If you have not yet read the first two installments in the story, please read them! You can find the first one here and the second one here.
Oh, and another shameless advertising blurb: my giveaway is still running wild, so if you want to enter or just check out the interview with Jill Williamson, just click here.
Enjoy. Don't let Procrastination win!
A BATTLE FOUGHT AT MIDDAY
In Which I Battle Procrastination (and Ruin My Shoe)
I blocked the blow with the Pen, easily. I laughed in his face, our blades crossed. "That all you have, Big Pro?"
He growled. "I told you not to call me that!" Procrastination shoved my blade backwards, and stepped back, uncrossing the blades. He then feinted to the right, and swung wildly at my feet.
I merely stepped back a bit, and then stamped my foot down on the sword. He jerked it back, slicing my shoe.
"I was going to throw them away anyhow," I said. "I have a newer pair by the door."
He said nothing to this, and we fought for a little bit longer, bantering.
"So, Big Pro, how's your assignment to Sir Batson coming along?" I taunted, knowing very well that Sir Batson was doing just fine with Procrastination. After all, he had dragons and sea monsters on his side—not to mention Alastair Coldhollow.
His face reddened, so I added a barb to an already salty wound. "Your silence speaks volumes."
"You are a thrice-accursed son of a pigdog!" he fumed. "You don't deserve to wield a pen, thy stupid, foul, four-eyed writer from the dirt pile!" Procrastination spat at me. Literally. Never the good aim, he missed me by several inches, hitting the tan, oval clock on the wall behind me instead.
"Such language!" I said. "If your mother could hear you."
He shouted incoherently and stabbed at me. I sidestepped, and he viciously stabbed the clock instead.
"Oops! Missed me again, you butterfingers you. And look what you did to my dear mum's clock."
"Always one to butcher the accents," Procrastination said, tugging at his sword. I struck a Basil Stag Hare pose while a waited, one foot gracefully positioned on the mutilated red couch.
"On the contrary," I told him, holding my sword loosely at my side to complete the effect.
He finally tugged his sword free, and turned to face me. "Then come and face me!"
"I'm already facing you," I said. "Do you want me to get any more face? I can go and borrow another one, if you wish."
"Keep the one you have," he snorted. "I'm tired of your games. Let us get this over with." He took a swing at me.
"I'm enjoying it, actually," I said, parrying. "We could stop and do a mind duel, if you wish. I can go and get my shampoo."
"No," Procrastination said flatly, blocking a blow from me. "I already took a shower today."
"It doesn't smell like it," I said. I ducked under one of his slashes. What was meant to slash me slashed my poor couch, and couch stuffing went everywhere, making me sneeze.
"This is going to be really hard to explain," I said dryly, tripping Procrastination. He rolled to one side as I stabbed at him, and stood up. He hit his head on an old lamp near the window, and it fell over. Glass shattered, and tinkled all over the ground outside. (Which, to quote The Book of the King, is not to say it went to the bathroom, but that it made a ringing sound.)
He shook himself off, and I waited near the now unstuffed couch. Procrastination charged back at me, trying to use what little weight he had to his advantage. (Procrastination looked like a Wisp, I'm tellin' you—he was all skin and bones. Which was strange, considering he was actually an embodiment of a feeling/action.)
I merely sidestepped (again) and then ran out the window, breaking the rest of the window and tumbling out into the front lawn.
Procrastination recovered and ran out after me. "That sidestep is getting annoying," he said, smushing one of the recently trimmed bushes in the landscaping.
"Hey, I worked hard on that trimming!" I said, ducking behind the giant oak in our front yard.
He followed me around, and we went in circles for a little bit, running around and around the giant oak. After a bit, I stopped and turned, dropping my sword. I tackled Procrastination football-style.
Procrastination grunted, dropping his sword and scrabbling at me with his long fingernails. We tumbled across the lawn for a bit. The guy was like Gollum or something—he might be small, but he can pack a wallop with his wiry body.
I managed to free myself (realizing that tackling him wasn't such a good idea after all), and ran for my sword. I snatched it from the grass and stood behind the tire swing (which hung from a branch in the oak).
Procrastination stood on the other side of the tire swing, a scowl on his face. "This has gone long enough," he said. Holding his sword with one hand, he cut at the chain of the tire swing. It thumped to the ground. Procrastination stepped over it to swing at me.
And promptly tripped, falling on his face.
Enjoyed it? I hope so. See some mistakes? I always need editing! Comment and tell me what you think of this latest installment in the story. It was rather difficult to write, being 'the middle' of the story. I promise you, though, the next installment will be the best yet. Talking swords (er...pens?), the return of turkey spies, and a massive cleanup job. Hopefully. I might have to split it into two more installments. O_o
Well, cheerio, folks! (and other breakfast cereals!)