textfiles/reports/ACE/cow.txt

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          ARRoGANT                CoURiERS      WiTH     ESSaYS

Grade Level:       Type of Work           Subject/Topic is on:
 [ ]6-8                 [ ]Class Notes    [Creative Story about Cow]
 [ ]9-10                [ ]Cliff Notes    [                        ]
 [x]11-12               [x]Essay/Report   [                        ]
 [ ]College             [ ]Misc           [                        ]

 Dizzed: 10/94  # of Words:2342  School: ?              State: ?
ÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ>ÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ>ÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ>Chop Here>ÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ>ÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ>ÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ>ÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ
COW LORE


    A long... long time ago, in a distant galaxy, was the planet "Cud".  On
this ancient planet lived the warlike race of the Cowfolk, a race of people
who had evolved and broken into two major groups.  The first group, the
"Beefers", were a very rough and barbaric race.  They were the type who
enjoyed loud music and a mug of ale, with a serving wench on their lap...
even the women.  Their leader, known as "Mike The Big Tough Guy" was a
large man of great poundage.  He had unkept hair that flew wildly in the
wind, and a cute, wellgroomed moustashe.  The Beefers worked hard and
played hard... and smelled.

    The tavern was alive with music, the thumps of dancing and clapping,
and cheers of joy.  Their steeds, consisting mostly of Longhorn and Black
Anguses, mooed calmly outside, having had their reigns tied to those
horizontal postthings you see in all those western movies.  Mike pushed the
serving girl from his lap and awkwardly staggered to stand atop his table.
The music and dancing immediately stopped in respect.

    "If it's a war the Milkers want," he slurred, tipping this way and
that, almost losing his balance.  "Then it's a war they'll get."  His
statement was met with a round of deafening cheers, which soon died back
down.  "You are all people of war... and when we clash tomorrow, I want you
to do what you do best. I want you to destroy whoever gets in your way."
Another round of cheers exploded, then died down.  "Tomorrow, milk will be
released from the confines of their bodies... it will flow through o'er the
plains like a river... and will dye the moon white!" He held up his large
tankard of ale to the ceiling.  "We will show our true selves to The Great
One In The Sky... we will show our Lord, the mighty Black Angus, that we
are worthy of him!  To YOU, my Lord!" Mike lowered his arm and swilled the
remainder of the ale.  With the backward tossing of his head causing
unconsciousness, Mike lost his balance and fell backwards, crashing down
heavily onto a nearby table, cracking it in half.  The tavern broke into
wild cheers of excitement... Mike had aroused their carnal lust for milk,
and they poured out of the small inn and into the dark streets, almost
tasting the upcoming hour of battle.

    The second, the Milkers, were a much more gentle people.  They only
warred when they absolutely had to, and prefered to spin yarn, play their
lutes, and had a habit of wandering  aimlessly about the town, reciting
poetry.  Love and nature were constantly in the air, even on the brink of
war.

    "But will it HOLD?" Fred asked the blacksmith.  Fred The NotSoStrong
But Very Nice And A Swell Person was the official leader.  His people
wanted to add "Good Smelling" to his name, but decided that such a length
would just be plain silly.

    "Aye, it'll hold," the blacksmith snapped back, almost sounding
offended.  "I've been using this armour for as long as IÜjÜcan
remember, and it's never done me wrong before."  They were looking over one
of the plates used in the armour for the cows when they go into battle.
Tradiationally, the armour would consist of several plates, covering almost
the entire body of the cow.  The udders, being on of the most sensitive
parts of the beast, would have a coating of chainmail lying under a coat of
platemail.  "Go on," the blacksmith encouraged Fred.  "Go on, take your
best shot at it."

    Fred looked at the blacksmith for a moment before taking a step back,
drawing a mace from a nearby wall, and striking the armour with all his
force.  Colourful sparks flew from the point of impact, but upon
inspection, the armour remained completely unscathed.

    "Very impressive," Fred said, stroking the point of impact with his
fingers to feel for any damage, of which he could find none.  "Very
impressive, indeed."

    "And you ask if it'll hold," the blacksmith mocked him.

    "Well, that first sword you made me snapped in half when I tripped over
it," Fred explained, standing up straight.

