Chapter 9: The Labradoodles (Part 1)

The first thing Andrew heard was the yapping.

It was a chorus of annoyance, a choir of harassment, a perfectly off-pitch refrain of pain. They were labradoodles and labradoodles never shut up. Yet Andrew couldn't find them too annoying. They were cute dogs. Cudly. Affectionate. He watched them play together in the field, watching from behind the tall, wooden fence. Clearly these were dogs of superior genetic breeding, and did not suffer from some of the genetic disadvantages of pure bred poodles or pure bred labradors. Andrew knew that labradoodles were well well suited for special work such as Assistance dogs, Hearing or Seizure Alert dogs, or Guide dogs. He had never known them to be effective guard dogs though...

His feet perched on the lower rung of the fence, Andrew stared out past the large green, over the fifty or so labradoodles, and into the stables. He did not see a shovel anywhere. It was must be inside the stables in some kind of utility closet, Andrew thought to himself.

He formulated a plan in his head. He would hop the fence, run as fast as he could, run through the stables, see if he saw the shovel, and run out. Then on his next pass he would run through and grab the shovel. Yes. This was fool proof, and would only require him to run quickly. These were two things that Andrew liked in a plan.

Just as Andrew was about to jump the fence, a trumpet sounded. He stopped, and hid behind a bush. Across the green he could see the gates open and, low and behold, the Goblin King trotted in on his horse. The yapping stopped in his presence, and the dogs sat, well behaved. Behind the Goblin King were his two menacing accountants: Matt Horn the human, and Harold the Ogre. In between the two was a shackled, hooded prisoner.

Seeing this prisoner, the labradoodles began to salivate. Andrew had failed to notice the gaunt look about their faces and their ribs poking out beneath the skin. These creatures were starving.

The Goblin King hopped off his horse and ran to the labradoodles. They jumped up and pawed at him and licked his face. One fuzzy peach colored dog gnawed at his hand and the Goblin King tossed him aside.

"Who's ready for meal time?" the King asked his dogs. They all barked in unison, the saliva dripping from their exposed canines. The King gestured to the prisoner. "Bring him."

The two accountants grabbed the man by his arms, dragging him forward. His heels dug into the ground as he screamed, "Nooo! Not the dogs! Not the dogs!"

Fifty pairs of labradoodle eyes snapped to him. They threw him to the ground. All at once they were on him. Andrew turned to look away, but not before he saw the first dog indulge into the pirsoner's jugular. He listened for another thirty seconds to the sounds of crunching and muching, then turned back. A black colored dog chewed on a femur. Another licked the man's clavicle clean.

The Goblin King turned to Matt. "Take a dozen horses to carry the gold to the Giants. Their price is steep, yes, but it's not my money!" The Goblin King laughed as the two rounded up the horses and left.

Andrew took a few deep breathes and promptly vomitted on his new shoes. He had just watched slash heard a man be consummed by cute puppies. After getting over this filthy act, Andrew grew angry for a myriad of reasons. First of all, he was angry that his plan would not work. These were not the cute cudly labradoodles he had imagined having around the house with his lovely future wife Eliza. They were not the labradoodles that would make good Seizure Alert Dogs. These were ravenous beasts that he could not simply run by. So, for one, he had to change his plan. Secondly, he had heard enough of the Goblin King's conversation that he knew his money was on its way to the Giants of Ostertagg. If the Giants got his money, it would be even harder for him to recoup the loan and return to his bank. Thirdly, he was still angry that he had vomitted on his shoes. They were nice shoes. He made a mental note to find Chris Hoshek and get another pair. Until then, Andrew would need to think of a plan to get into the stables and find that magical shovel...

NEXT TIME ON MEDIEVAL LENDER: ANDREW'S PLAN TO GET PAST THE 'DOODLES

Chapter 8: The Stables (A brief diversion)

Before we return to Andrew and his quest to retreive the shovel for Justin Weissman so that he may stop the goblin, collect his money, and return to his fair love, a brief interlude:

CHAPTER 8: THE STABLES (WHERE THE SHOVEL IS)

The stables were originally located two miles to the east of the Goblin King's Castle at the far end of the ancestral hunting grounds. As a child the Goblin King resented the fact that every morning at 10am he would have to walk two miles to go to his riding lesson. When his father died of natural causes (or so they say), and no one could tell him what to do anymore, the Goblin King moved the stables to his most fun place: the dungeon. Here he could access them without much trouble, and prevent his horses from having fun without him.

