argued with that. Drunkard Wino did not walk on his own. With such a heavy load to carry, his back would crack in a second were it not for the dozen Ladies of the Grape holding him as he leaned against them. He "walked" with his head held high, for you see, it could not lower any more due to his gut. Clearly, he was the leader of these fools and he earned that privilege justly.