Cutbastra strode into the unmarried man’s manse like he owned the place. It was an Arcagnostic’s abode, and that meant it knew friend from foe. Every ceramic tile with a pattern of their own identified the boot that was stepping on them. Every mirror, whether hung on the walls or forming pyramids suspended from chains, possessed complete awareness of the reflection it projected. The living statue of a hierophant of old wandered the lounge, chanting blesses upon the bookshelves stacked with books so obscure their words had to be written in white ink to be readable. And the cucktivator boogied down the halls, searching for his friend, wary to not upset the living constructs or take a wrong turn on the labyrinthine place.

Oracle cuddled deeper into Cutbastra’s pocket the warm embrace of cotton could make him forget the fact they were traversing a house with a spirit of its own.

Cutbastra stopped in a golden bathroom to take a pee. A sloth that balanced from that little rod that generally holds the toilet paper addressed him. “N.”

Cutbastra raised an eyebrow as urine exited his body.

“I.”

Cutbastra raised a finger to chastise the creature for its budding racism, but then it spoke again.

“C.”

The Cultivator Froze. Maybe it was worth listening to it.

“Ecockman.” It spouted in an instant, as if a rush of caffeine had suddenly hit his geological-paced brain.

“Nice colonies of fur-algae, my placental bro.”

The Sloth gave a thumbs up and lost its grasp, falling form the rod and into the Mechanical Sloth Recycler below, suffering a gruesome death as Cutbastra shook his cultivation implement.

Aghast, the cucktivator zippered up. “I need to tell this dude to metal the fuck down.”

He kept searching through the halls, peering into rooms whose looks would drive most housewives mad, and most working husbands… well, they would say something was off, probably the lack of a sofa or the carnivorous plants growing from the ceiling and slobbering golden sap onto the microrat-furred-rugs that covered the floor. No chance in hell they would notice that one sinful coffee stain on the wallpaper.

Turning a corner, Cutbastra had returned to the lounge, except the main door was now gone. It had turned into an expansive living room, with the mirrors still there, and a wandering sofa feeding on some orchids, its cushions ruminating loudly. The hierophant was now wearing a dark tight latex outfit and sermonizing a very interested pigeon. And sitting above an iron maiden, Him.

“Cutbastra, friend, you have caused so much pain these last years.” His alluring voice billowed from behind a pyramid of mirrors.

The cultivator saluted with a bow: One hand pressed against his chest, the other extended with the ring and small fingers pressed against his palm. “Prodigious Faren, it is a pleasure to meet again. How’s the wife?”

“How’s the clean conscience?” Faren the prodigy replied.

Cutbastra chuckled. This is why he was such a good friend of the Arcagnostic. “As real as your wife.”

Faren leaped from the iron maiden. He donned a mail tunic with coppery snake-shaped scales. His legs were shaven, the flip-flops Damascused, the Bermuda shorts angled thrice. His belt was a ferret caught in deep meditation, not living, not dead. His face, usually a collection of straight lines, showed a gaily curved one in this occasion. “So much pain, Cutbastra. Was it necessary, back then, to unleash the avatar?”

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

“You still have a world to study, be grateful. I did what I deemed necessary.”

“And then your avatar went on a mind-breaking rampage that included the most heinous crimes that humanity ever defined.”

I his defense, Cutbastra had only one thing to say. “Except your unholy warcrimes against fashion.”

“Those that behold my art are changed. Some for the worse.” He lamented, closing his eyes and relaxing his goatee.

Meanwhile, the priest construct had begun spanking the pigeon with a wooden paddle. “Atone for your sinful coos, lest the gods punish your immortal soul as I shall soon regret punishing your body!” The hierophant declaimed, and then delivered another slap to the bird’s tiny frame.

“I’ll be fair with you: I like your looks, despite the fact you are a crazy old bastard.”

The smile abandoned Faren’s wrinkly face. “I look as a man in his late thirties or early forties and I am younger than you. So don’t call me old, grandpa.”