By moving the stables to the dungeon, he also uprooted the utitility shed that serviced the stables. This was a small, brown box of a room filled with things like pick axes, shovels, dynamite, bricks, stone cutting blades, and cement. Most of these things had been there forever, and the stable hands preferred to just leave them there and never clean it out. The King never thought it was strange that the majority of the things in this utility shed had nothing to do with horses, but everything to do with masonry.

The truth about this utility shed was that it was where the masons who originally built the castle had kept their tools. Why had they never retrieved them? Well, for one, the castle was built over three hundred years ago. And, for two, the masons had been imprisoned in the dungeon by the Goblin King's great great great grandfather, where they had promptly died.

Now, these masons, they were no ordinary masons. They had been trained in the mountains of Sasafras, and studied under the tutellage of Greg the Fixer Upper, the most wise and sagely of all masons. With the death of the masons, a great construction drought fell over the land, and banks became flush with cash to lend, since there were no more commercial lending opportunities. The masons had but one daughter. Jennifer. Jennifer married a banker, a Ferdinand Weissman. These were Justin Weissman's great great grandparents. And there was a story the Weissman's passed down from wanna-be mason to wanna-be mason.

"The Goblin King killed our ancestors and took our shovel! We'd be rich now, Justin! Rich! If only we had the Gold Digger's Shovel..."

Yes, the Gold Digger's shovel. Every night before getting tucked into bed, Justin had heard about the Gold Digger's shovel. Rumor was that it would make older women with money fall in love with you. Others said that just digging it into the ground made gold appear. Further rumor insisted that it was not a shovel at all, but was actually made from the melted Philosopher's Stone, and that it's tip would turn anything it touched to gold.

Of course, Andrew knew nothing of the Gold Digger's Shovel. All he knew is that Justin would show him the way out if he retrieved it.

Andrew approached the stables. He could smell horse manure. He could hear the rabid labradoodles barking. Fear struck him like an ice pick to the heart. But he was wearing a good suit which made him feel confident. Perhaps he would survive this after all...

Chapter 7: Continued...

"Line eight hundred and thirty two..." Andrew said, flipping through the large contract. Hoshek sighed, resting his elbows on the oak table. Andrew pulled the candelabra closer and continued to read, squinty eyes and all. "Borrower shall have no less than thirteen button down shirts or the covenant will be null and void, rendering all clothes in the possession of the borrower to Hoshek."

Andrew looked up from the contract. "This line says that if I own less than thirteen button down shirts, you get all my clothing!"

"So..." Hoshek said, shrugging his shoulders. “That’s standard contractual clothing language.”

"Regardless, I want it stricken!" Andrew said, putting his hands to his hips.
"Fine."

Andrew smiled and took his red pen and drew a line through the sentence. He handed the pen to Hoshek who initialed the change. Andrew took the pen and initialed the change as well. He flipped the page.

"Very well, continuing on..."

This proceeded for the next five hours. Andrew's changes to the contract included removing stipulations regarding transfer of ownership of children, boats, farm animals, non-farm animals, pets, hunting ranges, dried fruits, and an assortment of bedding materials. And yet they had still not finished the contract.

"If you make one more change!" Hoshek threatened, rubbing his temples in a counter-clockwise motion.

"Sir -- Sir we are in negotiations. I read every line of every contract, and if you think, for one second, I am just going to sign this and-"
"PLEASE SHUT UP!" Hoshek yelled.

"Well, now that's not very polite at all," Andrew said. "And we're nearly half-way through the contract. We'll make it. Now, line fifteen hundred and twelve-"

"No... no. No more contract..." Hoshek lamented, nearly at tears. "Please... just... the suit is yours. It's a gift. Just GO!"

And with this Hoshek threw the suit at Andrew, packed up his table and wares, and disappeared into the closet from which he came.

This dungeon just gets weirder and weirder, Andrew thought to himself as he slipped the suit on.

NEXT ON MEDIEVAL LENDER: THE STABLES, THE LABRADOODLES, AND THE SHOVEL!

