I immediately looked around for the source, only to find it right behind me, in the form of two plaid-clad idiots.
"Excuse me?" I said, as my wife did her best to distance herself from me. Our dog, anticipating bloodshed was already perking up. Perhaps, thought the beast, I'll be able to gobble up a quick bit of severed arm or ear before I'm dragged away.
"This stupid festival. It's nothing like the real thing," pouted the taller of the two, and took a drag from his Marlboro. I looked the two boys over. They were maybe 18 years old, seniors in High School, most likely. From their heights, six foot and six foot three, I guessed them to be just about fully grown. Both had the stereotypical plaid shirts tied about their waists.
"You're looking for a more realistic festival, are you?" I asked. My wife had, by this time, managed to put about fifty feet between us, despite having to drag our 70-pound Retriever the entire way.
"Yeah, this just sucks. I mean, there's some guy with Ninja swords here. And everything is commercial." I could literally see the existential angst and deepseated opposition to consumerism exuding from his pores. It was currently giving him a hell of a skin condition.
"Oh, yes, commercialism. I'm glad the _real_ Renaissance didn't have any of that. After all, Da Vinci did Mona Lisa from the goodness of his heart. It wasn't like he lived for umpteen years on retainer, slowly working on the painting.
"And the various wars which were fought were Never fought over money. Only over grand ideological propositions.
"Of course, Columbus' expedition was only funded by Queen Isabella in an attempt to further Christian education, not because she owed her and the entire country's collective ass to the Hanseatic league, and was trying to scare up cash to pay back her debts.
"Oh," I continued, stepping firmly on the taller one's foot. They were oh-so-cleverly trying to back away from me, but I wasn't going to have any of it. "Let us not forget the
wonderful hygiene of the Renaissance. Away with the porta-potties! Let the scourge of running water not darken the horizon of our New More Accurate Renaissance Festival! We'll have nothing but Chamber Pots and open-trench sewage control here! Bring on the Black Death and rats, for we want accuracy!
"And rampaging marauders, we need more of those! Some Highwaymen to wander the grounds, robbing, raping and murdering would be simply keen! And random tax collection, at the traditional rate of 100%!
"Let's have the Celts over there build a wickerman and burn someone in it. I know they weren't really part of the Renaissance, but I'm sure you'd like to have them here anyway, wouldn't you? Maybe we can get them to strip down, paint themselves blue and light their hair on fire, too!
"I'd have to wear a plaid kilt, and wouldn't be allowed any underwear! Have you seen my clan plaid?" I demanded, "Well have you? It's friggin UGLY!
"Haggis for everyone! Haggis and Scotch! And tights for all the men!" I screamed, hanging from the lapels of the taller boy's shirt. "Accuracy! Accuracy! Screw the fun!"
I became aware of a presence behind me. I turned, still holding onto the boy's shirt.
"You wouldn't mind keeping it down over here, would you?" the man asked. He was about five-foot-eight, just a hair shorter than me, but he outweighed me by a good five stone. Long red hair ran over his shoulders, and there were bits of Haggis in his mustache. I recognized him as the Highland Games contestant from Eden Prairie. Using his left hand, he pulled up his kilt (worn, as we all learned, in the traditional way), and blew his nose on it. He spoke again, in his quiet voice, and with a small smile, "Would you mind keeping it down a little? It's hard to concentrate on the Caber toss." I noticed then that the Caber in question, a mere eighteen feet long and one-hundred and twenty pounds, was being held in his right hand, like a child's plastic baton.
"Uh, Oh, Um. Sure. Sorry about that," I said, letting go of the slacker's shirt. I gave the giant Scot a meek smile. "Is that a Clan MacDonald tartan you're wearing?" I asked.
He nodded and said, "What clan are you?"
"Clan Anderson," I said. I wondered idly if he'd swat me with that Caber for distracting him.
"You're right," he said. "That is an ugly plaid." And with that he walked away. By the time I realized he was out of range to swat me with the Caber, the two High School slackers had disappeared. As my wife and the dog walked back to me, a voice from behind me spoke quietly.
"I actually rather like the idea of the accuracy bit," it said. I turned, ready to ideologically cave-in someone's moronic beliefs. The man before me was shirtless, wearing only a Clan MacLeod kilt, and heavy leather lace-up boots. There was an enormous sword strapped across the man's back, and while he wasn't built like any of the contestants in the Caber Toss, he wasn't anemic, either. His chest, arms and neck were covered with dark blue Celtic tattoos. His arms and chest had scars in them, almost ritualistic in nature. His eyebrows, nose, ears and lips were pierced. His long hair was dyed blood-red and stuck vertical with some kind of mousse. No, I thought, sniffing the air, with rancid butter, like the Vikings and Celts used to do. He looked ready to repel a Roman invasion force singlehandedly.
I nodded and smiled sheepishly. "Well, yes, I can see where you would. That's quite an outfit," I added, hopefully.
"Outfit? What outfit?"