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Tales from the Pouncing Puppy, serial #0001

[Kindly narrator: Once upon a time, deep deep in the forest, north of the big tree that is owned and defended by the squirrels who throw debris at everyone who passes by, and south of the big rock that is shaped like a *censored*, there stood a curious establishment by the name of The Pouncing Puppy. Weary travelers in search of alcoholic beverages were frequently disappointed to find that the tavern’s menu was mostly limited to herbal tea, porridge, cottage cheese, and crackers. Nevertheless, the quality of the porridge was outstanding, and the staff was highly trained in the arts of hospitality and interior decorating. Welcome to the Pouncing Puppy!]

Jorgen the Skull Collector smoothed his terrifying beard and absently swung his signature spiked club around. He was enroute to his highschool reunion, and in search of a strong drink. The squirrels about a mile back had pelted him with a hail of acorns with such fury that he had fled and lost the path. He needed a tank of ale and a slab of meat to refresh his spirits.

The building was vaguely in the shape of a teapot. The chimney spout emitted steam of a warm and pleasant fragrance. The sign’s gold embossed lettering read: THE POUNCING PUPPY. However, Jorgen could not read. He had only graduated highschool because the teachers had given him all A’s for fear of retribution. (College had been much the same. He had graduated with a degree in Philosophy, with honors, and a secondary certification in Chemistry.)

Jorgen squeezed his fearsome muscular body through the doorway and looked around in confusion. He had expected a typical tavern, with giant barrels of ale and hot waitresses and perhaps some brawling. But the bar— solid mahogany by the way— was currently empty. The eating gallery’s tables were also mostly vacant. A butler was positioning tasteful flower arrangements, while a maid feather dusted the edges of framed wall art and sculptures of mysterious and fantastic animals.

“Hello!!” called the butler, and hurried over. “The Pouncing Puppy is happy to welcome you as an honored guest. May I take your order?”

“Ale,” grunted Jorgen. “Meat.”

The butler bowed and presented him with a small menu. “We are an oatmeal tavern actually. Our specialties include medicinal herbal tea and artisan porridge cooked with the finest oats and spices in all the land.”

Jorgen glared at the butler. “What kinda tavern don’t got no ale, no meat? So many pillows?” Indeed, there were cushions and pillows almost everywhere he looked. He picked one up and found it delightfully soft and fluffy.

“Well, we only serve alcohol at special periodic events in partnership with Martha’s Grapes, who supplies wine. And on holidays we do add several items to our menu featuring roast turkey. May I interest you in a cup of tea and a bowl of savory porridge?”

Confounded, Jorgen followed the butler over to the bar. He was relieved when a hot waitress came out of the back room. Maybe this place was okay. “Jorgen will try the tea and porridge… if I don’t like it I ain’t payin.”

The butler bowed again, even more deeply. “My good sir, anything that does not earn your complete satisfaction and approval is of course on the house. We stand by our reputation.” He glanced at a plaque on the wall. “We have been the first prize winner at the kingdom’s annual artisan porridge contest for seven years in a row. His eyes gleamed with tears of emotion, and the maid who had been dusting hurried over with a handkerchief so that he could dab his eyes. The maid was pretty hot too.

Jorgen brushed some more acorns out of his beard and winked at the ladies. “Jorgen is strong and famous,” he boasted. “Never lost a fight.”

The waitress and the maid seemed indifferent to this announcement as they disappeared into the backroom. But they seemed to return almost instantly with a laden tray, and their manners were friendly as they beckoned him to the bar and laid out his meal.

Several fellows with instruments also strode into the room. Jorgen recogized harp, flute, and tambourine. The fourth musician’s instrument was unfamiliar. The butler, as if reading his thoughts, supplied, “It is called a synth wave base guitar. A gift from extraterrestrials. Their spacecraft once crash landed on our flower garden. It was a recompensory gift. They come back every now and again for tea.”

Jorgen shrugged and settled down. The band struck up an ambient tune that made him a bit tingly. He sipped the tea. Warmth flooded his body, while the scent caused him to sigh. Entranced, he tried a spoonful of the porridge. It was the house special— a savory recipe with notes of garlic, thyme, sage, and a hint of parmesan. The butler looked on happily, still dabbing his eyes, while the maid and the waitress took a seat opposite of Jorgen. Their conversational skills were considerable, and soon Jorgen the Skull Collector was recounting childhood memories that he had never shared with anyone in his entire life.

As it turned out, Jorgen had, in his youth, collected paper clips. The maid had collected animal figurines, and the waitress had collected spoons.

“Aren’t collections wonderul?” said the butler. “I have been collecting fragrances for over twenty years.”

As the day waned, several more travelers entered and were drawn in to the merry gathering. At some point, Jorgen nodded off. When he woke up, sunset gleamed through the windows. Someone had placed a garland of little yellow flowers atop his head. Suddenly self-conscious, Jorgen hastily brushed the flowers off, paid his bill, and set off back into the forest. The strange music grew fainter, carried away by a cool evening breeze. Jorgen found himself before a familiar big tree. Dozens of squirrels peered at him from the branches, silent and threatening.

He scratched his head. Must have hit his head and had an odd dream earlier.

#creative writing #serial story #the pouncing puppy oatmeal tavern #porridge #hospitality #cozy decor #friendly mysterious encounters

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