If you didn't get that, move on.
The Scrambles Of Robin Hood
Chapter One
(Based off of the classic by Howard Pyle)
In good ol' Brittania when the jolly King Henry Junior was ruling, there lived in the dingy forests of Sherwood near the decrepit town of Nottingham (whose sheriff had a slight case of OCD when it came to jolly good fellows squatting on his land) a jolly good fellow called Robin, whose last moniker was Hood. He wasn't black, just so you know.
Apparently there weren't a bloke within a kilometer or ten that could out-shoot the bugger, and with his band of jolly good fellows they had a grand old time breaking the law in the woods. Remember, kids - crime pays. If you can shoot better than anyone within a ten kilo radius. Everyone who didn't have much money loved the bloke, because he was a fan of the working class. All hail Stalin! I mean, Robin! The first Communist.
And now I will tell the tale of how jolly good Robin was painted white-and black, and became a brother of the Hood. I mean, of the Sherwood.
When good old Rob was eighteen, he hadn't got his drivers' license yet. So there he was, strolling along in the woods, doing bugger all and thinking he'd like to faff about with his shooting skills.
"Methinks I'll get me a good beer and lassie if I compete in the regional shoot-off," hethought. So off he went in that general direction.
'Twas the dawn of day, you know, when the sun comes up - an' everything was looking right chipper when lo and behold, Rob stumbled across some foresters. After having a brief chin-wag with the blokes he accidentally killed one of them for some reason or other. Oh right, the blighter chucked an arrow at him.
So now, alas! Rob was on the wrong side of the law. But sod that, he was having loads of fun with his new mates in the Hood. I mean, wood. Sherwood.
They had a rout good time, pillaging the rich and feeding the poor, championing the working class and generally laying down the basis for Communism in the most dashing way possible.
One sodding nice day Rob decided that it was too pretty, so he decided to go for a walk. One never goes for a walk in the Motherland, you see, because if you do the weather will decide you're having too much crack and put you back where you belong with a hailstorm or two, cheeky blighter.
He met a bloke or two, but then he got to a bridge where he met a really BIG bloke. One who could probably rearrange your moniker with his fingernails.
"'Old up there matey, it's my turn to cross the bridge," Rob said.
"Shut your trap, ya twat, I'm the better man, so I go first," quoth the latter.
"Now hold thy sorry rear a minute, whilst I prepare to smack it into the next century," replied Rob, "an' they arrest your face for public indecency."
Thus they went at it, hammer and tooth, sticks and stones, words and chin-wags all around. The fight was epic, destroying cities and towns alike, throwing down rulers from their high places and...
Wait, wrong story. No, Rob got poked in the head with a stick and called it quits, and they were best of friends. Rob christened his new mate Ugly Mug, which in Slovakenian means Little John.
Turns out Little Mug...Ugly John...John Mug...Jo was also a blimey good archer, and he was able to split hairs with the best of 'em. One thing led to another, and he became a member of the Hood. Of Sherwood.
The Hood of Sherwood. And they all lived happily ever after until the next chapter came along.
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So that was that...tell me how I could make it better. Recommend 'twangs' or themes or something. I'll be doing this probably a chapter or two a week. Or three. Or five. We'll see how much I want to do.
Chow, mates.