Chapter 7: The Predatory Lenders

Andrew had particular tastes for his clothing. If food or drink spilled on a sleeve, he would immediately change shirts. If he sweat too much, he would immediately change shirts. If he felt that his shirt was the wrong color, he would immediately change shirts. At 12th Century Bank, he was often referred to as "the shirt mongerer" or "Superman," for his ability to seemingly change costumes in the blink of an eye.

Thus it was no surprise that when Andrew stumbled upon a table filled with clean shirts, he stopped to peruse the wears. His shirt was now drenched in sweat, caked in mud, and even had some of his own dry blood on it from that awful dungeon/torture scenario that the evil Goblin Borrower had put him in. "Grrr," Andrew thought to himself. "I'll get that Goblin!" But for now, he thumbed through the assortment of t-shirts, some with slogans like, "My brother died in the Goblin's dungeon and all I got was this stupid t-shirt."

No sooner had he taken the shirt in his hand when a man approached him. "You like what you see? You like what you see?" the man said, with a speed and guile that made Andrew practically have to respond, "Yes! I like what I see."

"Hoshek," the man said, extending his hand.

"Andrew." They shook.

"So. What can I do for you?" Hoshek asked, holding up an Armani button down with french cuffs.

"I was actually wondering if I could have a shirt," Andrew asked, holding up the t-shirt he had picked out.

"Oh, you don't want THAT shirt. You're a banker, right?"
"Right."
"Banker's gotta look baller. Banker's gotta show that they're rolling with the big shots. I know exactly what you want."

Hoshek walked off into the back closet. Andrew was continually amazed by the strange rooms and people that inhabited this dungeon. A clothing vendor with a closet? What was he doing here in the first place? Hoshek stepped out, holding a suit bag in his hands. He unzipped the bag, revealing a navy suit.

"Hugo Boss. Try it on."

"Oh, I couldn't," Andrew said. "Alright."

Andrew emerged from the back room in the suit. He inspected himself in the mirror.

"I look good," Andrew said, adjusting the silk tie.

"You look like a million bucks, you beautiful son-of-a-bitch." Hoshek smiled. "The suit was made for you."
"Excellent! I'll take it." Andrew reached for his pockets, but then he remembered he had been imprisoned in a crazy dungeon, and had no wallet or money to speak of.

"It seems I've misplaced my wallet... do you do lay-away?"

"Woah woah woah woah woah woah!" Hoshek said. "You belong in this suit. You don't have enough money to pay for it. But me? I'm a nice guy. I know you. You're a friend. A good guy. A reliable guy, right?"
Andrew nodded. He was good and reliable! This Hoshek sure knew him well.

"I'm gonna make you a deal..." Hoshek said, and pulled out a stack of papers. He held them up to Andrew. "Let's finance this purchase, huh? I can offer you a sub-prime tiered rate! It's like I'm giving you money!"

Andrew took the papers from Hoshek. It was a very nice suit indeed, but sometimes large contractual documents could lead to trouble. Hoshek handed him a pen, and pointed to the dotted line.

"So what's your answer? We got ourselves a deal?"

CHAPTER 7 CONTINUES... Will Andrew take the deal? Will he get the "shovel" that Justin Weissman has sent him to retrieve? Will he ever see his sweet love or 30 pounds of gold again?

NEXT TIME ON MEDIEVAL LENDER!

Chapter 6: The Pit of Terrible Curse Words

Andrew had taken forty-five steps through the darkness before heard someone call out, "Hey you, nerd!"

It was hard to tell exactly where the voice was coming from. "Hi, I'm looking for some sort of pit I have to cross?" Andrew said.

"The Pit of Terrible, Bad, Really Bad, Curse Words! I am its guardian, Kyle Mahoney, and you will soon be my prisoner!!!"
"Prisoner?" Andrew replied.  He took a step forward and tumbled down into a dirt hole. 

"Ouch!" Andrew exclaimed as he landed on a particularly pointy stone.

"Ha, ha! Ha, ha!" Kyle exclaimed as he danced around the hole. "Now I will make you listen to all sorts of awful, mean, feeling-hurting words!!!" 

"Well, alright," he said, as he crossed his legs and sat on the rock. "But if I'm going to be here for a while, do you think I could have some food and drink?" 

