Long, long ago, in a land far, far away, there lived a plain young (ish) girl who worked in her father's Inn at the sign of the "Emperor's Arse".
Sign writing in those days, in that town, was carried out by a fellow whose name was Vincent Von Go, who, in his youth, had fallen in love with a pair of twins, both of whom broke his heart. In a futile but historically precedent setting attempt to woo them back, Vincent cut off both his ears and sent them to each twin (fed-ex) to show how earnest he was in his ardour. The emotional torment (and not inconsiderable physical pain) he suffered from this act of selfless (and earless) love was believed by the "Great Critics" (non of them gauche) to be the bedrock of his artistic depth, recognised only some 150 years after his passing and some 150 millions of Ducats* exchanging hands.
*Ducats being the local monetary unit of the time, which is itself an interesting story concerning the barter of poultry and the necessity of keeping a flock of such birds outweighing the cost of trade thereof making an economy whose gross annual inflation depended entirely on the appetite of any given wealthy personage.
And so it was in those far off days that Vincent Van Go eventually painted every sign for every Inn, hotel, public house and hostelry for miles around and which led inevitably to beautifully painted (but mis-heard) signs of "The Dog and Fuck", "The Coach and Whores", "The Pricklayer's Inn", "The Pig and Nipple" and of course "The Emperor's Arse".
The plain, young (ish) girl, who worked in her father's Inn, went by the name of Hermione. Whilst at school, try as they might, Hermione's classmates were hard put to think up a suitable nickname for her and so she spent the 'best years of her life' nickless. Whilst her school chums went by such grandiose titles as Shorty, Freckles, Ginger, Fingers, Thumbs and Nails (they were only kids, what do you expect?) Hermione suffered the ignominy of always being known as Hermione, and so it was now.
When the local men visited her father's Inn they spent an undue amount of time discussing the merits, or otherwise of local women and distinguishing them by puerile, sexist nick names such as Tits Malloy, Legs Lugano, Tracy Tits, Hairy Millie, Lucy legs, Nautical Nancy Nipples, Leggy Linda or Titania Tromanov That Foreigner With The Really Big Hooters.
Alas, Hermione remained Hermione. With her shoulder length brown hair (forever in a pony tail or under a lace-fringed, mob-cap), her less-than-village-average 38DD's (it was a buxom village) her freckled-never-tanned-never-just-interestingly-pale skin, her slightly off-putting height of five feet eleven (most of the boys were inches shorter), her too giggly laugh and her 8inch cock, partnering her clean shaven pussy (she was certain that the other girls must have much bigger cocks)
Hermione despaired of ever finding a man that would show any interest at all.
Late at night Hermione often entertained quite disgusting thoughts of becoming a lesbian so she could at least have some kind of sex. Fortunately (or otherwise) she was a girl and had never actually been the recipient of the oft quoted Shakespearean line* "Go fuck yourself." Thus maintaining her virginal status and lack of any sexual preference before she reached the 'standard Lit. age' of consent or for that matter, for many years afterwards.
*Unless you have access to certain original folios of quill written Shakespearean works, no where in all the plays and sonnets will you find the line quoted above. As is well known all Shakespeare's works are abridged and abraded and this particular line translated into such pallid words as: "Get thee to a nunnery", "An it please you nuncle" or "Go boil your head in a bucket."
Be that as it may, at the tender age of just 22 years, Hermione was still virginal and still worked in her father's Inn, when two very well dressed and quaintly coiffured 'gentlemen' arrived, seeking rooms and information. The rooms would surely be hard-come-by and the information definitely expensive. Hermione directed their enquiries to her father who immediately offered them the single room available (at extra cost due to the coming festivities) and also the required information (at extra, extra cost due to the recent rise in sales tax).
The room that her father generously offered was, of course, Hermione's room, which her father went to great lengths to explain and for reasons of his own included the words: sharing, virginal daughter, monkey business (none of) and woe betide, accompanied by grins, winks and back slapping.
The gentlemen, with glances askance, were forced to take up the offer, as there were no rooms in any hostelry in the town. They had been offered many barn accommodations but had refused, being very conscious of the fact that they were in a fair to middling story without even a hint of greatness or singularity. (Plus neither of them were great with child, donkey drawn or carpenters by trade.)
What the gentlemen actually were, Hermione could only guess, as she showed them to her room with its single pallet and the en-suite being a bucket in the corner under a continuous leak from the ceiling.
"What do you do?" asked Hermione unable to contain her indifference.
"Tailoring." Said one.
"Weavers." Claimed the other.
"Interior décor and design" In unison.
"Which is?" Hermione urged distractedly
"We make clothes and decorate."
"Right." Indicating with open hands and odd gestures Hermione continued "This is where I sleep" with the emphasis on the pronoun, "This is the night-time necessity" motioning towards the corner of the room, "With exits, here, here and here, in the event of an emergency, run like bloody hell." With that, Hermione left them to their own devices and obvious amusement.
At the end of the day, which was in fact very early the next morning, Hermione creaked her way up the little wooden hill to Bedfordshire, remembering, with a wan smile, her long gone mother's aphorism and looking gratefully forward to a few hours sleep on her straw bed.
As she opened the door to her room Hermione realised through weary sight that she had mistaken her way and opened the wrong door. Backing out quietly, so as not to disturb the occupants, Hermione became aware of a body, two bodies, directly behind her in the passageway. She turned at the sound of muffled giggles and tittering to see the two gentlemen trying to hide enormous grins behind soft, manicured hands, adorned with simple, understated yet ever-so elegant rings.
"What now?" Pleaded Hermione.
"Nothing now." Said one.
"That's your room." Said the other.
Hermione turned slowly and stepped hesitantly through the door to her room, where she stood aghast, dumbfounded, bewitched bothered and bewildered by the array of wonderment, which was now her room. And promptly fainted.
* * *
Act II. Scene IV. The blasted heath. Enter 3 hags.
First witch: When shall we three meet again?
Second witch: Hags?
Third witch: Where?
First witch: What are you talking about?
Second witch: There, just above your first line. The stage direction; Act eye eye, scene eye vee: The blasted heath. Enter 3 hags.
First witch: And?
Second witch: We're not hags, we're witches.
Third witch: I'm not a hag, I'm only in my early thirties. (The other two look at her sharply) Middle thirties... all right I'm 39, that doesn't make me a hag.
First witch: Hag is another word for witch.
Second witch: So why don't they just say witch?
Third witch: Yeah or crone.
