Hitard the Fool
by Austin Nash
illustration by John Tescher
Hitard the Fool stood in the doorway at the top of the stairs leading from his dank and dreary chambers and began to rehearse the properties of de Cusa’s Coincindentia Oppositorum theory. It stated that the greatest being can be nothing more than great and nothing less, lest he not be the greatest being. And likewise, the least being can be neither greater nor less, that he not be the least being. This made the greatest (God) and the least (Hitard) equal, and gave the fool the right to represent God. Big fucking deal, Hitard thought. God can’t be much if He is anything like me.
Hitard was very well hung. This fact was prone to elicit many good jokes from himself, the King’s guests, and royal court members. Everybody loves dick jokes. Hitard stood in his quarters and opened the slit in the front of his hose and got out his dick. He looked at the dick. The dick didn’t feel like his, and in truth, it was not. He placed on the dick a diamond-studded sheath he sported at the insistence of Her Majesty, Queen Lydia. Mother of three daughters, the youngest of three herself. The King had all but given up on her loins for a son, and she on his.
Hitard put the dick away and swung his juggling balls and bauble over his shoulder in their lamb’s-hide bag, three-string and bow in the other hand, and stepped into the court. He was just in time to see King Edmund Ironside ride in on his rain-sodden roan and drunkenly dismount. The stallion crapped on the flagstone. The King turned and bawled out some of his henchmen because he was the King. He ordered them out and a flagon of mead in. Hitard went into his routine.
“I have something special for you tonight, Sire,” said the jester. “A bit of a story, and a little song. But I shall do it while glugging you grog.” Hitard grabbed the King’s flagon from the bottom step, bit into the rim and threw his head back and guzzled with no hands while striking up a song on the fiddle. He sang into the bubbles while the mead ran down over his face, drenching both man and accompanying raiment.
I once was a lonely sort
rescued from love by this court
I’d be not so happy
to give up my life
If not for the turns
that I get at your wife!
And the mead was gone.
“AAAAHHHHHHH HA HA HA HA… ofhglurgchougfua-slap slap slap. Ohhhh, my gut. Hahahahahahahah.” The King’s face began to redden as he rocked forward, almost losing his ill retained balance. “You have what I need Joculator, or E-joculator or whatever.”
“Hitard, Sire.”
“Right. Retard. Hahahah ah ahhaahhaaa.”
Jerk off, thought Hitard. He gave a wink to the Queen. She smiled and put a kerchief to her lips and pretended to cough. The King sent out for more mead. The harder he laughed, the more his blood rushed, and the faster he drank the mead. Hitard could and had drank him under the table on many occasions. Hitard had gotten drunk enough one time to take to the dining table and pee in the mead bowl. Ironside was drunk enough to have himself fettered for the remainder of the evening and promptly flogged naked before the commoners at the gate at sunrise. Hitard held this against the scepter sucker.
“Sire, what do you call a King losing a joust on a donkey?” asked Hitard.
“Ha ha. I’m afraid… hahahaha… to ask. Ohhh, oho oh…”
“Throne on his Ass.”
“AAAAHHHHHH HA HA HA HA HA HA. OOOOOhhhhh HA HA… ofhglurg-Ohhh.” Edmund gagged and burped up some spit on his burgundy tunic. “TELL ME ANOTHER, TELL ME ANOTHER!!”
The Queen rolled her eyes a bit, in pure disgust. The King bounced a loud fart off the polished granite throne. The mead girl groaned.
“Dear Sire?”
“Yes, bard. ANOTHER FLAGON OF MEAD, WENCH!! Ha… haha… hoooo. Yes, what is it next?”
“What did your mother say when she found out she was pregnant with you?” asked Hitard.
“Don’t tell me, I SHOULD HAVE JUMPED UP AND DOWN AFTERWARD?!! Ha ha ha ha.”
“No, but I wish I’d thought of that,” Hitard said in slight disappointment. “She said ‘The Friar told me I wouldn’t get pregnant in the ass’.”
“AAAAHHHHHHH HA HA HA HA. OOOOOhhhhh HA HA… ofhglurg-chougfua. Ohhh, my gut again!”
