Now that finals, and school, have passed, I finally had time to write something about everyone's favorite weirdo, Methodia Rascal. Oh, and if anyone's interested, I am looking rather desperately for a beta, so feel free to contact me about that. Pleeeease. Enjoy my oneshot, and REVIEW REVIW REVIEW.
Disclaimer: If I owned Discworld, I'd have a much better computer.
The death of Methodia Rascal was, oddly enough, one of the dullest things that had occurred to him.
Of course, when one spends their whole life with the belief that they are being hunted by a diabolical chicken that may or may not be their alter ego, a lot of things in life probably seem quite humdrum in comparison. Even your own death.
However, Rascal's death would not have been considered tedious by any normal person. Even in a city like Ankh-Morpork, often considered the very haven of new and interesting deaths, choking to death on chicken feathers is a slightly unusual fate. How exactly Rascal procured the feathers that did him in is still a mystery, since the only chickens found in the city were those already plucked and chopped into conveniently-sized chunks.
Mystery and intrigue aside, Rascal died relatively peacefully, or at least as peacefully as someone like him could. He continued his state of peace for several days, until his rent was due. At that point, his landlord (who had arrived with several members of the Watch, since Rascal had a bad habit of fleeing whenever the subject of rent was raised) discovered the artist-cum-chicken's corpse gathering dust on the floor of his apartment. After complaining for several minutes about ungrateful tenants who went off and died without paying him, he grudgingly went down to the cemetery and made the necessary arrangements for Rascal's burial, since no one else was particularly eager to claim the body.
When asked what Rascal's tombstone should have written on it in the way of epitaphs, the landlord was at a loss. Finally, he came up with "Awk," the only thing that he had ever heard Rascal say with regularity.
The painter was buried in Small Gods, eternal resting place of the unimportant. His tombstone remains there, although time has cracked and weathered it until the writing on it is nearly undecipherable. If someone took the time to brush away the moss and dirt to look closely at it, they might discern the words carved into the stone in vaguely gothic lettering. The inscription is very simple:
And when this hypothetical observer walked away from Rascal's final resting place, they might notice a few chicken feathers floating in the air around them, and wonder how they got there.
Hurrah for oneshots! REVIEW! AWK! Oh, and expect either an update or revamping of hoi polloi sometime soon!