“That’s how we’re going to earn the money for our forgeries?” Biscuit Pisser gaped at the enormous, opulent casino on the other side of the upper-poor, lower-middle class divide.

“Well of course it is, chuppy! Let’s walk on through this barrier already.”

And so they did, and so it covered them in another layer of insulting muck to signify their inferiority. Biscuit Pisser scratched the back of his head, puzzling over the fact that there seemed to be another dividing barrier right in front of them.

“Well I’ll be hamned!” Sir Broderick chuckled, “That’s the lower-rich divide! Looks like there is no middle class in Caldonia. Who knew?”

With a shrug, they both pressed forward through this second barrier, covered in even more mud.

“Wow. Even with all this detritous caking my nostrils I can tell that the air quality is much better on this side of the divide.”

“You ought to breath the air in upper-rich Caldonia someday, that’ll really tickle your turnips. It smells slightly of raspberries.”

“Imagine that.”

As they trounced over to the tall steps up to the gargantuan casino a gruff, short voice grumbled at them.

“Hey, idiots, watch where you’re walking!”

They looked down to see some sort of imp or gnome or thereabouts smoking a torpedo cigar and glaring at them with vitrol.

“Excrete me sirrah, I did not mean to offend.”

“Well you did offend.”

“How did we offend again?”

“You’re breathing my air,” growled the imp or gnome or thereabouts as they exhaled a thicc cloud of cigar smoke that nearly choaked both Sir Broderick and Biscuit Pisser out of consciouness.

“My apologies. Might I say you look rather dapper in, in, in your, erm, in your robes today, sirrah gnome.” The ‘robes’ looked like a towel.

“I’m not a gnome.”

Biscuit Pisser pushed Sir Broderick aside, “What he meant to say was that you look great, mister imp.”

“I’m not a mister.”

Sir Broderick pushed Biscuit Pisser aside, “Look, I’m not sure what you want us to do or say or whatnotso but why don’t we all just go gamble? That’s what we’re here for, isn’t it?”

With that, they both hiked up the steps quickly, avoiding any more eye contact with the imp, who blathered on as they got further and further away.

“Pfft. You middle-poors are all the same. No respect for us lower-poors. I guess no self respecting lower-poor imp wearing a towl can smoke a stogie outside a lower-rich casino without being hounded by losers like you these days. Disgrossting, I say, absolutely disgrossting. Why when I was younger I went out nob-hobbing all over the place and never once got my airspace as invaded as you two invaded it today, much less got called a gnome, and much less than that called a hamned mister of all things. Do I really look like a mister to you? Do I really look like a hamned gnome to you? You two cranberries oughta get your eyes checked before somebody checks em for you! Why if I was a little younger I’d probably do it myself, ya hear?

“Hello? Well shit. Now you’re ignoring me. You know, that’s just rude. So ridiculously rude I think I might vomit. Is that what you two want? Low class vomit all over these high class stairs? Still ignoring me I see. I guess you really do want me to barf all over these stairs. Well you know what? If you want it, then I refuse. That’s right. No puke for you. You’re not welcome, assholes. Hood clucking day to you both.”

Sir Broderick’s face twitched for he could faintly hear the imp say the word ‘ass’ as he and Biscuit Pisser reached the ornate doors of the casino, but he was able to keep himself from running down the steps and challenging the imp to fisticuffs. Though the thought was quite tempting.

Standing before the absurdly huge wooden doors of the casino that surely reached up to the building’s fifth story, the two chups came to an impass.

“Shitface, we seem to have come to and impass at these huge wooden doors that surely reach up to the casino’s fifth story.”

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“Why Biscuit Pisser you’ve taken the words out of my mouth and put them in yours and then spit them out at me.”

“Okay.”

“What I’m trying to say is, why in the cluck don’t these enormous doors have doorknobs or handles or something?”

“Maybe they’re push, not pull.”

“An astute observation! Go on then, Biscuit Pisser, give them a hood push for us.”

“Why do I have to do the pushing?”

“Trash Heap’s still asleep in my saucepan helmet Biscuit Pisser I mean come on we don’t want to wake her up have some class.”

Biscuit Pisser sighed, walked up to the door on the right and pushed it with all his might. Nothing.

“Why don’t you try the other one, Biscuit Pisser?”

“The other one? Isn’t it customary to go through the right door?”

“Customary shmustomary. Maybe they just forgot to unlock it.”

“I highly doubt that. It’s probably held closed by enchantment if anything.”

“How do you know unless you try? Go on, go give that left door a hood push.”

Biscuit Pisser huffed, dragged himself over to the door on the left and pushed it halffartedly. Nothing.

“Come on now, you call that a push?”

