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April 15, 2002 the park urchin The assemblage of mutants and miscreants who, every Sunday in the park behind my house engage in noisy, yet wimpy, combat, were at it again yesterday.  Their dress code falls somewhere between Lord of the Rings and Braveheart.  They fight with Nerf swords and lances and, as far as I can tell, the losers are the ones who break sweat first.  Anyway, I was sitting in my backyard, birds nesting in my hair, when I spied a creature heretofore unseen in the wilds of Drew Park.  In the Azalea bushes along the jogging path, I saw what can only be described as an urchin, a Park Urchin, I guess.  He was about two or three, pale skin smeared with dirt and rot of unknown origin and vintage.  I thought of Dickens.  It seemed the lad had just completed his shift at the foundry and was aiming to drop a few quid on a some pints and a toddler-wench.  He was clearly unsupervised and heading in the general direction of a busy street and a lake.  I smelled danger.  I also smelled the Park Urchin who, through gross neglect, was stinky and sour.  I stopped the boy and, in Old English baby-talk, inquired as to the whereabouts of his guardians.  He replied by grinning and extruding from his nostrils a green viscous glob of nasal waste.  I decided to address the Castle Grayskull rabble who, some 75 yards away, were observing a truce by quaffing Pabst Blue Ribbon tall boys.  Hailing a jerkin-clad sentry, I called out,  "Ahoy there, mate.  Are any of you good folks missing a child?"  The sentry grunted and pointed to the man I recognized as the group's leader, Sir Mantitty, Earl of Mullet.  He was shirtless and flabby. "State your business, stranger.  And, if a boon thou doth request, then a Boon Council must conveneth." "No, no.  Nothing so important as that.  I am merely trying to find among your group the guardian of a boy wearing a black wife-beater and cutoffs.  Methinks he intends to frolic in traffic before he explores the bottom of yon lake."  I was warming to the task. Sir Mantitty bellowed to a varlet who, if Mel Gibson was Braveheart, could only be Largeliver.  "Yes, me Lord? you bellowed?" "Tell Lady Lardass, Duchess of Piercing, that Wet Willy Scarlet is deserting again."  He belched, wheeled, and excused me in one clumsy motion.  Moments later, Largeliver approached with Lady Lardass. Wet Willy's mum had consumed huge quantities of mead.  "Where's the li'l bugger," she slurred, struggling to focus.  "You take your eye off that kid for one hour and he's gone--just like that!"  She tried to snap her pudgy fingers on "that," but she missed. "Here he is," I said as we traversed the park to my back yard.  "As good as he ever was."  Lady Lardass grabbed the boy's right ear with her left hand and led him back to the group. As good as he ever was, I thought.  Or ever will be.

©  2002 by the beastmaster