A cool burst of air conditioning tousled my hair. I was back in a very familiar, very drab office. The elderly woman once again sat across from me, spectacles perched on her nose, eager to begin the slaughter.

"I must say, Mr. Razzetti, your qualifications are exceptional. So, don't think of this as an interview, but rather as a 'conversation' - we like you, we just want to get to know you a bit."

I knew the game this time, yet I had no choice but to play it.

"Thank you ma'am, that's a relief."

"Let's get started, then. What was the last book you finished?"

"Fiction or nonfiction?"

"Either one."

I failed last time because I told her the truth. But this time, I'll tell her...

"The Truth: An Uncomfortable Book About Relationships." I said staidly.

The interviewer's eyebrows shot up. "Interesting. What drew you to this book?"

The truth.

"It's the sequel to Neil Strauss's novel 'The Game: Penetrating the Secret Society of Pickup Artists'. I learned everything I know about talking to women from that book."

"And did the sequel meet your expectations?"

I shook my head disappointedly. "Not at all."

"How so?"

"It was just a bunch of warnings about the stuff I learned in the first book. He was trying to explain that it was morally wrong or something... nothing very actionable. No new scripts or techniques to test out."

“Scripts? What do you mean by that?”

“You know, scripts… conversations that have been planned out beforehand and crafted to make a girl want you.”

“So then, you’re not really talking with the girl, you’re just… reading off a script.”

“Exactly. But you gotta improvise a bit to make it believable, sprinkle in a neg here and there.”

“A neg… you mean hurting a girl’s feelings to make her easier to manipulate?” she asked skeptically.

“No! It’s not like that at all!” I bristled, sensing my impending doom. “A neg isn’t an insult - it’s a compliment!... with a little sting… that makes her easier to manipulate.”

"Mhmm… And have you achieved any measurable success employing the 'scripts' and 'techniques' used in these... books of yours?" she continued, quickly losing her patience.

"Measured how? Phone numbers? Makeouts? Intercourse? Do you only want me to count girls who were 7/10 and above? Do fat girls count as-"

The interviewer's nose wrinkled and her toes curled in revulsion. I couldn't see them, but I knew they did.

"Measured any way you see fit." she managed through gritted teeth.

"None at all."

The woman's shoulders relaxed visibly upon learning that my attempts to breed had been unsuccessful.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Razzetti, but emotional manipulation is a cornerstone of our work here at Darkrock Entertainment Ltd. We influence millions of young girls every day, feeding them lies and profiting from mass delusion. Your failure to fuck and chuck even a single young lady says to me that you would not assimilate smoothly into our culture of dystopian degeneracy. Application denied."

"AAH!" I shot upright, rubbing my head to make the rejection go away.

I probably didn't want that job anyway.

----------------------------------------

I crunched my teeth eagerly into the shaved ice. The sweet flavor of fresh honey washed through my mouth, drawing out an involuntary hnnnng. A week had passed since I was first brought back to Apis from the front lines of World War Bee. The villagers had returned victorious from Certain Death last night, and now everyone in town was milling around the church, celebrating another successful harvest by gorging on the fruits of their labors. Commence Shaman Feast Part II: Insectric Bugaloo. Jumbo shrimp all around.

All the ice-wielders in the village congregated outside the church and sank their collective power into one miniature glacier. Well... all the documented ice-wielders, at least. Stella and I were still keeping our powers on the down-low. Once the wielders were exhausted, the ice was shaved down into chips and topped with some Black Jacket honey to make a crude approximation of a slushee. Add a little bit of mysterious flavoring agent and you’ve got yourself a whole snack.

I glargged a tall boi of mead - It was only mid afternoon, but I was well beyond the dainty etiquette commonly known as 'sipping', and had just broken the 'glugging' barrier. For the rest of the day, it was the glarggin' life for me.

As I strolled unsteadily around the square, I caught sight of Burt. He was surrounded by a large group of people, but his blonde hair still stuck out the top of the crowd, like the tallest poppy of legend that gets decapitated first.

Maybe I can just avoid him forever…

Just then, poppy’s pop strode to the entrance of the church and raised his voice to make an announcement. “Attention, residents of Apis! I hope we’re all having a happy Forewinter Festival!”

The crowd cheered, and John continued. “But before we can eat, we have a sacred duty to attend to - will all young men wishing to take the test of manhood please join me at the altar? I guess we’ll need a few witnesses as well… anyone feeling up to it?”

The crowd cheered again, geared up for a spectacle, and pressed forward into the church.