“I’m tired, Shitface!”

“And whiny as hen by the sound of it. Come on, give it a real push. These lower-rich folk surely wouldn’t want weaklings coming into their casinos, now would they?”

Biscuit Pisser puffed and gave the door on the left such a push that his back could actually be heard cracking as if it were a pile of dead twigs.

“Well shit, I guess they really aren’t push doors. Then again, I think you pushed that door on the left much harder that time than you ever pushed the door on the right. Why don’t you give the door on the right a more equal push, make sure it wasn’t just sticking that first time, eh Biscuit Pisser?”

“Why don’t you go cluck yourself, Shitface.”

“How rude, old chup, and honestly I’m not in the mood for such shenanigans. However, I have an idea,” Sir Broderick downed a flask and threw it at the wooden door.

BOOOOOING

It bounced off the door as if it were made of rubber instead of metal and walloped Sir Broderick right in the left eye, sending him careening backwards and then tumbling down the expansive staircase.

“Ow! Ooof! Aack! Aaargh! Yow! Augh! Awwck! Owww! Aaaagh! Uugh! Aiiegh! Auugh! Yaaaawwwooo! Eeeaaagh! Owwww!” he cried, eventually pummeling right into the ornery imp near the bottom steps, knocking them over and sending their cigar spinning into the air.

“Hey, what the cluck is wrong with you?! Where’s my stoagie gone off to?”

The cigar twirled three more times in the air before plummeting and landing perfectly in Sir Broderick’s lips as he lied on his back at the end of the staircase in a twisted over heap.

“How dare you! Gimme that back, asshole!”

Sir Broderick spit out the cigar and leapt to his feet. “What in the clucking hen did you just call me?”

“Oh, so now you’re deaf and an asshole, eh?”

“Don’t say the a word around me, you clucking imp.”

“Why did you say imp like that? Do you have some problem with imps, asshole?”

“That’s it!” Sir Broderick emptied two flasks down his throat, his face red as a cooked beat.

“Holy shit,” gasped the imp.

Before Sir Broderick could take action, the top of his head once again got so sizzling hot with rage that it awoke the Trash Heap within the saucepan atop it. In a flury of fangs and claws Trash Heap pounced on the imp, hissing and screeching malevolently as she butchered their face and limbs.

“Aaaaah! Ahhh! Oh cock! Oh cock please get it off me! Aaaaagh!”

“Serves you right, you clucking piece of shit.”

Meanwhile, Biscuit Pisser had noticed a large sign hung next to the door on the right that read: KNOCK THREE TIMES TO ENTER. He had tried to call down to Sir Broderick to inform him of this fact to no avail, so he decided to go ahead and knock three times on his own.

TKK TKK TKK

At the third knock a window shaped rectangle in the door slid open a little ways above where Biscuit Pisser stood. A well dressed bellhop looking fellow leaned out and greeted him.

“Whay hellao hellao hellao, waelcome tao thae Blatheanwauld Casaino. Arae yaou coaming alaone, gooad sairrah?”

“Alone? No, no I’m not coming alone, I’m with him,” Biscuit Pisser pointed at Sir Broderick, who was currently cackling as the imp writhed in agony from the wrath of Trash Heap.

“Oah daear mae, yaour acceant ias absaolutely atroacious! Ia caan hardlay uanderstand yaou!”

“You can hardly understand me?”

“Thaat’s whaat Ia saiad, arae yaou staupid oar soamething?”

“I’m not stupid, I just—”

“Sairrah, beafore Ia caonsider allaowing yaou eantrance tao thais casaino Ia waill naeed toa saee yaour raich paerson caard.”

“I don’t have one, I’m not a rich person.”

“Eaxcrete mae? Naot aa raich paerson? Waell thaet eaxplains aall thae dairt caovering yaou, naot tao maention thae haorrendous affaectations oaf yaour vaoice! Ia aam afraiad Ia cannaot allaow yaou entray toa thais casaino, gaood daya!”

Before Biscuit Pisser could argue the bellhopish fellow darted back inside and the window shaped rectangle in the door dissolved into wooden nothingness. Biscuit Pisser sighed and trudged down the steps to greet Sir Broderick, who was petting Trash Heap and looming over the imp’s unconscious body.

“Shitface, I have some news.”

“News? Well old chup, is it hood news or bad news?”

“I’d say it’s news, Shitface.”

“Well give me the hood news first then, and the bad news subsequently. It will make the entire ordeal better for me emotionally.”

“There isn’t hood or bad news, it’s just news.”

“Just news? Just news, Biscuit Pisser? Biscuit Pisser why don’t you ask me for some hood news and some bad news. Go ahead. Ask for hood news first.”