You Can't Kill An Idea.
by T. C. Ricks
Farforth, the Gerbil Knight, stood looking forth upon the lost town of Candoria, who were neither lost, nor a town, nor Candorian. Farforth had a simple choice; toss a rock and destroy them, or not. Farforth tossed the rock. Easy choice.
The rock rolled down the hill, tiny clumps of earth crumbling off the cliff face, one rock leading to another until an avalanche of stone began to descend upon the fields of crystal jello, not yet harvested by the Ruby Sheep of a different color. The Candorans waved their outrage and catapulted back bubbles of frothing hot Java Lava, stopping the stone, but not ending it.
Taking out a ram’s horn, Farforth unleashed his reservations against the Candorians in alphabetical order. “You are neither Candorian, for in fact you merely call yourselves that to avoid my wrath (futilely I should add); Nor are you Lost, for I have found you, though you were never really lost since I have had my Freagles watching you from the tip tops of the Vermillion Peaks of Ashtorath (the only redeeming feature of your otherwise disgusting domicile); nor are you a Town at all but are simply the Inn of Lost Hope, shelterer of Evil and All Things Despicable (and has the temerity to charge Gerbil knights an extra farthing for using the Jambalaya shower). Prepare to be destroyed!”
The inn, plopping out the Java Lava as fast as their battery of Dinarian Goat Anuses could generate them, denied a wordly reply but replied the only way they knew how with a defiant chorus of beer class clinking via toasting and an odiferous wave of flatulence which flew against the brigade of knights against all sense of propriety and honor. Great was the howling and wailing from their Gerbils, resplendent in their silver, gold and gingerbread armor. The magic of their fangs and Shriek Lances cavorted to maximum penalous rage.
“CHARGE!” Farforth shouted. His entropic sense had assured him that the stone was enough, and had he had the patience, the earthen avalanche would have eventually destroyed the inn. But let no one ever say that he had the patience of a saint, a beggar or even a dormouse. Farthforth Farman the Fifth was out for blood, and by Freya, he would have it!
The slaughter on the folk of the inn was as total as it was meager. All six of the inn’s patrons were quickly dispatched, along with the barkeep, the innkeep, three maids, the owner, the accountant, the masseuse, the stable boy, the stable master, the chef, the librarian, the janitor, the handyman, the limner, the blacksmith, the alchemist, the brewmaster, the employee of the month selector, the personal trainer, and all of the goat anuses that had been previously assaulting. The structure burned, and the earth upon which it sat was salted, burned, shifted and then salted again.
None of this helped the knights who were then subsequently killed to a man except Farforth from the initial rock slide that was originally slated to slay the inn, only to be ironically the method of their own destruction. Farforth could have lived with these odds, all things told, but rumor leaked out that the inn Newspaper man had produced one final issue before being skewered on the lance of Farforth’s brother knight. People now believed Farforth to smell.
Farforth was incensed. “By the moons of Neptune’s Manhood, what does it take to get this done?”
And so he began to ride, ride like the wind to a small scrabbled hut with a small scrabbled man hunched by his smaller scrabbled dog. They were playing Scrabble. The old man looked up and said, “What do you want Farforth of the Far Reaches, Knight of the Gerbil Garter?”
“I want to kill an idea.”
“Can’t be done,” said the old man who presumably knew old and wise things since he knew Farforth’s name and was sought after by a mighty if slightly incensed knight.
“Father,” the knight said, proving this theory to be incorrect, “Surely there must be a way.”
“There is a legend...” the old man said, tapering off.
“Yes?”
“Of an old man...”
“Yes.” Farforth leaned forward.
“Who lived in a small scrabbled hut hunched by his small scrabbled dog.”
Farforth was so angry he knocked his father’s Scrabble game off the table. “ Father. This is serious. What do I do? They said I smell! I don’t smell.”
“Ignore them?”
“Not an option.”
“Kill them?”
“Already tried that. The idea is still there?”
“Then perhaps you should try the Sword that Can Kill Anything?”
Farforth’s face lit up with rapturous joy. OF COURSE! Why hadn’t he thought of it before! Kissing his father on the cheek, he raced outside and leapt on his Gerbil. “Come Knights! To me!” And so they rode. And rode. And rode. And rode. And rode.
North they rode, to the Keep of the Bear Who Guards The Sword That Can Kill Anything. Then they killed the bear, because a bear is not much of a match against a hoard of angry Gerbil knights. That, and who makes just a plain bear the guarding of a magical sword that powerful?
