Purple parabolas exploded around Sir Broderick’s face in all directions as he floated through a sea of twirling whirling swirling nothingness. The sound of blaringly sharp brass instruments bled through his ears, as did incomprehensible screaming and offbeat percussion that just about made Sir Broderick wish he were dead.

Just when he thought it couldn’t possibly get any worse, large ribbons of ethereal fabric covered in black and white checkerboard patterns wrapped around his body like serpent, shouting into his ears with gnawing, gnashing teeth the phrase, “Pick it up!” Although what exactly ought to be picked up was never elaborated upon.

The parabolas exploded into coiling latticetwerk of all sorts of bright neon colors and, somehow, the explosions of brass and off-key screeches that sounded not dissimilar to a recently disembowled howler monkey not only sped up but upped their volume by about twenty percent.

“No! No! Oh cock please no!”

The checkerboard eels squeezed him tight and wrapped over his face, surrounding Sir Broderick the Shitfaced in alternating whiteness and blackness. Suddenly he was not bound at all, and was simply standing on an invisible floor, facing a checkboard wall that was impossibly beyond his reach yet also right in front of him. Unfortunately the ‘music’ was still playing.

WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

A trombone fifty times louder than everything else blared from nowhere and five alternating black and white doors apparated from either side of Sir Broderick. They swung open and faceless characters in black and white suits holding multicolored stringed instruments surrounded him in a circle.

“W-what’s going on?”

Instead of answering, the suited figures bellowed strings of expletives at Sir Broderick and beat him senseless with their instruments till they had shattered to bits over his crumpled form. Everything faded to gray.

“Please! Please no! No more! No trumpets! No trombones! Oh for the love of cock I swear I’ll never touch a piece of brass as long as I live!”

“Shitface? Are you waking up?”

Sir Broderick’s eyelids flapped open. He was lying on the dressing room floor, beside the head of the mannequin he had knocked over earlier. Someone had kindly placed some soft removable breasts under his head to act as a pillow, though his saucepan helmet kept him from taking full use of them. Biscuit Pisser was leaning over him in concern, and Noodle Monster was sitting in a stool, delicately unclasping multiple sets of humongous, intertwined earrings.

“Holy shit,” Sir Broderick sputtered, leaning up and heaving, “I need a drink. And not of clucking Glabsinthe.”

“Yea,” chuckled Noodle Monster, “That stuff really clucks you up.”

“If we’d read the label it would’ve told us that Glabsinthe causes delirium unless you’re cool enough to drink it.”

“Unless you’re cool enough?!” Sir Broderick snarled, popping open a flask and slurping it generously, “I’m plenty cool enough!”

“Apparently not,” Noodle Monster chuckled.

“Yea yea, whatever, Noodle Monster. Have you got time for a forgery?”

Noodle Monster’s eyes lit up, “Oh Sir Broderick you know Noodle Monster’s always down to forge.”

“Wait, she’s the forger? What about Sparkly Drug Muffin?!”

“Biscuit Pisser, Sparkly Drug Muffin isn’t a forger!”

“No kidding!” Noodle Monster howled in laughter, “That vitch couldn’t forge his own signature if he tried. But don’t worry, Noodle Monster’ll take care of you, whether you’re tripping or whether you need to commit a crime, and all while referring to herself in the third person. Now what am I forging again?”

Sir Broderick staggered to his feet, whipped out a wrinkly, yellow sheet of paper and handed it to Noodle Monster.

“I need a copy of this ass license here.”

“Well that’s not really a forgery.”

“Let me finish! Cluck’s sake.”

“Noodle Monster thinks somebody’s got a case of the post Glabsinthe grumpies.”

“No kidding.”

“Cluck off Biscuit Pisser. Now Noodle Monster what I need you to do it not actually make a copy of this ass license, I’ll admit.”

“So why’d you tell Noodle Monster that’s what you wanted?”

“Noodle Monster, please just let me finish. I need you to take this information and forge two documents for me with it. First and foremost I need a pedigree for my ass.”

“An ass pedigree?”

“Yes. Don’t look at me like that Biscuit Pisser she practically had to say ass to me I can’t get mad over that. Yes, Noodle Monster, I need an ass pedigree. But I need it for a dog. A wolfhound.”

“Excrete me? Noodle Monster is getting a little confused.”

“I think I follow. He’s saying he wants you to forge a pedigree with his ass listed as a wolfhound.”

