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The Ballad of Brucie B.
Chapter 2
Spank Hill was a respectable little settlement nestled at the base of a forested hill—though others would say two hills considering the valley that ran through the middle, creating the vague silhouette of a two-scoop ice cream sundae. Or two adjacent halves of a globe. But everyone knew it was shaped like a butt.
Village lore recounts a time long ago when only a lone lonesome lonely person settled beneath the hill(s), just below the crack/valley. They called that person the Hamsmackler. It is said that they were driven to madness after years of isolation, staring at the topographic tushie. The primary symptom of their insanity was every passer-by receiving a swift smack to le hams. All those decades of bum bruising ended when they crossed Felina Facepuncher, who always lived up to her name. That was the woman who would become the village founder. Coincidentally, the village was named after the founder’s round and rumply dog, Lil’ Spanky, who was hamsmackled and never recovered.
Anyhow, Brucie hopped along the road until cobblestone replaced dirtledirt and the sounds of urban hustle and bustle muscled out natural noise. He took the scenic route so he could see Nick Root, then followed a few random alleys and streets before emerging into the center of town. “All roads really do lead t’ Market Square…” Brucie mused, having not the faintest clue that this was factually incorrect. Nick Root was known for spreading these kinds of sayings, but Nick is an imbecile and isn’t important to this story.
Spank Hill was not a major trade hub by any means, but it was still quite popular among merchants who appreciated butt-like scenery. It also served as a safe stopover for caravans willing to take the detour off the main trade highway. Local artisans produced some of the most average quality goods in the region, but they were priced low enough for resellers to turn a profit. This was how the village managed to avoid the attention of bandits, though it helped that very few thieves enjoyed gazing at gargantuan glutes.
As Brucie perused what the vendors had on display, he noticed the market was remarkably busy that day. He also noticed that the statue of Felina Facepuncher was blindfolded, which could only mean one thing: it was Spanktoberfest. Brucie would have known this if he paid attention to the hundred or so signs around town announcing it, or even the festive spanks exchanged in his periphery. But his realization came too late. He heard a flutter of footsteps behind him, followed by a swift ham smack. Brucie B. arched his back in pain. He wasn’t used to the sting of a hand on his stinger, mostly because nobody is stupid enough to hit a Bumbleoid in the bum.
“YEOWCH!” Brucie cried out in unison with his spanker. He turned to see a hooded dudeling clutching her spanking hand and writhing on the ground. Oh chut, he thought, here we go… The venom from his stinger had inflated her hand like a red balloon. She let out a squeal, much like the sound of pinched air escaping a red balloon. The marketplace fell silent, save for red balloon kid’s shrieks. Brucie felt eyes on him and his face turned red. Like a—never mind.
A large dude man, more beard than face, rushed into the square shouting. “Baby girl! Speak t’ me! What happened? Some’un call an amberlamps!” The child’s eyes pointed at Brucie; her father’s followed suit. “You! Bee boy! Whatchu done t’ my baby!?” Brucie wiped the man’s spit from his face, unable to fully appreciate the impressive distance it had traveled to meet him. “I didn’t… It was… An accident!”
PWEE PWOO PWEE PWOO!
The amberlamps arrived. A trio of people dressed as lampposts jumped out of the vehicle and hoisted the child into the back of it. One of them threw a crumpled wad of paper at the man and joined the others in the back before speeding away.
Mr. Fatherman (unofficial title) pulled the paper ball out of his beard and unfolded it with his sweaty hands. Next, his eyes probably widened, though Brucie couldn’t see past the feral beard and wondered how (or if) its owner could. He thrust the paper into Brucie’s face—a bill for services rendered by the lamp squad. “Who’s gon’ pay for this, huh? This ain’t no fantasy world with universal healthcare! You pay it!”
Brucie reached into his pocket and pulled out the wad of dollas he planned to use to buy spaghetti ingredients. It wasn’t nearly enough to cover the expenses. Brucie thought of turning stinger and running for it, but remembered that he and his mother were easily identifiable as the only Bumbleoids in town.
Brucie swallowed hard, wishing he could swallow his troubles so easily—but his saliva got caught in his throat, just like his troubles would have. He coughed so much his face again changed color. Daddy Dudey-O (working title) swiped Brucie’s money and counted it. “Boy… You still owe me ten dollas! Best pay up by the end of the week… or else!” Brucie didn’t want to know what or else meant, but it probably involved bruises, broken bones, and beard burn.
Brucie ran off, but not to his home. Mama Lou would give him her own brand of or else. No, Brucie ran to Master Oldeedlo’s.
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