Saturday Knight Fever by Bud Pharo

Saturday Knight Fever by Bud Pharo

Robert, who played the dashing Sir Lovestruck at the local Renaissance Faire, was mired in a pessimistic funk ever since the young woman who played the enchantress Morgan Le Fay texted him that the new script rewrite eliminated their courtship. The following day, he sought her out for further clarification.

“But, why Morgan?” he stammered. “I thought our love story seemed very real.”

She rolled her eyes, “You’re joking, right? Look around; nothing here is real, especially our courtship. It’s contrived to entertain the tourists, nothing more.”

He stared in disbelief. “But I thought we had real chemistry!”

“We didn’t, and we don’t! Besides, you know nothing about me, not even my real name. You’re too focused on pretending to be a knight.”

He glared at her. “Pretending? I take my vows seriously. Also, I thought Morgan was your given name,” he said, playing dumb and succeeding. “You have my number. When the new storyline flops, call me.” That was the last time he and Morgan Le Fay, nee, whomever had spoken.

For the next several weeks, he looked for other venues where he could don the chainmail and surcoat of his alter ego. Unfortunately, there was nothing in the local area, and having Sir Lovestruck travel via public transportation was beneath a knight of his stature. So, until the writers realize they made a huge mistake, he would bide his time by going to his favorite coffee shop and doomscrolling real-world problems and searching for other knightly opportunities.

Inexplicably, ingesting dire stories of real-world problems always made him feel better. A fellow doom-scroller suggested that this phenomenon was known as schadenfreude. But Robert, who envisioned himself as a man of letters, didn’t know what the guy was talking about and was too embarrassed to ask; he just knew reading those stories made him feel better about himself.

Occasionally, he chased clickbait down an enticing rabbit hole, hoping it would yield a few pointers on how a knight might improve his swordplay and jousting skills. Most of these rabbit holes eventually yielded various guaranteed solutions by either stimulating, elongating, or desensitizing his penis through the use of either a pill, device, or cream. Just as he backed out of the latest warren he stumbled into, he came upon Pendragon’s Realm, a cosplay group dedicated to King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table. Intrigued by the group’s many upcoming events, all held on Saturdays, he submitted a membership form. A week later, he received an e-vite to attend their next event, a Camelot-themed ball at a local country club.

The event piqued his interest, so he registered, paid the attendance fee, and spent the workweek anguishing over whether or not to attend. When Saturday finally arrived, he donned Sir Lovestruck’s chainmail and surcoat and departed on what he hoped would be a more gratifying adventure than the Renaissance Faire.

Once at the country club, he noticed a huge commotion near the outside entrance to the club’s ballroom where the event was being held. A King Arthur wannabe and several of his knights were trying to bring their swords into the event space, despite a strict no-weapons policy.

“What’s that all about?” Robert asked another knight wearing a gray surcoat emblazoned with the purple shield and golden crosses. His eyes widened as he suddenly realized the coat of arms was that of Sir Percival, his favorite Knight of the Round Table.

“Oh, that’s just King Arthur,” he said. “They won’t let him bring his precious Excalibur into the ballroom, which he already knew. By the way, I’m Sir Percival, but most people call me Percy. What’s your name, kind sir?”

Dumbstruck at being close to a childhood hero, Robert bowed slightly to acknowledge the superior knight. “Sir, do you want my real name or character name?” he asked, then gushed, “Sir Percival, I recognized your coat of arms—I’m a huge fan!”

“Thank you, but please call me Percy. Also, we only use character names when at these events; it’s to protect the not-so-innocent,” he chuckled.

“I’m known as Sir Robert Lovestruck,” he said, tapping his coat of arms.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Sir Lovestruck. Now, I see why your coat of arms is a white shield with a large red heart being struck by a lightning bolt… nicely done!” Percy glanced toward the noisy scrum forming near the entrance. “Ah, damn, it looks like our king is still arguing with the doorman. He may need our support! Are you in, Sir Robert the Lovestruck?”

“Of course, it’s in our code, right?” Robert asked cautiously. “I guess King Arthur does like to be told no.”

