SEVENTEEN: ENCOUNTER

“So let me get this straight,” Lars said, his stubby legs struggling to keep up. “According to that computer nerd back there, there's no menu in this game, no settings, no way to leave?”

“Kind of,” Finn replied. “At least not in the traditional sense. I’m sure the command is hidden somewhere, but I have no fudging clue what it could be. All he kept saying was, ‘consult your artificial intelligence.’”

Lars chewed on a thumbnail. “And where do we find our artificial intelligence?”

“Beats me. More concerning to me is that until we figure it out, we have no access to our character sheets—”

“Character sheets?”

Finn pursed his lips. “Um, like our skills and abilities, vital statistics, things like that. This entire campaign is weird, Lars.”

“You keep saying that. How so?”

Finn scanned ahead of them and spotted a road named Impact Ave. “I think we need to turn here. According to Ade, and I’m paraphrasing here, Pro Dungeon Impact is designed to appeal to a broader audience—and also give hardcore players seeking a challenge a seamless game experience through the assistance of artificial intelligence.”

“Paraphrase?” Lars furrowed his brow. “That’s exactly what he said, kid.”

“Yeah, sorry. I remember stuff. Dungeon Lane. We turn left here.”

“What do you think it all means? What Ade said?”

Finn shrugged. “It’s supposed to seem real, I guess. Maybe you learn skills much like you would in real life, and get better at them as you progress through the campaign? I dunno. What I can tell you is that this campaign, Pro Dungeon Impact, seems far more real than any other campaign I’ve played in Dungeon. You sure you don’t want to ride Biscuit? Your face is as flushed as a toilet after you use it.”

Biscuit let out a bark of approval.

“No, I’m good. Really.” Lars sucked in a breath of air with a wheeze. “Why change things up?”

Finn shrugged again. “It’s the next phase of gaming, really. Making the experience seem like… real life. And it even makes sense with a campaign themed on a contact... sport. But that’s neither here nor there right now. Right now, we need to figure out where the main questline starts because I have a feeling that may be the only way we get—”

“Out of town?” finished an all too familiar voice. “It’s about fuckin’ time your kind got out of my town.”

Lars snapped around to see none other than the shit cart man, Dungbarrow himself, wielding a nasty homemade shank. It looked like he had sharpened a piece of scrap metal on a rock and used sap and twine to attach it to an old hammer handle. But that wasn’t the worst part. The nutty old shit cart man was flanked by a person that was—beyond all comprehension—somehow uglier than him.

She was wearing what looked like a person sized onion sack—a normal person sized onion sack. It was way too small for her rotund body and the copious amount of flesh she had underneath it bulged through like bread dough. She had absolutely zero teeth, a massive boil on her neck that was leaking pus, and most of her hair had fallen out. Her only redeeming feature was a pair of quads that would have given John Cena’s a run for their money.

They were so impressive, in fact, that Lars wasn’t even sure she was a woman at first. But when stomped her feet, the onion sack shimmied up just far enough for him to be certain. Also, just far enough to make him sick to his stomach.

She stuck her tongue out and flicked it like a snake, then pulled out a shit covered stick with several dozen square nails hammered through the end. When she spoke, her voice reminded Lars of the mean old lunch lady at his middle school. “And I’m gonna lick you vermin out of our town. Ain’t that right, love?”

“Aye. You can lick me any time you like, Mrs. Dungbarrow,” boasted Dungbarrow. He stuffed the shank under his armpit, then pulled the thick woman's tongue down his throat like he desperately needed her to clean his tonsils.

Lars retched. “Please stop.”

Biscuit snorted, then dug her paw into the ground and barked.

“And I’m gonna kill your funny looking vermin dog while we're at it!” snapped Mrs. Dungbarrow. “She bit my love on the leg. Twice! The second time, she almost got his tackle! Almost broke my husband's poor twig in half and crushed his berries.” She turned to her husband with pure, burning lust in her eyes. “But at least I still get to drink the juice, eh?”

Lars threw up. Or at least he tried to. But his stomach was empty, so all he got was a single, painful heave, and a burning glob of bile.

