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For a few brief years the entire region seemed immersed in a lukewarm broth of tranquil mediocrity. The area's inhabitants had initially welcomed the change, and spent most of their days staring up at the sky while mindlessly fingering their belly buttons. A few historians have even labeled it the 'Tepid Age', for life at that time had about as much excitement as a tub of hour-old bathwater.
In a small village hidden in a remote region of Europe called Absurdum, the residents went about their humdrum lives ― unworried, unhurried, and happily clueless. Not a one of them had even the slightest inkling that their peaceful days of lethargic bliss were about to come to an end.
The year was 1135 A.D.
The name of that village was 'Timbrook.'
Located on a rather soggy chunk of earth that was encircled by a steep ridge of stone, the town was nothing more than a few ramshackle huts stuck in the middle of a huge basin of black mud. A geologist might easily discern the area as being an enormous crater of some sort ― caused by an ancient meteor impact, or perhaps, the eroded remnants of a long-dead volcano. Geology, however, was a rare course of study in those parts at that time, and the only rocks the residents of Timbrook wondered about were the ones that rattled inside their bumpy little skulls.
Another geological anomaly was the large mountain that overlooked the town. It was given the name of 'Mount Moo', due to its uncanny resemblance to an enormous, inverted cow's udder.
The community itself was somewhat isolated from the outside world, and the years and years of relative seclusion — coupled with an almost insane devotion to inbreeding ― may have led to some of the settlement's infamous peculiarities.
One example of this was the resident's proclivity to eat just about anything made of wood. This was especially true when it came to trees, which the townsfolk found to be quite tasty and relatively easy to catch. It was therefore not unusual to witness a Timbrookian nibbling the bark off of a nearby sapling, or eating a large bowl of twigs, or strolling through the middle of town while gnawing on a baseball bat.
They were also renowned for their fascination with all types of fungi and molds, and many kept several varieties in their homes as household pets. Every summer, a competition was held to see who had the finest fungal-growth that resembled a celebrity or historical figure. Last year, Greta Cistern won top honors for a particularly fetid patch of mildew under her arm that many said looked like Attila the Hun eating a pineapple.
One major reason for the town's isolationist policies was that the only sure way to get to Timbrook was by way of a single road that wound its way through the nearby swamps and forests, then past several hog farms, before passing through a small opening in the crater's rim. The road ended at the village entrance, and since few outsiders ever made it that far, had come to be called 'the road to nowhere'.
The town had only three major buildings; each one constructed entirely of mud, straw, chicken bones, and old socks.
The largest of these structures was the 'Cathedral of Habitual Motion', where the local peasants gathered every Sunday. Once inside the dilapidated hovel, they would sing songs, read assorted rodent entrails, and gnaw on the few wooden pews left in the place. The town's priest, or 'Honcho el Grande,' as he preferred to be called, would begin each service with a rousing speech about how wonderful life will surely be ― after we all drop dead.
For several hours, or at least until the last scrap of wood in the place had been eaten, he would drone on and on about all the magnificent pleasures awaiting everyone once their heart explodes, or they happen to stumble into a pool of quicksand, or they're trampled to death by a stampeding herd of carnie-barkers. As he explained it, "Heaven is a place where a person could find the answers to the great eternal questions, like: "Who am I?" "How did I get here?" and "Where the hell is my underwear?"
After each Sunday service, most of the residents of Timbrook would go directly to the second tallest building in the village — the town pub. The sign above the establishment read: "Joe's Pesticides and Lawn Chair Outlet", but most just called it 'the drunk tank.' It was there that the townspeople would drink several large barrels of ale, rum, stale wine, old laundry water, distilled sweat, various pastes and glues, boiled asphalt, and a wide assortment of paint thinners and industrial solvents — damn near anything to catch a buzz.
After they drank the place dry, they would finish the night off by eating the empty barrels.
Yes, times were sometimes hard for these poor, delusional hooch-hounds, but these were not the worst of times. The actual worst of times had occurred twenty-six years earlier, during the summer of 1109 (also known as 'the summer of love'), when all the frogs and toads in Europe held their annual convention in the humble village. From the far corners of the continent, millions of these amphibians, of every shape, size, and political affiliation, gathered together and crammed themselves into the small valley. They held several meetings and conducted seminars on such topics as: "The ABC's of catching flies", "Is tongue length linked to sexual virility?" and "Coping with a troubled tadpole."
They participated in croaking contests and tongue-target-practice, and played their favorite game ― leap-frog ― of course. They conducted workshops on lily-pad construction, swamp reclamation tips, and how to bully a salamander.
When they finally departed, the entire valley was littered with empty beer cans and cigarette butts. It took the residents of Timbrook three full months to clean up the mess and all they received for their hard work and inconvenience was a couple of expired tokens to "Big-Eyed Pete's Insect Buffet and Salad Bar."
Those was definitely the worst days of the Timbrookian's lives, for when frogs and toads get together in large numbers, they are likely to start licking one another, and soon after, lose their tiny amphibian minds on the strange, hallucinogenic substances they tend to secrete when either sexually aroused or playing blackjack.
The residents of Timbrook quickly came to realize that there are few things in life more frightening than a large, googly-eyed, whacked-out, bullfrog ― especially when it starts to believe it is Jim Morrison.
The best of times happened about ten years earlier, when a remarkable wood-nymph queen visited the area. Her name was Queenie Ambrolicious, and she arrived in Timbrook amid much fanfare ― accompanied by her traveling horde of elves, brownies, sprites, and Bolivian bellboys. With great benevolence, she cast a spell upon the local residents so that whenever anyone spoke the magic word ― 'polystyrene' ― a large lump of cheese would suddenly materialize in their pants.
Huge feasts and small cocktail parties were given in her honor for bestowing upon the peasants such an abundance of edible dairy products, as well as for finally putting something within their trousers that was actually worth reaching inside for.
Then, one day, a grub-farmer by the name of Elmer Gantry, while hanging numerous pairs of pants on a rope — in order to collect more cheese — spied Queenie Ambrolicious turning several of the townspeople's children into little blue armadillos and forcing them to play the castanets.
A mob soon formed and the shapely villain was tracked down and immediately put under hut arrest. After a lengthy ten minute trial, she was taken outside the town ― de-winged, tarred-and-feathered, and made the mascot of the local hockey team.
There is no doubt among the townspeople though, that those were definitely the best days of their lives, for a person can never have enough free cheese in their diet, even if it does smell like crotch-rot and old dungarees.
Tales of those special days were often mumbled, screamed, and stuttered in the Timbrook pub, along with other strange tales, personal confessions, and celebrity gossip ― which just goes to show that when a person's stomach is full of hard liquor and partially-digested wood, they're liable to say just about anything.
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