Mayhap I should have known we monks would be in for a rough week when I witnessed Vikings murdering the monk who had been tasked with investigating the Viking murders. 

Though we managed to capture one of the smaller Vikings by distracting him with Brother Morne’s ribald drawings, we soon learned that the Vikings had secreted a crate in the nave which was full to bursting with the most murderous of Vikings what ever didst murder. 

The groundsman, as was his habit, snuck into a closet with a ladyperson. At that moment, the crate of Vikings was cracked, spilling a few Vikings onto the ground where they slithered and writhed. Some of the Vikings slithered unto the shirtless bodies of the groundsperson and the ladyperson and they too were forced to writhe about; he with his chiseled musculature and the ladyperson with her fullsome boobingtons. They were, anon, both murdered. 

Some other person was murdered at that time in another closet but he was just a peasant. 

At this point I am bound by clarity to note that our Abbot’s Christian name was Abbot.

Abbot Abbot peered into the fracas and was murdered. Brother Richard was attacked as well. He managed to escape but knocked over the scribe’s candles which burned the crate of Vikings, freeing the entire host therein. 

Seeing that the Vikings were fully loosed in the nave, we monks then made our way to the chancel. We blocked ourselves from the nave by creating a protective barrier of pews and acolytes. But the barrier was burst when our horse, Brother Gallops, in a fit of terror, slammed headlong into it. 

It was upon this moment when I declared, in a loud voice and without having soiled my habit,

“I have had it with these mother felling Vikings in this mother felling nave!”

This being the most powerful swear I could muster, I swayed then, and was forced to sit down on a nearby stack of prone bodies of acolytes. 

The Vikings made to close in upon us one final time as the flames in the nave subsided. To my horror and peculiar tingling delight, Brother Flynn produced a longbow from whence I know not. He then did shoot out two windows in the nave. The resulting air revived the flames and burned the Vikings upon their legs and bottoms. They departed with haste. 

Just as we thought all was safe, a hidden Viking jumped upon my person. Brother Flynn drew his bow and fired, killing the savage and saving my life. I was unharmed by the arrow because I have not washed my robe in months and it has become quite stiff.

In thanks, I have promised to teach Brother Flynn how to ride upon the sea waves. 

Blacksmith's Apprentice's Journeyman Apprentice Jim Hodgson is a comedy writer and has been for a long time. Read more of his writing at

The Laughing Gallows

In which a comedy writer deals with late capitalism.

By Jim Hodgson