THE BATTLE OF THE PUDDLE: Diary Entry of Sir Clovis Jibbly the Ruthless on the Battle that Came Before

I needed to pee. A lot. On a scale of one to ten - off-scale.  

But this was a bad time. The worst.  

I had always dreamed of becoming a knight and riding into battle. And I had achieved just that, beginning as the lowliest floor scrubber only to rise tall as a royal knight with gleaming armour flashier than the sun. And it could ruin your eyes just as much.  

But now, just as the king had declared war up on the hill and gotten us all excited and ready to find the fleshy stuff with our swords, I could only think of one glorious word.  

Toilet. 

It sounded better than skewering a hundred enemy knights on my blade.  

My king threw his head back and unleashed a bloodcurdling screech, a sound I will remember even in my sleep as my kingdom’s battle cry. It was the ugliest sound I had ever heard.  

I charged forward - not for the sake of my kingdom - but for the sake of my own bladder that was about to explode like a firecracker. I may or may not have loaded up on too much Gatorade.  

And it was not my fault. I drank up my concoction in times that required determination and energy. Clearly, I had gone above and beyond in my first battle.  

I charged down the hill, one knight amongst a flood of silver knights, except I was the only one with a horse that was beginning to become irritated. I was twitching and squirming vigorously on top of it because my bladder would not leave me alone - the Gatorade was knocking on the door.  

I had heard that the kingdom of King Charles Winston the II was a kingdom of junk. Save one lovely specialty that was beginning to sound lovelier and lovelier by the nanosecond. King Charles Winston the II saw a huge importance and potential in portable toilets.  

At the moment as I flew through the tall grass on my irritated horse, I was just so happy they prized portable toilets like the godliest of gifts.  

My fellow knights had mostly stopped. Hell no, they were not in the mood to be stampeding through enemy lines like gorillas.  

But I,  

I rammed straight through to find that toilet.  

The enemy knights were panicking. They had not expected their opponents to be knightly or gallant. And I wished I could have been in the mood to explain.  

Soon enough, they snapped to attention and waved their swords at me like scary chicken drumsticks. My horse crushed their bodies as easy as dough. 

At last, their tents came into sight. Many of the knights were storming after me, screeching their heads off.  

My horse ran through every single tent, and to my dismay, the kingdom’s shiniest treasure was nowhere to be found. And the Gatorade was going to spurt. It swore it was going to. It scorched.

And I, newly handpicked royal knight, was going to cry.  

But I would not. I snatched a nearby enemy knight for hostage and demanded for directions to King Charles Winston the II’s personal tent. If anybody were to possess a portable toilet, it would be him. 

The knight pointed to the opposite side of the battlefield, and little to the left. The direction I had just come from. I shook him because he was just so bad at lying it made my bladder fire up even more.   

“It’s true! We set his tents up over there just in case you’d invade us all the way to here!” he squeaked.  

I flung him aside like a napkin and charged back to the battlefield.  

The enemy knights sensed my presence and whirled their swords on me. But they could not stop me. I needed to come through. I needed to get to the other side. I NEEDED TO PEE. It was like denying a tiger of its instinct to shred and tear. I made every single one of them regret standing between me and the toilet. (Even if they were knights from my own kingdom caught at the wrong place at the wrong time.)  

After ending what felt like fifty horrible lifetimes, I made it to the other side.  

I crushed tent after tent and left behind a mangle of bandages and tweezers.  

“WHAT THE HECK MAN? THIS IS OUR OWN MEDICAL TENT!” my kingdom’s own medic screamed up at my face.  

I squirmed from my ready-to-erupt bladder. “Oopsies.” 

Once again, my horse carried me across the sea of knights, hacking swords at each other in rage. Those who had tried to stop me left their blood vivid on my blade.  

When I reached the end of the battlefield and the ruined tents, I grabbed the lying knight and pressed my sword to his thin little throat. “Where is your king’s tent?”  

“He-he didn’t come to battle,” he whined.  

I tossed him aside, transfixed on my next and final destination: the castle of King Charles Winston the II. The wimp.  

I made my horse run faster than the speed of sound.  

It was disgusting castle. It was yellow like a mouthful of teeth that never had the privilege of being properly brushed. The entrance doors looked like two lungs and they squealed open at the light kick of my horse’s front hooves.  

King Charles Winston the II liked his jewels. The halls of the castle were almost buried in gleaming loot: gold and emeralds and diamonds and rubies – in amounts that would make a thug vomit.  

I made my horse swim through without a second glance. The only jewel worth more to me than the world would be the toilet.

Portable or not.  

In the next hall, we stopped in front of the king himself. King Charles Winston the II stood with his lower lip trembling, looking frightfully at my very red sword.  

I replied to the question he didn’t ask. 

"I get very angry when people try and stop me from peeing."  

“Bathroom’s down the hall – first left,” he chirped, absolutely terrified of man who just wanted to pee.  

 I looked down the hall. I looked down at him. I looked down at my armour.  

It was a little detail I had overlooked. My armour, in all its shiny, gleaming, flashy elegance, would take an hour to take off.  

So. I did what my instinct told me. Or, I did what my bladder told me.  

I let it all go.  

I had to admit that it was one of life’s greatest sensations: relieving an explosive bladder. I looked down at my armour and the teeny tiny rivers of pee trickling out of the cracks. My horse sighed miserably as it dripped down its coat and the king gagged as it pooled over his gold and jewels.  

“Okay,” I said after I was done – and I felt so light I could float, bottom first. “I’m going to head out now.” 

My horse and I turned to go. I could hear King Charles Winston the II vomiting heavily into the toilet I was looking so forward to using. 

Back at the battlefield, the grass was flattened by the limp bodies of enemy knights. My own fellow knights caught sight of me and ran over to holler their praise and hug my feet.  

I had absolutely no idea what was going on. Then I peered back at dead bodies on the grass and then at my sword, crusted with enemy blood.  

I was going to get a promotion, I guess.  

Sure enough, my king – useless as he was - saw to it immediately that I would be known as his best knight. I was known from then on throughout the entire kingdom as Sir Clovis Jibbly the Ruthless. 

I did not dare tell them what my violence was really about. There are some things everybody does not need to know.  

One sunny day, I was called up for yet another battle. It was about food, but not in a gallant way, (as most things we fought about usually weren’t anymore). Nevertheless, not wanting to let my kingdom down, I got ready to load up on Gatorade.