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humour, My words (a random display of my own creative writing)

Mr Muscle and the poisoned cake


This is a story for Tara, who asked to hear about the adventures of Mr Muscle, and so now I will tell you the story of him and his high deeds. Far, far away and long ago Mr Muscle was famed for his bright soul and his clean mind. He rode a plumy white horse and ventured into the lands ruled by a Dirty Durty Knight. Everywhere he went he sang like a meadow pipit and all the maids would come out to sigh over his love spots, and all the thrusting young men would admire his gorget and his bevor and his cuirasse.

The maids loved him because he would go into their houses and, with one flash of his smile, all their pots would shine, and with one keen stare, the vegetables would cut themselves up and go into the pan, which meant the girls could spend much more time reading and singing and playing football with the young men.

But the young men weren’t so keen on this. Because the girls sometimes beat them at football, and laughed cruelly at the young men’s ineptness in the penalty box.

‘We must do something,’ said one young Man. ‘We must stop these girls from having so much time to practise their ball skills. They beat us 3-2 last week.’

‘It’s all the fault of that Mr Muscle,’ the other young men shouted. ‘He must leave this land, and take his gorget and his bevor and his cuirasse with him.’

But Mr Muscle wouldn’t go. ‘The girls all love me,’ he said. ‘And besides, they’re brilliant at football. Did you see that goal that Princess Mellicent scored last week? From the half-way line? It was on Match of the Day.’

And so the young men narrowed their eyes, and turned their backs on the shiny Muscle Man and his brilliant smile and his plumy horse, and went to see the Dirty Durty Knight, who was known far and wide for his black-hearted, dastard magic, and generally mysogynistic behaviour.

And the Dirty Durty Knight lolled on his stained chair, and picked his fingernails and listened to the woes of the thrusting young men.

‘Yes, I will help you,’ he said. ‘I hate Mr Muscle. I hate cleanliness, and I can’t stand that feller’s shiny teeth. I can reduce him to a pasty mess. But you won’t like it.’

‘Do it,’ said the men.

And so the Dirty Durty Knight tempted Mr Muscle to clean his scummy, cobwebbed castle, and Mr Muscle strode through every revolting room and sprang up and down every slimy step in his gorget and his bevor and his cuirasse, smiling and smiling until his cheeks hurt. And everything that he smiled at shone in return; even the Dirty Durty Knight’s fingernails. And at last, when the castle was glowing like a flushed pearl in the sunset, the Dirty Durty Knight asked an exhausted Mr Muscle to sit down to a dish of tea.

‘And there will be cake too,’ said the Dirty Durty Knight. ‘Which hasn’t got my thumbprints on it anymore, now that you’ve smiled at it.’

‘Oh rather,’ said Mr Muscle, ‘I love cake.’ And the poor, innocent, handsome lump downed his tea and ate his cake, which the Dirty Durty Knight had poisoned. And before Mr Muscle could say ‘Bang!’ he was gone, turned into goo, the whole shiny lot of him; sliding off his chair into a silent silver puddle on the floor.

‘That’ll teach you for smiling willy nilly in my house,’ snarled the Dirty Durty Knight, and he scooped the goo into a spray bottle, and flipped the lid to ‘off ’.

Loud was the wailing of the young girls at the news. And the rending of the garments and the heaping of the ashes upon their heads was terrible to behold. For now, instead of getting Mr Muscle’s favours for free, the young women found they had to pay £2.99 a pop (or £9.76 for the washroom cleaner, available on ebay).

And they had to go out to the corporate jungle to earn the money to afford his services; and the thrusting young men were left to play football by themselves and, on odd occasions, even to do a spot of cleaning.

The Dirty Durty Knight had been right. The young men didn’t like it at all. They missed the girls with their careless hair and their silky ball skills. But Mr Muscle was gone forever, along with his gorget and his bevor and his cuirasse.

And what happened to the plumy horse? The Dirty Durty Knight painted him black and rode miserably about the countryside, not wanting to go home. He had not managed to scoop up all of Mr Muscle, you see, and his dirty, durty, days were over. His castle and his fingernails were doomed to be forever clean, and there was nothing he could do about it.