Percy nodded. “He does not. Since forming Pendragon’s Realm two years ago, he’s been acting more and more like a real king at every meeting. He required us, his Knights of the Round Table, to concoct elaborate individual backstories to ‘jazz it up a bit’ as he thought us OGs weren’t interesting enough.”

“Just curious, what does Arthur do in real life?” Robert asked, intrigued by the man he saw ranting at the heavily muscled doorman.

Percy cracked a smile. “He’s a proctologist.”

“You’re kidding, right?” Robert tried but failed to squelch his snicker.

“It’s funny but true. He said working with and on assholes every day while having to maintain one’s professional decorum can be a tedious soul suck. But that playing King Arthur allows him to let his suppressed inner asshole run wild, which it often does. Turns out, Arthur’s a natural-born asshole—who knew?” Percy arched his eyebrows, feigning surprise.

“So, I guess as a king and an asshole, he doesn’t like hearing the word no,” Robert said.

Percy cocked his head.“Well… there is one big exception. That would be when he asks Queen Guinevere if she is still doing the deed of darkness with her paramour, the backstabbing Sir Lancelot. In that case, he welcomes the word no.”

Robert stifled a laugh. “I guess there’s something to be said for full character immersion. But I’m a bit confused. If his character, King Arthur, is still married, where’s his queen?”

Percy went silent, then sighed. “Well, you’ll eventually hear it anyway, so here goes; Guinevere’s tryst with Sir Fricks-a-Lot was almost forgiven—almost—until that chamber pot of a knight began secretly referring to Arthur by the ignoble nickname, The Cuckold of Camelot.”

“Isn’t that against our code?” Robert asked.

“Yes, doing the dirty with the King’s wife and then bragging about it is most certainly against our code as well as common decency. But once that terrible nickname made its rounds among the members of the Round Table—none of whom, by the way, could ever keep a secret—it eventually made its way to the King’s ears.”

Robert frowned. “Sounds more like a daytime soap opera than Camelot.” He glanced at the entrance door, where things appeared to be at an impasse as Arthur milled about the area. “So, are things still bad between Arthur and Lancelot?”

“Oh, yeah!” Percy said. “In fact, Arthur had seriously thought about castrating Lancelot and displaying his bollocks on a pike atop the battlement but decided that they were probably too small to see up there and, as such, wouldn’t have been much of a deterrent. Also, as Sir Lancelot is a member of the Round Table, cutting off his bollocks might have been bad for morale.”

“Did the King forgive the affair?” Robert asked as he was now fully invested in the saga.

“Oh no, Arthur neither forgives nor forgets. He believes strongly in the adage, ‘Revenge is a dish best served cold.’ However, for now, he decided to save face and Lancelot’s bollocks by petitioning the bishop—at the point of a sword—to grant an annulment, which the bishop promptly accomplished. Hence, King Arthur began his quest for a new queen, a lady in waiting, or even a casual hook-up—the dude’s been very lonely,”Percy said in a somber tone.

Robert heard his phone buzz. After fishing it out from under his chainmail, he saw a text from the event host. He read it aloud, “Due to potentially unsafe conditions at the venue, we regret to inform you that today’s event is canceled. We will contact you when a new date and venue become available. Sorry for the inconvenience.”

A chorus of “That sucks” and “That’s bullshit” echoed through the crowd.

The court scribe showed the text to Arthur, who exploded. “Thou hast no idea the wrath I will unleash upon ye for this affront!” he roared in the direction of the doorman.

As tempers flared, Robert looked to Percy for guidance. “This is getting serious. Should we call it a day before the melee starts?” he asked, while keeping an eye on the unfolding chaos.

Grinning like the Cheshire Cat, Percy said, “Not just yet; the fun’s just beginning! A few minutes ago, I heard Arthur order several knights to take the iron horse to the fairground and pick up the special weapon!”

“What’s the ‘iron horse’ and the ‘special weapon’?”

Percy chuckled. “Sorry, Robert, I forgot you’re a newbie. Anyway, the ‘iron horse’ is Arthur’s F-150 pickup truck, and the special weapon is, well, I’m not quite sure exactly, but we’ll know soon enough because the fairground is just around the corner.”

