Dungeons and Dragons



This story is my entry for Shafali’s wonderful blog carnival. Enjoy!


Dungeons and Dragons

Like most things decided upon while half-cut, it had seemed like such a good idea. Gatecrashing his stepmother(to be)’s Hen party along with his mates really had seemed such a clever thing to do.

Adjusting the thin fabric under his bottom, he sighed and wished he’d not had that last pint. The chain around his ankle allowed him some movement but really he couldn’t get far enough away to have a pee without the risk of it leaking back to where he’d settled near the bars. The stone beneath him was, well stone cold and he could remember his grandma had always said that sitting on cold rocks would give him piles. However, if haemorrhoids were the worst and most lasting humiliation to come from this horrible night then he would count himself a lucky man.

He cringed to remember some of the things he’d yelled at the coterie of “mature ladies” who had been in the Hen group.

I’ve seen better looking drag queens,” he’d jeered and failed utterly to register the sudden drop in temperature in the snug. “I reckon Boris Johnson would make a better woman than most of you.”

His stepmother(to be) had simply ignored him but had made a small gesture at Brenda, one of her friends, who, in his opinion, was the ugliest example of womanhood he’d ever seen and all of a sudden, he was seized by two of them. To his utter surprise he found they both had hands of steel and he was suddenly powerless.

Well then,” said Brenda, “let’s see how well you scrub up then!”

He was lifted off his feet and in a frighteningly short time,they had transported him to Brenda’s house and he was stripped naked and was subjected to the severe torture of having pretty much every inch of skin waxed. His throat still hurt from yelling. Tied by tights to a chair, he was systematically made up and had his hair curled and fiddled with until he gave up protesting. The gang of dragons(as he now thought of them) just carried on regardless and finally, dressed him in a long pink evening gown, complete with matching pumps. The weird thing was that the pumps, supplied by Brenda, fitted his size 11s very well. But Brenda was a tall woman.

Now, what shall we do with him, ladies?”

His heart froze and they picked him up and bundled him into a taxi, wrapped in a big blanket and covered his head. When they took it off, he realised he was in a dark place and that they were placing a shackle around his ankle.

Blinking in horror around him, he saw he was in a cage, and beyond it, only darkness.

Enough’s enough ladies!” he pleaded. “You canna leave me here. It’s my Dad’s wedding tomorrow morning. I have to be there. Let me out, go on. I won’t say anything.”

But his pleas were unanswered and the laughing voices fade away leaving him in cold, silent darkness. That was hours ago now and he was desperate for a pee. He closed his eyes, hoping to drift off and lose himself in sleep. His dreams were haunted by visions of huge women with hands like navvie’s and Adam’s apples you could cut cheese with….

Laughter woke him.

My God, how did you get there?”

A security guard stood there and he could see now beyond his cage to the world beyond. Tableaux of unimaginable horrors surrounded him and he gazed stupidly at the guard.

Where am I?”

London Dungeon, lad. This is someone’s idea of a joke, no? Let’s get you out of there.”

What time is it?” he demanded.

Half past eight. We open at nine. You were lucky I had a look round before we let the public in,” said the guard.

It took a while to get him out of his chains and into some decent clothes. In the private toilets the staff used, he scrubbed at his face to try and get the make-up off but just made it smear worse than ever.

Pan stick,” said the woman guard, when he came through in despair. “Heavy duty foundation used by people with very bad skin. Trannies use it.”

I’m not a tranny,” he said. “Can anyone lend me a tenner? I have to get to my Dad’s wedding before it’s too late.”

The taxi ride seemed to take forever through the Saturday manic traffic and he knew it was too late. He reached the reception determined to find his Dad and set him straight but as he walked in the door, he knew the world would never, ever look the same again.

Sat at high table, resplendent with smiles were his father and his new stepmother. The groom wore a beautiful gown of pink silk, with matching roses and the bride wore a tuxedo in magenta with a rose-pink tie.

Oh you made it then, son,” his father said, pushing at his wreath of roses. “I wondered what had happened to you.”

Swallowing, he came to the table and solemnly, like all good Englishmen, shook hands with his father. He nodded to the bride who raised her eyebrows in query.

You’ve got eyes like piss-holes in the snow, son,” his father said. “Whatever did you get up to last night?”

I drank too much,” he said, eyes still following his stepmother. “Slept in too late. Sorry. But I’m here now.”

Aye, that’s the main thing, you’re here,” said his stepmother. “I guess you’ve learned a valuable lesson, eh?”

Oh yes,” he said, with feeling.

edit: these are the other wonderful entries; go check them out!



I posted this also at The Wild Sheep Society  

Make of it what you will.




Once upon a time there was a flock of rather wonderful sheep who lived in the lowlands. Each sheep was quite distinct from each other so that while they were all sheep, they all had their own special qualities. One quality they are shared was the desire to win at the annual agricultural show, and come home with a nice big ribbon rosette.

“How can we make ourselves into perfect sheep?” they asked each other.

They spent a lot of time wondering about this and it occurred to one sheep in particular that they ought to ask those sheep who had come back with rosettes what they had done to make themselves the ideal that the judges sought.

