I have been kidnapped. A very scary, large man in rather dark armor rode through the field yesterday, tied me to the back of a horse, and dragged me to his spooky castle where he is proceeding to torture me. This torture consists of hanging me by my arms over a vat of creepy things.

                While I respect that this evil lord does not live his life by stereo-typical gender norms, isn't he supposed to be kidnapping and torturing petite maidens with flowers in their hair? Not a 30-year-old, male peasant who were just trying to bring the wheat harvest in.

                I need to move to a new village. This one is hazardous to my health.

                My arms are tired. And this is stretching out the sleeves of my shirt! I know you must be thinking shouldn’t I be more concerned about the venomous snakes and toads slithering below me. You need to understand, I only own one shirt. I am a peasant after all.

                All of this swaying is making my stomach turn. The smell in this place doesn’t help. It smells like burnt feathers. I don’t like it and neither does my sensitive digestive system. I can’t tell if the gurgling noises I hear are coming from my stomach or from the venous toads.

                Sir Psycho is back. He’s taken off his helmet. Not to be judgmental, but he has one of those moles on his face with a long hair growing out of it. I feel it’s okay to be pointing this out since he did kidnap me. I mean, I have plague scars and I think that mole hair gross.

                “Well, sir. Do you tremble before my power? Soon, I will show the locals to fear me and they will give me control—”

                He’s ranting. I should really pay attention, but ugth! I can’t stop staring at that mole hair. Oh, when he talks, it shakes back and forth like a chapel bell rope. I have an urge to yank it out of his face.

                Oh. He’s laughing manically. And now he’s talking again. Did he just ask me if I’m ready for pie? Should I be listening more carefully?

                Ooooooo! He asked if I was ready to die. That makes much more sense.

                No! Disgusting! He’s twirling his finger around the mole hair now! Why would he do that? I’m going to be sick. I am. I am going to be—

                —          

The good news is, the serpents and toads all scattered to one side of the vat to get away from my vomit. The bad news is, if he lowers me down now, that’s what I’m going to land in. He does not look happy.

                “Sorry. Go back to your evil monologue,” I say wondering how awful my breath must be.

                He’s taking out a sword. His really angry at me. That’s not fair! I apologized. He’s coming towards the rope holding me up. The blade is starting to cut through the hemp. This is not going to be pleasant . . .

                Wait, is that knocking on the dungeon door?