Kalon had ran to the house of the only cultivator that paid him a modicum of positive attention: Big Jay. He rapped on the door with the one tool that gave him a modicum of complaints: Jagger.
The puppy bounced against the fine oak, and wondered why. Why couldn’t he be born as one of the lucky few that accidentally fell into the local butcher’s meat grinder and ended their lives as sausages. It was an honest job, being a sausage. Nobody denied a promotion to a sausage, nobody used it to knock on a door. Yes, people ate them, but eagles sometimes snatched puppies to feed on them. At least people knew what you were when they ate a sausage made out of you. A mere change of state. A plastic surgery that made a dog hot, if you will.
Big Jay opened the door abruptly. Bags had made their home under his eyes, and his pipe’s fire died down some time ago. From behind the dummy thick thighs of his owner, a grinning Brunhilda peeped out. After seeing Kalon, the literal bitch raised and lowered her eyebrows twice. Kalon took several steps back, crossing the whole street and more before stopping.
“Hi Brun!” Jagger raised a paw after the world stopped spinning around him.
She greeted Jagger back with a friendly woof.
“What do you want, Kalon!” Big Jay Shouted, not because he was bothered by the child’s presence, but because he had put about sixteen Rottweilers of distance between them.
Kalon turned on his heels, and began backing once again, this time getting closer to Big Jay. “I need to be trained if I want to win the tournament next week, guh!”
Big Jay placed his hands in front of his mouth, forming a cylinder to amplify his voice. “Kalon, boy, I don’t want you to get exiled, but I am no teacher! I reckon I could try to learn you into a thing or two about generic cultivation, but that’s it!”
Kalon kept approaching by backing in the wrong direction. “Only the maximum loser will get exiled!”
“Oh, yes, of course…”
Brunhilda bit her owner’s pants and pulled.
“What do you want, Brun?”
Big Jay opened his eyes wide when he beheld the infectious determination in the sight-granting orbs of the Rottweiler. “I get it… Kalon!”
Kalon turned suddenly, “That’s my name, I think.”
“Brunhilda will train you.”
The bitch smiled with all her teeth, and Kalon’s face became a tax declaration of fear. Not her, he pseudothought, not her!
Jagger looked upwards and sat down like he owned the place. “Heavens, piña colada, now.”
The God of Skits considered it, added a couple years to Jagger’s lifespan because it was best practice to do so, and a piña colada served in a coconut garnished with a pineapple wedge sprouted from the dirt in front of Jagger. “Hey! I am a puppy, I cannot drink this.” The ground swallowed the coconut, and seconds later, sprouted a bowl filled with the same drink and ornamented with Jagger’s name. “That’s better, thanks! Time to stagnate my growth by drinking alcohol. May cirrhosis be kind with this one.” And so he began lapping at the piña colada with wanton abandon.
Kalon fisted the dirt like the slut she was. He couldn’t believe it.
Brunhilda was by his side already, her paw around his shoulders as she tried to ease his cries. “Guh!I can’t believe Brunhilda is going to train me.”
“Waf. Waf.” Brunhilda vocalized, patting Kallons back to show som empathy.
“She hates me! She hates me so much!” Kalon kept dramamaxxing while brunhilda, with a voice full of understanding, dispensed her wisdom.
“Arf.”
“I am going to die. Death is bad for immortality, Brunhilda, and Brunhilda is going to death me.” Kalon went on babbling, not realizing the Brunhilda he feared and the Brunhilda comforting him were one and the same.
“Aroo aroo.”
Jagger glanced at Kalon. Kalons, for him. “Oh dear heavens, he reproduces by binary fission!” The drunk puppy exclaimed before falling on his side and barfing violently.
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They had no time to lose, and Kalon's thighs suffered it. The few houses on the outskirts of the village flew by as he ran, not looking back, because back w3as were Brunhilda’s butt-loving teeth were.
The sensei barked to his pupil, spurring him to run even faster. She was, of course, ready to dodge, in case Kalon tripped and she found herself in the way of one of his gravity defying feats.
A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.
Kalon jumped over a fallen trunk, using his right hand as a leverage point. And the trunk then jumped over Kalon, because he was not going to get one upped by an eleven-years-old. This game of leapfrog, of man vs rotting log, proceeded for about five hops.
After that, Brunhilda caught up to Kalon and introduced the boy’s ass to the true meaning of the word chomp!
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The second day of training met a butt-bandaged Kalon at the mouth of the mountain path. Brunhilda licked her paws while Jagger rode on her back, if only because he couldn’t be assed to walk all the way from the village to the location where they found themselves in now.
The way was carved on the rock, and the recent lakc of rains allowed for it to be dry. A bush or a lichen sprouted from a crack now and then, but, overall, the way up the face of the mountain was not as lively as the forest below had been before the Crusadining.
“So, he has to climb?” Jagger asked his adult peer.
Brunhilda sensei snarled softly.
