It's one of that clown's favorite drinking stories. He'll find a corner in the pub with a few yobs willing to bear his drunken squawks and douse them in lies of the most disgusting, sticky, sort.
Arby, he says, that mighty man of the woods. I caught him chasing my sheep about and decided I'd had enough of his mischief. He tells them how he threw aside his shotgun and came after me armed only with his bare fists and the courage of fifty men. He tells them how I threw a rock at him as he hurtled towards me like a swooping hawk, grazing his face dishonourably before being felled by a single blow from his meteor fist.
Well, I'll tell you my side of the story. The true side of it. You see, Farmer Quinn had a sheep that can talk. Now, before you dismiss my story as fanciful before it's even begun allow me to remind you that Farmer Quinn is by no means a normal Farmer. Have you seen how curly his hair is? Even the way he walks, it's almost a trot! He hobbles about as though his shoes didn't quite fit.
I know it's a strange thing to read and yet it's true. Farmer Quinn is himself a sheep and there, among the balls of wool grazing on his silent meadows was his estranged son. He called to me one day as I was making my way to market, seeking my company. It emerged that not only was he Farmer Quinn's son but that he was kept there against his will, trapped among his less intelligent kind.
He only spoke a handful of words to me before Farmer Quinn himself arrived, intent on violence upon me in order to maintain the cruel imprisonment of his own blood. Well, his story goes that he threw his shotgun aside, the scars on my left arse cheek tell a different story. He must have fired five times, only catching me by pure luck when he stumbled in a pot hole in his poorly maintained field.
Well, needless to say when the pellets from his gun made contact with me I wasn't at all pleased but Farmer Quinn's son had fared even worse. When I looked to where my previous conversation partner stood I saw only a dead sheep. Farmer Quinn had killed his own son and there was only me left who could avenge him.
It's true, I did inflict the wound over his eyebrow with a stone. But it was a stone propelled not by a defensive reflex but by the very hand of justice. I took it up and threw it the full length of the field, outranging even Farmer Quinn's long barrelled shotgun and knocked him out cold. He fell backwards comically onto a pile of his brethren's dung, his shotgun landing limp beside him.
So, next time Farmer Quinn regales you with his fraudulent chronicling of non-existent exploits ask yourself this, can you trust a sheep who killed their own son with a shotgun? I didn't think so.
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