“Make sure the kids’ families get a spot in front!” finished John, before he was drowned out.

I hung out at the outskirts of the crowd, unsure if I should follow the group in.

“Young man! Are you the Calderan I’ve been hearing about?”

I turned. The voice came from a large, husky man who had pushed in front of me towards the church.

He seems familiar… have I seen him somewhere before?

“Yes sir.”

“Ah! Then, come on in! The Church of Iron loves to entertain.”

“What’s going to happen?”

The man grinned. “You’re about to witness the purest manifestation of our beliefs.”

“Like what?”

“In our church, no man has the right to be an amateur in the matter of physical training. It is a shame for a man to grow old without seeing the beauty and strength of which his body is capable."

I stared at the man, speechless. If I was sober, I might have cried.

Just then, another large man bearing a striking resemblance to the first spoke up. "Well put, Socrates! One of your finer cogitations, I must say. And as a man gains this strength, he takes on his true form intended by God. A well built physique is a divine symbol. It reflects you worked hard for it, no money can buy it. You cannot borrow it, you cannot inherit it, you cannot steal it. You cannot hold onto it without constant work. It shows discipline, it shows self respect, it shows patience, work ethic and passion. That is what the Church stands for."

"W-who are you?" I trembled.

"My name is Aurelius." said the man. "And this is my twin brother Socrates. We used to live drunken, bloodthirsty lives as mercenaries. Then we moved to this remote village, joined the Church, and became disciplined men of God."

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I gazed up in wonder at his visage. The sun was behind him, crowning his head in glory. A single tear rolled down my cheek.

"Can I... join too-" I started to say.

Then thunder clapped, and I remembered where I'd seen these men before! Pulling desperately at their wife!

Beefers 1 and 2!

Aurelius beamed exuberantly. "Of course you can join!"

"...wait, on the other hand, maybe..."

"Come on!”

The two 80% lean philosophers ushered me inside, but we didn’t make it very far - the place was packed… except for the platform at the front. The young men had formed a line leading up to the massive weight that I’d been using for training.

Oh, I get it now.

Based on my own experience, I could tell immediately that most of the kids wouldn’t be able to lift the weight. Granted, they weren’t as scrawny as me, but they were farmers - used to long hours of toil - endurance athletes, not powerlifters. And, unlike me, these poor bastards had to lift the whole damn thing. The Church of Iron doesn’t recognize half-men.

Sure enough, the first few participants didn’t make the cut. One kid tried so hard that, when he stood back upright, he fainted! But before he could hit the ground, John stepped out from the wings, caught him, and laid him down to rest safely off to the side.

“There’s one every year.” John smiled. Then he announced the next person. “Owen Durdun! Step forward!”

“Come on, Owen!” cheered a woman from the crowd - probably his mom.

Owen took his stance at the center of the bar and pulled until his face went red, but…

No dice.

Owen stood up, flustered and disappointed. “You guys nail it to the floor this year?”

John shook his head. “No sir, we checked for that this morning. Clayton Laskin! How about you confirm that for us?”

“Yes sir!” Clayton stepped up, grinning.

Look at that confidence… He’s already lifted this in private, hasn’t he?

Clayton gripped the bar and took a deep breath in. He braced his core, and, trembling with effort, raised the entire load until he was standing fully upright.

Not pretty, but that’s a rep.

The crowd cheered as Clayton dropped the weight to the altar with a resonating BOOM. He raised his arms triumphantly, smiling ear to ear. My gaze naturally fixated on the golden ring glinting innocently on his left hand.

Normally, people remove their jewelry before they lift heavy. But maybe… that isn’t an option for you, is it?

John raised his own arms, bringing the crowd to order.

“Clayton Laskin! By the divine ordinance of Tevveshian, the God of Man, the First Savior, and the founder of our Church, I declare you a man! God has given you his power - now use it well!”

A group of girls a few rows in front of me started whispering between themselves.

Looks like someone is getting laid tonight.

“On his first attempt, too! Very impressive, Clayton… And now!” John shouted. “Our final participant this season… my own son! Albert Harvestar, step forward!”

The villagers roared their support, though not a single person doubted that Burt was about to dominate this challenge. The question was… how easy would it look?

Burt stepped up and bent forward to grip the bar.

He’s pretty tall, which isn’t ideal for the deadlift… maybe his knees won’t be able to-

Abruptly, Burt let out the grunt of an ox and pulled. Obediently, the weight flew up to his waist.

“Amazing!” cheered Socrates, along with every other human in the building… myself included.

