Eventsryoth
"The Ballad of the Moldy Bane: A Sailor's Tale of the Tiny Butt Folk"
(as told by Old Barnacle Bill, Keeper of the Bilge Scrolls)
Gather 'round, ye salty dogs, and lend yer ears to a tale strange and true—one that's been whispered in galleys, roared over grog, and scratched into the planks of many a brig.
Back in the shadowy days o’ the 1700s, when men feared witches more than weather and the devil was blamed for warts, there existed a secret kingdom—nay, a legion—of invisible pirates, livin’ not upon the sea, but deep in yer very own stern. Aye, yer butt, matey.
These wee scoundrels, no taller than a flea’s fart, were called the Buttfolk—wicked little germ-ridden marauders, who’d sail the waterways of yer insides, plundering yer health, settin’ fire to yer fevers, and layin' siege to yer bowels. The worst of ‘em flew the flag of the Clan Streptococcus or the fearsome Lords of Staphylococcus, wearin’ greasy little hats and carryin’ rusted swords made from old nose hairs.
Most landlubbers never saw 'em—too small, like whispers of dust in moonlight. But when a man took sick, runnin’ hot with fever, his wounds oozin’ like a jellyfish in spring, it was said the Buttfolk had struck again.
For years, no one knew how to stop ‘em.
Then came Sir Alexander of the Flenning Isles, a man not of sword, but of mold. 'Twas said he stumbled upon his weapon by accident—a bit o’ bread left too long on the windowsill grew a green fuzz, like sea moss on an old anchor. But this fuzz, ahoy, was alive with magic! It birthed a powerful draught, later named in the taverns as Penicillin—or as the old sea dogs call it: The Moldy Bane.
When this Moldy Bane is swallowed or spilled into the bloodstream, it travels fast, ridin’ the red tides like a vengeful sea god. Upon reachin' the Buttfolk's hidden coves and poop decks, the Bane wakes up, and calls forth its warriors—tiny invisible paladins made of fungus and vengeance.
They storm the strongholds of the Buttfolk, cuttin’ down their walls—which are made o' something called peptidoglycan, if ye believe the alchemists. The Moldy Bane don’t just stab ‘em, no—it bursts their fortresses from within, causin’ the Buttfolk to swell and pop, like bilge rats in a barrel fire.
“POP!” go the invaders. “SPLORT!” says the infection.
One by one, the tiny pirates perish, their ships sinkin’ into the crimson seas of yer bloodstream, their cries unheard but for the sudden calm that returns to yer weary bones.
And so, me hearties, whenever ye feel a wound healin’ clean, or a fever passin’ like a squall, tip yer hat to the moldy bread, and whisper thanks to the strange science sorcery that is Penicillin.
But beware—some of the Buttfolk grow wise, changin’ their colors and learnin’ the ways to dodge the Moldy Bane. Aye, resistance, they calls it. The war never ends, mates. It just sleeps.
Now pass the rum, and watch where ye sit—ye never know when a new crew of tiny rogues might set sail up yer backside.
Fin.
—As told by Old Barnacle Bill, who's had more infections than teeth. 🦴