"No! You will suffer and be in pain!" Kyle said, dancing around gleefully. 

"Very well, get it on with it then."

Kyle circled the hole. 

"You're fat!" he said. Andrew stood and lifted his shirt up. He hadn't eaten well in at least a week. His ribs were showing.

"I am not fat," Andrew said. 

Frustrated, Kyle pointed down at him, "Fine, maybe you're not, but poop on you!"

"Poop on me?" Andrew repeated out loud. "Is that your idea of cursing?" 

"No! Meanie!" Kyle jumped up and down at this curse word.

"That's not very good either. For a pit of terrible curse words this is quite tame indeed."

"Well, do you have any better words?" Kyle asked. 

Andrew thought for a moment. "If I tell you some words, will you let me out and point me in the direction of the predatory lenders?" 

Kyle thought about this, then nodded his head. "But they must be truly awful curse words! Things that would make your mother slap you!" 

Andrew didn't want mothers to slap him, but he had no choice. "I'm a man of morals, so I dare not say them aloud, but I will give you a hint as to what they are. The first is a male chicken. The second is what happens when you cut your finger. The third is something that rhymes with a type of fowl." 

Kyle thought long and hard. A sneaky grin came across his face. He dropped a rope ladder down to Andrew. Kyle gave him a good, firm handshake. "The predatory lenders are deeper in the dungeon. Down the staircase to your left. Thanks for the words."
"No problem," Andrew said, as he he headed for the staircase.

"Now get out of here you... rooster! You... infection! You... puck!" Kyle gleefully yelled out his new curse words, feeling completely evil. "Watch out roosters! The pit of terrible curse words is cursing again! Now go infect yourself with a puck!"

NEXT TIME ON MEDIEVAL LENDER: The Predatory Lenders Prime! 

Chapter 5: The Path to The Shovel

The cell was lit by two torches. Andrew was seated on what appeared to be a futon. He wondered how Justin had managed to get the futon into the cell in such good shape. Perhaps he had bought it off a prisoner who was leaving. But then how would that prisoner have gotten the futon? Or maybe Justin had reupholstered the seat. It was a quite a conundrum. He would've asked, but Justin was occupied assembling trivial objects on top of the throw rug. It took Justin twice as long because he only had one functioning hand. Andrew didn't want to break his concentration. 

"This stick is the north corridor. This button, is the pit. That spec of blood is the search light that monitors the lenders. You keep going, eventually, the shovel," Justin said, pointing with his stubby, gruesome, nub of an arm at the hole in the ground they called a toilet, "is here." 

Andrew walked to the hole and looked in it for a good, long time. 

"I hate to break it to you, Mr. Weissman, but there is no shovel in this feces hole." 

"The hole represents the stables," Justin said. Justin waited a minute. Andrew didn't get it. "Whatever. Just go that way for a while, get past the pit of terrible curse words, navigate the predatory lenders, and defeat the labradoodles."

"All for a shovel?" Andrew asked. 

Justin's face grew red with fury.

"Did you unlock yourself from the forever hanging wall?! No! I set you free! You owe me, goddamnit!"Justin yelled. Flicks of saliva went on Andrew's face. "ALL I WANT IS ONE SHOVEL!"

Andrew sat up from the futon. Justin had a lot of pent up rage. Perhaps Justin had stolen the futon! Yes. That must be the answer.

"Now get! And don't come back without my shovel!" Justin yelled.

Andrew walked out of the cell and down the corridor. What had Justin said about some kind of pit? And predators? Oh well, Andrew thought to himself. If this is what I must do to see Eliza and recoup my charge-off, then so be it. 

He looked behind him. A drizzle of light still radiated from Justin's torches.  

He took a step forward and the darkness consumed him. There was no turning back.

NEXT TIME ON... MEDIEVAL LENDER: The Pit of Terrible Curse Words!

Chapter 4: The Dungeon Master

The grapes were sweet and plump. Andrew thought they would make a nice Chardonnay with some patience and knowledge. He held out his hand to Eliza. She took the grape and popped it in her mouth. The ice in the mountains had melted with May's weather and now, with June ambling through, the stream had become a river. Eliza lay back on the blanket, enjoying the sun on her face and the babble of the water.  Andrew gazed at her lovingly.

