A stiff, blue point ran across the high grass and the top-balded midget chased after.

The blue slime turned around and looked up to the air where the shadow cast itself around him. Its mouth opened, its drooping tongue wound itself back into a roll. It jumped. The man jumped on it. Everyone jumped.

Pop.

The midget looked up, blue-faced. He blinked, eyes went wide. All around him across the tall grass, the tips of blades were blue and dripping and on his body the slime came down in giant goblets. His hands went wide and he shook each one, giant threads of blue fell off his leather coat and cape. It all fell on the black soil beneath or on the pokadotted tops of mushrooms half-removed at the stem.

“You got some on you, Harrogate.” Cecil said. A woman, tall. The grass went to her shins halfway. Grass that went halfway up to his waist. White complexed with an unruly braid of red hair, loose and frizzed.

“Why aren’t you working again?” Harrogate asked. He wiped his face.

“I’m too slow. You’ve got those quick, short legs.”

“Where’s the bag?” He asked. “We’ve got half a days worth of slimes in there, I don’t want it stolen.”

“It’s out there.” She pointed out there (which wasn’t much of a direction for him, either). Somewhere, on a tree line southward? Northward?

“Why don’t you go fetch it.” He said.

“It’s heavy.” She said.

“If you didn’t fuck things up, you wouldn’t have to lift bags for a living.” He said. “’Sides, I’m doing all the hard work.”

“What? Getting blue shit all over you?”

“Getting us some money is what.” I said.

“Harrogate. I’ve been thinking.” Her hands when to her chin, her head tilted upwards. He looked, eyes lazy and heavy bagged with the slime dripping off the side of his chin. Interred in his beard. Down his back. Up his ass. A shiver came down Harrogate, he wiggled in place.

“The last time you thought we ended up with a million dollar debt.” He said. “I think you’ve thought enough for one life.”

“Harrogate. Don’t be an ass.” She said. “This helps you too, alright, listen.”

He turned and walked away. She took big steps after him, he kept his head on the floor looking for bobbing and squishing and jumpy little blue balls that slipped through the tall grass. With his arms at a wide wing span, turning and clapping on these small critters.

“You listening, Harrogate?” She asked.

You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

“I wish I wasn’t.”

“Why are we still doing this?”

“Because it’s easy money.” Harrogate grabbed a rag from one of the belts hanging on his chest, wiping his face clean of the blue and seeing the smidgen of his eye holes and lips puckered against the cloth like a Rorschach of a bad kiss at a tavern.

“Harrogate, is this what you want to do for the rest of your life? Hunting slimes?”

“Don’t even start Cecil.” He said.

“Well wait.” She said. “Couldn’t we have more? Couldn’t we do more? Aren’t you interested in glory, fame, prestige?”

“Fame doesn’t pay a debt.” He turned. Arms going up and down. “A million. Dollar. Debt.”

“But fame gets us money, Harry.”

“Don’t call me Harry.”

“And how do we get fame, Harry?” She said. “By doing things worth making us famous.”

“You couldn’t have answered that any better. Be specific. What do you want to do?”

“Dungeon hopping. It’s like tavern hopping.”

“Except we wouldn’t be drunk and would probably die.” He said.

“Both those things can change!” She stepped up in front of him. The forest blocked by her body, the heavy cloak of a wolf mantle around her shoulders and down all the way to her waist. She wasn’t sweating. Why did she never sweat under such a heavy, warm coat? “Let’s go dungeon hopping.”

“No, Cecil. No” He threw his arms up and down again. “Again. We can’t go dungeon hopping or take names or spent money to get drunk. Do you want to know why, Cecil?”

“Why’s that, Harrogate?”

“’Cause we can’t afford it, Cecil. Because we owe one million Gold.” He said. “And I want to pay it and still be alive to enjoy having paid it.”

“It’s just one million gold.” She said. “It’s not that bad. Think about the life afterwards, Harry. Think about your career. Really.”

His eyes dimmed, his face scrunched up.

“Do you know how much a million is?” He asked.

“A one an three zeroes!” Her face lit up. The sun almost beaming off the gleam in her skin, the slimes bobbing up on top of thin-pedaled yellow flowers and bending the stems of dandelions. The small white artillery flew across the horizon, past her, some of it stuck in her hair.

“A one and six zeroes, Cecil. Six zeroes. Can you count to six?”

She closed her eyes and jerked her head, smiling then started on her left hand. One finger, two finger, three.

“Gods damn, I didn’t ask you to actually do it.” He said. “Cecil. I know you may not like the job-”

“I hate it.” She said. Further beyond them the even horizon rolled across with a stale breeze, where behind them scar-less slack mouthed young adventurers ran across with wooden swords bopping blue slimes. Sometimes red ones. Sometimes themselves.

“I know you hate it, and that’s why it’s perfect. Because there isn’t any way you could mess the job up.” He said “This is what I like Cecil, easy jobs that pay it in the end.”

“This is why you don’t have a girlfriend.” She said. “You’re boring.”

“This is why we owe a million dollars. You’re dumb.”

“I’m not dumb.”

Harrogate turned his head out of the way of Cecil, beyond her and towards an oak. His eyes, thin and tired. He pinched his nose bridge.

“Cecil, look at our bag.” He pointed. “Just look.”

She turned, the gleam fading, her face shadowed and stiff and nervous. Her eyes went wide and she ran for the for the bag, tripping, kicking up grass. The adventurers turned mid swing or mid scream or mid chase, looking at the giant tripping and falling and running for the tree line. Harrogate slapped his forehead and peaked through the gaps in between his fingers. Three birds pecked at their bag, white yellow beaks slurping and nibbling away at blue candy-colored corpses. Slurp, slurp.

“Stop. Stop.” She raised her long sword with her right hand, flailing it like a beating cane. “Stop!”

They picked up the brown linen bag and with one pull on opposite direction by all three of ‘em, ripped it straight through. It all fell on her, one big drench of it. Slime-blood, like she was a walking blueberry. She turned to Harrogate, eyes peaked through a caked face.

Harrogate tipped his head to the side.

“Nice one.”