“We have to climb? We?” Jagger protested, pupvoice full of pupindignation. “Kalon, this is your test: roll me up the mountain.”
“No, you will walk, Jagger: you are getting old and your breed easily gets hip dysplasia when they reach an advanced age being fat.”
“Hips, do you plan on getting dysplasia?” Jagger asked his rump.
“No,” they answered in clear violation of the Shakira Principle.
Kalon begun trotting up the mountain, impulse by a deep seated need to progress and better himse… pffft , just kidding, Brunhilda was growling at him.
From his privileged position by a moron’s side, Jagger watched at the forest becoming smaller and blurrier as they ascended, as they climbed upon unstable terrain and rough rocks.
Brunhilda followed them while chewing on a mouthful of grass, doing her best impression of a goat. Anything less than a right angle could have as well been the flattest of plains. On a side note, the narrator of this piece prefers plains to have curves, to be a little chubby among the farms and cows, you get it? No? Because it makes no sense. Look at you, trying to sexualize plains in your mind. You disgust me. I disgust you. We are a despicable family[1].
Kalon kicked a pebble off the side of the mountain and watched it fall towards the clouds above. Jagger resisted the urge to pray for his stupidity-fueled powers to stop spreading into the rest of the world. Kalon was an infectious disease, a blight sent by the gods to punish humanity for the mortal sin of inventing white chocolate[2]. The puppy held no doubts about that.
Burnhilda beheld them haughtily from a nearby wall. A local gecko, in turn, stared confused at Brunhilda, licked his eyes in awe. Such a weird goat. A tru gangsta ghetto goat, if anything.
A passing Eagle spotted a fat ball of black and orange walking besides a boy that climbed the rocks like he didn’t know about the law of gravity. Her mind’s soundtrack switched gears to thrash metal, and, closing her wings against her body for speed, she dove. In the last second, she extended her well-pedicured nightmarish claws, and snatched Jagger away. The puppy considered the floor slowly getting away a win of mythical proportions. Heavens were finally taking him, and he barely felt the prick of the Eagle’s knives on his loose skin.
“Guh! They stole my weapon!” Kalon said, manifesting Burio in his hand and pulling it back to give strength to his shot. Then, he threw the just-made puppy towards the eagle, missing by several dozen meters, causing Burio to precipitate head-first into the forest far below. Long live the king.
The seagle soared with difficulty, and fat-shamed Jagger in her mind. Her heart was tired, so tired. And engorged. She was the kind of individual bird that learnt about natural selection by hitting the windows of it, rather than enjoying its breadcrumbs.
So, the eagle’s ehart ruptured, killing her almost instantly, realeasingg Jagger from her grasp and making both of them to plunge away from the eagle’s tyrannical aerial empire.
Jagger’s fat curved and wobbled when subjected to the air’s friction. He prayed for his skin to not open like a parachute, saving him.
Far below, a manly as intercourse cultivator fought a wild cat, directing an uppercut to the feline’s jaw. Uppercut that made it take off, ascending past above the groove’s overstory.
Jagger and the cat found themselves in collision course, both of them fat enough to safely collide without breaking bones. After bouncing off each other Jagger found himself now falling in a different direction, but falling all the same. Towards a farm building with a thatched roof.
Jagger closed his arms and braced for the end.
But the roof wasn’t too thick, so he broke through it without suffering major damage, and below it, rested a mountain of manure, in which he sunk to the deep end, where he found a nearly nude, gaunt man meditating.
“Gametogamy!” Jagger cursed even more safe-for-workedly.
“Shhh,” said the poop cultivator, who was about to have a breakthrough.
Back at the mountain, Kalon extended his hand over the precipice and tried to visualize Jagger. His mind was a black void. Better than the tabula rasa it used to be, for Jagger was mostly black[3]. He was slowly but surely cultivating his way out of aphantasia. He extended his vital energy and willed to recover his chosen weapon.
Jagger felt a pull on his butt, the same a lightsaber feels when a Jedi does their dirty Jedi tricks after getting honorably disarmed.
“Oh heavens…” He got launched against the wall, and his body rolled across it until finding an open window. The pup flew backwards and slightly upwards, colliding with every other branch of the forest, pin-balling his way through conifers and fruit trees alike. After his botanical crash course, Jagger watched the trees get smaller faster and faster: he was accelerating towards his destiny.
“No! I was supposed to die!” Jagger lamented and began whining.
Finally, Jagger felt a hand grasping his shit-coated tail.
“Jagger, you smell terrible!” Kalon said before placing him on the inner edge of the mountain path, away from the dangerous cliff.
Jagger kept whining, and, satisfied with Kalon’s feat, Brunhilda sensei declared the training day concluded.
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[1] Note to myself: Don’t listen to Barney’s greatest hits while narrating.
[2] I am a proud chocolate racist. Black and milk chocolate are infinitely superior.
[3] Before you ask, yes: Rottweilers have the pass.