“So what Noodle Monster needs to do is forge a pedigree for a wolfhound but with the ass’s name?”

“No, no, Noodle Monster what you need to do is make me a pedigree that lists my ass, Sassafrass, as a wolfhound.”

“An ass pedigree for a wolfhound?”

“No, a dog pedigree for a wolfhound!”

Noodle Monster squinted at the ass license, “But this isn’t a dog this is an ass.”

“I know! But if I have a pedigree saying that my ass is a purebred wolfhound then the Caldonian Kennel Club Exclusive Wine and Dining Hall will have to let me in!”

“Ohhhh,” sighed Noodle Monster with a knowing smirk. She giggled and wiggled a finger in Sir Broderick’s face, “Now Noodle Monster gets it. Now Noodle Monster sees. Noodle Monster’s picking up what you’re putting down, all right.”

“Glad to hear that, Noodle Monster. Now, along with that, I’m gonna need a rich person card. Actually, I think I’m gonna need one for me and one for old Biscuit Pisser.”

Noodle Monster gasped. Biscuit Pisser gasped. In fact it seemed even the head of the mannequin gasped at this statement, but that was probably afterglow from the glabsinthe.

This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

“Now, Sir Broderick, Noodle Monster knows you’re a hood guy. Well, that is to say, Noodle Monster knows you’ll pay Noodle Monster what Noodle Monster is owed for this job. But, Noodle Monster’s got to warn you that you’re playing with fire. Fake rich person cards get people killed. Noodle Monster has to say that, it’s part of the forger’s code.”

“Forger’s code? But Shitface you said that forgers with standards had no souls.”

“Shhhh Biscuit Pisser shhhhhh just shhhhhh.”

“Noodle Monster just wants you to be aware.”

“I’m very aware, Noodle Monster.”

“I’m not very aware! I don’t want to die!”

“Shhhhh shut up Biscuit Pisser it’s no big deal shhhhh it’ll be fine.”

“Noodle Monster wants you to know that it is most definitely a big deal and there is by far no guarantee that it will be fine.”

“Eeep!”

“Yea yea yea I know Noodle Monster I know I know.”

“Okay. Well then, Noodle Monster can have your rich person cards ready in two business days.”

“Forgers have business days?”

“Noodle Monster has a family.”

“Fair enough.”

“Okay Noodle Monster I get it but like how much are they gonna cost?”

“Noodle Monster will do the whole job for—ehack—” Noodle Monster coughed and said what was surely some terribly high number.

“Excrete me? What is it gonna cost me, Noodle Monster?”

“Four thousand chickensfeed.”

“Muddy hen.”

“Are you clucking shitting me, Noodle Monster? I mean are you actually shitting me?”

“Noodle Monster is not clucking shitting you.”

“Noodle Monster if you’re gonna charge me that many chickensfeed for a couple of rich person cards and a pedigree for my ass as a wolfhound I mean cluck I might as well actually be rich!”

“Noodle Monster is giving you an excellent price.”

“An excellent price? An excellent price for you, more like! Ugh! The clucking nerve. And after I suffered through all that clucking Glabsinthe too. What a clucking travesty. Really, I mean, how dare you, Noodle Monster. How dare you.”

“Noodle Monster can knock twenty chickensfeed off the price since you’re a friend.”

“Oh why don’t you take that twenty chickensfeed and you shove it right up your ass, Noodle Monster.”

“Because that would be uncomfortable. I’ve tried it before.”

“Come on Biscuit Pisser let’s get the cluck out of here before I vomit all over the clucking place. And not from the Glabsinthe, might I add, which tasted quite nice actually!”

Biscuit Pisser did not move.

“Biscuit Pisser come on don’t stand in front of the bookshelf let’s go.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“Why?!”

“I don’t want to give up! How can you get this far and just drop the ball, Shitface, after lecturing me about not giving up?”

“I’m not giving up you toadstool huffer. I’ll just go to the forger’s guild.”

Noodle Monster’s eyes grew wide.

“The place you went into a long and arduous monologue about how nobody twerking there had a soul?”

“Yes. I’ll go there and I’ll spend all of my chickensfeed. I’ll give them more money than they ask for. And I’ll go to them every time I need a forgery. Cluck this smoky drag queen burlesque bar Glabsinthe bullshit.”

Noodle Monster wailed and snapped a hairbrush in half in sorrow, “Don’t do it! You can’t! Noodle Monster would rather die! The best Noodle Monster can do is five hundred chickensfeed, okay? Noodle Monster promises! But not a chickensfeed less!”

