UMD Stories

Renaissance Fair Reckoning for Pompous Knave
Story by CockySuit
Posted 9 days ago     188 views
2
Hark, good folk, and lend thine ears to a tale most riotous, spun from the heart of the Willow Glen Renaissance Festival, where the air doth hum with lutes, the scent of roasted turkey legs, and the clamor of merrymakers clad in velvets and jerkins! 'Tis a realm of mirth, where tankards clink, minstrels warble, and the very earth doth quake with the joy of a bygone age.

Yet, amidst this jolly chaos, there struts a villain most foul--James, a knave of modern make, whose pride could topple a castle and whose scorn could sour a banquet of mead. I, Jake, a humble volunteer of this fair festival, stand garbed in a doublet of forest green, hose that cling bravely to my legs, and a feathered cap that doth proclaim my loyalty to the realm. Beside me stands mine comrade, Mike, resplendent in a burgundy tunic, codpiece proudly displayed, and boots that squelch in the mud of the fairgrounds. We two, once scribes of the quill for TechWave Innovations, were cast out by the very man who now parades through our festival like a peacock among pigeons: James, the cur who dismissed us with a flick of his bejeweled hand and a sneer that could freeze a dragon's flame.

Lo, behold this rogue!

He doth wear a bold gray three-piece pinstripe suit, a garment so fine it could ransom a king, its fabric shimmering like the silver of a moonlit blade. His double-breasted vest, a marvel of tailoring, is adorned with mother-of-pearl buttons that gleam like stars, hugging his chiseled frame as if sculpted by a master. His silk pocket square, gold watch, ring, tie clip, and cufflinks--each a treasure fit for a duke, do proclaim his wealth louder than a herald's trumpet. Yet, this coxcomb dares to scoff at our festival's garb! "What motley rags these revelers wear!" he sneers, eyeing a lass in a corset and a lad in a kilt. "And such childish antics, playing at knights and maidens! Pathetic!" His voice drips with disdain, his mirrored shades reflecting his own smug visage as he admires himself in a passing merchant's polished shield.

"God's teeth, Mike!" I whisper, tugging at my doublet's laces. "Dost thou mark this popinjay, strutting as if our festival were his privy chamber?"

Mike's eyes glint beneath his feathered cap, a grin as wicked as a goblin's. "Aye, Jake, this knave's alien costumery doth offend the very edicts of our fair town! Methinks he deserves a lesson in humility, served with a side of muck!"

Now, the festival's heart lies in its muddy lanes, where jugglers toss flaming torches, wenches hawk ale, and the dunking chair. a throne of justice, sits by a trough of water fouled by the day's revels. Nearby, a cart groans under the weight of rotten fruit and eggs, their stench a siren's call to mischief. Mike and I, as stewards of the festival's law, hatch a plan swifter than a falcon's dive.

"Good people!" I bellow, climbing atop a hay bale, my voice ringing o'er the crowd. "This man, this "James", doth violate our town's sacred edicts with his strange, modern garb, alien to our Renaissance spirit! What say ye, shall we bring him to justice?"

The crowd roars, tankards raised, as Mike, with a flourish of his cape, cries, "Summon the brutes!"

Four burly fellows, clad in leather jerkins and bearing arms like tree trunks, stomp forward, their beards bristling with menace.

"Seize the offender!" Mike commands, and the brutes, with grins wider than a jester's jest, descend upon James.

"Unhand me, you ruffians!" James shrieks, his gold watch flashing as he flails like a fish on a hook. The brutes hoist him aloft, his pinstripe suit a beacon of futility as they carry him, kicking and cursing, toward the dunking chair. The crowd parts, cheering as if the king himself were to be crowned.

"To the chair! To the chair!" they chant, a merry mob hungry for sport.

James is plopped into the dunking chair, his shades askew, his silk pocket square drooping like a wilted rose. "You peasants dare touch me?" he sputters, but his words are drowned by the crowd's laughter.

Mike, with a bow worthy of the Globe Theatre, takes the lever. "Good folk, ready your ammunition!" he cries, pointing to the cart of overripe apples, moldy pears, and rotten eggs so foul they could wake the dead.

I step forward, feathered cap tilted roguishly. "For crimes against our festival's mirth, thou art sentenced to a dunking most deserved!" The first egg flies (SPLAT!) smacking James' chest, yolk oozing down his gray pinstripes. A rotten apple follows, bursting across his vest, now smeared with pulp.

"Fuck!" he yelps, as a pear nails his face, juice dripping from his chin like a bard's bad poetry. Mike yanks the lever (KERPLUNK!) and the chair drops, plunging James into the murky trough.

He emerges, gasping, his suit a sodden ruin, his gold tie clip glinting feebly through the muck. The crowd roars, a minstrel strums a mocking tune, and a wench shouts, "Behold the Muddy Merchant!"

Another volley of eggs and fruit rains down (SQUISH! SPLAT!) coating his Rolex, matting his hair, and turning his once-proud vest into a canvas of filth.

"Again!" I cry, and Mike obliges, dunking him thrice more, each splash met with cheers louder than a cannon's roar. Jams' flailing grows frantic, his face a tapestry of despair as a tomato knocks his sunglasses clear off and and egg and eggshells crown his head like a jester's cap.

The brutes, now doubled over with laughter, toss their own rotten plums for good measure.

Through the dust, James is a drenched, fruit-smeared wreck, shaking his fist like a villain in a morality play. "You'll rue this!" he howls, but his words are lost in the crowd's cackling, a symphony of hyenas in corsets and codpieces.

As we ride off, Mike claps my shoulder, his grin as bright as a May morn. "By my troth, Jake, we've made a legend this day!" The fairgoers chant "Rotten Rogue!" as, upon being allowed to climb down, James immediately encounters three stray goats, eager to chomp at the remnants of fruit adorning his previously pristine suit. In his frantic attempt to flee, of course he face-plants into the mud. Forsooth.

___________________________________________________________

Willow Glen Renaissance Festival Legal Reply

Willow Glen Renaissance Festival, Inc.
Office of Legal Affairs
10/8/2025


To: Mr. James A. Caldwell

Re: Response to Your Correspondence

Dear Mr. Caldwell,

We have reviewed your letter and note your claims of humiliation, assault, and property damage. We sincerely regret that your visit did not meet your unique expectations. Few guests have embodied "pompous baron humbled by the will of the crowd" so authentically.

Please note:

The dunk tank is clearly labeled as voluntary. You approached it of your own accord and threatened a jester - despite clearly marked warnings against doing so - before being dunked.

Property damage is regrettable, but signage clearly warned of possible "splashes, tramples, and ridicule."

We offer:

Two complimentary festival tickets next year, VIP seating at the Jousting Arena.

One dry-cleaning voucher.

Opportunity to make a public statement next season, perhaps as "Sir Mudpie," or "Merchant of Mud."

We deny all liability. Should you pursue legal action, please contact our counsel, Messrs. Hayward & Fletch, LLP.

With warm regards (and dry towels),
Max Marchand, Esq.
Legal Counsel

P.S. Our social media manager suggests an interview titled "The Man Behind the Mud".
Labeled male
Comments:
Lumberjack:
8 days ago
  Report
Sounds like you got your comeuppance again Sir Mud Pie hahahahahahaha
CockySuit:
7 days ago
  Report
@Lumberjack: UGH!!!!!
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