Hrothgar's Lanes and Mead Hall had never been so quiet. The bowlers had halted their games for the presentation and were so still that all could hear the tearing paper as Hrothgar unveiled the name of the Bowl Belle.
Fafner, dour and dreadful, watched the stage, unzipping his bowling bag quietly and reaching in for his bowling ball. A fell and awful odor teased his nose for a moment before he recognized it the precise moment his hand dipped into a repulsive slimy mess.
Hrothgar was saying, "The winner is..." but he was cut off by Fafner's agonized roar.
"Hornstrumpot!" The deep bass rumble echoed in the building, shaking pins and rattling pencils on the scoring desks. "Who in fluting Farquard puked in my bowling bag?" He held his hand aloft, showing the stinking mess to all who were intrepid enough to look, but not many in that hall dared raise their eyes to Fafner in his rage. His hair and beard were black and wild and blue veins erupted like mountain ridges on his neck and temples. His blood-red bowling shirt was marked with golden runes, and thick ropes of hair stood stiff in his enraged flaring nostrils.
In dreadful ire, he strode to the stage still extending his hand, gooey with congealed vomit, the bowling bag swinging from his other hand, its gaping maw slimed with former food. "Hornstrumpot!" he bellowed once more, seizing one of the finalists by the decolletage and hauling her toward him with a shriek of rending cloth. "I left it in your charge, wench."
Trembling and quailing, great round breasts overflowing the torn bodice of her gown, Griselda wept and knelt to clutch his knees. "I'm sorry, Fafner, sweetie. I was so nervous. I never been in no beauty contest before."
Fafner pulled her to her feet. "You knocked up?"
"No, Fafner. I swear I ain't."
"You better not be." Fafner rubbed his hand on her torn bodice, smearing the silk with green ex-broccoli. Then he polished the bowling ball in her skirt, and finally he inverted the bowling bag and pulled it over her head, rotating and cleaning it with her hair as though she were a bottle brush.
"Are you quite through?" said Hrothgar, still clutching the envelope.
"Oh, yeah. Sure," said Fafner.