Sir Broderick weaved through the sedated crowds of the Impractical Agora like a homing pidgeon, noticing only when Biscuit Pisser whined that it might not be as easy for someone unexperienced to navigate through the torrent of people, creatures and unwarranted bodily fluids. They approached a small tent that impressively enough had structured windows built into it, though the glass was smashed and then subsequently boarded up. It looked dark inside.

Sir Broderick smiled and knocked on a boarded window three times, stopping in the middle to sneeze vehemetly through the thicc, smoggy air surrounding them. One of the boards slid up ever so slightly and three yellowed eyeballs emerged from the shadows.

“Whats cans I dos ya fors?” grumbled a groggy voice.

“Hail, hood sirrah! Three handles of the usual stuff.”

“The usuals stuffs? We’ve only gots twos of thoses.”

“Well shit. Give me those two handles and one of the less enjoyable then, please.”

“Gladlys. That’lls be tens chickensfeed.”

Sir Broderick fished four chickensfeed out of his pocket and dropped them through the eyehole.

“Hey, whats gives? This is onlys fours chickensfeed!”

“Oh, sorry about that old chup,” Sir Broderick threw another chickensfeed in there as the voice grumbled about cheap losers while the tent jostled around and muffled sounds of breaking glass echoed from inside it. Eventually three heavy handles of gin emerged from the crack in the tent window.

Sir Broderick inspected the handles and groaned. “Oi oi, come now, you’ve given me two handles of those two and one handle of the less enjoyable!”

“Thats whats yous asked fors.”

“No it’s not! I asked for two handles of the usual stuff!”

“Okay, Shitface, what in the cluck are you talking about?”

“Heys who’s this guys whys hes interruptings us?”

“Don’t worry don’t worry he’s hip to your fandango.”

“His fan-what-o?”

“Oh shove a handle of liquor in it Biscuit Pisser.”

“This situations is makings me uncomfortables. Laters, chups,” the eyeballs receded and the boarded up window wood slid down sharply.

“Nice job, Biscuit Pisser. Look at this shit. This is what you’ve done to me,” Sir Broderick shoved the handles of gin in Biscuit Pisser’s face. Two of them read ‘THOSE TWO’ and the other read ‘THE LESS ENJOYABLE.’

“The Usual is so much clucking better than Those Two, swear to cock I’d have to run Those Two through eight filters to get an entire bottle of it to burn half as much as a single sip of The Usual.”

“So you’re saying the problem is is that it’s smooth.”

“Hen yes it is!”

“But Shitface it says it’s 110 proof on the bottle. That’s—”

“It’s too weak, I know, thank you for finally agreeing with me on something. Alright then, let’s go get some birdburgers.”

“Birdburgers? But—”

“Aren’t you hungry?”

“Well, I haven’t eaten, unless you count the food that my mistress’ wife threw at me, so—”

“Perfect. You’re gonna love this place it has literally the best birdburgers on planet Gurth.”

And thus they were off, whizzing through the—

“Oh, shit, I almost forgot,” Sir Broderick chuckled, stopping right in front of a snail person who was walking very slowly. He popped open each handle of gin and took about five to ten minutes to fill all of the numerous flasks attached to his person with liquor, including a couple that Biscuit Pisser hadn’t seen before and assumed he’d nicked after they had entered the Agora.

Sir Broderick packed up and prepared to lead Biscuit Pisser off towards the Birdburger stand. The snail person, who had barely moved at all, shouted very slowly as they scurried off, “Heeeeey, waaaaatch oooooooout aaaaaasshooooolessss!”

The BirdBurger Stand was not a stand at all as much as it was a large boulder with a rectangular window cut into it through which the owner could berate everyone passing by while also selling them burgers. There was a large, magickally flourescent sign hung over this window that read ‘The BirdBurger Stand - We Sell BirdBurgers, And We Can’t Stand You.’

