A Game of Insults
“Verily do I bite my thumb at thee!”
“Ha! Wouldst thou dare challenge me thus?”
“Certes I dare challenge thee, thou tottering half-faced flap-dragon!”
“Have at thee, then!”
Swords meet, clack loudly on the air.
“Thou fightst like a froward pottle-deep flax-wench!”
“Thou couldst scarce pink thy granddam sans aid of thy spleeny shard-borne foot-lickers!”
“Thou shalt take that back, thou bootless half-faced hugger-mugger!”
“And shall a pribbling crook-pated wagtail make me so?”
“Thus shall I, thou churlish tardy-gaited measle!”
“Nay, thou mammering dismal-dreaming lewdster, I have thee now!”
A leap, a turn and conflict continues. Breath comes short to both combatants, faces bloomed in the heat of battle.
“Not so, thou hasty-witted varlet!”
“Take that then, thou spleeny earth-vexing apple-john!”
“Ooh harsh! You don’t mean that, thou cockered cream-faced loon!”
“Don’t I though, thou lumpish motley-minded scut?”
“You realize we spent far too long on that site?”
‘Thou mightst think so, th— OW!”
“A hit, a very palpable hit!”
Wooden sword clatters to ground.
“OMG, are you ok?” A second clatter. Broad hands seek injury. Another, smaller but intent, creeps downward.
“Thinkest thou that thou couldst truly pierce me?”
“I think so indeed…” Voice chokes ever tighter.
“Then thou art most welcome to try.”
Rustle of clothing, tube pops open.
“And thus shall I have at thee…”
A time of leisurely joining, steady rise and flurried climax.
Of long-drawn sighs and a return to source:
“My bounty is as boundless as the sea,
My love as deep; the more I give to thee,
The more I have, for both are infinite…”
“Forget the Bardic insults—anyone ever tell you you’re a romantic sap, Sean?”
“You might have mentioned it, once or twice. C’mon, you know you love it!”