The people of Valelike Vale gathered in the main loop of the Roadlike Road to look at the rainbowlike rainbow that slowly descended from the skylike skies.

“It’s a bird!” exclaimed a fat lady.

“It’s a bird!” exclaimed a strong, tall man.

“No, it’s the gay agenda!” said the rickety old geezer whose presence among the clan’s people was tolerated because he was funny when drunk.

Meanwhile, Cutbastra descended his rainbow stairway with the hand son his pockets and a thousand-yard stare. It was the kind of posture that a man that doesn’t care about his status carries with him. A man that has left the oven on, sometimes. “So, huh, is this Valelike vale?!” he shouted when he came close enough to the people.

The old geezer answered, “It was until you gayed it down!”

“I… sorry about that,” he jumped from the rainbow and it dispersed into the air.

“Oh no, we will breathe in the gay! Run for your heterosexuality!” The man panicked and scurried away as fast as he could, which, being a Parkinson’s patient in need of a cane, wasn’t what we could call an impressive speed. Eventually, the grandpa tripped with a red-ant-sized pebble and the retropulsion associated with the disease threw him on his back. He took an emergency pet turtle out of his robes and placed it by his side. On its back, for the animal’s misfortune. If he was going to die under the gayified atmosphere, he wasn’t going to part alone.

“Gather your haku” —The energy of life— “in your hearts, people of Valelike Vale, for I am blessing you with my heavenly presence!” The immortal said, opening his arms in self-aggranding gesture. The locals cheered, and Kalon the Discount Mummy pushed a way through the crowd to see what the fuss was about. Jagged was entangled over his owner’s head, struggling for freedom among his chestnut hair.

Beholding the immortal, Jagger thought two simple words. One was a mean to obtain water from subterranean deposits, and the other had to do with sexual intercourse.

Ignoring the cheers of the hitherto bored locals, a skink protruded from the cultivator’s upper pocket. “Cut the crap, Cutbastra. No need to make a whole show out of this.”

The cultivator shoved Oracle back into his pocket and took in the crowd while holding an appraising look. “I bet there has to be some martina beauty among these…”

Oracle popped back out. “Jade.”

“What?”

“The western lands localization is ‘jade beauty’.”

“That makes no damn sense, jade is green!” Cutbastra the Courier protested and crossed his arms while putting on a face of indignant incredulity.

“Jade can be of many colors, friend. The east lands have white jade.”

He discreetly shoved the skink back in his pocket when he noticed the cheers had stopped and giggles had begun to sprout among the crowd. Then, Cutbastra the Toilet Fixer cleared his throat. “Ejem, sorry for that, I have a talking lizard in my pocket and, this time only, that’s no innuendo.”

Kalon raised a bandaged hand. “What does inyo uend mean?”

“Where were you born from?”

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“A fat cabbage,” Kalon answered without even the primordium of a doubt.

“A cabbage made out of fat or a cabbage that… you know, doesn’t matter. You are not ready to know that word, little one. What’s your name?” Cutbastra asked, ready to act according to the answer. It would be fast if the name was correct. Set the example to make them respect his power.

“Kalon. And this is my rod ballet puppy.”

“Rottweiler.” Cutbastra the Painter corrected automatically. “Cute name, Kalon.” The cultivator strode until he was in front of the young one. He crouched to look Kalon in the eyes. “Do you happen to know anyone called Jagger in this place?”

Kalon pointed at the puppy over his head. That made Cutbastra the Gardener giggle innocently. “Oh, so the puppy is called like that. Did you name it after a friend?”

“No, Jagger is the most common male name here,” ventured a lady that began sashaying up to where the immortal was, but he quickly stepped back, keeping his distance with her as if she were a menace. “Are you called death, cute boy? Because I find myself wanting to court you.” she said, licking her swollen, violet lips.

“Before I act, I must know, are you married?” Cutbastra asked, taking his right hand to his zipper and hold it like a man about to unsheathe a Katana.

She winked. “For you, I am not.”

It happened in less than it took for a tax collector to ruin your day. Cutbastra the Butcher with Delivery Services seemed to teleport behind the woman, still holding his zipper, now down. The expression of the woman’s face was one of absolute horror and surprise as a powerful gust of wind remembered it had to follow Cutbastra the Babysitter, blowing past the only tree in that improvised plaza, denuding it, making the tree turn red out of shame. She wasn’t a promiscuous deciduous leaves slut, she was evergreen! What a sorry image she was giving to her neighbors (The grass and a couple dandelions who hadn’t flowered yet as they were saving it for marriage).

As the leaves of the blushing tree settled on the ground, and after the longest second of silence the woman had ever experienced, Cutbastra spoke: “You are already pregnant.”

The woman immediately slumped to the ground, extremities shaking, mouth foaming as she hollered like a dying pig. The immortal pulled his zipper up like a samurai sheathes his mortal sword back. A satisfied smile sat in his face. “Fastest man in heaven and earth, baby.”

The immortal turned to the horrified crowd, and noticed the advance of a man that was several heads taller than everybody else and whose biceps had nearly developed six packs. “You, you harm my sister!” accused the behemoth whose lips tasted like Daddy’s Discharge and looked like a goth girl’s pale thighs.

Jagger wondered how the son of the Elder had gotten the lipsticks he asked for so fast. He decided the answer was simple: Cultivators. “Kalon, we must run. They will fight.” Jagger warned hopelessly.

“Why? they will fight, not us.”

“They are centuries old each, they are legendary cultivators on their own right. Leagues above you or me in power.”

Jagger got snatched by Cutbastra, and Kalon didn’t protest. He analyzed the puppy with a lone eye as he held him aloft. “You speak.” Cutbastra simply said.

The puppy decided there was no reason for his gut flora to die with him, and shat himself upon the Immortal’s jeans. But the shit dared not tarnish the clothes of such a papucho, and thus bounced on them, heading for the dirt. “Relax, we are all friends here.”

“Sir, that’s my weapon. I need him.” Kalon explained, extending his hand so the immortal would give Jagger back.

“I will borrow your puppy a moment. Here, as a token of my trust.” He reached onto his pocket and placed Oracle on Kalon’s hand. “That’s my beffo, he ain’t eatable. Take care of him while I fight, will you?”

“I am going to fucking die,” Oracle said, staring at Kalon with deer eyes.

Jagger closed his eyes in commiseration. “The fates are not so kind, scaly fellow.”

Each step of the elder’s son made the earth tremble under the crowd’s feet, dispersed the bystanders a little more. “Which bone of the human body is your favorite? I shall leave it intact,” he said, cracking his knuckles.

“Want a fight, big boy? You are confusing heaven and a cabaret.”

“State your name and road, for I, Colinus, follower of the Road of the Lipstick, challenge you to a duel for the honor of my dying sister!”

“Oh my man, she is not dying,” he glanced at the screeching woman on the floor. The dirt under her was now wet. “I bet I can beat you without hurting this dog while holding it on my good hand, because I know I am better than you.”

“Name and road! Now, coward!”

Cutbastra jerked his head slightly to fix a golden bang that was interfering with his vision, and smiled. “I have a thousand titles as I have had a thousand professions, but in the end, I am the one: Cutbastra, proud walker of the Road of the Homewrecker.”