“And I look like I am in the peak of my twenties!” Cutbastra boasted sliding a hand through his blonde hair. “It’s plain to see that cultivation is superior to Arcagnosis.”

“I stay at the age I deem most fitting for my truth-seeking spirit. You stay at the age you deem most fitting to seduce housewives.”

Cutbastra stopped in front of the man and embraced him. “I missed you, old bastard!”

Without reciprocating, Faren responded. “Same, same. But you never visit without a reason, my endearing crow. What’s it this time?”

Cutbastra let the man go and stepped back, giving him some space before making his petition. “I need a surgery of the soul. I want you to turn me bisexual.”

The pigeon escaped the priest’s grasp and skittered around the place, leaping from the floor to a chair to a desk to a shelf and so forth, the hierophant reached for a decorative axe (With a fully functional edge) and began swinging wildly, with no regard for any piece of furniture: The pigeon had to pay for its sins in such a holy place.

Faren spun the hairs of his goatee between his fingers as he considered what Cutbastra had said. “Why?”

“I am in need of power, and the only way I can force a couple breakthroughs would be cucking not only straight men and lesbians, but heterosexual women and gay men too.”

“Are you sure of this? Once you taste man ass, buddy, I am afraid you could lose yourself.”

Oracle popped out of the pocket. The swinging axe ascended in a diagonal arc as with his head tilted sideways Faren awaited Cutbastra’s answer, shaving the Arcagnostic’s left sideburn.

“He needs to stop Chalazarian. He has no option.” Said oracle, ignoring the swinging statue and the flying splinters produced by its actions.

The Arcagnostic grimaced, and then snorted. “Did he finally succumb to temptation, fucking the beetle?”

The pigeon landed on Cutbastra’s head, and, as soon as the pigeon took fly, the head of a flail lodged itself briefly into his hair, before the priest began spinning it into the air once more, hunting for the elusive feathery sinner.

“No. The beetle died and he is grief-stricken. As an aside, fucking mosquitos man.”

“Yeah, no magic or cultivation technique can get rid of them. Damned blood suckers.” Faren closed his eyes and dedicated his friend a soft smile. “Fine, return tomorrow morning and I will see about making you the straightest of straights and the gayest of gays fused together. The perfect balance of yin lust and yang horny.”

“Thanks, man, I owe you one.” He extended his hand just as an arrow crossed the air between them.

“You owe me one for each university degree I have by now.”

Cutbastra grunted and pulled from the Arcagnostic’s hand Making him lose his footing and fall forward. “Still don’t have a degree on avoiding that one, eh?”

Faren laughed as he got on his feet. “Tease me more and I will do something you will regret tomorrow, my esteemed clown.”

The statue loaded the shotgun and shot thrice, some of the stray pellets bouncing against Cutbastra’s cheek, and others destroying jars or digging into the walls. “Dude, no offense, but plant some citronella or adopt a couple depressed Rottweilers.”

“‘tis mosquito season, sadly. They need blood like a cultivator needs a road.”

The pigeon landed on Cutbastra’s shirt and began pecking at Oracle, that ignored the sharp beak hitting his forehead and only licked his eyes to keep them wet. “They are even attacking me. Some really vicious mosquitos.”

The priest brandished a Katana and inflicted a gash on the cultivator’s shirt. “You also have a problem with air currents,” Cutbastra noted as the hierophant and its sworn foe persisted in their fight to death.

“Yes, I need to arrange some reparations on this old dimensional… artwork. Is your pocket dimension in need of maintenance too?”

“No, but the beauty elixir farm I have in the south could use cheaper acclimatization.”

“I am not getting involved with that business of yours!” he lashed out, and immediately recovered his composure. “Anyway, come again tomorrow, I will conjure some mosquito repellants. Feel free to leave whenever.”

Cutbastra looked around, scanning his always rearranging environment. “How?”

“If I knew, I’d restock on citronella far more often.”