Why I Can't Have Nice Kings Read online

  Why I Can't Have Nice Kings

  Matthew Helbig

  Copyright © 2017 by Matthew Helbig

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof

  may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Printing, December 2017

  ISBN 978-0-9995900-0-3

  www.matthewhelbig.com

  Contents

  1. Don’t Drink and Write

  2. A Fan at Knight

  3. This Renaissance Isn’t Fair

  4. . . . It Was Cold in There

  5. Attack of the Thesaurus

  6. Dyfantus the Big, Dumb Stupid-Head and Friends

  7. Axin Gets Weely, Weely Upset

  8. I Shall Call Him Moppy

  9. Shiny, Happy Pirates

  10. A Beautiful Woman Makes Me Do Something Stupid

  11. A Quest for My Package

  12. Of Fangs and Bikinis

  13. Burning Bushes That Don’t Require a Doctor’s Visit

  14. Another Reason Why I Hate Hamsters

  15. Running Away Can Be a Very Rewarding Experience

  16. The Abominable Chieftain

  17. How Many Cyclops Does It Take to Change a Light Bulb?

  18. A Quest for a New Chapter Title

  19. Whip It. Whip It. Owwww

  20. What’s The Return Policy on Villains?

  21. A Fight Involving Me and No Tickling?

  22. Absolutely No Werewolves

  23. The Hairy Traitor

  24. H.O. Phoine Home?

  25. More Than Three Is Not a Trio

  26. I Swear I Didn’t Spank Him, Officer

  27. Quite Prophetable

  28. Free Boob Jobs and Action Figures for All

  29. When Crying Is a Good Thing

  30. Right in the Poop Deck

  31. A Ring, a King, and a Ding-a-Ling

  32. Writers vs. Generals – The Travel Edition

  33. I Knew It All Along

  34. I Really Knew It All Along

  35. Hat and I Play Some Poker

  Don’t Drink and Write

  I must have been in an exceptionally bad mood, as my assistant was only looking at me like I was a genius and not “the smartest person to write fantasy since Albert Einstein.” Hat didn’t read a lot, though, to be fair, my series was really the only thing anyone would ever need to read. Well, in book form, anyway. I’d appreciate it if everyone continued to read stop signs and articles about me, Harry Olson.

  We were all alone at my two-story cabin, deep in the woods of Minnesota. Hat knew that the best way to get me back to normal was to leave me alone and keep me away from anything that could stick to the walls. Even though I had had a pretty spectacular day, nothing, so far, had worked. Not staying up all night so I could get the drop on my alarm clock before it went off. Not winning a three-hour argument with my favorite fictional character. (It was a tie. I called him “Dumbleworf.”) Not finally outrunning my arch-nemeses, Troop 713, and then celebrating by eating all of their candy. Not being named the World’s Greatest Fantasy Author on my website. Not even boobs. The word, not . . . well, not even actual boobs, either.

  I stopped pacing in the middle of the spacious living room and put my hand on my chin to look extra-smart. “Come to think of it, there might be a reason for that last one. What did that critic call me, again?”

  “A reason for what, sir?” Hat leaned forward on the couch and opened up the magazine on the end table. “She said your book was ‘obviously written by an immature boob who doesn’t understand women, politics, horses, relationships, gravity, or even how swords work.’”

  Hat had been with me for three years. Great assistant. Always knew when to listen and when to shut up and leave me alone. He was so nice that I had secretly given him the rights to my series in my will. He didn’t know, of course. I wouldn’t want him thinking he could contribute to my books. Besides, it wasn’t like I had anyone else to give them to.

  Now, back to the hero of this story—me.

  “That geriatric hack. The only things he likes are hairy kids with rings and girls who shoot arrows at planes. What would he know about writing novels, anyway? The longest thing he’s ever written is an obituary for his protégé.”

  “That’s kind of mean, sir. I mean, the protégé did die.” Hat gave me his best sad puppy dog look. I should have felt bad, but I had to stay focused if I wanted a really spectacular tirade.

  “I was alluding to the fact that he’s really old, and his protégé has probably died of old age by now.”

  “Ahh. Very funny, sir. That’s why you’re the professional writer and not me.”

  “That’s right, Hat.” Hat just got me. Heck of a guy. “And what was with that personal attack, anyway? I don’t smell funny, do I?”

  “No, sir. I bathed you myself right before you met her. I think it had something to do with her being a woman. Women don’t seem to like you much.”

  “That was a woman? I couldn’t tell.”

  He gave me a confused puppy dog look. “Then, why did you keep staring at her butt?”

  “Must have been a reflex. I really can’t stop leering at women, can I? Even when I don’t realize they’re women.”

  “I guess the classes aren’t working.”

  “Anyway, where was I? Oh, yeah. And what would those other authors know? They’re just jealous because I outsell them. Always talking behind my back and laughing at me because their books have dragons. Ha! And I’m the one who’s clichéd.”

  “I’ve heard those books are pretty good. The TV show does have great sex scenes.”

