For a time longer than a week the secrets kept by the night fascinated men. Behind the veil of darkness their minds created monsters with far more teeth than a wolf, or claws longer and sharper than those of any wild cat. And as they gathered around the light, they told of these monsters on how they had seen a menacing shadow stalking them, or how the forest hollered at night, wailing spirits claiming for them.
What they should have feared, however, had no claws nor sharp teeth. They were not anthropophagous creatures —mostly— and only two fingers on each leg supported their weight. And light they were not.
They wore sunglasses with white dots on them, because the sun of the noon wouldn’t impede the nocturnal squad of the Sect of the Many Guts from carrying on with their sacred duty. They flew over tiled ceilings, describing impressive martial arts feats midair, to the amusement of one or two tourists that weren’t used to them. They were beefed up cultivators, male and female, their bodies grazed by years of field training.
“I was thinking… what if we recruit the Rottweilermancer?” said one of the members, a white girl sporting a black spot under her left eye, as she defied the heavens with her acrobatic feats (she bravely descended a flight of outdoor stairs).
“We have witnessed what the boy can do. I agree. “Said the black male accompanying her. One of the characteristics of this individual was that, despite his assiduous training and flawless discipline, he couldn’t help but be horny. He was what eyeball mothers told her children would come and take them away if they refused to sleep.
“Our zoo-branch agent also recommended him. He has the aptitudes to make the Sect of Many Guts one of the great powers of this region. His untapped potential is only held back by his idiocy,” said a third cultivator, a sweet grandma who wore a hat with a big pink flower on it.
“You say that like overcoming his stupidity would be a small feat,” protested the white girl. She was a good girl. Burped only on cue.
“The Faceless One, sure as the moon that will rise, will know how to unleash his potential. Stupidity is no impediment to him. He has managed sects full of idiots before. Even Valelikevalians.”
“Old Monster Auntie Lola, do you reckon he considers our sect to be full of idiots?” Asked the male cultivator, that, for the record only, didn’t cultivate males.
“He believes we have the collective IQ of a bunch of cattle,” the behatted cultivator said.
“A wise rag, he is,” granted the white girl.
They jumped from the high roof they were standing, landing in front of the inn so gracefully that a local children-coffin maker managed to take his family to a luxurious restaurant that day. And through the arch of the door, the three of them poked their long faces in. A skull like theirs was mounted on a wall, and they had to surpass a gasp at such image. Their wide nostrils, enlarged by the nature of their long ruminations and meditations to attain higher levels of power, took in the stench of alcohol, blood and sweat that the seasoned adventurers populating the single-footed tables exuded. There were also some familias with children and clearly negligent fathers. Of course, the smell of blood in particular, the male thought, could be due to the freshly trampled children in the sidewalk.
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The white lady, with her rotund backside, accidentally toppled over a table,Drenching the generic brown-haired man that happily sipper a beer there on his own drink. “Watch your rump, you fat cow!”
She barely turned her head to glance at the man. Her vital energy rose and stirred around her, casting a nefarious aura that planted unease in the man’s mind. “I’ll let you know I have the widest calves in the sect, and I am proud of them.”
The man spoke with a little voice, scared for his life, “Okay, please don’t hurt me,” he whined like a homeless puppy in the cold.
The cultivator went back to her business, and the man slumped in his chair. As he sighed of relief, a flying Rottweiler puppy knocked the consciousness and several years of mechanical engineering out of his head.
“Fuck, I missed,” said Kalon to his Sunny-side-down egg (Being Kalon’s meal was that depressing).
Samari inspired, expired, joined her hands, and hopped form her chair. “Why do you attack powerful cultivators? I´ll need to appease them now?”
Kalon slammed the table with an open palm. The table refused to moan. “They are bullying the innocents.”
“This is one of the cheapest inns in all of Ilure. There are no innocents in here.”
“What about the child in the other table. “
The twink barkeep wearing a pink wig leaned over the table, making sure to let his ass stand out in sight of the manly, burly, for-sure-straight men sitting across. “He killed his parents in belated self-defense after his mother told him she had tried to abort him.”
“That’s legal?” Samari asked, finding herself unable to blink.
“It was… until he did it. Ruining the fun for the rest of us. Now self-defense has a short timeframe where it can be enacted before it becomes revenge. Nya.”
The black male cultivator lunged forward, knocking the twink out with a flying kick. “You, boy, you are the Rottweilermancer. And yes, we bully sometimes. I was born for it.”
“Samari?” Kalon looked at her like a deer at an incoming Ford truck.
“Yes, my friend is the Rottweiler cultivator. I apologize in his stead. He hails from Valelike Vale.” Samari cowtowed in front of the trio with sunglasses. “Please spare us.”
“Is this a male or a female? It has short hair and a tiny voice,” the white girl pointed at Samari.
“I am not good at identifying the sex of children.” said Auntie Lola. “Girl or boy, we came to extend your friend an invitation to our select group: The Sect of the Many Guts. We can provide him funds to further his cultivation in exchange for services rendered to the sect.”
“What road do you follow?” Kalon asked, excited.
“Road of Skewering,” said the black one.
“Road of Keto Diet,” answered Miss Big Calves
“Road of hats with flowers.”
Samari groaned. Being exposed to a conversation between cultivators was often Painful. “Kalon, are you sure you want to go with… these? Don’t you think they are quite… peculiar?”
Kalon scratched his cheek with a single finger, and then, examined the recruiters with a quick glance. “What do you mean?”
“Well… the females are not wearing bras…” Samari tried a subtle approach.
Kalon looked again, noting they had their swollen, dangling, pinkmammaries on plain sight. He quickly covered his eyes with a hand. “My gods ladies, cover yourselves.”
The recruiters tilted their heads. Samari faced the table. Quickly. And smashingly. She almost broke her nose doing that. Among tears and with a swollen face, she spoke again. “They are cows, Kalon!”
“Language! I am bull,” said the black one that was, indeed, not a cow. "Need a tour around the sect?"