Ald pushed through the benighted jungle, engraved sword grasped tightly in his right hand, hope in the other, wishing for the respite a clearing of shining moonlight would provide. The eyes that made them present in the murk could be of beasts, of misshapen, of…
What the fuck are you doing in my office? You, the narrator of If Our Rains Never return.
My office got turned upside down when the narrator of Godclads came in to… loan a masterwork’s concept. He left a note.
“Where is the seafoam power armor?” Uh… yeah, that may be my fault. Now get out, I need to narrate about a troglodyte hitting his opponents with puppies.
Not all is a disgrace, though, I stole this from his office in the meantime. Maybe you can use it.
“Reincarnated as the Demon Lord’s Buttcheek: Outline.” This is… I don’t need this! I will have my reincarnators be the Vampire lord’s scrotum! Anyway, get out of here, shoo!
Fine, you handle the angry followers of the story about Felsia’s tragic fall.
Yes, I will handle all the four of them, now go away. Let me write this crime against common sense.
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Cutbastra walked into a bar, noticed it was full of the kind of beings he didn’t fuck around with (The G-words, if you know what i meant), and then walked out of the bar.
Then, after a leisurely stroll through a rural town of stained white sheep and wooden structures, he walked into another bar. There was a sort of path carved between the tables, right to the counter. One could notice a slight wear on the tiles of the floor, a subtle carving done by a thousand feet coming and going. Cutbastra glanced at the patrons of heavy laughter and lost stares. Those were old time patrons, they had entered a sort of symbiotic relationship with their chairs and tables, where the former had adapted their shapes to perfectly fit the particular ass that sat on them, and the later had developed strategically placed, dark markings that resembled the stains left by the fall of the condensation formed on the glass of the pints. This evoilution, however, wasn’t one sided: the patrons had evolved their own lexicon to minimize the energy expenditure asking the owner for another drink.
A man groaned, and, immediately, a maid dressed as a catfemboy dressed as a maid dressed as a human femboy from hooters that didn’t wear the official uniform and was instead dressed as a Japanese maid dressed as a housewife that, coincidentally, wore the boob-windowed attire of a maid, served him a cup of steaming black coffee.
Cutbastra made a mental note to ask the maid if she had a husband. To hang out with, obviously.
When he was in front of the barman, a sir as rounded as a barrel and about as fond of metal hoops, so much that he wore some of them around his wrists, Cutbastra spoke with his friendly and carefree tone. “Can you, handsome, explain to me why you have a bar full of geese in this town?”
“It used to be my bar, until the geese decided it would not be mine anymore. They are vicious, a veritable feathery mafia. They honk and bite and honk and flap and honk and charge and honk…” The man kept on going for a while before slapping his own face. “Sorry, even after 30 years, the memory of that fatefowl day honks… haunts me.”
A chair broke under the weight of his occupant, making the man fall on his back, bounce around the place a bit, knocking a painting and hitting the maid in the shoulder —act that she didn’t mind and mad her spill no drop of the milk she was serving another patron— before he ended up standing in front of the counter. Then he raised a finger, and the barman swiftly poured him a couple more tankards of beer. By the time he walked away, the chair had rebuilt herself.
“Okay, friendly people here, it seems. What’s the catch?”
The Barman reached under the counter and pulled out a half-meter long pejerrey whose smell made Cutbastra grimace. “Fresh, caught just last week.” The barman stated proudly.
“I meant… what’s the deal with these people. Do you have a hidden circle of cultists in the cellar?”
Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
“Not last I checked, sir,” he said, happily returning the fish to its spot under the counter.
“Do you sacrifice virgins to some bloodlust-driven deity?”
“Only when the geese demand it,” he said, somberly, picking the fish back up to wipe his tears of impotence. Cutbastra was invaded by thoughts about fulminating conjunctivitis.
He turned and applauded to garner the attention of their patrons.
“Everybody, answer a single question: Do any of you beat your wives?”
Every man in the bar shook their heads. Some seemingly offended.
A scrawny redhead with a dense beard spoke. “What do you take me for a savage? I don’t beat my wife. I beat Johano’s wife.” He pointed at the man a few tables away.
“Yes, and I in turn beat Gormulo’s wife to instill fear of the husband’s friends into her. I am a good husband to mine, as I should. “
Gormulo, a man with a back as wide as a Labrador is long, stood and added: “I beat a different neighbor’s wife every day of the week as part of my training routine. See these gains?” He pointed at his bicep with a fingergun. “Pure protein shakes and gendered violence. Plus, I give a valuable service to the community.”
These people were irredeemable. “Fine, I will search for a more civilized place to drown my sorrows…” Cutbastra sighed, and then stormed out of the bar.