A few minutes later, the iron horse pulled up to the country club, towing a giant wooden contraption with a sling attached to one end of a long pivoting arm with a heavy counterweight attached to the other end. “What the hell is that thing?” Robert asked.

“It’s a trebuchet, the siege engine, from the fairgrounds,” Percy said, looking concerned. “I think we should prepare for a rapid retreat should the situation deteriorate.”

Robert and Percival faded into the background but stayed within earshot because the theatrics were too good to miss. Arthur’s unmet demands and the brusque manner with which the doorman informed the good King that Excalibur was not welcome at the event exacerbated an already tense situation, thus causing the cancellation. But it wasn’t over just yet.

Arthur approached the doorman again. “Friend, I implore thee to open thy event for these good people and consider Excalibur my plus one,” he said in a nonthreatening tone.

The doorman took a long pull from his pocket flask and laughed, “You must be kidding! Nice try, bozo, but this event has been canceled because of your antics.”

Pointing his sword at the doorman’s nether region, Arthur demanded, “Pray tell, dunce, whom is this ‘bozo’ thee speak of?” When the doorman didn’t immediately apologize, Arthur threatened him. “Methinks I’ll perform an un-anesthetized vasectomy on thee.”

“Ha! The joke’s on you, pal; I had a vasectomy years ago,” the doorman cracked.

Arthur, who, according to his Pendragon’s Realm bio, loved wordplay as much as swordplay, retorted, “But, unkind sir, there will be a vast difference in thy vas deferens after I dissect thy family jewels. There’ll be no numbing of the thy withered nut sack. Can thou digth what I sayeth?”

When the doorman realized that Arthur was not just acting out his cosplay role but was serious, he slammed the door to the event space and locked it. Arthur pounded on the door with the pommel of his sword. “I beseech thee, my besotted friend, open thy door, lest thee be desirous of becoming my foe instead of my friend. If thou choose the latter, then thee shall be in dire straits, and I do mean a difficult situation, not the esteemed English rock band!”

From behind the door, they heard a muffled, “Aw, hell no! Get a real life, dipshit!”

Arthur threw down his gauntlet. “Your egregious slight against Excalibur will not go unanswered!”

Percy pursed his lips.“Oh boy, that’s not good. Arthur loves that frigging sword. He refers to Excalibur as his phallic doppelganger, so a vow to avenge its honor could be bad news, indeed. By the way, I saw Arthur in the shower at the gym; he’s hung more like his pinky than his sword,” he said with a wink.

Arthur barked an order to a handful of knights. “Roll forth the siege engine that we may lay waste to this offending venue!”

From behind the door came the gentle plea of a maiden. “Oh wise and benevolent King, we throw ourselves on your mercy and beseech thee curtail your quarrel, lest thee desire for us to send a raven to the local constabulary requesting reinforcements.”

Arthur answered. “Sorry, fair maiden, while your knights hide behind your petticoat, we prepare our siege engine. Let the battle be joined!”

Unbeknownst to Arthur, the maiden’s plea was a mere ruse to buy time, as they had already dispatched their raven. Shortly thereafter, the constabulary arrived en masse, forming battle lines along the cart path in front of the pro shop. Sirs Percival and Lovestruck hid in the hedgerow near the entrance, anxious to avoid getting involved with the impending police action.

Meanwhile, King Arthur, undaunted, was busy kingsplaining to a handful of knights how to properly lever the siege engine up the steps of the club using a block and tackle. When the constabulary phalanx began its advance, the knights—cowards one and all—dropped the ropes and ran off, leaving their king to face the invading horde alone.

As they fled, Arthur could be heard yelling, “It could’ve been much worse! There could’ve been a moat with burning oil and archers shooting flaming arrows from the parapets or falconers unleashing their winged assassins to drop plague-infested rats upon ye! But no, my craven cadre cannot even negotiate a few wee steps! For shame, hast thou supplanted thy honor with cowardice?” He shook his head at his knights’ disloyal behavior.