    "That's got nothin' to do with it," the blacksmith yelled.  "It was
faulty metal, I tell you... NOT my work... look, the Beefers are likely
going to attack at dawn.  DO you, or do you NOT want my armour?"  Fred
stayed silent for a moment.

    "Of course I do," Fred said.  "And your payment will arrive by your
waking time tomorrow."

    "So be it," the blacksmith said, turning and continuing to hammer out
the large sheet of redhot armour which had only moments before been in the
blazing fire.  Fred looked at his back for a moment before turning and
walking out of the large room.

    "Put back the mace," the blacksmith said, still hammering, and not
having turned around.

    "How about you throw it in for free?" Fred asked.

    "On the wall," the blacksmith said.  "You may be my leader, but I've
got to make my own money, y'know..."  Fred placed the mace back on the wall
and walked out.  "Cheeky bastard," the blacksmith mumbled.

    Mike's eyes flew open suddenly, and he abruptly sat up in his bed.  He
looked around the dark room quickly, and just had time to recognize his
surroundings as his room before his head began to pound with a hangover.
He flopped onto his back again, breathing a large sigh of relief.  The past
few hours were a complete blur with small clips of memory in them.  He saw
a lot of ale, and a lot of women.  He barely remembered standing up on the
table, and all those cheers he received from his people... how he'd made a
great speech about the upcoming battle.

    His happy expression turned to one of concern.

    The battle.

    His thoughts of a wonderful, drunken, wenchfilled night were disrupted
by the impeding thoughts of the battle.  He had promised his warriors that
they would win an easy victory, when he wasn't certain of it himself.  He
didn't want to let them down, but had no guarantee of victory.  Or perhaps
he did.  His smile returned as he sluggishly crawled from the bed, lighting
candle and leaving his room.

    "I wish to win the battle tomorrow," Mike explained to the sorcerer
through the wisps of smoke rising from the cauldron.  The room smelled of
spices and odd elixers, and the air was almost alive with magic.  "I want
you to create a storm, the likes of which have never been seen before.  Can
you do it?"

    The sorcerer remained quiet behind the rising smoke, his ultrahigh back
collar and slickedback blond hair making him look so damn errie, I just
can't describe him.  His eyes beamed into Mike's, sending a shiver to his
very soul.

    "Are you certain that is what you want?" The sorcerer asked in a very
monotone voice  almost inhuman.

    "What will happen if you do?" Mike asked excitedly.  "Will it work? Can
you tell me?"

    The sorcerer remained looking at him, continuing to chill Mike to his
core.  Without a word, the sorcerer raised a hand and began waving it, palm
down, over the green liquid in the large cauldron.  The smoke immediately
ceased rising, and a picture began shimmering on the surface of the liquid.
As he continued the slow circles with his hand, the picture became more and
more clear.  It could now be seen as a large green plain, grey clouds
forming in the sky.  Mike leaned over, staring intently in the pot.

    "Hey, that's us!" Mike said, smiling, as he saw an army in the picture,
mounted on beef cattle, marching from left to the right.  Another army
could be seen coming from the right.  "Milkers!" Mike growled, sneering.
The picture changed from the closeup to a more distant picture, viewing the
entire plain, upon which the armies were merely a large field of smallish
dots, charging at each other.  A storm suddely broke out, lighning flooding
the sky, as rain poured down with incredible force.  Wind gusted with such
force, many were knocked clean from their steeds, and could not remain
standing.

    All at once, the earth broke open and swallowed the entire army of the
Milkers.  Within mere seconds, the whole army had been swallowed by the
gaping tear in the planet's crust, which immediately sealed itself back up,
as if nothing had ever happened.  The storm ended as quickly as it had
begun, and sunshine spilled down through a blue sky, blazing down upon the
Beefers, who appeared to get off their cows and each do their own little
victory dances.  The picture faded away.

    "AmAZING," Mike said, astonished at the sight.  He stood up straight
once again and looked at the sorcerer, who was already being hidden once
again by the againrising smoke.  "And that IS what will happen with when
you case your spell?"  The sorcerer slowly nodded once. "Y'know," Mike
said, resting his hand against a nearby shelf.  "I think you just talk far
too much... heheh."  The sorcerer glared at him. "Ok, well... I'd best be
going, then," Mike said, backing out of the doorway.  "And thanks again."

