It was the fire’s wake, for it had died of food poisoning after consuming a couple of the village’s houses. The new patriarch, Nosirio’s brother, had gotten news of the elder’s demise: The porn magazines at home had remained untouched for seven hours in a row. He was a beardless man with a long face that didn’t fit his artiodactyl-like figure. Cetacean, to be more specific.
He had congregated the people around the main loop of the road, the town’s plaza. The local tree was still blushing: the small buds she was wearing now were the vegetable equivalent to a string bikini.
Solemnly, he ascended the podium his underlings had hastily built from brick, reeds, snot and a curling branch that had grown more knotted and intertwined than Kalon’s family mycelium.
“People of Valelike Vale, it is with great sadness that I have to announce my brother’s departure.”
Kalon the Black Eyed raised his hand. “Where did he go?”
“To heaven, child.”
“Did he take security gear for the climb?” Kalon then asked, which, in his tiny mind, made perfect sense.
The newly risen patriarch scratched his chin and caressed the revolved in his belt. No, it wasn’t the answer this time. He scribbled something down on a piece of paper and proceeded to ignore the question. “My brother now rests in peace, probably after masturbating to a belated grave. Jacking off kills, people. Fuck your cousins, give us more taxpaying citizens, and… yes, local worried mother?”
“Children are present!” The local worried mother complained.
“No, Children are the Future.”
“Then children should will be and not are,” The local hobo, dressed in his gown made out of a prostitute’s skin, raised his voice.
That’s how homelessness was finally solved in Valelike Vale: with a smoking gun wound on the forehead of the man.
Crusadina’s mother open a way through the crowd, ethereal UZIs held up to create a bubble of personal space around herself. “Hey, moron, that was criminal!”
“I am The Law now,” the new patriarch said, blowing the smoke out of his revolver’s mouth.
“Well, The Law ain’t gonna gentrify my fucking neighborhood by killing off the homeless. I demand reparations,” she said, and the Elder knew he could not shoot down this cultivator, for the bullets were her element.
The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
The new patriarch pinched the bridge of his nose and grunted. “Fine, I will import quality hobos from abroad. Ones that inject the newest drugs and catcall men and women equally.”
She sheathed her arms under her breasts, a la Wheel of Time. “They better be the worst homeless men and women I have ever seen. I want needles littered everywhere, mangy dogs roaming the roadlike road. Dead prostitutes with their faces eaten off by the dozen.”
“We don’t have a dozen prostitutes in the vale!”
“And that testifies in favor of the man you just killed, doesn’t it?”
Jagger was feeling numbness overtaking his being. Maybe the thick idiocy in the local atmosphere was causing him a mild case of rhabdomyolysis. He closed his eyes and reached for his Amarca (The vital energy), visualized it bathing every cell of his body like waves lapping on rocks rounded by time and water. The pup was good at meditating, but he didn’t follow a road, and thus couldn’t cultivate. He tried to make a spiritual bomb out of himself, and failed yet again. Another disgraceful day not making it into the no-fly lists.
“…I want the imported prostitutes to feed the hobos to be fair skinned! We need to keep their melanin intake low, nothing of bringing them those exotic meals…”
The patriarch eyes were examining the inside of his orbits already. That was a pretty cute frontal he had…
“It… shall be arranged., Polvorina,” He finally granted, lips and fingers twitching. “Can we proceed with my assumption act?”
Polvorina nodded and happily pranced away, spraying spiritual bullets into the air.
“Nobody leave the square until that falls down.”
Jagger broke from Kalon’s grasp and immediately ran to an open area to lay on the floor, spreading as much as he could. His owner didn’t follow, as he was, once again, awestruck by Jagger’s ability to teleport to different sections of the Roadlike Road. “Heavens! Cast death unto the air and let it rain over me!” Jagger called out.
The God of Tribulations laughed meanly as he gladly added a trio of years to the pup’s lifespan.
A pit bull wearing shades approached Jagger, and the puppy felt the reassurance of having someone maul him if the rain of bullets missed. The broad-chested dog sat down and loomed over the puppy, then he started yodeling: “Ay ay ay. Ay ay ay.” A second later, the pit began shaking his butt as the demons of inner rhythm took over his mind.
The bullets rained down upon them, fulminating the dancing pit bull and leaving Jagger untouched, his silhouette drawn on the ground by bullet holes. “Oh come on!”
As Jagger pouted in a doggish way (The accurate facial expression meant by this is a problem my brain refuses to solve: it pixelates Jagger’s face instead. You, dear reader, may try to succeed where I failed) the new patriarch continued his speech.
“Well, given my brother has passed away and you have the attention span of a—“
The people (Citation needed) began dispersing, except for Kalon, that remained there, watching Jagger return defeated from his last suicide attempt.
“Well, to you, boy, to you I will tell one thing: next week we will host a tournament in honor to my late brother. With several categories, including youngsters like you. The winner gets cultivation materials according to their age and needs. The anti-winner, or maximal loser, gets exiled for bringing shame upon the clan, so, what do you say? will you participate?” The fat patriarch said, his face a playground of expectation.
Kalon nodded with a stupid smile, and Jagger raised his gaze to the skies. There had to be some bullet still airborne.