Several knights attempted to explain their reluctance while Percival and Lovestruck continued to observe, partially cloaked by the hedgerow. Sir Gawain, Arthur’s most trusted non-backstabbing knight, explained, “Sorry, Art, I can’t stay; I’m on probation, remember?”

Arthur frowned. “Sir Gawain thy insolent, familiar tone and lack of deference hath offended me. Hence, thou shall consider thy roundtable privileges revoketh forthwith!”

As Sir Gawain was about to mount his trusty black steed, a 2016 Toyota Prius, he turned back to Arthur. “Well, Your High-Ass, if thou want to be like that, then thou shall consider thine offer to join my D&D party withdrawn as well!” Gawain rode off posthaste while prominently displaying the middle finger of his gauntlet and yelling, “Frick thee!” as the Prius galloped past his soon-to-be former king. Sir Gawain would subsequently be stripped of his knighthood but successfully avoided a parole violation.

Arthur spat at the passing steed. “Well, so much for thy oath of allegiance! Methinks thou art a treacherous scoundrel and a cowardly arsehole!”

When Arthur spotted Percival and Lovestruck attempting to sneak off, instead of commanding them to halt, he tried a softer approach. “Percy, who’s thy friend, and can thee lendth thy hand to a brother-in-arms?”

Sir Percival turned, bent a knee, bowed his head, and motioned for Robert to do the same. “Oh, my liege, this is Sir Lovestruck; he is new to thy realm. As for me, I’d really love to stay and assist you, but I’m late for dinner with my in-laws, and thus, I must leave anon.”

“What about thee, Sir Lovestruck? Can thou help?” the king asked Robert.

“Sorry, Sire, but Sir Percival is my ride,” he lied.

“Perhaps thou can Uber home?” the King asked.

“Alas, I do not have the app, thus I cannot summon a steed,” he lied—again.

“Have ye both forsworn thy vows of loyalty, valor, and service?” the king asked through gritted teeth, his softer demeanor evaporating like dew in the forenoon sun.

“A thousand pardons, Your Majesty, but they don’t call my mother-in-law Momma Torquemada for nothing. I’d rather spend a night on the rack in thumb screws than endure another one of her not-so-grand inquisitions. My deepest apologies, sire.”

“Rise, fool, and be off to your Momma Torquemada’s feast hall, you lily-livered fopdoodle! And take Sir What’s-His-Fricken-Face with you!”

With no knights to support him, Arthur found himself betwixt a rock and a hard place. Yet despite the odds, he unsheathed Excalibur, assumed the ready position, and awaited his destiny. As the constables began closing in, they ordered him to put down his weapon.

Rather than comply, Arthur gestured toward his codpiece, defiantly announcing, “Thou can sucketh my lance-a-lot!” He then spun, thrust Excalibur aloft, and charged off toward the 18th hole, where a flabbergasted foursome of golfers had just finished a twilight round.

Thinking their putters would be no match for his broadsword, they cowered behind a parked golf cart, like a foursome of scared serfs. But instead of pursuing the fleeing foursome, Arthur ran directly toward the 18th green water hazard, where he heaved the sword into its depths, which, as it turned out, was only three feet. “Honorable Lady of the Lake, I return to thee my beloved Excalibur for safekeeping until I return!”

With the constables tightening their cordon, King Arthur doffed his crown and bent a knee. “I yield to thee my crown as I’ve been bested by the nefarious black knights of this humble fiefdom.” He bowed his head and laid his crown at the feet of the chief constable.

When the golfers saw King Arthur capitulate, the fearful foursome retreated to the country club’s Nineteenth Hole Tavern, where they enjoyed a much-deserved repast of swine in a blanket, meat pies, and mead—all compliments of the house.

From the parking lot, Robert and Percy watched as two of the head constable’s squires slapped the wannabe King Arthur in irons. They unceremoniously dragged him away to the delight of the assemblage of riffraff, rabble, and assorted peasantry who gathered to gawk at a fallen king. As they were about to drive off, a constable stopped them at the gate and asked them to step out of their vehicles.