“Hey keep it moving jackass keep it moving nobody likes your eye fungus alright? Hey nice fantasy noses how many of em you got eighteen?” yelled the large, wide eyed, thiccly bearded BirdBurger Stand owner as he smoked three cigarettes and a cigar at once.

“Hey there Jenkins,” chuckled Sir Broderick, sipping from a flask.

“Hey there Sir Shitfaced, living up to your name I see. Did you pay for that liquor or did you steal it from me?”

“Oh go cluck yourself you pretzel dipper.”

Stolen novel; please report.

“Hey, there we go! About time somebody dished it back, ’s what I always say that I always say even when I don’t say it!”

“Well said.”

Sir Broderick and Jenkins stared at Biscuit Pisser like he might as well have barfed all over them.

“Hey man who is this guy Sir Shitfaced I mean cluck what a buzzkill I ought not even sell you two burgers with how clucking soggy that was! Cock clucking hammit!”

“Don’t worry Jenkins don’t worry he might be a right knob but he’s also a man of taste.”

“Why did you wink like that when you said man of taste, Shitface?”

“Hey Sir Shitfaced boy you better tell this guy to shut the cluck up or I’m gonna bench him.”

“Uh, you’ll bench him, Jenkins? Like, will you lay on your back and press him up in the air over and over again to help fill out your chest muscles or something?”

“Don’t you go around telling me my own name, Sir Shitfaced, or I’ll bench you too! You don’t wanna be benched!”

“Why exactly are you mad?”

“Stop asking me questions, kid! I hate questions! I don’t want ya to talk back to me, I want you to stand there and take it and not ask me any questions, do you clucking hear me?”

Biscuit Pisser leaned forward “But why though?”

“That’s it that’s clucking it cluck you both! Go to the caravan!”

“The what?”

“Look at this guy with all the clucking questions! To the caravan, bass turds!”

Sir Broderick and Biscuit Pisser hung their heads. Sir Broderick lead Biscuit Pisser over to a large open caravan where one greasy guy was sitting and sadly organizing different colored boxes. They sat on the uncomfortable wooden flooring of the caravan and, if it were not incredibly dim and smoky in the Agora, Sir Broderick would’ve probably noticed Biscuit Pisser crying.

“Why was he so mean, Shitface?”

“Just wait. It’ll be okay, buddy.”

And wait they did. They sat there and waited for about twenty minutes, Trash Heap snoring loudly yet peacefully all the while atop Sir Broderick’s saucepan clad head. Finally someone wearing an apron walked up to them with two white paper bags, handing one to each shamed caravan sitter.

“What’s this?”

“It’s your food. Now get the cluck off the caravan, there are people waiting to sit on the caravan in shame.”

Biscuit Pisser looked to his left and noticed that indeed there was a line of about ten people waiting for a turn to sit on the caravan in shame.

“Come on, Biscuit Pisser, let’s go!” Sir Broderick yanked his shocked friend up as they walked into the crowds.

“What just happened, Shitface?”

“What do you mean?” Sir Broderick puzzled as he chomped into his juicy birdburger. “Oh my cock this shit is so delicious.”

Biscuit Pisser pulled out his birdburger from its bag, “Like, I felt so ashamed! We got put on the caravan!”

“He does that to everybody buddy. It’s part of the experience. Are you going to eat your birdburger or aren’t you?”

Biscuit Pisser gave his birdburger a tentative nibble and his eyes immediately lit up. “Holy shit you weren’t kidding. This is absolutely scrumptious!”

“Doesn’t that make the painful emotional shaming we just endured worth it?”

“Not really, honestly.”

“Yea, I know. Guy’s a total asshole. I’d of probably already burned his shop down if it weren’t an enormous boulder. If I ever get any dirt on him I am ratting him out immediately.”

“That’s maybe a little extreme, Shitface.”

“Is it? Twenty clucking minutes sitting on a caravan like a hamned infant who stole a slice of cake is a little extreme, is it not?!”

“It is it is.”

