A Dribble of Ink

“This ain’t what it looks like,” said Hegel, pointing his muddy spade at the open grave Manfried stood in.

The citizens of Fucking had fanned out in the churchyard while Manfried was bickering with his brother that any unease Hegel suddenly felt was the result of the torrential rain now soaking them and not, goddamn it, any kind of horse sense or witch sense or what sense. A good hunch was a good hunch, however, and peering over the lip of the grave and seeing the angry Fuckers lit up by lightning Manfried resolved to give his brother’s hunches more credence in the future. First, though, there was the grave to extricate himself from, which would have been much easier before the downpour filled the hole up to his knees with a slurry of gravedirt and rainwater.

“Looks like you’re robbing the dead!” shouted the boldest Fucker, waving at his fellows to tighten the circle around the Grossbarts.

“Well, maybe it is what it looks like,” admitted Hegel. “But you come at me with that hayfork I’ll bust you in the head.”

“Get me out this hole,” Manfried said in the Bart-cant that only his brother understood, and Hegel casually extended his spade. As soon as Manfried grabbed the tool and Hegel began hauling him up the Fuckers charged. Hegel did not want his brother to fall back into the grave, but he did not want to be impaled on a pitchfork, either, and so he swung his spade to the side and sent his brother crashing into the lead Fucker.

The Battle of Fucking was one long remembered by Fucker and Grossbart alike. The Fuckers shuddered to recall how the graverobbers had begged their Dark Master to aid them in fleeing the combat, the fiends hopping from gravestone to gravestone and gaining the wall before justice could be served. The Grossbarts, by comparison, always laughed to think of the way Hegel had, indeed, busted one of the Fuckers in the head, and the catalogue of curses the brothers had bestowed on the lousy serfs as they had subsequently cut a tactical retreat would not be forgotten by the Virgin, who would doubtless see that at least two or three were carried out. Remembering was for the future, however, and as the Brothers Grossbart fell over the cemetery wall and hoofed it for the treeline the mob of Fuckers gave chase.

“Fuckin’s a quiet enough spot,” Manfried aped his brother’s voice as they ran.

“Don’t look like rain to me,” Hegel shot back. “Then when it is and I get a whiff a trouble despite it, quit blubberin, just the rain givin you chills.”

“Those Fuck—” Manfried slipped in the mud and would have fallen if Hegel had not caught his arm. “Fuck…Fuck. Mint that shit, brother a mine, from now on I say fuck to Fuckin, and fuck to the Fuckers what fuckin fuck there!”

“But ain’t Fuck just a name?”

“Not no more, it ain’t—fuck Fuckin.”