I dragged myself towards the side as some soldiers passed—my burned-out body refusing to listen to my brain’s insistence on hiding. They passed without giving me a second glance, which was strange as purple complexions tended to require a double-take.

I shuddered and sighed with relief. Guess I’m not the only freak of the town anymore.

I looked for more soldiers, hoping they’d rush to the forest. Did the girl not get help? That slimy little urchin!

Sure enough, another couple of soldiers followed the first group in the direction of the forest, led by a white shih tzu. The small fluffy dog sniffed at the ground, then the air, and yipped at them, urging them forward.

Is this really the best that they could do? I couldn’t help but chuckle. Or... maybe it’s a magical shih tzu?

An image of a flying shih tzu with a billowing cape, like the famous Mighty Mouse, was what finally caused my much delayed mental breakdown.

My chuckle morphed into an unwarranted fit of laughter. A jingle played in my head. Here comes Mighty Shih Tzu to save the day! It was sappy, sing-songy, and happy-go-lucky. I was laughing so hard and couldn't stop. My weakened muscles forced me on my knees again. My mental image had a flying Shih Tzu zooming past, back and forth, fast enough to give everyone whiplash. I imagined its “mighty” high pitched bark and the orc family shivering in fear. I lay on my back again, staring at the sky, laughing like a lunatic.

The sudden episode of uncontrolled laughing made me sick to my stomach, or the stomach pain simply could’ve been from laughing too hard. Laughter in prison was rarely without a victim. Prison was no laughing matter. Laughter was a sign of hope, and neither had a place in our prison. Wannabe comedian Jack got a punch for every punchline he shared until they got fed up and stuck him in an isolation chamber.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

I heard my own laughter and cringed with dread. But I couldn’t stop. My pent-up feelings of desperation and lack of power, such as when denied the power to laugh when I wanted, burst through my laughter. There was no threat to my life laughing here.

Turning my head, I looked to the forest. Good luck, Mighty Furball. I wiped the tears that welled my eyes, sobering up at the sad thought that maybe a place with real monsters was better than the human monsters in prison after all.

Wheezing, I crawled and rested against a gallon barrel for a couple of minutes to catch my breath before I proceeded to the mine entrance.

The place was almost empty. Where did everybody go? Everything was calm and orderly with only one guard at the mine. Why wasn’t everyone panicking over a possible orc invasion?

No sign of the orc’s dead body, just tire tracks of a cart leading back to the mine.

Seeing how powerful and sturdy the first orc was, I was glad for the existence of these bejewelled, all-powerful weapons capable of inhuman destruction. My mind swam with images of orcs falling and crashing to bits with the touch of a magic weapon, something like Humpty Dumpty, ready to fall and crack at will.

My overactive imagination made farm life and prison life bearable and sometimes unbearable. Never mind. It was mostly unbearable. Now, because of an uncontrollable mind, I starved for some eggs. I thought of all the ways they can be cooked and how delicious they’d be—to have some right here and now.

My stomach grumbled in protest. I looked around me to see soldiers about and open tents, but I wasn’t one to venture.

I was too tired anyway, so I went home, dragging my dead legs with my staff as my crutch. Not to mention, the grueling walk was filled with stomach cramps.

My broken body entered the house, and the first thing that I did was eat the stew directly from the cold pot. Once finished, I started to have cramps from overeating. Give me a break, stomach!

I lay still in my indented bed which felt like a coffin. My cramps ended and I slept.