Framdar “The Slayer” Deathkiller swung — it was a mighty swing, though a might less mighty than it might have been for his mind was thinking thoughts of his father who he had never known but if he had he thought must have been a mighty warrior indeed, which unbeknownst to Framdar was actually far from the truth, for his father had been a humble farmer, which didn’t really matter anyway since Framdar’s magical birth meant that he had no real father, as the prophecy had prophesized, making him the only man who could defeat this beast — his vorpal sword at the beast.

The beast moved with unthinkable speed, Framdar thought, and looked like a dalek crossed with a mind flayer.

“WHAT DOEST THOU!!!” the beast exploded infuriously as he cackled and pointed at Framdar, spitting on the ground and jumping out of the way as he raised his own sword.

Framdar remembered when he was five and raised his first sword. (Insert flashback here, perhaps having to do with how his brother took him to a whorehouse and the whore made him the best potato stew ever?! Return to present.)

Framdar circled the beast back and forth. He could see his reflection in his opponent’s sword blade — his flowing blonde hair, eyes as blue as the sky, square strong jaw, a face that women found irresistible and men wanted to be — as his heart beat in his chest and his lungs heaved, also in his chest. He placed his left foot and then his right. And then his left again. And then his right. Followed by his left. And continued to step as he moved. Framdar admired the way the beast stepped. The beast impregnated with pride at Framdar’s admiration.

“You know that even,” the beast sneered mockingly, “if you kill me now you are still doomed,” the beast gloated gleefully. “For my people have burned the great black ooze that comes up from the ground where the binoshaurs died many moons ago and can be used to power our great machines, causing your world’s temperatures to rise and the great icelands to melt, but we paid the Predublican wizards’ council to deny the truth until now it is too late, and there is nothing you can do!! … !”

Framdar cursed. “If only we had been proactive and stood up to the wizards’ council sooner we might have stopped our doom. But I shall see that you join our fate!”

Framdar hit the button on the wall, and the beast was shot out of the airlock, its scream fading into the dark black night of space as Framdar held his breath and laughed.

Framdar’s tale was intentionally written as an example of writing that is so bad it makes you laugh. Randy Henderson‘s fiction has appeared most recently in Realms of Fantasy and the M-Brane anthology 2020 Visions. He is a Clarion West graduate, a relapsed sarcasm addict, and milkshake connoisseur. He also writes nonfiction for Fantasy magazine, and is currently at work on two novels, twelve stories, and living in thirteen and a half realities. Facebook:/randyhenderson — Twitter:/quantumage — Mirror blog:

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