Cow Lore Essays - Cheers, Sorcerer, Ala, Tomorrow, Fred Figglehorn

Cow Lore A long... long time ago, in a distant galaxy, was the planet "Cud". On this ancient planet lived the warlike race of the Cowfolk, a race of people who had evolved and broken into two major groups. The first group, the "Beefers", were a very rough and barbaric race. They were the type who enjoyed loud music and a mug of ale, with a serving wench on their lap... even the women. Their leader, known as "Mike The Big Tough Guy" was a large man of great poundage. He had unkept hair that flew wildly in the wind, and a cute, wellgroomed moustashe. The Beefers worked hard and played hard... and smelled. The tavern was alive with music, the thumps of dancing and clapping, and cheers of joy. Their steeds, consisting mostly of Longhorn and Black Anguses, mooed calmly outside, having had their reigns tied to those horizontal postthings you see in all those western movies. Mike pushed the serving girl from his lap and awkwardly staggered to stand atop his table. The music and dancing immediately stopped in respect. "If it's a war the Milkers want," he slurred, tipping this way and that, almost losing his balance. "Then it's a war they'll get." His statement was met with a round of deafening cheers, which soon died back down. "You are all people of war... and when we clash tomorrow, I want you to do what you do best. I want you to destroy whoever gets in your way." Another round of cheers exploded, then died down. "Tomorrow, milk will be released from the confines of their bodies... it will flow through o'er the plains like a river... and will dye the moon white!" He held up his large tankard of ale to the ceiling. "We will show our true selves to The Great One In The Sky... we will show our Lord, the mighty Black Angus, that we are worthy of him! To YOU, my Lord!" Mike lowered his arm and swilled the remainder of the ale. With the backward tossing of his head causing unconsciousness, Mike lost his balance and fell backwards, crashing down heavily onto a nearby table, cracking it in half. The tavern broke into wild cheers of excitement... Mike had aroused their carnal lust for milk, and they poured out of the small inn and into the dark streets, almost tasting the upcoming hour of battle. The second, the Milkers, were a much more gentle people. They only warred when they absolutely had to, and prefered to spin yarn, play their lutes, and had a habit of wandering aimlessly about the town, reciting poetry. Love and nature were constantly in the air, even on the brink of war. "But will it HOLD?" Fred asked the blacksmith. Fred The NotSoStrong But Very Nice And A Swell Person was the official leader. His people wanted to add "Good Smelling" to his name, but decided that such a length would just be plain silly. "Aye, it'll hold," the blacksmith snapped back, almost sounding offended. "I've been using this armour for as long as I?jcan remember, and it's never done me wrong before." They were looking over one of the plates used in the armour for the cows when they go into battle. Tradiationally, the armour would consist of several plates, covering almost the entire body of the cow. The udders, being on of the most sensitive parts of the beast, would have a coating of chainmail lying under a coat of platemail. "Go on," the blacksmith encouraged Fred. "Go on, take your best shot at it." Fred looked at the blacksmith for a moment before taking a step back, drawing a mace from a nearby wall, and striking the armour with all his force. Colourful sparks flew from the point of impact, but upon inspection, the armour remained completely unscathed. "Very impressive," Fred said, stroking the point of impact with his fingers to feel for any damage, of which he could find none. "Very impressive, indeed." "And you ask if it'll hold," the blacksmith mocked him. "Well, that first sword you made me snapped in half when I tripped over it," Fred explained, standing up straight. "That's got nothin' to do with it," the blacksmith yelled. "It was faulty metal, I tell you... NOT my work... look, the Beefers are likely going to attack at dawn. DO you, or do you NOT want my armour?" Fred stayed silent for a moment. "Of course I do," Fred said. "And your payment