Once upon a time, in the Kingdom of Clockshire, there lived a boy named Etchington. Etchington was a quiet young lad who kept his head in the books and out of trouble. Even so, he managed to work the nerves of Brutlik, the town bully. Maybe the sheer fact that Etchington never did anything to annoy him annoyed him. Maybe he was affected by the fact that Etchington was never affected by him. Nevertheless, he swore to make a scene with Etchington someday soon.

One fine day, as school was letting out, Brutlik spied Etchington walking with his nose buried deep in a book. “He isn’t even looking where he’s going,” he huffed. Very quietly (or, as quietly as he could), the big brute clanked over and stood directly in Etchington’s way. Without looking, the lanky nerd seamlessly navigated around him. Furious at his foiled plan, Brutlik let out a loud howl. The sound was so piercing that the entire town halted. Etchington put down his book and, for once, looked square at Brutlik. Determined to salvage the moment, Brutlik blurted the first idea that came to mind. “OUCH. My foot! It’s in excruciating pain! Because... ETCHINGTON... STEPPED ON IT!!!” The crowd gasped as he pointed his clad finger. “Me? A scrawny boy? Injured your armored toe?” Etchington retorted. “You did it on purpose, I say!” Brutlik lied, “You stomped! And, for that, you shall pay!” As soon as the words slipped out of his mouth, his lance slipped out of its sheath. “I did not,” Etchington peeped with a slight sense of edge in his voice, “What reason would I have to do such a thing?” “You tell me, Etchington,” Brutlik slurred, aiming his weapon. Speechless at his absurd accusations, Etchington scoffed. “Sure you laugh now, but you won’t be laughing tomorrow at noon when we duel,” Brutlik sneered, resheathing his sword and storming off. “I don’t even have a weapon!” Etchington called after him. “Scrape up what you can,” Brutlik huffed, still walking away, “Whatever the puny challenge, we WILL duel tomorrow at noon. No exceptions.”

Etchington was slightly afraid, confused and flabbergasted. How dare Brutlik accuse him of such horrid acts. Then again, exactly what ‘horrid act’ was he accused of? He was willing to duel to the death over a stubbed toe? Book in hand, he ran home as fast as he could. His scattered mind collected itself back at his father’s library. Books were the only friends he had. Surely they would help him decide on a weapon. As he browsed through the words, he came upon a curious quote: “The pen is mightier than the sword.” Could it be true? Suddenly, an idea began to materialize within his immense brain.

The next day, at noon, the children gathered at the square. Brutlik stood with his mighty lance face to face with a seemingly unarmed Etchington. “Well? Where’s your weapon?” he growled. “Right here,” Etchington smiled, producing a sheet of paper and a pen. “What in the heavens is that?” Brutlik laughed. “My weapon,” Etchington stated firmly. ’How are we supposed to duel?” Brutlik asked. “You said, ‘whatever the PUNY battle,’ remember?” Etchington reminded him. “We can’t duel like this, no matter what you say,” Brutlik protested. “You said, ‘no exceptions’...” Etchington smirked. “Right...” Brutlik whined, “So-- so what kind of PUNY battle are you suggesting?” “Well, I have heard that the king himself will arrive here at the square within a matter of minutes. He shall take part unaware. When he shows up, whichever one of us can convince him that we are worthy of staying in his castle for a day will win. You shall try with your lance, and I will try with my pen.” “I thought you’d be more clever than that,” Brutlik cheered, “With my lance, I will simply demonstrate my advanced fighting techniques and he will surely deem me the winner.” “Believe what you will,” Etchington smirked as he took to his writing, scribbling on about the things he’d learned in school, the books he’d read about the King’s knights, and how he admired and desired to learn more about their bravery, honor, and strict code of conduct. Brutlik, on the other hand, huffed as he practiced dueling against a pillar.

Suddenly, the royal trumpets sounded. “Hear ye, hear ye! The King has come!” the announcers shouted. The crowd parted and in walked the King. Everyone bowed. “Good day, children. I have come to check up on your education. The young ones in my kingdom must be wiser than the others to ensure Clockshire’s survival for millennia to come.” “Excuse me, My Lord,” Brutlik spoke up, ’To ensure our survival, we must also have fighters that can endure to the end!” With that, he began jumping around and slashing his lance, puncturing meal sacks, overturning carts, kicking down barrels, and scaring horses in an elaborate display of mock combat. Etchington only shook his head and handed the King a folded piece of parchment. “Good day, your highness,” he said with a bow and a turn. The King nodded back, but couldn’t take his eyes off of the foolery before him. “Boy! Halt at once! Shall you be sent to a correctional facility for your ridiculously reckless behavior?” at the sound of the King’s last words, Brutlik paused as his lance cut through one final bale of hay. “But, Your Majesty,” he breathed, “Have any of your knights performed this way in battle?” “They absolutely have not,” the King frowned, “And you, my son, shall have this mess all cleaned up by five tonight, or there surely will be some REAL battles going on.” Brutlik scanned the area in shame. He’d gone crazy and messed up everything. No one was impressed. They were all suppressing their giggles. Even the King was upset at him. He quickly shook out of his trance of embarrassment, quickly attempting to recover any dignity he had left. “I’ll clean up post-haste, Sire! Then, shall I visit your castle?” The King looked up from reading Etchington’s letter. “Not tonight, my lad, definitely not tonight. We will have another young visitor instead. And, when he returns to the village, maybe he can teach you a thing or two about etiquette.”