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Chapter 2 - Ticket to Hell

Percy sat, perched atop a chair like a particularly plump bird, pecking at some paperwork with an impatient sigh. And a pencil. He wasn’t particularly fond of the planning phase, nor the aftermath of Goreblaster’s exploits - but it put bread on the table, and they were always travelling to new places. Seeing the world ranked highly on his desire list, just below not dying to whatever terror the madman he attempted to manage was trying to slay.

A thick burgundy curtain rattled across the metal beam holding it up, much like how Goreblaster rattled against him despite Percy being the brains of the outfit, keeping them above water. Not that he would go swimming in an outfit that had a brain on it, but he didn’t put that past the big lug.

Goreblaster himself exited from the bedroom behind the curtain, a small towel around his waist and a tired grimace around his face were the only things worn around his muscled (and not short) frame. He slumped himself onto a recliner and reclined with a resigned sigh.

“Everything okay, Goreblaster?” Percy enquired, trying not to make eye contact with the inadequately sized towel. Almost a towelette, really.

“In the past week since defeating Thunderguts, I have drank my fill and buffeted on the best food this village has to offer. I have lain with five women, three men, and an exotic creature that I am starting to believe was actually just one of the potted plants. I have supped from the teat of mother indulgence, and I am but left tired, ready for a nap.” The heavy-set man languished, long dark hair flopped stroppily over his hard features.

“You are feeling unfulfilled, Sir?” Percy shuffled some paperwork together like a card dealer, a mischievous grin creeping across his mouth, knowing what hand he was about to play.

“You know me better than anyone, Percy” Goreblaster shrugged and slid further down the chair. “If I’m not doing battle with insurmountable terror for the adoration of the weak and plenty, I just don’t feel alive.”

“Heroism is your love language, Gore’” the bobble-headed assistant nodded sagely. “It’s a shame that lately there has been a downturn in monstrous beasts and barbaric hordes for you to get cheered up upon…”

Goreblaster sunk lower into the recliner, almost horizontal now. “Too much talky, Perc’ - stop holding out on me. Otherwise, I’ll end up turning heel.”

“We both know you don’t have the footwork for that,” Percy purred, confusing metaphors like a contently dumb orange cat. “But I have an opportunity that may suit you.”

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“Hate suits,” Goreblaster whined, much preferring his ‘barbarian of the wasteland’ themed loincloth and boots as his outfit of choice. If it was cold, he might put on bracers - but that was his limit. “Let’s go stab it, whatever it is.”

“Goreblaster,” Percy hopped off his chair, which actually made him shorter (but not any more round), “We are going to hell.”

“Probably. Oh, you mean literally!” Goreblaster jumped up from the chair, eschewing the barest cover of the towel as it flew, discarded from his tight buns. Deftly he lept over the furniture and rolled back into the bedroom to retrieve his singular part of clothing, the barest hint of adventure enough to put a spark back into his step.

“There’s a couple stops along the way of things to stab, too,” Percy added, still hiding his eyes behind grubby mitts. Despite the tavern being well furnished and overall decent quality, after a week of being cooped up like a chunky chicken Percy was tired of laying eggs, and now it was time to cook some omelettes. He made the mental note to order breakfast.

“Anything particularly large or worthy of praise?” the thick voice came drifting out from the darkened room.

“We’ll have to head over Skullcrush mountains to the River of Pain first. There’s a bog troll that has been… existing? Seems like a bit of a superficial complaint.” Percy shrugged and put the paperwork back on the table; there hadn’t been much point in showing the barbarian after all - Goreblaster enjoyed the written word just about as much as he liked knowing the exact details of the next job. Conveniently the two were usually partners in crime.

Much like how Percy and the meathead were - although it wasn’t usually crimes they were committing. Crimes against nature, perhaps. The lines between murder and adventuring were often blurred, and Percy was immensely shortsighted. It had been around five years since their fates were intertwined, and during that time, they had cut through almost a whole continents worth of big bads. It was almost a conspiracy that more seemed to keep cropping up, and Percy had often wondered how the land would fare without the two of them diligently doing the job.

“Ready!” Goreblaster called out, overly too loud for the small space between them, as he exited the bedroom. He now wore his loincloth - a belt of fur, pouches, and various smaller trinkets and trophies to make it look authentic. Of course, it was authentic, but appearance was important to the definitely-very-tall barbarian. So playing into the public image of a wild brute from the Bloodhorn Wastes, it needed that extra layer of fake-realism. Or real-fakism.

“A belt and pair of boots isn’t ready, Gore,’” Percy chided, despite them having this conversation every time. “You never think about food, supplies, or emergency gear. I haven’t even seen Fernando since we arrived in the village.”

“Fern is a good mule; he always turns up.” Both points were subjectively true. The old beast of burden had served them faithfully for the entirety of their career as monster slayers and had that stereotypical knack of turning up just at the right time to save their hides. Whether Fernando was a good mule was a matter of opinion, however. Percy had no doubt that whatever drove the creature to serve them, it was by no means by the goodness of its heart.

“Nonsense! Where is my sword?” Goreblaster held out his hand and sang out the name of the magical blade. “Purehearrrt!”

A moment of silence passed before Percy sighed. “It still doesn’t work like that.”

The assistant slash manager trudged off to locate the absent weapon.

"Looks like it does," Goreblaster murmured to himself with a sly grin.