Taffy The Mongo.

The Tragedy of Taffy the Mongo: A King Arthur II Parable.
In the misted valleys of Wales—where the hills roll like the backs of ancient dragons and the rivers still whisper the names of forgotten kings—there lives a man known as Taffy. To most who know him, he is a proud Welshman: broad of accent, stubborn of spirit, and loyal to the soil beneath his feet. But to those who truly understand his story, Taffy is a figure worthy of the bards’ lamentations—a man cursed not by poverty or fate, but by the limits of his own belief.
Taffy’s tragedy is rooted in denial, not just of history, but of himself. He spits on the very notion that King Arthur II walked the earth as flesh and blood, dismissing the name with the disdain of the ignorant: "Arthur II? A mongo’s tale." And yet, the cruel twist—the irony so thick it could be carved into the stones of Caerleon—is that Taffy’s own blood may well bear the royal thread of that same Arthur’s lineage.
This is no idle fancy. In the valleys, lineage runs deep. Families have tilled the same patches of land for centuries, their ancestors fighting and falling under the banners of kings they now claim were mere myths. But Taffy will hear none of it. He sees himself as a "filthy urchin," a "dirty peasant," destined to remain hunched in the shadow of the coal pit and the sheep fold. He refuses even to try—refuses to test his mettle against the stone and sword that wait silently for the one whose hand is destined to free them.
Here is the King Arthur element made flesh: the sword in the stone is not just a relic of an age past—it is a symbol of potential, of destiny waiting to be claimed. All it would take is a single moment of courage, a single reach of the hand. But Taffy will not take it.
The tragedy is Shakespearean in its simplicity. In the Arthurian tales, men fail because they are treacherous, greedy, or corrupted. Taffy fails because he will not even step forward. It is a failure not of ability, but of imagination.
The bards would say that the gods gave Taffy royal blood but cursed him with a peasant’s mind. They would sing of the day he stood before the stone, scoffing at it, never realising it was his test and his inheritance. The onlookers—farmers, merchants, dreamers—might watch in disbelief as he turns his back, walking away with a laugh, condemning Arthur II as a fool’s invention while the sword remains lodged, waiting for a hand that will never come.
And so Taffy lives on—content in his chains, proud of his smallness, blind to his greatness. The tragedy of Taffy the Mongo is not that he was denied his birthright. It is that he denied it himself. In the end, the valleys will whisper his name not as a king who might have been, but as the man who chose to remain in the mud while the throne of Cymru sat empty.

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