Midnight Dagger

   In the grand fortress of Wind's Door, above the second flight of stairs, is a great room of Stone. Stone benches surround the room. Atop these benches, mossy blankets are placed, and the Five Authors of the Midnight Dagger, as well as Admiral Zebra, take their seats. Lion:  Hello, everyone. We have with us over here Zebra, second chief junior petty admiral officer superior of the Royal petty chief Coastguard of Port City. He is the first and third person to hold that title, after his cousin, who was the second person to hold such a title. He also has a degree of propaganda from Porvalavis. As well as this, he was personally tutored by Sargus the Perplexed Himself, receiving the Award of Stupidity and Idiocy.  Let us introduce ourselves. I am Lionel Leonard Lionheart the Third, the First Lord of the Admiralty. I hold the world record for PhDs, topping fifty-five last month. I have a degree in political science from the University of Port City (before its downfall) ...

   Breaking: Zebra consents to an interview with the Midnight Dagger. By the editorial board of the Midnight Dagger After a recent spar that occurred between the Midnight Dagger and the Portvalatvian Times, which was spearheaded by The Mantle and Zebra, we got tired and decided to take a break. As we were munching on venison and pies, the Mantle suddenly thought of a brilliant joke. We would send Zebra a request for an interview. We drafted it as follows: Hello, Zebra. This is The Crown, The Mantle, The Hat, The Umbrella, and The Briefcase. We are the editorial board of the Midnight Dagger. We have decided to invite you to an interview. If you do not accept, the Skies will turn purple, the Grass will taste like Mustard, the Trees will turn yellow, and we will all call you stupid again. We intended this purely as a joke, and we drafted our apologies beforehand. But then, contrary to all expectations,  Zebra accepted.  This surprising development took us all by shock. ...

 The Lunchtime Eagle By the Umbrella It’s a familiar scene, isn’t it. You are a grand and noble soldier, or a knight of old, with sword and shield in hand and with the fierce allure of battle upon you (or, to be more precise, on top of you), enriched with the history of a thousand and two years, charging atop your mostly loyal steed, about to deal the furious blow that will change your as of now bleak fortunes, and spire you into the glorious prospect of gaining praise and honor for your hard-mustered valour. You spot your sworn enemy, atop his horse, and are just about to bring down your blade and cleave off clean his head, your eyes flashing, your heart beating, your mind swirling with such giddyish ideas of defeating your enemy once and for all, when suddenly… “Lunch time!” And…all hope is lost. And all glorious thoughts are rudely escorted out of the premises of your poor mind. And now, you have to stop what you’re doing, sullenly get off your steed, and tell your until-now swo...