"This I not a novel to be tossed aside lightly. It should be thrown with great force." - Dorothy Parker

*****

If only she hadn't eaten Herneby.

On the day the fruit of her loins had hatched she had chosen her weakest demon spawn to roast for the celebratory banquet. The family rejoiced, ate Herneby with potatoes and a mild gravy, and allowed Krevlorneswath and Numfar to live. They were stronger in body than their brother, they were blessed with more coarse, black hair on their bodies, and their blood-red horns were sharper. They should have brought great glory to the family. Instead there was only great shame.

Mother stood on the porch, stroking her beard. The matriarch of the Deathwok clan was deep in thought, wondering just how she could restore the once proud reputation of her family. She watched her son practise the Dance of Mild Irritation on the front lawn, shimmying across the grass under the twin suns of Pylea, and silently cursed such wasted promise.

Numfar had chosen the ancient vocation of Dancer, he who celebrates when a Drokken is defeated or mourns when a warrior is slain - truly sacred amongst the Deathwok clan. If Krevlorneswath had been a proud warrior, like his cousin Landokmar, her family would have been truly honoured to produce such gifted scions.

Instead Krevlorneswath had been a treacherous coward, weak and afraid, running scared even at the sacred joust! He was no warrior and he shamed his whole family, only partially redeeming himself by throwing himself into the sacrificial canyons of Trelinsk. At least, Mother assumed he had. Any other course of action would bring even more mocking from her hirsute kinswomen and ruin what little was left of their tattered pride.

Numfar might have provided salvation. One of the greatest Dancers in all Pylea, his skill was known across the land. His Mother was justly proud. All he needed to do was find a mate and produce savage children who might wipe the stain of Krevlorneswath's memory away with a river of blood. Instead he - she could barely bring herself to consider such an abomination - he had admitted some weeks earlier to being cowsexual! It was akin to bestiality! He may as well mate with a Drokken!

Visions came to her when she was asleep of Constable Narwek discovering Numfar in a passionate clinch with a dirty, filthy, lice-ridden cow, as Mother was shamed in front of all Pylea. She would wake; sweating more than usual, chewing her beard, wondering what way there could be out of this accursed situation. Numfar had told her resolutely that he could never mate with another of the Deathwok clan, and yet it was her only hope of salvation, now that his cowardly twin was, hopefully, burning for eternity in the pits of Catarrh.

Mother ceased in her brooding when she heard the sounds of a rider approaching her homestead. She looked in the direction of the hoofbeats and saw through the cloud of dust what looked like a cow riding on the horse! She recoiled at the sight of his disgusting pink and bumpy flesh, and wondered why it was a cow had been allowed such freedom.

The horse came to a halt in front of the porch and the cow dismounted, bowing low before her. Mother's eyes widened when she realised he did not wear a collar.

"Kind lady, I apologise for the intrusion. I am the Groosalugg."

Ah, that explained it. The Deathwok child with cow blood. There had been much gossiping the day he had been born as to his paternity, that was for certain.

"Good day," she said stiffly.

"I was wondering if I might be able to water my horse. I have been riding since daybreak and he is most fatigued."

Mother nodded and indicated the trough at the side of the house. "You may."

As the Groosalugg led his horse over to the water Mother glanced at Numfar. Her son was staring at Groo with a look of lust the likes of which she had never seen upon her's son's face. An idea surfaced in the swamp of Mother's mind.

"Numfar!" she commanded, "Do the dance of erotic seduction!"

Mother watched sternly as Numfar began to sway seductively, producing veils from somewhere oh his body and wafting them alluringly in front of his horns.

Groo turned from where he had guided his horse and watched, transfixed at the beauty of the creature in front of him. Numfar thrust his hips and rubbed his elbows, then used his fingers to circle on his jerkin the places where all eight nipples lay hidden. Groo felt the stirring of his cow meat, the way it did when he saw some of his clan in a state of undress.

Groo, lovestruck, crossed the short distance between them and swept this transcendent creature into his arms, running his tongue lovingly across the red horns. Numfar cooed with delight, his face pushed into the valley between Groo's ample chest muscles.

Mother beamed. There was one cow in all the land that could bring some honour to her family. Numfar had found him. Redemption was not impossible.

***

It was later when Mother sat at the hearth and the house echoed to the noise of the love-making of the Groosalugg and Numfar, that the first seeds of regret were sowed. Mother glowered, and prayed to the gods to be struck deaf.

***

Their passionate couplings continued through the night, and the sky was grey with the impending dawn when Numfar finally fell asleep. The bed was still covered in the mess made when Numfar had begun to lactate, when Groo himself had reached his peak, and when Numfar's seed gland had burst. Groo traced a fingertip along one of Numfar's horns and decided that he was truly in paradise.

Their love would last for eternity.

After all, how likely was it really that the Messiah would appear?

*end*