  “Whose side are you on, anyway? If your answer isn’t ‘the guy whose lawyer signs my paychecks,’ then get out.”

  He didn’t answer immediately, so I grabbed a book off the shelf and threw it at him. Not one of mine, of course. Hat could be a jerk sometimes.

  “I think I’ll go into town for the night, sir. Give you some time alone to write without my interruptions.”

  The mark of a good assistant is knowing when to assist and when to leave you alone to be creative. And the mark of a spectacular assistant is knowing when to bring you powdered donuts and a juice box right before he leaves. Hat even remembered to put the straw in. He gently opened the door and left.

  I decided to go up to my room to start my next book, Screams of Garandia. When I sat down, I went through my usual routine: I took off my shoes and put on the ring my grandpa had given me when I announced I was going to be a writer. My grandpa was also a professional writer, though he wrote about Norse history and myths—in between the occasional Harry and the Hendersons fan fiction.

  As I sat there writing for over three hours without much to show for it besides creative descriptions of my critics, I decided I needed some stronger liquid inspiration. “Liquid inspiration.” See, I could be creative. Those critics didn’t know what they were talking about.

  After a few drinks of peppermint Schnapps, I decided the queen would secretly be from a race of flying people. And after a few more, that the Atlian advisor was a fantastic tap dancer, a skill not looked upon kindly by his people. After a few more feats of inspiration (feats that more often than not would be gibberish in the morning), I decided to rest a bit. Staring at a computer screen for several hours tired my eyes, and my glasses magnified the problem.

  See, I can be funny, too. That is if you think puns are funny. You can blame my grandpa for that. Is there something about being a grandpa that makes you love puns?

  A Fan at Knight

  A slight breeze tickled my
skin annoyingly. I reached over to turn off the fan, only to find some distinctly plant-like things where the button should have been. I opened my eyes and saw nothing but grass all around me. Funny, I didn’t remember replacing my bed with a field.

  The birds were chirping incessantly. Why do birds seem to chirp more and louder after you’ve been drinking? Oddly, my head didn’t ache at all, and peppermint Schnapps always gave me a bad hangover. Well, really, any alcohol did, since I didn’t drink that often. It’s hard to write when you’re drunk, though you do end up with some pretty creative stuff, assuming you can decipher it the next day. Had I really made the queen an angel last night? The advisor being a tap dancer was pretty good. I hadn’t really explored the art of the dance in my world.

  I looked around at my surroundings and gave the birds my best dirty glare. They seemed fairly intimidated and flew away.

  The field didn’t look familiar. The forest was in a full range of autumn colors: browns, reds, and fading greens abounded. Certainly odd in December. It was even stranger that there wasn’t any snow on the ground. It was December in Minnesota, after all. And why were there so many noisy birds about? They should have all flown south by now.

  To the left, a dirt road wound through the forest. The word “ominous” sprang to mind. I soon heard the clopping of hoofbeats. Not that odd in the country. His armor and medieval weaponry were, however. Huh? There must have been a Renaissance fair nearby.

  The rider slowed as he approached and gave me a dirty look. The word “onerous” sprang to mind. As he got closer, I could see he wasn’t dressed quite like the traditional medieval knight one sees at most Renaissance fairs. At least, not the ones I’d been to. His armor was scaled like a fish, his helmet was conical, and his shield had several six-inch spikes protruding from it.

  Wait a minute! That was how I’d described the Garandians in my first book, The Garandian Empire. His tabard was even accurate, indicating that he was pretending to be a royal guard, too.

  My stomach churned with dread and a bit of that bad fish I’d eaten the day before. This was probably one of my crazy fans. I hoped he didn’t ask me stupid, obscure questions, like why the gardener at the end of book 2 had a different name in the beginning of book 3. Hat always had good answers for those questions, but he wasn’t here. Well, at least a fan would probably help me get back to town or lend me a cell phone.

  Hat must have played a trick on me again, trying to teach me not to drink. He knew that drinking slowed down my process, and he was as anxious as anyone to read the next book. A relentless taskmaster, that one.

  “Hail, good Garandian. Does thou have a cell phone with which I might call mine assistant?”

  “What are you talking about, sir? And why are you talking in that idiotic fashion?”

  I swear his helmet bent up in confusion.

  “My apologies. My name is Harry Olson, and I seem to be stranded. I need to call my assistant to pick me up.”

  “Then, why don’t you call him?”

  I sighed. “Never mind. Can you give me a ride into town?”

  The knight-wit appraised me. “Given your fancy glasses, odd dress, and rather fat stature, I would guess you are a merchant, or at least a man of wealth. What do you have to pay for passage?”

  I pulled out my wallet. “I have this,” I said, holding up a ten-dollar bill.

  “What would I do with that paper?”

  God, I hated overactors, especially when they were my supposed fans. I sighed again and pulled out a silver dollar. “How about this shiny coin?”

  The knight took the coin and rolled it over in his hand. He even tried to take a bite out of it. That couldn’t be very sanitary. Was he expecting chocolate inside? “Climb on. Town is only a few miles away.”