“Cock hamn it I swear I’m never going back there again. Of course I say that every time but cluck I mean it this time,” Sir Broderick sighed and downed two flasks. “Well anywhatnowhow here’s the forger’s place.”

Biscuit Pisser looked at the enormous, glowing tent before them and squinted, “The sign says it’s a burlesque bar for drag queens.”

“The most prudent place for any forger to operate out of, if that forger is also a burlesquing drag queen. Don’t tell her employers about it of course. Or his employers. Or their employers? Cluck, I don’t know, I’m confused on the whole thing if I’m being honest but if you need a decent forgery this is the place to go. Maybe Trash Heap can help me figure it out.”

Trash Heap snorted.

“What about the forger’s guild? I mean it looks pretty legit.” Biscuit Pisser pointed over at the large, castle-esque structure with beautiful, ornate calligraphy naming itself as such hanging from a banner arching over the entrance.

“Oh my clucking cock you can’t be serious Biscuit Pisser.”

“I can’t?”

“That place is such a clucking scam! I mean look at it! You might as well outsource forgery to a soulless corporation with standards and procedures! Because that’s exactly what that is!”

“Well if you’re looking for a hood forgery isn’t that what you want?”

“Pffft! As if! Standards in the world of forgery are but an elaborate facade, dear Biscuit Pisser. If a forgery is to succeed at its intended purpose, therein being to falsely attribute itself as a document that it is not, then it is vital that said forgery have something that standards only obscure, or, in worse cases, completely disifgure to the point of virtual nonexistence.”

“Something? What something?”

“I’m quite glad you asked me that, Biscuit Pisser, for while I was dead set telling you regardless of what you said or asked of me, for I care not for your input, it is fairly validating to hear that you are indeed listening to me. It only gives my beliefs further creedence than they have already, whilst also clearing my mind in the refreshing water of your ignorance.

“There is said that there is a light behind everyone person’s pupils, a great bright glow that evades true understanding yet clings to the steady beating of our farts. Except when we die and our farts stop, in which case it ceases clinging and fades into oblivion like so many bouts of flatulence and fart fluttering before us. Chiefly what I mean to be saying is that people generally appear to have souls, and whether that is an illusion or not remains to be unseen.

“So, when you take the people out of the forgery, what do you have, dear Biscuit Pisser? Why, you have nothing at all. Others still say all is nothing, and nothing is all, but not I. I say instead that all is something and that nothing isn’t anything at all, which makes far more sense as far as I’m concerned.

“You can take the forgery out of the person, and the forger out of the forgery, and the forgery out of the guild and the people out of the guild and the guild out of the forgery and the forger out of another one of the forgers and you can put that forger in a guild and you can provide members of that guild with pensions and medical magicians and plenty of drugs and you can tell them they’re all stupid sacks of shit the whole time and you know what will happen?”

Biscuit Pisser had not been paying attention.

“I said, Biscuit Pisser, you know what will happen?”

“Um, what??”

“So you don’t know what will happen. Silly you. If only you knew, maybe then you’d understand why I will never, as long as I live on cock’s light brown Gurth, ever step foot in the forger’s guild when there’s a perfectly hood burlesque drag bar that will do an as hood or, more likely, worse job for about the same amount of money. Why? Because it will not require me to put on airs and pretend to be someone that I am not, as everyone in that establishment you call the ‘Forger’s Guild’ undoubtedly feels compelled to at every waking moment. Now get your money. Cover charge is five chickensfeed but I can get you in for two if you give the bouncer googley eyes and giggle, don’t look into it they’re just into that kinda shit.”

“Sorry what? I’ll just pay the five, thanks—”

“No you won’t. I’ve been taking money from your pockets every time you look away from me. I’d suggest you twerk on that, by the way, old chup. You’ve only got two chickensfeed left. I already paid my five. See you inside!”

Sir Broderick watched in a third person limited fashion as Biscuit Pisser swallowed a small amount of barf and forced himself to bat his eyelids at the bouncer. Pleased, Sir Broderick sauntered with his chup into the tent.