out out damned spots

The Scottish warchief McMac and his war-buddy Lord Mildew were heading home after a tiring day of slaughter and mayhem. Behind them was the whiskey-soaked battlefield upon which their foul-breathed minions had totally vomited upon the enemy -- the cowardly beef-eating English -- had thrown them crying into their warm beer back to their moustachioed mothers and pink-cheeked fathers.

Mounted upon their bitterly champing war-nags, bollocks bruised and battered the noble haggis-lovers clip-clopped their weary way up and down a lonely stretch of heather-cursed witch-land, as mountainous and boring as this very tale itself.

Wistful and witless McMac turned his mind to poignant thoughts and memories of his dear and darling wife, Lady McMac, she of the hair of gold and lips of silver. He recalled with fondness how she was wont to supervise the washerwimmen struggling to remove the bloodstains from the pile of crumpled chemises and camisoles upon the laundry floor. It was hard and sweaty work. The maids would scrub and scrub and rub and rub the dirty clothing in the tub. Lady McMac would stand behind them, exhorting all to greater efforts: "Out, out, dammned spots!" she would screech in her sweet little voice.

Thus and these were the thoughts of McMac, upon the homeward leg of his travails, accompanied by the loyal and loathesome Mildew. The air was rank and smelly with the smell of the stink-marshes that festered in those parts. Only the thrum of frost-free noisesome crickets disturbed the evil silence.

Evil indeed, as, crossing a blasted heath McMac and Mildew unexpectedly came upon three ancient grey-haired hags around a fire over which a large cauldron had been suspended.

The hideous, hagsome witches shared one bloodshot eye, which they passed amongst themselves in turn. Their wrinkled faces were fraught with moles from witch spiky grey hairs sprouted.

"Hail McMac," they quavered in their rusty sing-song, "may ye live long and prosper. May misbegotten mischief and malarkey ne'er attend thee. Or, if ye be lucky, and escapeth from thine enemies, mayhap and perchance shall ye scoopeth the pools, and winneth a million spondulicks for thy trouble."

"What crapola sayest thou, oh hags of doom?" quoth McMac unto the cauldron-huggers. "Speaketh plainly and hold naught unsaid. Shall McMac return from battle unscathed?"

"Oh Great Warchief," the hags cackled in unison, "from battle thou shalt return, unharmed. Thus sayeth the magic cauldron."

"Unharmed, ey?" mused McMac full thoughtfully, "What sayest thou Mildew? Shall we delay our sweet homecomings, and turn once more to battle our dastardly enemies? Or shall we continue on our way, towards those homely places where nice shots of whiskey and the sweet songs of the bagpipes awaitest us?"

"Methinks a wee drabble of whiskey would hitteth the spot," responded Lord Mildew.

"Once more to battle then!" quoth McMac, ignoring the ignominious and yellow-bellied remarks of the thirsty Mildew.

And so the brave and daring duo turned and returned to battle.

'Twas bloody and brutal work, hacking into the flabby English with halberds and morningstars. 'Twould have been a great victory but for the unfortunate events that transpired when McMac slipped in a puddle of blood and guts and fell to earth. Wherehumpon six cowardly muffin-eating English fell upon the brave Warbrave hacking and slicing with their puny but sharp little swordies. First the sinister arm, then the right arm, both hacked off full bloodspotted and gory.

But stouthearted Lord Mildew came to the rescue and put the English to flight, with his snot-encrusted mace and whiskeybreath.

Then Mildew staunched the flow of blood and helped McMac to mount the remaining warhorse, and off they trotted, the pair of them, into the sunset.

Arriving once more upon the blasted heath, they were surprised, but not all that surprised, to encounter the one-eyed hag-trio and their bubbling cauldron.

McMac waxed full wroth and righteous, indignant tufts of hair grew suddenly within his ears.

"Oh hags, thy predictions and pronouncements are full of shite, as ye ye-selves must be!" quoth McMac. "Ye cackled and cawed and ye told and ye quoth that McMac would return unharmed from battle.

"And yet and yet, my dextrous swordarm is gone. My sinister arse-scratching arm is gone. Both hacked and slashed by the merciless little English. What sayest thou, oh hags? Explain thy mistakenness before I run ye down with my steel-hooved horsey".

"Oh McMac,"crooned the hags, "oh brave and handsome Chief. We hold thee dear within our hearts. Why shakest thou thy gory locks at us? We spaketh true. We quoth thee would return from battle unarmed. And thus it has transpired. The number of thy arms is naught."

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