In the beginning, Bartholomew Knight didn’t have 500 helmets. He had only one helmet. It was an old one he’d been wearing since freshman year. It was probably the oldest and the sweatiest helmet in the Kingdom of Samwell. But he liked it--especially because of the hole that made his flow stick up like a feather.
The Kingdom of Samwell was ruled by Prince Jack. He lived... right next to Bartholomew, actually, but it still felt like a long way when you were baked off your ass. Getting up was hard, okay. Bartholomew would like to see you stand up and walk all the way to the next room high off his stash.
Just after practice one Thursday evening, Bartholomew went to the locker room and took off his gear. Well, he tried to take it off, anyway. But when he removed his helmet, he knew--just knew--that there was still something up there containing his magnificent flow.
“Uh... why do you have two helmets?” the Prince inquired.
Bartholomew quickly snatched off the helmet. He stared at it in astonishment. It was exactly the same as his own helmet.
“Bro,” said one of the palace guards. “Bro. You are magically generating helmets, what the actual fuck.”
Bartholomew took off helmet after helmet after helmet after helmet until he was standing in the middle of a great pile of helmets. “The fuck,” he said.
“That was 45 helmets,” said Sir Lardo, Palace Manager.
“Dude, you were counting?” said Bartholomew, who was too fucking freaked out to keep a fucking recordbook, what the fuck. He pulled off a few more helmets.
Sir Lardo shrugged. “Somebody’s gotta keep their head on around here. ‘S usually me. Forty-seven. Forty-eight. Forty-nine. Bro, you know the definition of insanity, right?”
“Okay, one of you fuckers give it a shot,” said Bartholomew. “C’mon, bring it.”
One by one, the members of the Prince’s Court stepped forward and knocked off Bartholomew’s helmets, with varying levels of accompanying puerile giggles. It didn’t work. The helmets kept piling up, until there wasn’t really room in the locker room for them all. Sir Lardo opened the door and kicked a gigantic heap of helmets out into the hall.
“Ooh, I've got an idea,” said Sir Holster. “Get back out on the ice and let’s shoot pucks at it until we knock it off.”
“K,” said Bartholomew, who was ready to try anything at this point. He kept pulling off helmets one after another, but they just kept materializing.
“Yeah, let’s concuss the helmet off,” said Sir Lardo. “Jesus fuck, you morons. No.”
“Dude, your flow’s poking through like whoa,” pointed out Sir Ransom. Bartholomew waded through the pile of helmets to a mirror and took a look. Sure enough, tufts of hair were sticking up from multiple holes in his helmet. He took off the helmet, and the next appeared with an even more splendiferous flowsplosion.
“Four hundred seventy,” said Sir Lardo, climbing atop a mountain of helmets and arranging them so she could recline comfortably. “Four hundred seventy-one.”
Bartholomew ripped off helmets as fast as he could, watching his flow spike higher and higher, until finally the helmet Bartholomew was wearing was almost entirely hidden beneath the fountain of hair spraying from every ventilation crack.
The Prince stepped forward. “Let me try,” he said, and reached for the helmet.
Slowly, slowly, Bartholomew felt the weight of the helmet lift from his head. He held his breath... then suddenly he felt the cool air conditioning blow across his scalp. His face broke into a happy smile. The flow of Bartholomew Knight was free!
The court surveyed the locker room full of helmets in uncertain silence.
“Well,” ventured the Prince eventually. “That should keep the team stocked up on headgear for a year or two, eh?”