“You two are absolutely disgusting. Actually, whoever created your characters is disgusting, and I sure hope they didn’t write anything else like you,” said Finn. He looked at the sky. “You hear me up there? No? Didn’t think so.”

“I don’t know what you’re getting on about, filth,” said Dungbarrow. “But we’re still killing your dog.”

“Biscuit’s not a dog, okay? She’s a capybara! Say it with me. Capy-bara. They’re not even from the same Order. Get it?” Finn stared at the pair for a moment, then raised his hands. “Sorry about that. Listen, we don’t want any trouble. Can we just pass through? Please?”

“Yeah,” agreed Lars. “We’re just trying to get to the pub? Maybe”—he gagged at the thought as the smell of body odor and shit infiltrated his nose—”we could all go and… get a drink together?”

“You nonhuman trash want to go get a drink at our pub, eh?” snapped a shrill voice from behind them. He laughed. “And you want us to go with you? And tarnish our good racist names?!”

“I’m not sure that’s anything to be proud of,” said Finn. “But yeah. Why not? We can talk about… racist things… I guess. Or—well, not progress. Definitely not progress.”

“You look at me when I’m talking to you, piggy!”

“Okay, okay,” said Finn as he whipped around to face the fresh voice. “Holy crap, you’re uglier than the other two. Lars, don’t turn around. You might barf again.”

“Noted, kid. Thanks.”

If Dungbarrow’s wife was as hefty, this man was anything but. He was tall, easily a head and a half taller than Finn, and was so skinny he looked like a walking skeleton. He had almost all his teeth, though he was missing one eye, half of a foot, and his left hand was a sickly gangrenous black. Caked shit covered him from head to toe, like some kind of dung based starter armor, and he was wielding a rusted and chipped two-handed axe that was on the verge of making the shit knight topple over—partially because he was only holding it with one hand.

Dungbarrow blew the shit knight a kiss. “I see you can still get the drop on ‘em, Mr. Dungbarrow. Thank the maker my pecker wasn’t bitten in twain, cause you're in for a hurting later tonight.”

“Can't wait. And you don’t look too bad yourself, Mr. Dungbarrow,” moaned the shit knight with anticipation.

“Hold on a second!” Finn spun around and pointed to all three of their attackers in turn. “Are you three actually married to each other?”

“Yeah,” snapped the original Dungbarrow. “Why? Being a stinky piggy ain’t offensive enough for you? You got something against bisexuals, too?”

“Kid,” said Lars. “I think we have to come up with some kind of plan, here. I’ve been in enough scraps to know this is about to go south.”

“Fake scraps, Lars. You’ve been in fake scraps. What you do for a living is pretty much theater. And I’m not done talking to Mr. Dungbarrow, yet.”

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“Which one?” everyone shouted in unison.

“The original. I think? I don't know who married who fir—"

“Shut your snotty piggy mouth! I ain’t done talking to you!” barked the original Dungbarrow. “Answer the question! You prejudiced against bisexuals?”

“No. Not at all.” Finn glanced around them. “It’s just that given the other thing you three are passionate about, being so… open… about your… sexual preferences... seems a little out of character.”

Dungbarrow huffed. “For Palaestra’s sake! We’re racists, not homophobes! Give us a little credit!”

“Nope.” Finn smirked. “I don’t think I will.”

"This is some straight up Twilight Zone shit," Lars remarked.

“That’s it, piggy. I’ve had enough of your filthy lip. You demihumans are a plague on this land, and we’ve been charged with cleaning it. It’s time for you lot to die.”

The trio of Dungbarrows crept forward, each raising their weapon with murderous glee spread across their faces. As they stepped closed, the smell of shit seemed to fill the surrounding courtyard.

“There’s coming for us, kid,” Lars said. “We need to do something!”

“We’re going to have to fight them.” Finn drew his dagger. “Wield your weapon, Ogre!”

“But I don’t have a weapon!”

“Check you underpant—”

Biscuit barked and nudged Lars in the side. Then, in the most disinterested slacker tone Lars had ever heard, a voice in his head said, “Like, use your fists, you idiot. You’re a damn fighter. Fight them, or something. They’re only, like, Level One.”