    The army of the Beefers slowly marched over a slight rise, and stood
waiting at one end of the vast plain.  They stood in a wide line, and were
dozens of cattle deep, boasting a full five hundred head. The Noble Horn
Tooters trotted up from the back of the army, and sounded their long horns.

    The Artistic Horn Blowers Of The Land, from the Milkers who were
waiting at the other end of the plain, blew their long horns.  The Milkers
were greater in number, which would make up for their apparent lack of
speed.  Both sides anxiously awaited the battle.

    "Can you hear me?" Mike yelled across the plain to Fred.

    "Not too well," Fred screamed back, his voice badly faded over the
large distance.

    Mike reached into his saddlebag and pulled out his megaphone.  He held
it up to his mouth and squeezed the lever. A brief squeal of feedback
preceeded his voice.

    "Is this better?" Mike asked, his voice booming.  Fred raised a thumb
in response.  "Fred The NotSoStrong But Very Nice," Mike started. "Prepare
to become Fred The NotSoStrong But Very Nice... ON ICE!" His commrades
roared with laughter at their leader's fabulous wit.

    "Oh, YEAH?" Fred screamed back, having foolishly left his megaphone at
home.  "Well, you know what they call a cow with no legs?"

    Mike was silent for a moment as curious chatter filled his ranks.  He
held up his megaphone again.

    "Ok... I give up... what?" Mike asked.

    "GROUND BEEF!" Fred screamed.  The laughter of the Milkers could easily
be heard clear across the plain.  Mike's face reddened with hatred.  He
stuffed the megaphone back in his saddlebag and lowered that visorthing on
his helmet.  He whipped his sword from its sheath and raised it forwards.

    "CHARGE!" Mike screamed.  The cattle started slowly, but soon gained
their full speed of five miles an hour.  The Milkers, having been caught
offguard, mucked around a little before finally getting organized and
making their move.

    Not long before the two armies clashed, the Fools made their move.  The
Fools were those few sent by each side who were to hop from their steeds
and run ahead of the charging beasts in attempt to attack the oncoming army
with small pointed sticks and croutons.  Normally, they would only suceed
in downing five or six of the enemy before being killed themselves.  Often
the Fools would run into each other midfield, in which case they would
attempt to best the other by outcroutoning them.  Fully engrossed in their
own fight, neither usually notice the oncoming armies and typically get
their heads cut off.

    Just as the last Fool was hacked to his death, and as Fred and Mike
were raising their weapons to rip each other apart, the sky suddenly filled
with ominous dark clouds.  A really nasty wind kicked up, blowing many a
fighter from their steed, and causing the loose croutons to fly about
madly.  The rain began pourind down with incredible force, hard enough to
hurt any exposed skin.  Lighting lit up the sky like fireworks, and the
thunder peeled through the very bodies of all mortals.

    "HaHA!" Mike screamed, standing in his saddle and raising his hands to
the sky.  He lowered his sword and pointed it at Fred, his face streaming
with rain.  "Now you will experience theÜjÜtrue power of the
Beefers!  Now you will know what a silly thing it is to even THINK of
warring with us!  This, you pathetic poetryloving twit... THIS is YOUR
DOOM!"

    A deafening cracking was heard over Mike's insane laughter, and the
planet itself shook widly.  A gaping rip formed in the planet's crust, and
swallowed the entire Beefer army whole, then closed up as if nothing had
happened.  The clouds cleared instantly, and sunshine poured down onto the
Milker army, which simply sat in their saddles and scratched their
collective heads, wondering what the hell had just happened.

    The planet, however, was not prepared to take on such a load of evil.
It had been balanced for all these centuries between good and evil, and
having absorbed all this negative emotion was simply too much strain on its
superstructure.  And with a final rumble, planet Cud exploded into billions
of little grassy bits.

    It is still believed that if you look into the right place in the sky
at night, sometimes, if you're lucky, you can still make out the stars
which for all the world resemble two cattle, a beefer and a milker, about
to butt heads.

    The moral of the story is twofold:  Don't mess with a mean ol' sorcerer
when he has the power to make the planet eat whole armies, and don't throw
croutons at people  both are generally bad for your health.