Okay, I know this is an extremely immature video, and not up to The Skwib’s usual standards for immaturity, but it is funny.
(In an extremely immature way.)
Plus, it has a “laser”.
Click here if the embed thingy bites back.
Thag was worried about the morale of the other hunters in the Thunka Grunka tribe.
As their leader, it was his responsibility to ensure they worked together well, and it looked as though he had misjudged things.
One of their youngest hunters, Donjuag, had been putting the moves on the mate of Thag’s second-in-command, the spike-haired Fonzag. Thag couldn’t really blame Donjuag for being attracted to the voluptuous and sensual Vunga, and he couldn’t really fault Fonzag for feeling a little jealous.
Donjuag and Vunga were much closer in age, but Thag had said it was all just youthful high spirits, and that Fonzag shouldn’t be worried about it: “Them not serious, Fonzag. Not worry you.”
And then Fonzag had caught Donjuag and Vunga making “lip smackies”, and the proverbial mammoth dung soiled the water hole.
Fonzag head-butted Donjuag, which was actually quite dangerous given Fonzag’s brutally spiked hair. Several other tribe members intervened before he could deliver a second blow.
“Heyyyy!” Fonzag cried. “I got a right to keep him away from my lady!”
“You not kill Donjuag!” Thag explained. “It uncool.”
“Heyyy,” Fonzag said contritely.
Vunga, who had the hips that launched the thousand facile thoughts in Donjuag, said: “it didn’t mean anything Fonzag. I was only kidding.”
Her kidding self, Thag thought, but he didn’t voice it.
“Really babe?” Fonzag asked.
“Of course, hon,” Vunga reassured her mate.
Fonzag looked at her, and gave her a kiss. “I believe you babe.”
Him kidding self, Thag thought, but he didn’t say anything.
Luckily, Donjuag was unconscious, so he didn’t hear any of this, but Thag knew they would have to come up with some kind of solution. He watched Fonzag and Vunga work on fixing Fonzag’s now badly bent hair spikes.
“Love triangle bad for Thunka Grunka,” Thag said to the shaman, Weasel-Scratch-Face-Brother.
“Oh, it’s okay,” the shaman said, “it’s sorted out now. The Gods have decreed it.”
“Foreskin-Face-Brother is fooling himself,” Thag told the shaman. “But not Thag.”
As readers of The Skwib, you may be aware that I am also a novelist releasing his second work, Marvellous Hairy – a novel in five fractals. It’s available online from the publisher now, and in stores in the Fall.
But I’m also podcasting this bad boy, and they are well underway. I’ll be listing them all here, at iTunes, or you could check out the episodes on my writer’s blog:
Episode One (chapters one and two)
Episode Two (chapters three to five)
Episode Three (chapters six to eight)
Having settled the issue of if the members of the Thunka Grunka tribe had free will or not, Thag settled back into life with his tribe.
For once, it was almost peaceful. He and his new mate, Twigla, were happy. Thag enjoyed the prestige and respect everyone gave him for leading the hunters so well. (Not to mention how they grokked his cave paintings and practically worshiped his beer.)
He and the other decent hunter, Fonzag, were in the process of training a new generation of young men. But they were having problems with Donjuag.
Donjuag was the son of Gnock, whom Thag had been unable to save from cave lions, so he felt even more responsibility. But Donjuag was a moody fellow. Unpredictable. He was also in love with Fonzag’s mate, the luscious Vunga.
“Heyyyyyy,” Fonzag said to Thag, as they walked out to their hunting grounds. “He’s being uncool with my lady.”
“Him not do anything,” Thag told Fonzag. “Him just infatuated.”
Donjuag ran by, his spear held high above his head, whooping with excitement.
“What him do?”
“Thag, that cat is full of energy,” Fonzag explained. “He’s not sleeping well either, at least that’s what his mom said.”
“Him crazy,” Thag said while Donjuag finished his sprint with a forward flip. The young hunter over-rotated and did a face plant. Thag laughed. “Donjuag funny.”
Donjuag, undeterred, got up, and did a back flip, whooping with delight.
Fonzag looked on, worried. Thag slapped his diminutive friend on the back (careful not to touch Fonzag’s ridiculous hair) and said, “Fonzag not worry. We wear Donjuag out on trail. Him too tired to pitch woo at Vunga.”
Donjuag started running again, landing a forward flip this time, and Fonzag grunted. “I don’t know, he’s got a lot of energy.”
Thag’s year with the Drunka Grunka was drawing to a close, and he was almost ready to head back to his own tribe, the Thunka Grunkas.
His relationship with the slender and beautiful Twigla was blossoming, and his artwork was a major triumph, despite the many critics within the Elder’s council of the Drunka Grunkas. They even liked the cow, though they were most excited about Thag’s surrealistic depiction of a mammoth stomping a shaman to death. At first, the Drunka Grunka shaman, Cave-Bear-Bite-Leg-Brother, had objected to the depiction, but then Thag explained:
“Him not good shaman. Him shaman of Thunka Grunkas, Weasel-Scratch-Face-Brother.”
“Why don’t you like your shaman, Thag?”
“Him seduce Thag’s mate. Him demote Thag from leading hunters. Many hunters die without Thag lead them,” Thag amplified. “Him big phallus with ears.”
“Ah,” Cave-Bear-Bite-Leg-Brother said. “I grok.”
When the mural was finished, the Drunka Grunkas planned a festival to celebrate the artwork. A special brewing of the Drunka Grunka specialty, a delectable potage they called ‘beer’.
Thag had noticed that many of the Drunka Grunkas got quite chatty once they’d had a few bowls of their “beer”; in his experience, Thag was used to men not talking much, while the women of the tribe did most of the gossiping, gabbing, and generally keeping the lines of communication open within the tribe.
Because they had beer to supply calories, the Drunka Grunka men didn’t need to spend quite as much time hunting; in fact, they seemed to spend as much time hanging out talking as the women did.
On the other hand, the people of the Drunka Grunkas had noticed that Thag was laconic at best, and positively taciturn at worst. The Elders sent the shaman to find out why.
“You don’t talk much, do you Thag? But from your artwork, it’s clear you have a rich inner life. Why don’t you share it more?”
“Thag say something once, why say again?”
“But it would be nice if you could explain your artwork to some of the Grunkas that don’t get your art.”
Thag shrugged. “They not grok, Thag not make them grok.”
“But it would be –”
“Thag let art speak for itself,” Thag interrupted. “Besides, Thag go back Thunka Grunkas soon. He not be here to explain.”
“Fair enough Thag. When do you think you’ll be leaving?”
“Ah, soon. But now, Thag have something he do want talk about.”
“Oh, really?”
“Twigla,” Thag said, raising his eyebrows. “Her come with Thag?”
“Does she want to?”
“Yes. Her grok Thag.”
“Well, that will get tongues wagging around here; even more than usual,” said Cave-Bear-Bite-Leg-Brother. “Let’s have a beer and we can discuss it with the other Elders.”
“Thag talk on this. Yes!”
If you’d like to join me for the podcast of my second novel, you can find the listing of them as they’re released at the Marvellous Hairy website. While you’re there, sign up for my newsletter to catch all the news as it happens.
The first episode (which is about twenty minutes long and covers the first two chapters) can be found at my other blog, on my author’s site. I’ve added the second episode now too. You can also subscribe at iTunes, and soon at Podiobooks.com.
Or you could just go get your own copy to read yourself. Just sayin’.