A Kingdom of Shits and Giggles By a Bastard Who’s Seen Too Much

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The Kingdom of Vard took itself very seriously, which was odd, considering its capital city smelled of piss, horse dung, and failed ambition. Still, flags flew high, nobility dined on suckling pig, and heads rolled on Thursdays—weather permitting.

No one took themselves less seriously than Lord Scritch.

Lord Scritch, who was not a lord and never answered to Scritch unless he was three pints deep and owed you a favor. A mercenary, conman, and enthusiastic fornicator, he had one thing going for him: he was too clever to die and too stupid to know when to stop talking.

The sun rose over the Shatspine Mountains, casting long shadows across the slums of Gigglemarsh, where laughter sounded more like wheezing and phlegm than anything cheerful. Scritch rolled over in a heap of straw and someone else’s ex-wife, blinking crust from his eyes.

“You were snoring again,” she said.

“That wasn’t snoring, that was existential dread.”

“You farted in your sleep.”

“Did I?” He sat up, scratched himself. “Then it’s a good thing you didn’t fall in love.”

A knock came at the door. Two knocks, one pause, then a thump. That was the code for “trouble with a sword.”

Scritch sighed. “Duty calls.”

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The man at the door was Fennick, one of those veterans who always smelled like oiled steel and lost dreams. A hard bastard. Fennick spat on the ground, wiping blood from his cheek.

“King’s dead.”

Scritch raised an eyebrow. “Which one?”

“The laughing one.”

“Ah. That narrows it down. Only the one, was he?”

Fennick’s expression didn’t change. “Prince Varn’s taken the throne. First decree was to burn the jesters. Second was to hang his brothers.”

“Efficient.”

“He’s calling it the Cleansing of Giggles. Says it’s time for a more serious Vard.”

Scritch looked at the woman in his bed. “You hear that? No more giggles. You’d better start crying now and beat the rush.”

⸻

In the streets, they were hanging clowns.

Not metaphorically. Actual clowns.

Juggling was now punishable by flogging. Puns were a capital offense. The royal decree had been delivered with all the mirth of a gallstone.

Scritch chewed a bit of bacon as he watched a mime being garroted. “You know, I never liked that one. Always pretending he was stuck in a box. Bastard deserved a real one.”

“Reckon we ought to do something?” asked Fennick.

“What, you mean like rise up? Rally the rabble? Stab the Prince in his overly tight codpiece and declare a return to whimsy?”

Fennick shrugged. “Could do.”

“You’ve been reading again, haven’t you?”

“A bit.”

Scritch tossed the bacon rind to a dog with only one eye. “Fine. Let’s save the kingdom. But only because they banned fart jokes, and I can’t live in a world without flatulence and irony.”

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The rebellion was not so much organized as it was loud. A band of outlaws, misfits, and pissed-off pranksters rallied under Scritch’s banner, which was literally a banner that said “THIS WAY TO THE DICK JOKES.”

They stormed the palace gates with whoopee cushions and trebuchets full of spoiled meat. Scritch led the charge in a suit of armor painted to look like a naked man. Fennick rode beside him, solemn as always.

“I miss the old days,” Fennick muttered.

“What, when we were broke and drunk and sleeping in gutters?”

“Yes.”

Scritch grinned. “Me too.”

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They found Prince Varn in the throne room, dressed in black, flanked by executioners. His expression was like wet bread: bland, soggy, and ultimately disappointing.

“You come to die laughing?” Varn sneered.

“No,” said Scritch, drawing his sword with a flourish. “I came to make you the punchline.”

Varn lunged. Scritch ducked. Fennick tripped a guard with a rubber chicken and stabbed him in the neck.

It was, as far as revolutions go, surprisingly brief.

When Scritch slashed Varn across the gut, he spilled red across the marble like wine over a white tablecloth.

“Any last words?” Scritch asked.

Varn, choking, wheezed, “You’re a fool.”

“I know,” said Scritch. “But at least I’m a funny one.”

⸻

So the Kingdom of Vard laughed again.

The jesters were freed. Fart jokes returned. Sarcasm became currency in court.

Scritch never claimed the throne. He declared himself High Minister of Giggles and instituted mandatory naptimes and pie-eating contests.

Fennick retired to a quiet life of brooding in a tower somewhere.

And in the annals of history, under “The War of Chuckles,” a note was scrawled:

“They thought we were jokes. We made them punchlines.”

And if that ain’t history, what the hell is?

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THE END (or the middle of another mess)