Sir Wrongalot stood in the middle of a field, scratching his helmet (which somehow made a loud clunk even though he wasn't wearing gloves). Around him, the world seemed to shimmer with anticipation—like something absurd and unnecessary was about to happen.
And it did.
A loud, booming voice echoed from the heavens. "WRONGALOT! HEAR ME!"
The knight looked up, startled. "Blimey! Is that the big cheese upstairs?" He squinted at the sky. "Oi, if you're here to smite me, just remember I've already smited myself plenty of times, thank you very much."
The voice sighed. "NO, THIS IS YOUR NARRATOR. AND I'M HERE TO TELL YOU SOMETHING VERY IMPORTANT."
"Wait," Wrongalot said, scratching his helmet again. "What's a narrator?"
The voice paused. "Uh… never mind. Look, the point is, you've been on a ridiculous adventure, haven't you? Glowing zebras, noodle swords, and a surprising amount of questionable squirrels?"
Wrongalot nodded. "Oh, you've been watching? Bit creepy, innit?"
The voice ignored the jab. "Have you considered that maybe, just maybe, someone out there has been following your adventures with rapt attention and maybe hasn't added this epic tale to their collection yet?"
The knight tilted his head. "You mean, like, a trophy cabinet?"
"No!" the voice exclaimed. "I mean… a library! A bookmark! A place to keep this story alive forever!"
Wrongalot tapped his chin, which made a hollow sound against the helmet. "Ohhh, I get it now. Like how I keep spare noodle swords in my sock drawer. Gotta have backups, innit?"
"Yes, exactly!" the voice said, relieved. "And so, dear reader, this is your moment to shine. Add this tale to your collection, save it, treasure it—because where else will you find a knight who can defeat glowing zebras with a pair of sunglasses?"
Wrongalot turned to the nearest bush and whispered conspiratorially, "You heard the disembodied voice, right? It said to add this story to your collection. Seems pretty smart for a floaty ghost thing."
The bush rustled, revealing a squirrel wearing a monocle. It nodded and held up a tiny sign that read, "Save the story. Do it for the noodle."
Wrongalot gave a thumbs-up. "There you have it, folks! Even the squirrel thinks you should! And squirrels don't lie. Probably."
He dusted off his noodle sword, adjusted his helmet (which immediately fell off), and pointed dramatically at the horizon. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got to find my next ridiculous battle. But remember—if you don't save this story, you'll miss the greatest thing since sliced goat cheese."
And with that, Sir Wrongalot tripped over his own feet and face-planted into a conveniently placed haystack.
To be continued… if you add this story to your collection
CHAPTER 13
Sir Wrongalot found himself wandering through a bustling market in the heart of the Kingdom of Muddlewick. The streets were alive with the sound of squabbling merchants, off-key lute players, and the occasional donkey reciting poetry for spare coins.
"Step right up!" bellowed a man wearing a hat made entirely of spoons. "Get your anti-logic potions! Guaranteed to make your decisions worse!"
Wrongalot tilted his helmet-covered head. "Blimey, mate, why would anyone want that?"
The man grinned, holding up a bottle filled with bubbling purple goo. "For entertainment purposes, of course. Perfect for ruining family board game night or negotiating peace treaties!"
The knight was about to respond when he spotted something even stranger: a stall selling "Authentic Roman Empire Souvenirs." Behind the counter, a man in a toga was passionately arguing with a woman dressed as a Spartan warrior.
"It's not a salad!" the man shouted, slamming his fist on the counter. "The Roman Empire was known for engineering, conquest, and glorious tradition—not leafy greens!"
"Yeah, well," the Spartan retorted, jabbing a spear in his direction, "your empire's only lasting contribution was roads! And even those have potholes!"
Wrongalot chuckled. "Oi, you two. Why don't you settle this like civilized people—over a game of duck-duck-goose?"
They both stared at him, momentarily stunned. Then the Spartan snorted. "Fine, but only if he agrees not to cheat like the last time we played hopscotch."
Before the argument could escalate, a commotion erupted nearby. A man riding a unicycle while juggling flaming baguettes crashed into a stall selling "Slightly Haunted Cheese." The impact sent wheels of cheese rolling in all directions, each one letting out eerie moans.
"Cursed brie!" someone screamed, diving for cover.
Wrongalot instinctively drew his noodle sword, ready to defend the innocent. Unfortunately, he slipped on a rogue wheel of cheese and tumbled into a cart filled with rubber chickens.
The merchant, a grumpy old woman with a monocle, shook her head. "Another hero brought low by poultry," she muttered. "Tragic, really."
Before Wrongalot could untangle himself, a shadow fell over the market. Everyone froze as a massive, shimmering figure descended from the sky.
It wasn't a zebra. It wasn't even an animal.
It was a toaster. A giant, golden toaster with wings.
"BEHOLD!" it bellowed in a voice that sounded suspiciously like an infomercial host. "I AM THE TOASTER OF DOOM! KNEEL BEFORE ME OR BE TOASTED!"
The crowd scattered, screaming. Sir Wrongalot, now wearing a rubber chicken as a hat, stood up and faced the mechanical menace.
"I ain't afraid of no toaster!" he shouted. "I've faced worse! Like that one time I fought a—" He paused, realizing he'd forgotten the rest of the sentence.
The toaster flapped its wings, sending a gust of hot air that smelled faintly of burnt bread. "YOU DARE DEFY ME, MORTAL? PREPARE TO BE CRISPED!"
Wrongalot charged, his noodle sword flopping wildly. As he approached, he tripped over a pothole (courtesy of the Roman Empire) and accidentally launched the rubber chicken from his head. The chicken struck the toaster squarely in its golden lever, jamming it.
"NOOO!" the toaster wailed, sparks flying. "MY ONE WEAKNESS—RUBBERIZED POULTRY!"
The crowd erupted into cheers as the toaster sputtered and fell to the ground, defeated. Wrongalot stood up, dusting himself off. "Well, that was easy. Who's up for lunch?"
As the market returned to normal, a small child approached the knight. "Sir Wrongalot, you're my hero! How did you know the rubber chicken would work?"
Wrongalot patted the child on the head. "Kid, when you're as clumsy as me, every mistake is just a victory waiting to happen."
And with that, he wandered off into the sunset, accidentally walking into a lamppost on the way.