Howdy. Jimmy here. I'm the narrator and protagonist of The Black Blade. As a rule, I don't cotton to using highfalutin words like protagonist, but the author says I have to so I'll do as he requests. I reckon it's like my grandma used to say, if you want your green beans to taste like beans, you got to use the proper sized canning jars. My grandma was mighty particular about her canning jars. And her canned green beans always tasted like green beans and not, well, something else. Well, enough literary criticism talk. What in tarnation is literary criticism anyway?
Orville and I are a pair of hucksters. I like to think of us as showmen, giving folks some entertainment to leaven their dull days with good humor. Orville's the master huckster and I'm his apprentice. In The Black Blade, we get ourselves into a heap of terrifying trouble in the weird west. Orville thought we could make a quick and tidy profit helping this strange old man with a knocker haunting his house. I didn't trust the old man's looks, but a team of horses couldn't hold Orville back when there's gold glittering ahead. The old man proved himself as rotten as I speculated. The first talk of food was whether we were going to become food. The old man locked us in a cell with this monster that was a cross between a pig and a wendigo. Nasty piece of work was that creature, and he seemed awful hungry. The old man finally told us what game he was up to. To save Orville from the pig-man, I had to go questing for some enchanted blade. I'd like to share the whole story with you. It's mighty entertaining, but the author says I can't.
The author says I'm supposed to talk about some of the vittles we partake. When Orville and I are out on the trail, we make do with beans and some bacon, if we've got some. Orville complains I'm not too good at beans but I don't see him offering to cook. We wash our meals down with coffee or some good ole cool spring water, if we can find some. Saloon food, like meat pies, are cheap as can be, but I've heard from a reliable source that the barman adds extra salt to everything. The drinks ain't so cheap. And for some cotton-pickin' reason, every time I darken a saloon, I'm served sarsaparilla. I don't mind sarsaparilla, but there's nothing like a hearty beer to wash the trail dust from your parched tongue. We might be adding a new member to our partnership, a second apprentice. The girl's name is Isobel, a little firecracker if there ever was one. She helped me find the black blade and get out of more than a few dangerous scrapes when I figured my goose was cooked, including a shapeshifting coyote that I figured was about to turn me into a meal. According to Isobel, her mama taught her to cook everything from squirrel legs to calves liver. I reckon we might have some more variety to our vittles in the future. Thanks for listening. And if you find yerself at a fair, stop by our tent and let Orville the Oracular tell your fortune.
Thanks for stopping by to share your food for thought, Jeff!
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