Hail, pilgrim. You stand before His Lordship (dat me), and a mandatory audience is in order. Before you is a tale of Homeric proportions; a yarn spun with fat fingers and threaded with a needle that I stepped on in the bathroom this morning. This is a tale of oddities and normalcy, of finders and keepers, of the weapon known as Turd Cleave, The Poo Hammer. Fill your mug to the brim, bask in the warmth of your screen and lend me your eye as I scribe the origin of how I acquired such a blade.
2010 CE: Nathaniel Benjamin Brusberg was enjoying a pleasant but not too pleasant summer day. Maryland humidity at its stickiest. "Loving it," he sighed under the shade of the arbor. Feeling the need for adventure, he walked 30 feet to the driveway of Stately Brusberg Manor, where he spots a post on the mailbox. Now our hero doesn't much like to read, which is exactly why I am writing this article, as he will never see it and dare to question the validity of this story, and neither should you. As I was saying, Nate didn't like to read, but something compelled him to skim a flier directing him to a yard sale that would only minorly change his life.
With wallet in tow did Nate travel from the prosperous holding of Parcel 5 to just across the street where the yard sale was being held. This was no ordinary yard sale. This was a grand gathering of neighbors with enough junk to rival "Hoarders." Much to Nate's dismay, the shopkeeps were all out of yards by the time he arrived. That did not stop him from finding a way to drain his pockets, however. Nate loved to spend, and was yearning for an honorable purchase to show the lads back home, and perhaps even attract the gaze of a fair lad-ess. It's not everyday you stumble upon a yard sale of this magnitude. It would be foolish to walk away without a novelty item one would buy solely on impulse, not considering practicality or expense. That's when Nate saw it. The relic.
The blade was old. Noticeably old, and duller than a meme thrice-posted. Nate instantly knew this was what he would be leaving with. He paid the merchant full price, because is haggling even allowed in our society anymore? Nate grasped the hilt and gave it a few swings. "Whoa!" he exclaimed, probably. Eager to awe the citizens of Parcel 5, he left the yard sale and sauntered back to the kingdom.
Upon his return to Cherry Hill Lane, some lads on the street were transfixed by this new, sexier Nate. Our hero walked through the crowd as if nothing was amiss. He was so cool. The silence of the younger lads was a mixture of surprise and jealousy. "Dude has a sword," one finally muttered. "Oy, Nate. Where'd you get that thing?" Nate gave a sharp smirk and bellowed, "This old thing? I bought it at a yard sale. Pretty cool, right?" It sure was. They questioned and questioned, and Nate answered and answered: "How much was it?" Did they have any more?" "What are you gonna do with it?" To these Nate responded, "Not important, 'fraid not and cool-guy stuff." The young seeds couldn't get over it. A damn sword! Like, what?! This blade made Nate a King amongst the peasants, but he retired to his court to savor the fame in small doses. Tomorrow he would indulge the townsfolk's curiosity. The secrets of this blade are what make it powerful and worth scribing about.
Nate entered his keep and admired his blade once more. It truly was fine to look upon. Something so beautiful needs a name. Nate could have given this sword a name with meaning, or a name with a reasonable context that would be important to him or a name that is telling of it's origin. "I shall call you Turd Cleave, The Poo Hammer," he said dead-ass. Turd Cleave, The Poo Hammer is a not-even play on words of "Glamdring, The Foe-Hammer," Gandalf's sword from "The Lord of the Rings" series, which I guarantee you Nate has not and will never read. Satisfied with the name, he placed the sword next to his bookshelf, an equally seldom-used object in his dwelling. Here Turd Cleave remained practically untouched for six winters until The Great Upheaval in 2016 CE.
The Great Upheaval was a traumatic period in Stately Brusberg Manor history. Alas, Nate decided it was time to leave the homestead for greener pastures. The constant and shrill shrieking of the court's African Gray parrot was too much to handle, and Nate had finally amassed a fortune large enough to travel to uncharted territory with like-minded millennials. Nate grabbed what he could and left for the land of Crofton, a promising new start for the bearded adult.
After Nate's departure, Robert Winston Brusberg the Youngest (dat me) investigated Nate's vacancy, which Robert believed was now his second room for yoga and resistance training in the winter months. Unbeknownst to Robert, this room was now intended to be a "guest room." Right, for company. Because we have that. Robert spotted Turd Cleave and claimed it as his own, elated that Nate had forgotten it. Robert detested the name "Turd Cleave," deeming it immature and unfitting of an object with so much potential. Robert held held up Turd Cleave, with two hands instead of one because he's a little frail in the biceps department, and spoke with a voice so pure even the angels thought he should chill. "It is true you have about as much combat effectiveness as a pair of Hulk Hands, but I recognize your greatness through your inefficiency. I shall call you 'Honest Effort,' for with a little elbow grease and hard work you can undoubtedly reach your full potential." He immediately took a picture and showed his friends, who responded with a resounding "Hell yeah."
So ends the tale of my acquisition of this rusty piece of metal. To this day I wish I knew more about where this weapon came from or why someone would sell this at a yard sale for a price affordable for an 18-year-old, but mayhaps knowing these facts would spoil the fun. Indeed, some things are best kept privy to us mortals. Perhaps the biggest question of all is if this blade was forged with organic iron in a gluten-free forge by a smithy named Doug, who owns seven rabbits (all rescues) and zero Facebook accounts. Not knowing this will haunt me to my grave.