"Why don't we come here every day?" she asked Andrew, taking his hand in hers.

"We will," he said, admiring her green eyes.

"But how? You're in a dungeon in the land of the Goblin King." 

Andrew looked at her quizzically. "That's impossible I'm right here with-" 

"Open yer mouth!" the Goblin yelled, hurling two full ladels of slop at his face. Crappy pants, Andrew thought to himself. It was only a dream! The slop dribbled down his neck, less than half reaching its destination. He was hanging by his wrists in the dungeon.The goblin continued down past the other hanging prisoners, hurling food in their general direction. 

His thoughts returned to Eliza. Would he ever see her again? Would he ever tell her how he really felt? 

"You'll see Eliza again..." a voice said from the darkness. 

"What? How did you know I was thinking about that?" Andrew asked, amazed.

"This dungeon makes people lose their internal monologue," the voice responded. 

He's lying, Andrew thought to himself.

"I'm not lying!" the man said. "And if you want to get out of here, you'll have to trust me." 

Trust him? Andrew had just met this man. And the man could read his mind!

"I'm not reading your mind, you idiot. You're saying this all out loud." 

That couldn't be, Andrew thought to himself.
"Alright, I'm sick of this..." the man said, as he began to shuffle away.

"No, wait- I'm sorry! How will I see Eliza again?" 

"By doing exactly what I say." 

"Very well. Then tell me who you are..."

"I am," the man said, as he emerged into the light. "Justin Weissman." 

"Ok." Andrew stared at him blankly.

"We worked together. Remember? At the bank?"

Andrew shook his head.
"Seriously, you don't remember? Business Development. Justin Weissman" 

Andrew didn't.

"Whatever. I don't have time for this." 

Justin pulled a key from around his neck and unlocked Andrew's shackles. 

"I'm working on escaping. But I need a shovel." Justin said. "And you're going to get it for me."

A shovel, but where would he find one of those?

"In the stables, but it won't be easy," Justin replied. "They're guarded by ravenous labradoodles." 

"Labradoodles!? How bad could that be?" 

Justin lifted his left arm up and showed Andrew the end of it. There was no hand, only a festering stub.

Crappy pants, Andrew thought to himself.

"Crappy pants, indeed."

NEXT TIME ON MEDIEVAL LENDER: WILL ANDREW GET THE SHOVEL? HOW WILL HE NAVIGATE THE LABRADOODLES!? 

Chapter 3: Lon, The Goblin King (cont.)

Lon left Andrew in the great hall to attend to business. “I’ll return in five minutes,” Lon told him. And then Andrew was alone. He plopped down into one of the dark brown feasting chairs and set about admiring the room. There was clearly a lot of value left in this castle. The golden feasting horn would fetch at least 5 pounds of gold. The tapestries of the Goblin civil uprising, which took place, thankfully, before Andrew was born, would fetch another 10. The silverware was worth its weight in silver. But the real question wasn’t whether there was value left in the castle – it was whether Andrew would be able to get it from Lon.

The meal they ate was aged mutton with cranberry sauce and foot of the elf. Andrew had a bite of the mutton and swallowed, smiling up at Lon. It was the two of them, and then two of Lon’s “accountants.” To Lon’s left was his right hand man, Matthew Shorn, a fierce goblin accountant with an eye for value, literally. His right eye had been given to him by a Wharton financial wizard and allowed him to know the price of anything it gazed upon. His left eye remained viable for seeing and depth perception. Matthew glanced at a gold ring on Andrew’s finger.

“Nice ring,” Matthew said.

“Thank you!” Andrew said, picking up the elf foot on his plate and seeing if there was a good spot to bite into. Andrew could see Matthew opening his right eye to get a better look at the ring.

“Wait, never mind. It’s fake, not worth more than a few sheckles,” Matthew said, and went back to devouring the mutton.

To Lon’s left was his other accountant, Harold. Harold was an ogre. Harold had a large club in his hand. Andrew found himself intimidated by Harold. He also suspected that perhaps Harold was not an accountant.

Andrew smiled politely and put down the foot of Elf.

“So, I love what you’ve done with the castle,” Andrew said.

Silence.

“Why are you here… banker?” Lon said. He said “banker” as if bankers were cockroaches, and Lon’s boot was six inches off the ground, ready to squish.

