The Kalon-beatings continued as his days of training went by. Bit by bit the boy began learning to anticipate and block the attacks of the Bodiceattva, to flow between them like planes through towers. Jagger mastered his consumption of mosquitoed water, got tired of the beverage, swore off it, and then returned with the tail between the legs, asking forgiveness like a cheating husband who got caught.
In the same span of a couple months, Samari learned to repair Aunara’s statue and improved her martial arts whilst she figured out how to use more and more covenants. Most people have time equivalent to 24 hours minus their need for sleep, 6 to 9 hours in most cases. Samari had 24 hours plus caffeine, 6 to 9 grams on most days. She built a fort out of cans of energy drinks in her spare time. She boiled her vegetables in black coffee, steamed them with espresso, or fried them in coffee bean oil. She got a high after getting a small cut on her finger and suckling on the dark blood that came out. Her heart outpaced a hummingbird on her calmest moments… and she had never felt better.
Suddenly, her heart stopped, and she checked her pulse calmly.
“What’s the matter?” Aunara’s statue asked, still adopting a defensive position in the middle of the dojo.
“I am having a heart attack.” Samari said, and then shrugged as if nothing happened. “My blood is so caffeinated it keeps running anyway. I will let the heart rest a while.”
The eyes of the statue became thin lines. “Samari, this is serious. Lay on the floor and I will try to restart your heart.”
Samari Vaulted Backwards to add a flair of drama to the situation. “No. I am fine. Just… clinically dead for the time being. Perfect time to take a job from the Archives.”
The girl flip-flopped her way out of Aunara’s Vault, with the statue following her halfway out of the pocket dimension before giving up and shouting. “Just remember to do it before you go to sleep!”
“There’s no such thing as sleep!”
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From under a pile of other people’s wives and husbands the cultivator got startled awake. He climbed his way out of the lustful mountain of bodies and checked the alarm clock in his Jade nightstand.
It was almost time to wake up anyway. He placed the clock back on Jade’s back, slapped her butt cheek playfully, and told her she was being a good nightstand for daddy Cutbastra.
Sweat glistened on his pecs and abs as he made his way through the labyrinthine halls of his home, towards Oracle’s terrarium. His friend had a whole room for himself, with more mealworms than he would eat in his whole immortal life.
His manly soles touched the untarnished soil covering the terrarium’s ground after he opened the door, and the humid atmosphere calmly caressed his perfect skin. “I had a revelation. In a dream. About how to become more powerful.”
Oracle regarded Cutbastra with pursed jaws, not bothering coming out of his little puddle of warm water or taking the cucumber slices out of his eyes. “The gift of prophecy allows me to notice your nudity, friend. Get dressed."
“It’s my home and in my home I wear the amount of clothes I want to. Which is zero.”
“Fine, but I am not taking the cucumber outta my beautiful lizard eyes. I need my mascara to run its course.”
Cutbastra interlaced his fingers, and then extended the middle and index ones upwards in front of his mouth. “Do you know keto diet?”
“Is this another plot for me to endorse your sudden need to become a thrall of the Crossfit gods?”
Cutbastra’s hands exploded in movement as he denied energetically. “No, no, never. That darkness left my soul long ago. But do you know like, people in the keto diet cook their food, right?”
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
“I don’t like where this is going but yes, they are not that far gone to eat raw flesh.”
Cutbastra strode up to his blindfolded friend, and looked down at him. “Then what if I create a new diet, where I cuck the food. The Neto Diet!”
“Dear heavens, it was worse than I expected.” The cucumbers shuddered in fear and fell off the eyes of their host. “Oh heavens no! you even shaved!” Oracle turned 180 degrees, and sunk his head in the puddle as he licked one of his eyes obsessively. The image wouldn’t wash off his precious retina. Bubbling sounds followed as he cursed underwater, scouring his eye in vain.
Legend tells Oracle went blind right there. Legend fucking sucks and needs to be fact-checked.