Hitard did two back flips with the fiddle in one hand and a mead in the other, slipped on the horse shit, and fell and hit his head on the cold flagstone. The fiddle followed up and came down on his nose. He sat up dazed, with blood dripping down over his lip. King Edmund fell from the throne and puked all over himself and lay there moaning with a spilled flagon of mead running down the gray stained steps of the throne. Hitard staggered to his feet and walked a few circles. The Queen was there just in time to catch him before he fell again. She took charge.
“GUARDS! Take his royal asshole to his quarters,” she commanded pointing to Edmund. “You know what to do.”
“Yes, my liege.”
Queen Lydia helped Hitard down the slippery steps to his quarters.
“Jesus! Where am I?” asked Hitard.
“Where do you think?”
“Hell,” he said, looking around with glazed eyes.
“No, silly. You are right where I want you. You’ll be good… fine, I mean,” said Lydia.
“Ohhhh no. No you don’t. My head hurts like I hit it on a flagstone after a magnificent back flip and slipping on some horse shit.”
“Who’s the Queen around here?”
“Well… you, I guess.”
“You guess?” Lydia added accusingly.
“Look. I’ve just had a rough spill. You’ll have to forgive me.”
“Oh, I will. But not for free, E-jack-ulator.”
“Please, call me Retard.”
“O.K… Retard.”
“I didn’t mean now.”
Queen Lydia paced across the stone floor several times, breathing as if she were blowing smoke centuries old. She stopped with the left foot swung up on the arm of the chair occupied by Hitard, and looked down at him with a commanding glare. He looked up at her like a retard. Lydia dropped the green robe at the waist and started on the buttons at the bosom. She smiled down at him. The Gods were afraid of her at times like these. She had on no undergarments, and stepped the left foot forward dropping the cloth to the dampened floor, and pulled Hitard toward her. Hitard dove into her virtue, and his thoughts began to spin as usual. He had dreams of heaven, of picnics in the countryside, of collecting oysters at the shore, of his head on the block at sunrise in front of the assholes he hated.
She began to moan and rock. Hitard worked harder. His tongue began to tire and numb at the feeling of a nine-volt battery pressed to it. (Come on, Hitard… complete the circuit or it’ll be your head.) He dug harder. Then the ax fell. She pulled at his ears. He pulled at her ass. She stepped back, staggering and gasping, not like one would expect from a Queen. She grabbed at the jug blissfully and had a good hook.
Lydia staggered around the room a few more times as if in some ancient passionate dance meant for one, and lit a fag. She breathed smoke like a she-dragon guarding a daughter’s virtue, and undid the last button at her shirt waist. Naked, she turned to Retard, who was dazed and had sprung the slit in his hose, exposing the delicately studded sock. “On the rags, E-jack-ulator!!” she ordered, and pointed as the green ribbons in her hair danced with the thunder outside.
“Can I take it off this time?” the jester asked, pointing to the sock, eyebrows raised in plead.
“Of course not, dummy. I juggle the balls around here,” she chimed. “What if I was to get pregnant by you and have a child?”
“It would slide out, do three backflips, grab a jug of mead, tell a few jokes, and get to be king on top of it. It wouldn’t be so bad,” Retard replied.
“And what would my subjects say?”
“Your subjects?”
“Come on. You know who’s drunk and who calls the shots around here. Speaking of shots,” Lydia had another hook from the jug.
“You’re all I’ve ever wanted in a woman,” said Retard watching the jug and her admiringly.
“I know. You’re all I’ve ever wanted in a lay,” she came back.
At that, Retard jumped up, grabbed him some Queen, and worked her back against the rags. He had that diamond hard up and worked it in. He picked up the pace, and Lydia worked her legs in the air, gyrating and ripping yet another pair of Retards’ hose. She screamed several times and Retard blew his stack thanking his Gods, whoever they were, that he had survived another ride on the Queen of Dingleberry, and rolled off to the side.
Lydia dressed with what she wanted, some clothing and some pride at her successful manipulation of her favorite sucker. He was easy. When it gets boring, she thought, I’ll have him put to the block. She wiggled up the dank steps turning and blowing Retard a kiss, with her velvet-strung paleness, and her satisfaction at being the greatest ruled by the least. They were equals. They were God.