Sword in hand, Farforth rode back with his men and attempted to kill the idea. It did not work.
“It is a lie!” Farforth shrieked in outrage.
“It is not a lie. Otherwise, such a powerful bear would never have been guarding me,” the sword said, quite indignantly.
“It speaks!” said Farforth in shock.
“Likewise.” Said the Sword.
“Why have you not slain this idea?”
“An idea, by itself, is a living thing that requires hosts to live. But it is only here in the way you perceive it. As far as the world in which I am is concerned, the idea does not exist in the inn, but in the minds of everyone who has it.”
“Aha! So I must kill all those who have the idea.”
“Yes. And I know where they are.”
“Fantastic!” Farforth’s teeth gleamed in the sun, “Tell me where to find them.”
A mystic arrow came forth pointing the way. Then another. Then a third. Soon the area bristled with arrows. “Too many to find that way. You could spend the rest of your life chasing down those who hold this idea.”
Farforth shrieked with rage and nearly tossed the sword away. But he kept it but raced back to the tower of the Scrabbled Man.
His father, still picking up the game, looked up at his son, “Happy?”
“No.”
“Oh?”
“I must kill many who have an idea but they are too widely scattered for me to find them in one lifetime.”
“Then,” his father straightened his back and scrubbed his scrabbled face with pumice soap, “You must find the Boots of Ludicrous Speed.”
“The Boots of Ludicrous Speed?” Farforth asked.
“That is what I said.”
“What are those?”
“Boots.”
“Yes, I gathered that but-”
“Boots that let one travel at a speed of Ludicrocity.” His father sighed and shook his head sadly and then rinsed his hands.
Farforth boggled, “How fast is the speed of Ludicrocity?”
“It is a speed at which one moves with ludicrous powers.”
“What makes it ludicrous?”
The scrabbled man stopped a moment and looked up. He then looked down at the ground and then straight into the eyes of his son. “I...must admit I do not know. I only know it is called that.”
“Very well.” Farthforth wasn’t in the mood to argue. South they rode, traveling day and night, and night and day until they arrived at the Mountains of Convenience, which were easy to go through. Then they slandered the City of McClintock, setting it ablaze with their sarcasm and none was spared from shame. Therein, they used the Bell of Location to discern the location of the Boots of Ludicrous Speed. To the east they rode, to the Tomb of the Known Soldier, who greeted them, gave them a spot of tea and handed them the boots on the promise that they would leave him in peace.
They agreed.
Farforth put on the boots. In short order, Farforth ran from place to place, asking people if they had heard of the inn or been there. He had a good eye for lying, and people who knew about the inn died. People who didn’t, didn’t. He was fair after all.
A few thousand, maybe a few million died. But Farforth’s honor was restored. He smugly returned to the inn, just to be sure.
It was still there.
Farforth smashed a mountain in the rage of his indignity.
The inn didn’t care. It was still there.
Farforth rode back to the Scrabbled Man. He practically whined, “The inn still isn’t gone! I’ve killed anyone I could find who was thinking of the inn, and it is still there!”
The scrabbled man considered, “Have you considered the Mirror of Knowing Shit?”
“What?”
“The mirror-”
“Let me guess. It tells you whatever you want to know.”
“Yes.” The scrabbled man laughed.
“Alright.” Farforth sighed and was ready to race off.
“Are you sure you need to do that?”
Farforth stopped. “What?”
“I have the mirror right here.”
“Wha-Why didn’t you say you had it before?” Farforth was indignant. He nearly startled his gerbil into running away outside.
“You didn’t ask.”
Farforth politely asked, barely able to restrain himself. “Please show me the Mirror of Knowing Shit.”
And with that the Scrabbled man brought out the Mirror of Knowing Shit.
Farforth stood in front of the mirror, “Mirror. Tell me who knows-”
And the Scrabbled Man broke the mirror over’s his son’s head, killing him. He looked sadly over his dead son, picking shards of glass from his head. “So I asked the mirror, what will be the manner of my death...and it said rather specifically that my son would obsess over some stupid inn, and kill lots of people, and if he found out, like a fool, that the last person who knew about the inn was he; then he would become enraged and use the mirror to slay the messenger. So I decided that I didn’t like this idea...and changed my fate.”
Farforth was buried with honors befitting his station. In the inn that mattered so much to him. They even brought flowers.