Lars stared at Biscuit in abject silence. Had a giant guinea pig actually just spoken to him? There was no way. No way in the damn world. And just when he had almost convinced himself that he was on the verge of commitment to an institution, the voice added, “Like, any time now. Do you like getting stabbed or whatever? Because, uh, that shank looks pretty gnarly. And you’re about to get stabbed, so… doing nothing then? Fine. I’m, like, totally not supposed to do this, but I’ll take care of it… again.”

Time seemed to slow down as Biscuit leaped forward and drove her open mouth into Dungbarrow’s groin. He let out a howl of agony as the capybara twisted her mouth from side to side, then capped it off with a shriek as something tore free. A jet of crimson blood shot out from his pelvis like a geyser. Lars rolled out of the way of what was effectively a firehose at his size, then looked up to see the blood change in front of his very eyes. In an instant, it transformed from an arterial spray to a collection of glowing translucent red blocks about an inch cubed. The cubes clattered against the ground with an electronic tink, then turned into a series of gold plus signs that floated until they faded away, leaving the ground looking just like it had a moment before.

Dungbarrow clutched the space where his fun parts had been and ran off screaming into the darkness.

Biscuit spit out the wad of flesh and barked at Lars. “You can, like, thank me for the experience points later or whatever. Behind you, bro. Lurch over there is taking a mondo swing.”

“Huh?” Lars glanced up just in time to see the chipped axe head coming down at his face. He rolled away just as the rusty weapon contacted a cobblestone and sent off a shower of sparks that quickly turned into smaller yellow cubes and faded away. Lars pulled his feet up under him in order to run, but it wasn’t necessary. The axe was so heavy and the man was so rail thin that the weight of the thing sent him crashing down to the ground with a hollow thud. He laid there groaning as he tried to press himself back up, but he was mostly bone and sinew. He just didn’t have the strength.

“I think you can take that one, bro. He was thrashed before he got here, anyway. I’d go for a crit spot like the eye, but that’s gonna be a tall order for an ankle snapper like you. I got faith, though. BRB, I gotta help Finn.”

Lars chanced a glance over at the kid. The orc was lying on his back with Mrs. Dungbarrow straddled on top of him. He looked to be okay. Okay, aside from the end of the shit cover stick she was desperately trying to ram into his mouth. “Oh shit, he’s in trouble! Finn—”

A sickening thud cut his words off as Biscuit leapt and drove all of her body weight into Mrs. Dungbarrow’s head. A shower of red fives erupted from the contact point, then the stick went clattering to the ground.

“Okay, so those must be damage points,” Lars decided. “Do enough damage and you can kill a bad guy, I’m guessing. Get it together, Lars! You’re a fucking professional wrestler! You can do this!”

He eyeballed the lanky man groaning on the ground in front of him, trying to figure how something as small as him could hurt something so big. But then their capybara friends' recent revelation that she not only could speak—sort of—but also had knowledge about the game, gave him an idea. “Hey Biscuit? Do I have any weapons in my inventory?”

“No, bro,” she barked. “You’re, like, a fighter, remember? Fighters in this campaign are totally literal, so you can, like, only use your hands and feet and stuff as weapons.”

“How the hell do I damage something that much bigger than me, you pot smoking rodent?!”

“Totally not cool, bro. I haven’t smoked since—well, I’m too high to remember. But since you’re a kick-ass little dude, I’m gonna hit you with a tooltip.”

Suddenly, a series of bright letters materialized in front of his face:

SIZE MATTERS NOT, OR WHATEVER

JUST PLAIN YOGURT - STAR WARS

“Jesus, you’re blitzed out of your gourd, Biscuit! You mashed two movies together!”

“Did I? Whatever. You get the point, bro. Your size doesn’t matter. Only the stats do, or something. I don’t remember.”

“Size doesn’t matter,” he repeated. “Size doesn’t matter!”