“Well! I am glad you asked, glad you asked…” Andrew said, chuckling nervously as he smoothed out his delicate mustache and toyed with his fake ring. “You see… I was expecting a payment on my 50 pound gold loan!” Andrew waited, staring at the three of them.  “I never got the payment.”

“When were you expecting the payment?” Matthew asked him.

“Six months ago,” Andrew said.

“And what makes you think I’d pay?” Lon asked.

“You signed this agreement letter,” Andrew said, fishing it out of his satchel and holding it up to them. Lon took the letter, glanced at it, and then handed it to Harold. Harold then ate the letter, staring angrily at Andrew as he chewed and swallowed.

Andrew shook with fear. He stood and offered his hand to Lon. “Always a pleasure seeing you – I’ll show myself out.” Lon gestured to Harold.

“Not so fast. Take Mr. Cranston to the dungeon.” Harold nodded, and proceeded to lift Andrew up and throw him over his shoulder.

“You’ll regret this Lon! I work for a very powerful bank! I’ll get my money back!!!” Andrew yelled as he was dragged off.

“No, Mr. Cranston. You will rot in my dungeon with all the other creditors as I use your money to assemble the largest army the City of Century has ever seen,” Lon said, smiling at Matthew. “You see, once I control this kingdom, it won’t matter what my credit score is!”

All Andrew could hear was Lon’s deep, goblin laugh as Harold dragged him down, down, down into the darkest depths of the Goblin dungeon.

TOMORROW: Will Andrew Die in the Dungeon? Who will he meet there? Will Lon’s credit score go down!? On…. ANDREW CRANSTON: MEDIEVAL LENDER!

Chapter 3: Lon, The Goblin King

Andrew ran his hand against the tall granite walls of the Goblin castle. Granite of this type could only come from the mountains of Ergu, to the north. The shipping costs alone would’ve accounted for a third of the 500 pound gold loan he had made to Lon, King of the Goblins.

“Hey you!” someone yelled from atop the wall. Andrew brought his hand above his eyes to block the sun, craning his head to see who addressed him. It was a young Goblin, no more than eight or nine, but already thick and strong like a bull. “What you doing down there?” the Goblin asked.

“I’m from 12^th Century Bank!” Andrew yelled back. “I need to speak to Lon!”

The Goblin gave him a cockeyed look. “You want to speak to Lon? Lon the Terrible? He who ravages and pillages with disregard for human life!? He that eats whole children at Sunday Brunch? He who’s bowel movements cause the earth to quake?”

“Yes, exactly! I need to talk to him about his HELOC,” Andrew said, waving a thick green credit file up in the air. 

The Goblin bit off a piece of leather and chewed it in his mouth. He swallowed and disappeared from Andrew’s view.

“A curious Goblin indeed,” Andrew thought to himself. Andrew also wondered if that Goblin’s salary had been listed on the payroll sheet he had spread a month a earlier. Another minute passed. Were they going to let him in? He stared at the giant oak doors. He heard the thumping of feet, then grunting. The doors opened. And then Andrew saw him. The eater of children. The horrible of horrible. The creditor who knew no fear. It was Lon, King of the Goblins.  

“Mr. Cranston!” Lon exclaimed, his baritone voice filling the dry morning air. Lon was a few inches shorter than Andrew, but his hands were twice as large. Andrew noticed a small piece of brown meat between his crooked teeth. It was almost enough to distract from Lon's body odor and slug infested scalp. “Come in. Come in. We have much to discuss.”

“We do indeed!” Andrew said. Lon gestured for Andrew to follow him. As Andrew walked into the castle, past the battle axes and cross bows, the spears and broad swords, the cauldrons of oil set atop stacks of wood, ready for boiling, a foreboding chill crept up his spine. Perhaps there were other non-accrual loans he could’ve called on first. Harold the armless owed him 50 pounds of gold, and Gretta the mute 25 pounds. Yes, perhaps he could go visit them!

But before he could act on this thought, the doors locked behind him. Andrew wasn’t going anywhere.

Will Andrew get his money back? Is there any value in this castle? Is Lon going to war!? You’ll have to wait until the next installment of…. ANDREW CRANSTON: MEDIEVAL LENDER!