Picture courtesy of  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Knight_of_the_Swan via Creative Commons

About elainecanham

I started blogging because I'm a writer, and I thought I ought to. Now I realise that I blog because I lwant to; even when I can't think of much to say. I do a lot of work for local businesses - get in touch if you like my style.


41 thoughts on “Mr Muscle and the poisoned cake

  1. I love it!… Particularly the ending part regarding the plumy horse~ Beautifully written!.
    Best wishes Aquileana 😀

    Posted by Aquileana | January 30, 2015, 11:29 pm
  2. And it is stories like this that keep me coming back for more.

    Posted by Mistine | January 25, 2015, 11:25 pm
  3. Love it! I agree about the magic eraser comment though. I knew it was men’s fault all along. Elaine you’ve made my Saturday!

    Posted by olganm | January 24, 2015, 10:44 am
  4. Ha! That Dirty Durty knight would fall over dead if he knew about magic sponges.

    Posted by naptimethoughts | January 23, 2015, 8:34 pm
  5. In defence of handsome misogynists: wearing gorget and bevor and cuirasse is fine, but what of his codpiece? Did he not care?

    Posted by Tittle-Tattle | January 23, 2015, 8:15 pm
  6. Hahahahaha! Brilliant stuff, Elaine! I love it – so much so I’m in danger of using up my monthly quota of exclamation marks!!! I second Tara’s admiration for the ‘gorget, bevor and cuirasse’ repetition by the way – masterly by any standards. I won’t be able to look at another bottle of Mr Muscle with a straight face now and everyone in the supermarket will be wondering why I’m laughing away to myself. Oh wait, that was last week. 😀 😀

    Posted by Katie B. Purcell | January 23, 2015, 7:22 pm
    • I spend quite a lot of time laughing to myself in supermarkets. I can’t help it. I just think of something funny, and I burst out, and people start edging away…I am That Weirdo. Glad you liked the story. I was rather worried people would think it was shameless product placement and then not read it.

      Posted by elainecanham | January 23, 2015, 9:17 pm
    • It restored my faith in modern day retelling of myths and fairytales, it did. No mean feat as my poor faith was reeling from the serious blunt force trauma dealt it by the lovely dress mess. Here’s to weirdo women giggling in the shopping aisles! 😀

      Posted by Katie B. Purcell | January 24, 2015, 3:57 pm
    • Hey, less of the weirdo! I’m perfectly sane, I just really enjoy my own company….

      Posted by elainecanham | January 24, 2015, 6:10 pm
    • Many apologies! Please believe there was no slur intended. My mother always said my penchant for alliteration would get me into trouble one day! Wise woman! (see what I mean?) 🙂

      Posted by Katie B. Purcell | January 24, 2015, 7:58 pm
    • No, no slur taken. That’s the trouble with communicating blind, it’s so difficult to judge people’s tone and mood. But I said it with a light heart and a poke at myself. No worries.

      Posted by elainecanham | January 24, 2015, 10:32 pm
  7. That was hilarious! Thank uou for a grand beginning to Friday 🙂

    Posted by Sally | January 23, 2015, 4:19 pm
  8. This is one delightful, hilarious, satisfying tale. Love it. ❤ ❤ ❤

    Posted by Let's CUT the Crap! | January 23, 2015, 4:03 pm
  9. So this is how “marketing” our desires and needs began.

    Posted by lbwoodgate | January 23, 2015, 3:52 pm
    • I’m not sure what this tells us, actually! I just wrote it – if you click on the link to Tara’s name you’ll see how it all came about

      Posted by elainecanham | January 23, 2015, 4:01 pm
  10. Great story. I like the idea a bit of dirty is OK and there can be too much cleaning.
    xxx Huge Hugs xxx

    Posted by davidprosser | January 23, 2015, 12:26 pm
  11. Ermagerd.

    Words fail me. This is magical. I need you to do this ALL OF THE TIME.

    Even the repetition of “his gorget and his bevor and his cuirasse” has me weak at the knees, so it does. Thank heavens I’m sitting down. Do you accept undying gratitude and reverence as payment?

    Posted by Tara Sparling | January 23, 2015, 11:11 am

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