Lars drew in a deep breath and rushed towards the shit knight’s head. He reached the spot right in front of his face, cocked back his fist, and punched the man square in the eye as hard as he could. A red ten flashed the moment he made contact.

“Size doesn’t fucking matter!” he bellowed in triumph.

Lars prepared his body to deliver a chain punch like Ip Man, but a bony fist backhanded him so hard he went flying across the cobblestones. As he skittered across the pavement, five red nines sprang out of his chest and the flashing red returned to the edge of his vision. Through the flashes he saw shit knight had propped himself up on one elbow, and was working on getting a wobbly foot underneath him.

Lars’ breath grew ragged as he looked around him, scanning the chaos. The tables had turned in Finn’s bout with Mrs. Dungbarrow. The green-skinned orc was now straddling her, his knees pressing down on the onion bag and stretching the poor garment to its limits.

Beyond those two, Biscuit had straight up checked out of the battle. She was lying down on a pile of straw and gnawing on something, not unlike the mutt the Dungbarrows had mistaken her for. She looked like she didn’t have a care in the world. Lars didn’t want to know what she was chewing on, but he had a pretty good idea it was some kind of bone.

Shit knight groaned and rose to a knee.

Finn finally looked like he had control of his situation, but when he looked over to check on Lars, Mrs. Dungbarrow reached for her nail ended stick. She got a finger on the tip, and as she did, the strain caused her onion bag to rip right down the middle, exposing her meat in all its glory.

“Oh god! I’m scared for life!” Finn shouted as he ripped the dagger from his belt and plunged it down into the center of her forehead. A dozen red tens popped up around the impact point, then Mrs. Dungbarrow transformed into a pile of red cubes that flashed into experience points a second later. A golden glow erupted from beneath Finn’s feet, and the words LEVEL UP appeared above his head.

The kid gasped and collapsed onto the ground, exhausted.

Shit knight groaned again. He now had a foot planted firmly on the ground and was rising to his feet.

Without a single thought, the instincts Lars had honed over years of professional wrestling kicked into overdrive. He sprinted towards the nearest hut, climbed a stack of crates leaning against the wall, and waiting for shit knight to make his move.

The filthy man raised the axe of his head and rushed forward.

Lars took a step back, sprinted forward, and leapt off the edge of the crates, flying like a coffee mug during a domestic disturbance. He pulled his knees to his chest and kicked out with all the power his little body had to offer. The soles of both feet connected with the shit knight's chest, sending out a shower of hit points as he tumbled backwards. He seemed to fall in slow motion, but his axe didn’t.

It fell out of his single hand and wedged in between a pair of cobblestones, edge side facing up. Normal motion resumed, and as he finally made it to the ground, shit knight’s head landed right on top of the axe and exploded like a watermelon at a Gallagher show.

The gore that rushed from his neck quickly turned into experience points, and Lars saw his own golden glow erupt in a circle at his feet. He had leveled up.

He didn’t care about that. All he cared about was the kid. The kid that wasn’t moving. The kid that was only here because Lars couldn’t shave his own fucking back. He hadn’t seen the entire battle. For all knew, Mrs. Dungbarrow had stabbed him, or slit his throat, or made him like the shit of that stick, or some other video gamey thing Lars couldn’t think of.

He leapt over the shit knight's body and bolted for Finn.

And then he heard a voice. A voice that stopped him in his tracks. Dungbarrow’s voice. “Stop right there, filth!”

Lars turned to look up at the disgusting man that had plagued them since they’d made it into Stranglehold. He drew in a sharp breath as he noticed Dungbarrow was holding a bomb. Comically round, with a cylindrical knob at the top, and out of that knob hung an absurdly long fuse.

A lit fuse.

“You took my pecker! And you killed my wife and husband!” he sobbed. “And I can’t live without them. So I’m taking you with—”

A sword point thrust forward through his chest. He let out a cry, then gurgled as he fell off the blade and collapsed on the ground, the lit bomb rolling behind him. A dark hand picked up the explosive, licked her fingertips, and extinguished the wick with a sizzle..

She looked down at Lars with pity and shook her head. “I thought I told you three to stay out of trouble.”