Sprekelmeyer and Muessigmann

A man’s home is his castle. My little piece of the kingdom comes complete with its own dragon.
This dragon we call ‘Murphy’, spews disaster from its nostrils, and saps the life from our credit cards. We keep Murphy fed on a regular diet of small remodels projects and a vita-​boost of preventive maintenance. We confine him with the heretics, in the bowels of the castle. Lately he had been a little cranky, and kept spewing back the offerings we sent down the kitchen sink. So I went down to the dungeon with my trusty pipe wrench sword, intent on knocking some manners back into the pesky serpent. Upon arrival into the depths of the catatacombs, I was horrified to discover that Murphy had been a lot more than testy, he was downright out of control. He had been chewing on the hot water piping, and created a geyser of water under the parlor floor. This had been going on for some time, perhaps a month or more, and the castle now had its very own moat. Albeit, under the castle instead of around.
The agitated and angry Murphy had broken his restraints, and was flying about the dungeon defecating mold onto every surface. The beams and trusses had all soaked up their fill of the damp misty air, and had begun to upset their moors. He had been breathing a fire of rust on every metal fastener and hanger, and many had dropped their load of pipes. The line that he chewed through, was in the tightest, darkest, corner of the dungeon. I could not, even after shedding my armor, fit under the beams to access the leak.
I retreated out of the cellar, and returned to my throne to summon my advisors. I was first entertained by the jester of insurances, who preformed an interpretive dance around the maypole of ambiguity, and basically told me I was screwed. I next summoned my first born prince, who had been off fighting the crusades against the Muslims in Iraq. «Come home and slay this dragon» I ordered, but like all of the new generations, He was indifferent and more concerned with the latest jousting tourney, and kissing sleeping maidens. It was time to summon the wizard of worry removal, the Merlin of Maintenance, Sprekelmeyer and Muessigman.
Sir Vincent Sprekelmeyer, ‘Vince’, arrived in his white stallion truck, armed to the tooth with every part, fitting, spice, eye of newt, and lock of virgin’s hair imaginable. He pulled from his velvet satchel, his magic wand of propane and a pinch of solder, and recited his spells of expletives as he worked his way through the moat and mud toward the source of evil. In moments, the portal to hell was closed, and Murphy had been chained. He gave me the spell and the cauldron recipe to ward off the mold, and after leaving his more than reasonable bill, rode off back into the forest. One man had done, what a round table of neighborhood nights, wouldn’t even attempt.
All is well again in the enchanted castle, and I can return to my mission of finding a princess to turn this frog back to a king.