“Oh come on Noodle Monster you can do four hundred ninety nine chickensfeed can’t you?”

“Shitface why do you keep haggling with her can’t you see she’s in emotional distress?”

“It’s just part of the experience. Come on Noodle Monster four hundred ninety nine chickensfeed what do ya say?”

“Ugh. Fine.”

“Oi! My man! Put ‘er there, chuppy!” Sir Broderick presented a soggy glove to Noodle Monster, who begrudgingly shook it and sighed.

“Noodle Monster will have your rich person cards done in two business days.”

“How about one?”

“Noodle Monster needs two.”

“How about one and a half?”

“Fine.”

“If you can do one and a half Noodle Monster then why can’t you do just one?”

“That’s not how it twerks!”

“Yes it is. Come on, agree to one business day. This is important.”

“…Fine. But Noodle Monster is doing this as a favor.”

“Thanks, Noodle Monster.”

Sir Broderick swiveled around and prepared to leave. Noodle Monster cleared his throat.

“What?”

“Noodle Monster would like the money now.”

“Oh. Well. We’ll have it to you in one business day.”

“But—”

Sir Broderick pulled Biscuit Pisser out of the powder room with him, slammed the bookcase shut and sunk into the comfy sofa cushions of the lounge.

“Now that that’s dealt with let’s get Trash Heap a fancy leash or something.”

“Hood idea, Shitface.”

“By the way, where is she?”

“She’s not in your saucepan?”

“Well no, she hasn’t been there since…since I don’t even know when.”

“Shit. Who knew it was so hard to keep track of a ferret?”

“Wooo!” cried the joyous voice of Sparkly Drug Muffin as he burst into the lounge room with handfulls of chickensfeed and a wide smile.

“Somebody did well tonight.”

“I’ll say,” sputtered Sir Broderick, “Want a celebratory flask swig?”

“Sure, why not,” chuckled Sparkly Drug Muffin as Sir Broderick handed him a flask. Sparkly Drug Muffin took a heaping swig, and then another. “Man, that stuff is smooth.”

“I know, isn’t it terrible?”

“What?” Sparkly Drug Muffin puzzled as he started to hand Sir Broderick his flask back. Before he could, none other than the dark fluffy form of Trash Heap shot out from his sleeve and took a swig of the liquor herself.

“Trash Heap!” Sir Broderick exclaimed, “I didn’t know you drank!”

Trash Heap growled sheepishly and hopped into Sir Broderick’s saucepan, where he allowed her a few more sips of gin.

“You shouldn’t keep giving that to her, Shitface.”

To spite Biscuit Pisser, Sir Broderick gave Trash Heap even more gin, stopping when she stumbled over herself a little, slopping around in the saucepan as if she were a furry glob of jello.

“You know that little guy was the star of the show! I think I’m going to have to get a cat of my own!” giggled Sparkly Drug Muffin as he lit another cigarette and whipped out more cash from his bra.

“Trash Heap is a she.”

“Have you looked at Trash Heap?”

“She’s also not a cat.”

“Sorry I offended you both by talking about Trash Heap. Yeesh.”

“You know what I think?”

“My name’s Sparkly Drug Muffin not magickal mind reader.”

“I think you owe us some money. Since Trash Heap was the star of the show.”

“Now Biscuit Pisser let’s be reasonable—”

“No, this is reasonable. Our ferret our money. Hand it over.”

“Make me, Biscuit Pisser,” Sparkly Drug Muffin growled.

Sir Broderick slapped himself in the face as Biscuit Pisser’s eyes flooded with rage at the mention of his degrading nickname. Biscuit Pisser launched at Sparkly Drug Muffin like a springloaded toad only for Sparkly Drug Muffin to kick a leg up and smack him in the face with a railway spike of a high heel. Biscuit Pisser landed on his knees beaten and bloody.

Sir Broderick rushed to his chup after laughing for a hood moment, popped open a flask and poured it down Biscuit Pisser’s throat. Then he pulled him to his feet and sighed.

“Sorry about all that Sparkly Drug Muffin. He was just trying to help me out.”

“It’s fine. Now I’m gonna go in the powder room and enjoy my Glabsinthe!”

Sir Broderick swallowed some fartburn at the realization of those last words and rushed Biscuit Pisser down the hallway, through the side doors and out of the club as fast as possible.