“Are we under arrest?” Percy asked nervously.

“No, the chief wants you both to come to the station to give your statements.”

After arriving at the station, Percy and Robert gave their statements and bade good luck to Arthur. “Fare thee well, my King,” Percy said as the enraged Arthur rattled the bars of the holding cell.

“They have absolutely no respect for a king!” Arthur bellowed loudly enough for everyone in the station to hear. “I’m being held in this hamlet’s substandard dungeon, where I was offered neither wine nor ale but only tasteless water to slake my thirst!” He motioned for Percy and Robert to come closer and whispered, “Luckily, one of the young turnkeys is a huge Camelot fanboy, and he brought me some pretzels and a root beer to tide me over until my attorney arrives.” He winked, then returned to his boisterous rant. “You have no authority over me! I’m a fricken King!”

An hour later, the King’s attorney, dressed as—what else—a court jester, arrived for the arraignment of Arthur Pendragon, the man formerly known as Arthur Smith, who legally changed his name several years ago to better fit with his assumed persona. Arthur was charged with causing a public nuisance, resisting arrest, attempting to perform a vasectomy without a license, and terrorizing a group of mediocre golfers, several of whom had shat in their knickers.

The jester enlisted the aid of a trusted ally, Avalon Bail Bonds, to help secure the king’s release by supplying the required coin of the realm, an appearance bond. Once the bond was posted, Arthur was released, sans Excalibur, which was placed into evidence.

It was rumored that Excalibur had been recovered directly from the Lady of the Lake, who, for obvious reasons, did not want to be charged as an accessory after the fact. Conversely, a spokesperson for the department refuted the claim, stating that it was a new officer, still on probation, who waded into the pond where he retrieved the sword, a bent putter, and three Titleist golf balls. Local skeptics believed the police concocted this cover story to protect the Lady of the Lake’s true identity—the truth may never be known. The trebuchet was returned unharmed from whence it came, the local Renaissance Faire, which had been using it for their pumpkin toss fundraiser.

The next day, Robert read an extensive account of the wannabe King Arthur’s aborted siege in their local newspaper and was relieved that there was no mention of his or Percy’s involvement. Although his first and only endeavor with Pendragon’s Realm was far more exciting than he expected, the King’s unstable personality and the potential risk of incarceration far outweighed his current need for excitement. Therefore, he canceled his membership and placed his Sir Lovestruck costume in storage.

& & &

Three days later, he received a text message from the young woman who played Morgan Le Fay inviting him to the wrap party for the Renaissance Faire troupe. Just when he thought his Saturday knight fever had broken, her text pulled him back in. I knew they’d miss me! They probably want to discuss the script for next season’s ren faire.

Morgan spotted Robert weaving through the last remaining group of tourists, heading toward the great hall, where the wrap party was being held. She turned to the large, burly man standing off to her side. “Is that him?”

“Yep, that’s him, alright! I distinctly remember that stupid heart and lightning bolt on his shield.” He quickly departed as she had instructed.

Robert approached and gave Morgan a tentative, friendly hug, unsure of where he stood. “Morgan, it’s so nice to see you again,” he said with a slight smile. “Thank you for the invitation. I’m guessing they’re writing my character back in for next season, right?”

“Not sure, but I’m personally glad you could make it. I hoped I’d see you again someday,” she said, giving him a sly smile.

I knew it, she’s really into me! Anxious not to repeat his past faux pas, he asked, “So, what have you been up to these days?”

She smiled. “Thank you for asking; I just finished my last semester at law school, and, by the way, my real name is Helen.”

“That’s great, Helen,” he said, feigning interest. “So, you’re an attorney?”

“Not yet; I still need to pass the bar exam, but I do have a related job with a personal injury law firm,” she said with the same sly smile.

“What kind of job?” Robert asked, trying to seem interested in more than just her looks.

“I’m a process server for the firm that’s representing the country club doorman who is suing Pendragon’s Realm et al. for the intentional infliction of emotional distress, ” she said, winked, and handed him a subpoena package. “You’ve been served!”

* * * * END * * * *
Copyright Bud Pharo 2025