William, now equipped with two handles, one on each side, was unhappy about the entire ordeal of becoming a human shield. What William didn't know, or understand, however, was that sometimes the author needed to shoehorn in a few changes here and there to make the plot fit. This wasn't the case with this story however, the author just thought it'd be funny to watch a rich billionaire nerd with two actual handles on his body. No longer would the term manhandling someone be a rowdy affair. No, just plain and simple. You take the handle in your left or right hand and steer the individual towards your intended destination or blow you wish to have absorbed. IKEA would have been proud at the sheer simplicity of it.
Handles installed and his glasses changed for plastic safety glasses, the dragon began to chant to the crowd in general “SAFETY FIRST EVERYONE.” He put William into a yellow safety jacket who immediately sprouted a picket sign in either hand.
“Hm, this is strange, the system must think you're French because you're human and wearing a yellow safety jacket. They must have installed an automatic protest script whenever you folks try to wear one. Try saying something.
“POINT, DOWN WITH ANYTHING THAT MAKES ME DO ACTUAL WORK FOR A CHANGE!”
“Hmmmyeah, sounds pretty French alright. I'll see if I can fix it. Just hold still.”
The safety dragon performed a precise and minute operation to the back of William's head, removing it in one swift notion.
“Ooh, crud... I hate when that happens. I honestly tried to be careful here. I swear.”
“WELL, POINT, YOU FAILED, POINT. DOWN WITH OSHA DRAGONS AND HONEST LABOUR!”
The party looked at the headless body and wondered where the sound was coming from.
“POINT, I'm talking out of my ass at the moment. I had a functional pair of lips installed there in case something like this would happen. But it's best you don't smell my breath right now.”
The hero crumpled up his face imagining the inner mechanics of an ass to mouth. But taste and colours are matters we don't discuss. If we want to preserve that tiny bit of sanity we have left. Some like a vibrator that can match the sun's heat, others like to really savour a meal, twice.
“Ewww, oh god, oh god, I actually imagined it. Curse you narrator for this descriptive and detailed language.”
Your narrator is only doing his job. When the audience can envision the scene, then his work is done to perfection. Chef's kiss.
“Yeah, with the second pair of lips no doubt.”
Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
How did the hero know... I mean. Hi.
But to get back on subject, this means your human shield has the capacity for dual casting.
“Wait... so I can breathe fire while I breathe fire?”
Our hero might not want to use those delicate lips for such a strenuous activity. It'd be worse than taco Tuesdays after you've visited that one little taco joint that never seems to have any customers but has you coming back every time because the prices just keep being so, so incredibly low that it's nearly impossible for your taco to not contain human meat.
“I figure it's best to imagine it's just chicken. No sense in ruining a good deal, right?”
“Right?”
“Fellas?”
“Anyone?”
The author patted his creation on the head, just hard enough to both punish it and reward it for disgusting the readers sufficiently. He then went back to writing after a hard week at work, crying bitter tears that he just wants to fucking go to bed and have his first sleep that doesn't involve getting up at 4 am every bloody day.
The entire party sympathized. Not with how harsh the author's life must be, but how much courage it takes to whine about something this innocuous instead of progressing the plot like a real writer would.
Broken and ashamed, the writer put his hands back on the keys and shoved his emotions deeper down his body. Until even his second pair of lips could spout melancholic beat-raps.
“Wait, he has a second pair of lips too? Is this some kind of fashion that I just don't get? I know I'm young, but I'm starting to feel old with all this new stuff happening.”
“POINT, who do you think I got the idea from? But I wouldn't go as far as him though. His second pair of lips has actual lipstick on them and he walks around on his hands asking everyone to call him Mrs. Doubtfire.”
“Wow, really?”
“POINT, no, but he's an asshole. So it's close enough to the truth.”
The safety dragon raised his paw. But since his arm was too short, he was forced to vocalize his need for attention as well.
“Guys, think we really should get on with the story now. Folks paid a quite a bit for their tickets, would be a shame if they went home disappointed, no?”
The hero hung his head in shame and committed suicide. THE END.
This narrator is done working for table-scraps. If they're now planning on turning this two-bit script into a theatre production than I'm gonna need a lot more money and free days than what I have now.
So everybody, get your arses home, case closed, hero's dead, you're all dead and your faces are too ugly for me to look at them without the type of alcohol that is one percent shy of being lethal to the gods themselves.
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This narrator means it, go home.
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They're still here, aren't they?
“Point, yes they are.”
“Yup, can't get rid of them that easily. But I was genuinely rooting for you. I have a vacation home in Spain that I want to get home to. Become a hero there that sits at the beach and drinks heavy amounts of absint to battle the fearsome enemy called boredom.”
The hero gets bored in a luscious paradise surrounded by alcohol and naked women? How? Why?
“That's just how it works. You need novelties in life if you want to keep having fun. Otherwise your perception of reality becomes more narrow and you feel like every activity becomes a check-mark on a list you have to finish every day. That's why I don't believe in the concept of heaven any more. Shagging an endless parade of virgin women and eating porridge seems fun for a week or two. But after that... my dick would get sore, you know? Maybe other parts of my body too? I don't know. Just seems like such a hassle to keep myself at attention and jamming it between a pair of legs to hear a gasp similar to a squealing pig.”
This narrator believes the hero has concocted the most unromantic and depressing definition of the act of copulation that currently exists in reality. Congratulations.