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Memories. They assaulted him relentlessly and without motorbikes as he ascended towards the shore. His system stoked the fires of Lino’s nearly inexistent will, and while his feet sunk in the sand, he pushed onwards.
March onwards, my soldier, for world domination awaits!
No, it doesn’t.
“I want a ticket to see Madonna,” the seedfern spoke in a soft needy voice.
Madonna doesn’t exist.
“And do you think I do?” The Nothoracopteris hurled the question with an amount of poison unwarranted for anything that dares exist outside of Australia.
Lino’s mind sighed. Every waking moment those two were bickering, bickering, and bickering. They had even started to bother him, which was quite concerning, as it meant he was regaining his humanity little by little. And humanity with those two… he wouldn’t wish that to his worst enemy.
Hi quickened his step, and soon enough his head emerged above — Knowing the Author’s track record, it is important to note that this ocean here abides by most laws of physics — the water, his eyes graced by the barely trashed beach.
And then tainted by a glorious image sitting upon a stone washed by eons, water, salt, petroleum, fish poop, the drool of neglected-and-drowning children, the sexual fluids of those inconsiderate enough to have sex in the water, like most mysticeti. If they can breathe air, they can come out to do the dirty deeds. Find a motel. If they can live in a mountain with a bar upon their back, they can come out to the beach to fuck. Traumatize the human children. Maybe they will stop harpooning your fucking descendants that way.
But I digress. Where was I? ah, yes. Fuck whales.
No, no, before that.
Ah, right, the image sitting on the rock. The image for Lino. The imagine chosen specifically to make an Emperor’s New Groove reference out of the blue. Lino’s image.
The Cultivator was shaken to his core by the beauty sitting there, on their plutonic throne, with a smug smile and even smugger abs. Lino wasn’t moved by the subject’s beautiful pink hair, delicate facial features, strategically remarked swimsuit bulge, or the fact their most likely radioactive makeup withstood the onslaught of saltpee — there were too many minors splashing around the place to call the liquid “Water”, despite the fact that I did early, because, hey, artistic licenses — without showing the slightest flaw. No, what made Lino’s heart do a 720° Christ Air and graced his ears with the sound of his own gulp was the nefarious aura the femboy dripped. His topping intent was encroaching, it begayed the souls of every heterosexual being in a thirty-four feet range, even algae. The opaline skeleton of diatoms and even radiolarians took in the colors of tolerance and post-diluvial whoopsie-daisies, forever betraying that moment in time with a characteristic biostratigraphic marker of incredible accuracy, defining the rocks of the brief geochronological period to be known as the Pridenyan — the femboy wore a headband with cat ears and geologists of the future will be able to easily infer these things — the only time lapse in the story of Cabaret whose chronostratigraphic units were branded with a golden dildo instead of a spike[1].
Lino turned like a vampire exposed to a garlic cross , wading away with warranted desperation. His defenses where high, but a battle of wills with the ominous homosexual was beyond his capabilities. Yet, approaching the beach, he noticed everyone over the sand was sleeping, and soon enough felt the oppressing presence of a being even more determined than the femboy.
And how loudly it snored! It was a saint Bernard, and his drowsy intent welled from within the dog like blood from a wound discovering she had stopped being a girl and was now a woman. It came in pulses, one every few seconds, and it rose the melatonin levels of everyone exposed to it. Lino’s pupils constricted as a particularly powerful pulse of sleeping intent savaged the local populations of wakefulness.
Slowly he stepped back, submerging his head back into the sea.
I see world domination will have to start elsewhere.
Lino nodded at his system, and the seedfern of his soul let out a wistful sight for better days. Oh, how she missed mass extinctions!
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[1] Author’s note: Google GSSP, related to geology. We basically define the “Perfect” rock bodies to mark an age by inserting big ass golden nails on them. For example, the Golden Spike for the Ediacaran period is found in Australia, in the Flinders Ranges.