So this little sheep wandered round the flock until he began to realise that there wasn’t a single member of the flock who wore a rosette any more.

“Oh they don’t let us keep them,” said an older friend. “We might lose them or get them dirty. All the rosettes are on the wall in the shepherd’s cottage.”

“Well, then who of the flock has won a rosette so I can ask them,” said our little sheep.

The older sheep smiled at the little sheep’s naivety.

“Bless your heart, they don’t stay on in the flock once they have won,” he said. “They move on to bigger and better things.”

“But where?” persisted out sheep. “And what do they do?”

The older sheep could give no answers, so the little sheep decided that he would investigate for himself.

One night, after moonrise, he slipped through the gap in the hedge and went to the cottage where their shepherd lived. The shepherd had fallen asleep in his chair and the little sheep could see all the rosettes and certificates on the wall, so he pushed quietly through the door and went inside. Along with the rows of rosettes and certificates, there were newspaper articles too. Now, as I have said before, these sheep were rather wonderful and could read. One article caught the little sheep’s eye and it said,

“Our gold standard for sheep is a thick even textured fleece, free from parasites and burrs and well washed in running water, evenly distributed fat(which comes as a result of grazing on good lush grass and feed supplements in the colder months), neat well trimmed feet, clear bright eyes , a tail of no less than three inches in length…..”

Being a clever sheep, he had the whole list of specifications and recommendations memorised in a trice and he ran back to the flock bursting to tell them all the information that would make them all prize winners.

The secret to being a perfect sheep went round the whole flock in less than a day and each sheep concentrated on perfecting their physical form and appearance. Hours were spent nibbling hooves to trim away excess horn and each sheep competed to find the best patches of clover and lush grasses. They would ask questions like, “Is my rear fat spread evenly enough? Should I graze a few more hours a day?” and of course, they all began lying to each other. After all, there were only so many rosettes awarded each show. “Yes, darling, you are looking perfect already.” “I’d vote for you if I were one of the judges!”

The little sheep spent as much time as anybody at first trying to perfect himself but a growing sense of unease began to keep him from concentrating too hard on his self improvement. What was it all for, really? The winners went away and never came back. He didn’t want to lose his friends and family and all he’d ever known if what he might be going to wasn’t massively better than what he had here.

So he resolved to go and have another look around the shepherd’s cottage to see what he might find out about where the winners went and what they were doing now. Under the gap in the hedge again (getting harder because he was now fatter) and into the cottage. In the kitchen, remains of dinner were left out on the counter and his eye was caught by the picture of a sheep on a box. Rearing with some difficulty onto his hind legs, he looked more closely at the box:

“Premium Shepherd’s Pie,”the box announced. “Made only with the very best cuts of prize winning lamb meat, from grass-fed rare breeds. Only the best for your dining pleasure.”

Despite his woolly coat our little sheep went cold with utter horror.

“They’re going to EAT us!” he whispered. “The prize winners get eaten!”

Then he noticed the picture on the tin left empty on the counter. It was a tin of dog food for the jolly border collie who herded them from time to time. It too had a picture of a nice fat sheep on it.

“Best cuts of lamb mixed with spring vegetables and rice, keep your dog at peak form” the tin read.

Very, very quietly the young sheep got down and crept away from the cottage and back to the flock., to tell them what fate awaited those who achieved the standards he himself had set them all aiming at.

But his words fell on deaf and even scathing ears. No one believed him.

“Eat us? Don’t be so silly? Why would they do that? They spent a lot of time looking after us. Why would they eat us when there’s so much wonderful grass and vegetables to eat?”

Horrified at what he had done and very frightened for the future as the show was coming close, the sheep sat down in a corner of the field and tried to think what to do. No one would believe him, no matter what he said. They were all so focussed on coming back(briefly) with a rosette that they never once thought what might happen afterwards.

So one last time, he slipped through the gap in the hedge. It was a terribly tight fit now and he felt sure that he’d never fit back through, and he left great white gobbets of his own fleece caught in the thorns and twigs. And he ran for the highlands.



The young lambs were playing happily in the spring sunshine while their mothers snoozed or ate the new grass. As they came close to the hedge a voice whispered to the nearest lamb,

“Hey kid!”

Despite the fact that he was a lamb and not a kid, the youngster was curious and came closer. Through a gap in the hedge a strange face appeared. It was a sheep but like no sheep he’d ever seen. Lean and muscular, his fleece roughly shorn and with eyes brighter than any of the flock’s, the strange sheep was oddly compelling.

“You’re a wild sheep,” said the lamb, awed.

“I used to be tame like you,” said the strange sheep. “I used to live here. Now I live in the highlands.”

“What do you want?” asked the lamb.

“You need to hear something very important,” said the sheep. “You know the sheep that win prizes at the show?”

“Oh yes,” said the lamb, his eyes lighting up with excitement. “I want to be just like them when I grow up!”

The strange sheep gave a rueful smile.

“Yeah, kid, so did I,” he said. “Have you ever asked yourself where they are now?”

“No,” said the lamb.

“Then I’ve got some bad news and some good news,” said the strange sheep.