The screams of frustration echoed through Flinthammer Hall.

“Bael Flinthammer!” Beli Flinthammer half-yelled, half-sobbed. “Ye already ken yer numbers and yer letters and ye bloody father taught ye how to field-strip a blunderbuss. How come ye cannae get this?”

“Nae poop!”

“Ye did poop! Ah kin smell it from here! Magni’s been turned ta diamond and he kin smell it!”

“Nae poop!”

“Get back here …”

She stopped, exhausted, and slumped against one wall.

“Ah’ve dug through demon poop lookin’ fer keys in the Hellfire Peninsula, looked fer beans in talbuk poop in Nagrand, poked through wolf poop lookin’ fer microfilm in the Borean Tundra and had ta scare the poop out o’ bats in the Howling Fjord. Ah am sick ta death o’ poop, ye wee …”

“Beli!” There was a shout from the entrance hall. “Ah’m home, me darlin’ wife and me, er, stinky boy! An’ I brought home a soo- … souv- … suh- … a present from Brewfest!”

“That’s nice, just so long as it’s no’ another bloody animal,” Beli growled, watching to see which way her errant son would duck. She’d just dump a bucket of cold water on him to clean him off, she decided, and worry about the soiled pants in the morning.

“It’s a pony! Every lass wants a pony, does she not?”

“Sure, fine, now help me with … Ringo Flinthammer! Did that pony jus’ crap on the floor?”

“Er … maybe …”

((Inspired by the Blog Azeroth shared topic Worst Quest Ever))