If you've ever seen a mob of angry peasants, perhaps on its way to the castle of some mad scientist who dared play God, you probably saw one of the peasants carrying a pitchfork. That was me. I know, pitchforks don't have the undeniable air of mystery that torches have, and they're not as respected as sickles, but you can still do plenty of damage to an inhuman monster with a pitchfork.
When I was a young man, I was summoned to the bedside of my dying father. With trembling step, I walked the length of our house, fifteen feet across the only room, to the bed. “Criminy,” my father said. My name's Criminy, by the way. “Criminy,” said he, “you know I'm a torch-man. My father was a torch-man. His father- torches hadn't even been invented yet, he just carried a burning log. Criminy, I want you to go to torch school. I've saved up two radishes and a bit of cheese to pay your tuition. Become a torch-man, carry on the family tradition.” Then he closed his eyes and departed this life. Then the plague doctors came and burned our house down.
The day I was accepted to torch school was the happiest of my young life, I skipped and laughed for a half hour. When the barber heard about my condition, he diagnosed me as having a great overabundance of blood. After the treatment, I sat in the corner quietly, somewhat lightheaded and disoriented.
In torch school, I was never top of the class, but I managed to learn the trade relatively quickly. After the first week, I didn't even burn my fingers anymore. On weekends, we would harass the rejects at the sickle school. Since they didn't get into torch school, we felt it was acceptable to mock and degrade them. We shouted things like, “how will you burn down a castle with that?” and, “only Huguenots carry sickles!” I blush to think of it now, what fools we were then.
My downfall came at the end of the first year, when we had final exams. Our test was to light a torch. Needless to say, I was very nervous about this test, but I managed to complete it successfully. Afterwards, however, the instructor grabbed me by the arm and pulled up my sleeve. There, to my everlasting shame, was scrawled a crude diagram showing how to light a torch. Ears burning, figuratively as well as literally (torch school is notoriously harsh with cheaters), I was cast forth from the school, never to return.
Obviously, sickle school would not accept a cheater, so I was reduced to moving hay from one pile to another with a common pitchfork.
As I was moving hay one day, pitchfork in hand, I heard a great commotion from the nearby road. Turning, I saw a mob of peasants march past, torches and sickles held aloft. “Where are you going?” I asked a nearby sickle-man, “To the Castle of Doctor Scapula,” the man cried, “he's taken the liver from a dead man, and put it in a man with a sickly liver!” After I'd finished vomiting my guts out with disgust and horror, I decided I had to follow them. But I had never finished torch school, and I didn't know how to wield a sickle. Forlornly, I watched them march into the distance. Then I suddenly realized, a pitchfork could be wielded as a weapon! Catching up with the mob, I grasped my pitchfork and tried not to make eye contact with anyone. “Hey,” one man eventually said, “there's something wrong with your sickle.” Throughout the mob, heads began to turn. “Wait a minute,” another cried, “that's not a sickle at all! It's one of those other things!” “A pitchfork,” I muttered. Everyone laughed. They would not be laughing for long, however.
When we arrived at the castle, we saw the man who'd received a dead man's liver standing outside. “Wait,” he cried, “the good doctor saved my life!” As the torch-men busied themselves burning down the castle, the sickle-men and I worked at ending the abomination before us. The men with the sickles cut at the creature, but in vain. He dodged and blocked, and they only managed to open some shallow wounds on his arms. His demon liver was protecting him! I knew our only hope was to destroy the cursed thing, but sickles were not able to pierce the creature's body deep enough. Barely thinking, I rushed forward. The next thing I was conscious of was the monster laying before me, finally defeated. There was silence from the rest of the mob. They gazed at me with big eyes. Then, somewhere in the crowd, someone began slowly clapping. Another joined, then the whole mob was cheering ecstatically. Tears of happiness ran down my face as I was applauded and congratulated. I felt as if the spirit of my father was watching and applauding as well.
So, I continued carrying my pitchfork, and eventually pitchforks became fully recognized as a legitimate mob implement. I taught my sons to wield pitchforks, and I'm thinking of starting a pitchfork school. Perhaps someday, every mob will have a pitchfork-man.
Log in to comment