I know of this Betsy.
Rather, the love of my life, Champion Courser, knows of Betsy. It was after one of our more passionate evenings, both of us exhausted from our wild love-making, dry hay sticking to our warm moist bodies, that Champion Courser first mentioned Betsy the Whore in passing. I had complimented her recent performance, and inquired as to the origin of a new position we had tried at her behest: The Mongolian Back Breaker.
"I can't feel my legs."
"It'll pass" she whinnied softly. "That's what you get for trying to use that fucking riding crop." She paused, musingly. "You know," Champion Courser continued, "one of the other horses mentioned that, which is why I tried it. Betsy's her name."
I stood at that moment, righteousness flowing through my veins like fire. A shaft of sunlight streamed through a hole in the barn, illuminating my naked form in all its glory. I raised a single, clenched fist to the sky, and screamed at the top of my lungs for seven straight minutes. Then, with the authority of a god incarnate, so demanding of an answer that to do otherwise would be literally impossible, I asked the fateful question: "Who is Betsy?"
"Just some murderous whore of a horse," my one true love replied. "She apparently killed some guy's mom, then anally raped him. I also hear that she's responsible for all the archers swarming the continent nowadays--something about her long schloooooong enticing them, they being largely homosexual males."
"Oh, ok." I replied, before drifting down upon Champion Courser like a warm bank of fog settling on mountain side. Round two began spectacularly...
