Having grasped the basics of evolution and the seed of an old man, not to mention a newly found knowledge about pp's, our intrepid hero continues his quest towards mediocrity. Whatever shall he do now, now that the world holds no enemies for him to defeat or die to?

“Phrasing? You know? There's children around. And well, what did the heroes in the past do after they arrived?”

Mostly rape and pillage while pining for home and more opportunities to rape and pillage.

“Ok, let me rephrase that. What did the heroes do who weren't violent sociopaths.”

They died.

The hero rubbed his temples and sat down in a surprisingly fresh batch of seed. Behind him an older beggar ran away cackling.

“You know we're in deep shit here.”

Usually it's impolite to point it out but...

“No, I meant that without a big enemy, I'll have nothing to do here. Which means you'll be stuck with me until the end of my life.”

Oh...

Oh no....

A chorus of deathly screams came down from above and deafened everyone.

“Whaat?”

THEY DEAFENE... oh forget it.

“Whaat?”

As if through a miracle, everyone's hearing returned by a well placed punch in the hero's face. The hero fell further back in human produce until his entire rear was enriched with sepia.

Three hours later he woke up again, giving the narrator enough time to formulate a plan.

“Is it a cunning plan? One you'll only say once? Also, why does my face hurt?”

Irrelevant facial details aside, the plan is indeed cunning. The hero must head to the queen and ask for a quest.

“Just any old quest?”

No, the very best quest.

“Well at my behest this test, I can attest, will take no less than my very best.”

Yes. And then a few more words that rhyme without contributing to the narrative. But now our 1950's sepia toned hero must head to the tallest building in the village. Off to see the queen.

“Do I follow the yellow brick road?”

Not unless the hero has enough capital for a copyright lawsuit.

“Then I'll be off on the vaguely brown coloured road.”

Half an hour later, ignoring specific instructions and rather choosing to go on his own several times, the directionally challenged hero arrived at the palace. A long and narrow building that towered over everything else in the city. Much like a tower would, rather than a palace.

“But it is a tower. It's literally 20 feet wide and made out of hundreds of cottages stacked one upon another.”

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

The hero has opted to insult the queen's property, a very daring move. Let's see how it plays out.

As expected, the hero was immediately put into chains and dragged up several dozen sets of stairs towards the throne room. His head hitting every single step along the way. The burliest of the two men gently rapped on the queen's chamber door and was allowed in. Inside she sat on a rather tall but narrow throne wearing a red crown and way too much make up. The narrow building swayed in the wind as did the queen's temper.

“Gwhy am I being presented with a dead body? Again?”

The burliest guard tried his best to move as little as possible and slowly brought his hand to his temple for a salute.

“Im's alive ma'am. 'S one of them heroes. Wuz talkin shit bout yer palace and stuff.”

Before the queen could respond her advisor stepped forward to placate her rising anger.

“Perhaps the young man isn't aware of how matters work. Might be prudent to call it youthful ignorance, rather than a crime punishable by death?”

“So ghe's an idiot? Gwho's dressed like a beggar?

“That might just be because of inflation, your majesty.”

“Inflation? I've gheard of that. That's one of those fetishes, isn't it?”

“No, your majesty, this is monetary inflation. Not the fun kind.”

The advisor now addressed the hero who managed to clear his head from the sustained, and definitely consequential in the long term, head-trauma.

“You see, young man. What you have offended wasn't just the queen. It was our entire financial system.”

The building swayed again in the air and several wooden support beams let out an audible crack.

“The people and visitors are taxed when they enter this town which allows us to build a palace. The palace falls over requiring us to build new real estate which funds construction wizards. They remain happy and don't launch fireballs so everybody gets to live. It's called the circle of misery and has worked as the financial core of our existence for hundreds of years.”

The hero gave this due consideration, which is impressive considering his low intelligence, and gave a narrow stare at the invisible narrator for unknown reasons. He then addressed the advisor.

“So what you're saying is, your system is based on misery and can only be sustained through planned obsolescence?”

The advisor clapped his hands and smiled broadly.

“Exactly, I'm so happy you understand. Now, can you tell us why you're here besides royal slander?”

“Narrator told me to get a quest.”

“Yes, and?”

“Told me you were going to give me one.”

“A quest you say? Are you sure we still have those?”

A resounding 'yes' descended from the sky followed by a 'look inside the cabinet beneath the throne for the yellow paper marked Questing 101, quests for dummies.

The advisor, slightly higher in intelligence, picked up on the subtle clue and fumbled around inside the cabinet drawer for a yellow paper. No, not that one. Not that one either. Look deeper. Yes, that one. See, it has the words on it I told you to look for. Good. Now hand it over or we'll all be here for years.

The advisor, confused by the sudden influx of divine inspiration, handed over the quest to the hero and quickly ran back behind the queen's throne. The hero, finally handed his purpose in life, which totally wasn't to die soon, was ecstatic.

“Right... Ok. So I've got the quest. Now what do I do?”

Another glass of whisky was poured because the other five glasses were feeling lonely and empty on the inside. With a deep sigh from above the narrator continued.

The hero is issued the hero's weapon and leaves on the hero's deadly journey as quick as possible.

The queen perked her cauliflower ears and objected.

“So... the thing is... gwhe, or rather my advisor, sold said item quite a while ago to build more palaces.”

The glass of whisky died a quick and silent death. His glass brethren gathered round and were filled with remorse and more whisky. They too looked death in the face before being sucked dry like a desert lake.

It was at that point that the queen got a luminous idea and presented the hero with whatever object came to mind that was roughly the same shape and size as a sword to send him on his fucking way.

“I have? I mean.. I do? Ok... euhm... everybody close their eyes. Gright now.”

Everybody did, afraid of what would come next. The queen then turned her back to the crowd and lifted her skirt. A wet, sustained sucking noise presented itself, followed by a small giggle from the queen. She threw the sword-shaped object in front of the hero's feet.

The hero has been offered the (only slightly) used royal vibrator. Accept yes/no?

“No, absolutely not. What the hell is wrong with you?”

Hero has accepted the weapon and pocketed it.

“S-s-s-s-s-to-p-p-p-p i-i-i-i-i-i-t-t-t-”

The hero grabbed the weapon from his pocket, turned it off and put it back.

“What the hell is this industrial strength torture device and where the hell is that smell coming from? Oh god, it smells like a twice eaten can of tuna that was sexually assaulted by a rhino in heat.”

Hero's suspiciously specific comparison has been noted as further royal slander. Thank you for your feedback and suicidal tendencies.