  After I made several failed attempts to get on the horse, the knight climbed off and pushed me onto his steed.

  Hey, give me a break. I’m required to write about riding, not actually ride horses.

  “You might want to try exercising and lay off the mutton, fatty.”

  “Thanks, Sir Richard of Simmons.”

  “My name is Sir Maillib of Garan, sir. I do not know of this Richard of Simmons.”

  “Never mind. Take me to town, and let’s get this over with.”

  This Renaissance Isn’t Fair

  After a few miles of cursing as I jostled about, we arrived at the Renaissance fair. Riding horses is not a pleasant experience for the uninitiated, by the way. I’ve heard it gets more comfortable as you do it, but at the time, the insides of my thighs burned terribly. Why couldn’t they build saddles like they did seats in luxury cars?

  Sir Maillib came to a halt in the middle of the town square. “I have delivered you as promised. Now, if you’ll please debark, I shall be on my way.”

  I attempted to climb down but caught my foot in something and fell off. After I’d stood up and wiped my glasses off, I noticed he had already trotted off.

  The Renaissance fair was different than any I’d seen before. A few yards away, several peasants were digging and shoveling mud, the purpose of their task lost on me. I was all for staying in character at a Renaissance fair, but it seemed a bit much.

  The blacksmith shop was humming with activity as a woman hammered furiously on the anvil while her assistant displayed their wares to several men-at-arms. I had always wanted to see a working smithy. It would probably help my writing to have some firsthand experience with one instead of using random articles on the internet. I made a mental note to visit it after I had contacted Hat.

  Two tall, scraggly barbarians were laughing furiously as a dark-skinned man in immaculate, two-toned purple robes motioned in exaggerated gestures toward a practicing infantry square. The infantry was moving in unison, shield to shield, against an imagined opponent. Their shields were overly large, square-shaped, and bowed back toward the body.

  As I looked a bit harder, I realized this particular type of shield was also from my books, just like Sir Maillib’s costume. The sigil on their shields even matched the one for the Garandian Empire. I was definitely at a fan convention.

  I decided to head over to the barbarians and the Atlian. “Excuse me, good sirs. Do you happen to have a cell phone I could borrow?”

  “I am well-versed in nearly all of the Continent’s languages,” the Atlian said with his head inclined, as if he was looking over me, “and I do not know what a cell phone is, sir.” He sure did have the whole Atlian arrogance thing down.

  The barbarians snickered.

  Great. More fans stuck in character. I probably wasn’t going to get anywhere with this lot. “Fine. Could you point me to the help booth, or perhaps to an employee?”

  “The reeve is over there,” he said, pointing behind me.

  “Thank you.”

  The barbarians laughed hard at my back. I normally would have given them a piece of my mind, but they were huge and looked kind of smelly. It just isn’t right to make fun of the creator of your favorite world.

  As I turned around, I saw why they were laughing. The reeve was lying flat on his back in the smithy. Apparently, he had been trying to break up a fight, and it hadn’t gone so well. I sighed. Maybe the shoveling peasants could help. They had to be employees. No one would pay money to shovel for fun.

  “Excuse me, good sirs . . .”

  “I am not a sir, I’m a woman!” the shorter one shouted shrilly.

  “My apologies, madam. It is hard to tell with all of the mud on you, and you’re not wearing any makeup.” She was also flat-chested, but I thought that would be rude to mention.

  “Do I look like I can afford makeup, tubby?” she said as she continued to shovel.

  “My apologies. So, why exactly are you shoveling all of this mud into the cart?”

  “It’s not mud. It’s muck.” She didn’t even look up as she talked.

  “Okay, why are you shoveling all of this muck into the cart?”

  “That’s our job.”

  “But, why?”<
br />
  “That’s what a muck removal engineer does. We shovel muck into a cart.”

  “And where does the muck go?”

  She finally looked up. “I don’t know. You’d have to ask the muck distribution specialist.”

  “Never mind.” I shook my head in bewilderment. “Look, I’ve had a long day, and my assistant abandoned me in the woods. I just need to call him to come pick me up.”

  “Then, call him. This is a small village. I’m sure he can hear you.”

  Did everyone at this fair have to be in character? I really wished I had written science fiction, so phones would exist. “Look, ma’am, I’m the creator of Vyenra, the world this fair is representing. I’d be happy to sign anything you want if you could just give me a phone.”

  “Did he say he’s the Creator, Giry?”

  Giry appraised me. “He does have the right beard for it, but he’s a bit too heavy. In all of the paintings I’ve seen, the Creator was much skinnier, with exceptional abs.”

  “But he didn’t have a beard in the earlier works, those prior to the fifth century.”

  No, they weren’t talking about Christianity. The religion of my world was called The One. Yes, I know it sounds like he was talking about Jesus, but he wasn’t. You try creating a religion from scratch. It was really time-consuming, so I had decided to focus my time on more important things, like character and plot.

  The woman nodded. “That’s true. You don’t really look like the Creator.”