|Do you think that you can hurl this through the air with the help of a certain death machine?|
Good to meet you once more, Mr. Death Merchant. I trust that your business is operating smoothly—no shortage of feuding kings and lords to stifle your business? No? Good. Then it seems like you are on your way! Lucky you!
What’s that? You want to lecture me on an aspect of your business? Well, okay, but I should warn you, as an assistant to the grim reaper himself I am a busy man and not one who embraces your economics of death, being a communistic equal-opportunity offender (“Death is for Everyone!” did not, unfortunately, catch on as a progressive-liberal slogan). Okay, lecture away…
“You look like a classy guy, Mr. Death-assistant, so I’ll get straight to the punch! Did you know that if you are selling death-machines, it pays to also sell large pieces of throwing matter? Yup, I found this out the hard way.” (Of course, he found out the hard-way, his con-man attitude practically makes him reek of failure) “In fact, with more and more sieges popping up every day, I found that every chip and chap wanted some of my special rocks—so I started selling ‘em cheap!
What kind of stones, you say?” (In fact, reader, remember, that I had already told him to sell stones. I have no idea why he is lecturing me on this crap) “Well, that depended on the weapon. On average, my most popular seller are stones weighing 100-200 pounds; these trebuchet balls are quite deadly and have been known to fracture, killing several people at once!” (I guess this time an inferior product worked out in the customer’s favor…) “Sometimes, though, when a customer wants to really beat up a castle’s defenses, they will order my Big Boy package and hurl stones weighing 300-400 pounds! But that is nothing compared to my Marauder Package, where I once sold a massive boulder weighing 600 pounds! I call these ‘Holy Land Balls’ and they sure do punch some fright into the heathens! …whatever those are, but, at any rate, these humans evidently truly care about their heavy rocks; in fact, after selling some of these earthen missiles to one nasty king on crusade, he actually took the effort to transport them hundreds of miles away to the battle site—geez, talk about a serious rock collector, eh?” (Reader, if I was someone who could die, I would wish this fate upon myself now—I. Can’t. Stand. This. Asshole. Talking!) But hey, sometimes you want quantity over quality, in which case, then I discovered that selling many, many smaller stones was just as profitable since, evidently, in Lisbon not too long ago, there were these engines which could fire 5000 stones, one every 15 seconds! Needless to say, I really made a profit that day…”
Well, reader, that is the Merchant of Death talking about his rocks and stones. He went on like this for several hours, eventually babbling on about non-medieval related projectiles, so we do not need to hear that babble. Just be glad that you did not hear it; be glad, for I nearly went insane listening to his dreck. Be glad, reader, be very, very glad.
Now, if you will excuse me, I have a mission for my boss—the Grim Reaper—involving chemical weapons. We’ll pick up on this later.