The Knights of the Order of a Most Romantic Death

Howdy. Can it be that Latigo Flint has all these many months failed to tell you about The Knights of the Order of a Most Romantic Death?! Why that's almost unforgivable. This heinous omission would shame Latigo Flint terribly if he wasn't at present obliterated beyond all recognition on diesel fuel fumes and peyote.

Let Latigo Flint take you back across time and waters to a forgotten land known now only as six oddly assembled letters on crumbling parchments: E u r o p e.

England, 1349, is a nation in turmoil. The Rodent Wars continue to rage unchecked and all the lands do fast approach the eve of a seventh straight decade of bitter strife and poverty. With every passing day, squalor and starvation consume the last remnants of innate human compassion. Opportunism and betrayal have become so commonplace they would surely have been considered synonymous with breathing and blinking had the word synonymous been invented yet.

Sister slays Brother for the chance to slay and rob helpless neighbor. Fraudulent raffles do shopkeepers hold for the prize of secretly poisoned meat pie, which in turn provides the base meat for future pies. Scamper open-mouthed do the thousands of enterprising orphans across hills of festering leper flesh for the fraction of a gram of protein the flies may yield. None can remember the last time two lovers embraced for a purpose other than the stealing of crusts from the other's pockets.

And then into this decaying land did one day ride the twelve Knights of the Order of a Most Romantic Death. Over crest of hill in such glorious clank-kankery fashion did they gallop atop sinewy steed -- HEY PAY THE FUCK ATTENTION!!! The friggin' Knights of the Order of a Most Very Romantic Death are goddamn cresting a sodding hill here!!!

what was i saying?

Ah yes... With hoof-pounding clumpedy-clumpfullness and in most glorious, clank-kankery fashion do they crest the windswept hill - All abreast and so utmostly triumphant of chin atop their sinewy steeds.

As one voice does come the mighty "Huzzah" from deep within the tanned chests of these twelve incomparable heroes: Gafferdine the Magnificent, Sergio Nuffintaffy, Bendlestaff O'Flankerien, Natches the Effeminate, Sir Napekiss of the Sylmar Plain, Suffpotte Lerhanklemor, Duke Cherrybreath the Wise, Fran Squire Weatherscout of Spuffington, Tortoisespleen Sorrowbough, Rapier Gentlestroke, Twitchworth the Gruff and Horkington Paddlestrong the Hesitant.

... is what their names were. Their sworn cause and knightly order? They were none other than The Knights of the Order of a Most Very Romantic and Triumphant Death.

And m'lady, I shall tell you of their adventures when either you or I are dead.

(Or in the three minutes between your successful fellatio of me and my subsequent slumber. One or the other. Thus has it always been and so shall it remain.)