At one time we were merry. He promised us good benefits – for our health, wellbeing, educational development, and retirement. Truth is, there aren’t that many good healers in the kingdom and there are not really that many great places to do yoga in Sherwood Forest.
The ground is littered with wet leaves from all the rain. This is England, not New Delhi. It’s cold, even in our thatched homes and communal canopies. Namaste under these blankets and furs. Robin’s hand-picked instructors need to learn how to build better fires.
There’s not much opportunity for professional advancement, either. Sure, there’s archery lessons, but how far is that gonna get you? We’re all good bowmen, but we want skills of a more managerial and technical nature. Less recreational, more professional.
And each month we put our coins in a vault in King Richard’s castle. His Majesty and Robin say our coins are accruing interest, but if you ask me, all they’re doing is sitting in a vault rather than my pouch. The growth rate of a feudal economy is slower than an addled mule cart.
Sure, Robin is a champion of the common folk. He robs the rich and gives to the poor, but where does that leave us? He gives squat to us. At one point, he paid us in chickens.
That’s when Bartholomew spoke up. He’s our herald for the union we put together. Robin left us no choice. Mead and capons just weren’t cutting it. We needed real wages. We draw the line at chickens.
Robin used to throw festive community-building gatherings. We’d sit around campfires late at night and he’d rouse us with tall tales of derring-do and dashing escapes. Occasionally, we’d take hikes up to the lakes and catch some fish for King Richard. There was always some ulterior motive with these events, mostly for Robin to impress His Highness.
Not to mention, one time Robin had us all participate in an archery contest on Administrative Professionals Day. No outsiders – just us Sherwood bowmen. It was fun and competitive, until he joined in.
Who runs and participates in a community-building exercise knowing full well he’s going to win? Robin put us all to shame and ended up winning the prize, a large hog hunted that day. And guess where it ended up? He donated it to the upcoming royal holiday feast for His Fatness (and I’m not talking about the friar).
It was supposed to be our day, but he steals it from us and gives honorifics to top brass.
Speaking of this celebratory dinner, I don’t think Robin really wanted anyone to know about it. It wasn’t until later we discovered why. Turns out it was an exclusive event.
Not one of us received an invitation to King Richard’s Annual Holiday Feast. Robin could’ve put in a good word for us. After all, how many noble coaches have we stopped? How many of Nottingham’s men did we subdue? All a faded memory of his lowly peons.
Ever since he fell for Maid Marian, he’s been distant. It’s as if she’s made him abandon those who work for him. And she can be a real piece of work. Well, I take that back. She doesn’t work. Literally. She just sits around.
We all know what she is – a leech, like the one Bartholomew found on his nethers after swimming in the pond a bit too much. Robin doesn’t see it, but we do.
Whenever he has her around, Marion’s always demanding things. Constantine, fetch the pale, I’m thirsty. Bartholomew, stir the stew pot. Eustace, bring me a blanket.
One time she really got into it with Little John when she told him to “shave that dingleberry beard.” And Robin just sits there, munching on a drumstick. He cares more for chicken than his best friend!
His other pal the friar is a nuisance. I don’t know why Robin always has to have him around. Tuck drinks way too much and smells like he hasn’t bathed in a fortnight. Like if rancid itself had a stench.
The friar’s an expert flatulater. No one in camp can blast the flames from his romp like him. It’d be funny if they didn’t smell so abominable. It’s probably the hops in that ancient abbey-dusted mead he keeps bringing in. He downs a cask faster than we drink a flagon.
Whether it’s not paying what we’re owed or doing something solely for us, you can see why we’re ready to leave turds in his quiver. The presence of his precious maid and stinky brewing buddy doesn’t help matters. To be honest, Robin’s just exacerbating what all of us are already thinking – his leadership as top administrator of outlawry has deteriorated beyond repair.
And he still has the gall to call us his “merry” men. If you ask me, I think the consensus is that we’re all thinking of quitting. Perhaps there are more opportunities in the city than the forest. Shit, even Nottingham paid his goons more.