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“Guh! The forest, it’s even more afired! We should help!” Kalon pointed towards the burning trees with an exaggerated gesture, extending his whole arm.
Jagger, under his owner’s armpit, stared up at him. “We have been watching the fire grow for an hour, condemning my lungs to become blackened wrinkled things due to inhaling this toxic smoke, and this idea just crossed your mind?”
“The elder is taking too long to handle it, this had never happened!”
Kalon began running parallel to the forest, so as to respect the Roadlike road’s numbering and not, as he thought, perform the impossible act of teleportation at an intersection. He rushed through the loops and twists fo the road, stepping with determination over cobblestones and dirt. He was faster than last time, stronger. He would reach the mountain foot in time to help, yes!
And then, his plans got obliterated when he noticed a black and orange shape sleeping in the middle of the road, unwilling to budge, to let him pass over her snoring form.
Kalon grabbed Jagger from the puppy’s tail, using it as a handle.
Jagger, in turn, began farting, a feeble attempt to get free. “I am in need of your power, irritable colon,” he prayed in vain as only gas kept pouring out of the puppy. “Yes, okay, forsake me as you forsake my gut flora. I am cancermaxxing starting tomorrow.”
Kalon manifested an anxious, yet happy burio in his hand, dual wielding Rottweiler puppies as he advanced towards his sworn enemy.
“This village is probably big enough for the both of us,” Kalon truthed.
Brunhilda raised her sleepy head, snorted, and scrambled to her feet just to sit down and begin scratching her ear with her left hindleg. How bothersome.
Kalon leaped, extending both puppies to his sides, channeling Purm (the vital energy) into them to deliver a devastating blow to the arrogant young barker.
Brunhilda thought quickly and rolled on her back to dodge, making Kalon, brakeless, fly by her side. Kalon fell in such a way that he changed direction midair, turning in an U and coming back for Brunhilda. Brunhilda, on her part, wondered if he was learning to control his gravity defying stupidity, or if it was mere coincidence.
When he suddenly stopped and turned downwards, stamping his face against the dirt, Brunhilda’s question got answered.
Jagger tried in vain to disembarrass himself from his wielder’s hand while Kalon hoisted himself up. He wanted to whine, and to wine… and dine Death.
“Heavens, strike me down!” The puppy cried.
The God of Tribulations heard his plea, closed some of the goddess porn tabs to free a bit of miracle RAM, decided it wouldn’t be funny to help him die, and added another year to Jagger’s lifespan. No harsher test than life, after all.
Kalon charged again, leaving a wide opening for Brunhilda to make a turn on her heels and jump to kick him in the face like a bucking stallion that got an F in the skull crushing part of the assignment. The cultivator, fell on his ass and let his pups go to grab his scratched cheeks in pain. Brunhilda lost no time and took advantage of the situation, heatbutting Kalon in the face once and again, making him wish for the pain, bruising and bleeding to stop, and for his teeth to resist the numerous impacts against each other due to the hits and their recoil.
Lastly, Brunhilda sat on the chest of the groaning, defeated child, yawned, and farted a victorious symphony.
“I want to be like her when I grow up,” Jagger commented, crawling once again from under his unconscious owner. He had mastered the task already, and now aimed to top the speedrun leaderboards.
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“So, I am happy this establishment is rather civilized, and I am sorry for being specist against your people. You are kind of territorial but, hell, I now understand that you have your reasons. You are better than the wife beaters,” Cutbastra said, not touching his drink, gaze fixed upon the feathery floor of the bar.
“Honk!” honked the bargander.
“No, that’s not good for you,” Cutbastra retorted, meeting the suited up bird’s gaze.
“Honk!”
“I get that it worked for your wife, but logic doesn’t work like that. Not all that’s good for her is good for you. A, then B, doesn’t imply that the inverse is true.”
“Honk honk honk.”
Oracle popped out of his friend’s pocket. “Do you really understand him?”
“He has a weird countryside accent but I am pretty fluid in Geesian.”
“Honk!”
“No, you cannot eat Oracle.”
Oracle sighed. “Anyway, Cutba, I have bad news: I got a vision about a new menace that you need to deal with. Short term, not in three-years-time. Not even next month, for her power grows exponentially.”
Cutbastra finally kissed his beer bottle. “Go on. Who is it?”
“A pubescent girl that wants to destroy the world and has already reached immortality.”
Cutbastra took some breadcrumbs out of his pocket dimension and placed them upon the table for the Bargander to peck on them. “Give me your strongest stuff. I don’t think I can decide to do this while sober.”
“Honk!” The bargander complied with excitement.