I shouldn’t but… god damn.

Burt held the weight for a few seconds, relishing the moment, then finally set it back on the altar. No loud booming this time, or even a thud - the weight was firmly under control. I turned towards the entrance, ready to find something glarggable. But before I could even take a step…

BANG!

What!?

I pivoted back to the altar - just in time to witness Burt’s third rep.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

Unbelievable…

BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!

Completely exhausted, Burt threw the weight down after his tenth and final rep with a final BOOM. The villagers promptly lost their fucking minds, and I lost my fucking hearing.

* * *

A few hours into the Forewinter Festival afterparty, held in the same large hall as the Shaman Feast, I was full of drank, engorged with bee meat, and had lost all appetite for conversation pertaining to Burt.

Unfortunately, he was all anybody wanted to talk about. I passed by a group of girls, and it sounded like they were getting ready to jump him.

“I’d lift his bar, if you know what I mean!” giggled the first.

“I’d do it ten times if you know what I mean!” joked the second.

“I’d fuck him!” shrieked a third.

Overhearing shit like that made my vision go fuzzy and my glass mysteriously lose fluid.

Maybe if I keep drinking he’ll stop existing…

Finally, after bearing witness to more untold Apis debauchery, I found him, shining alone at a table all by himself. The one man who had nothing to say about Burt. I walked up and greeted him enthusiastically, and he wavered his head loosely in my direction, his eyes lighting up.

“I’M THE KING OF THE HARVEST!” shouted Dirk, his customary crown bobbing around on his head.

“Yes, you are, Dirk my man! I heard you single-handedly wiped out three nests at once!”

I wasn’t kidding. Every harvest, the villagers got together and voted on the most productive worker. The winner was given that silly burger king crown and treated like a hero for the entire festival season. And for the last ten years, the most productive member was always Dirk, the bona fide Paul Bunyan of Apis. Legend says that Dirk could wield a sword with such speed and ferocity that it made a rainbow of bee guts. When he was sober at least. Sadly, right now, he was just another -

“I’M THE KING OF THE HARVEST!”

Just then, the hand of death clapped me on the shoulder. I turned around, and there he was, the man of the fucking hour, with his usual squad of goons plus Allison plus Stella.

“Fuck do you want?” I managed, too envious to even be afraid.

“I just want to make sure my shrimpy friend is doing okay!” Burt smiled. “It took just about all my strength to get that damn bee off you, and if you saw the ceremony earlier, you’ll know that’s saying something.”

Bragging asshole… fine, I’ll address the elephant.

“Yeah, I saw that. You’re strong for your age. I really mean that. You’re about half as strong as I was on earth, and believe me… that’s saying something.”

Burt rolled his eyes. “Thank you, Bradley. You must have been a real warrior.”

“A real gymcel.” Stella corrected.

“What was that, again?” Allison asked. “You explained it, but I didn’t quite understand…”

I started backing away, eager to exit stage left as soon as possible…

If they keep talking, I’ll just turn and run. I’m fresh out of fucks to give.

But first…

“Hey, Clayton.” I asked innocently. “That’s a cool ring you’ve got there. I saw it during your trial. Looks pretty expensive, where’d you get it?”

Clayton looked at me, surprised. “Found it off a dead body in the forest of Certain Death.”

“Cool, cool.” I bulldozed ahead. “Can you take it off and show me for a second?”

“No.”

“Please, Clayton. There’s something in my memory I want to confirm.” I stressed, glancing at Owen. He nudged Clayton and nodded.

Clayton shrugged. “Whatever. If you run I’ll break you in half.”

I held my breath as he tugged at the ring, sliding it slowly off his finger…

Nothing.

He handed the ring to me, and I inspected it. Just a plain gold ring, no pattern, evil aura, or anything else that would suggest a demonic presence.

“Well?” scoffed Clayton as I handed the ring back. “That all? Or do you want to go through my mom’s jewelry too?”

“That’s all. But thank you, I must have been hallucinating a pattern on that ring earlier. Good to know I was just seeing things. Now fuck off before I snatch press your mom for reps.”

SPLASH went Clayton’s drink as it flew into my face. I wiped a cheek with my hand, licked it, and wandered off to find a refill of fucking anything, nodding to a pair of comatose, vomit-laden beefer carcasses as I went.

Godspeed, gentlemen. I’ll be with you shortly.

But before I could chug a knockout blow and join their slumber party, my previously clapped shoulder was clapped yet again, this time by the father of death.

“Hey, Brad! Enjoying yourself?” John said, raising his voice over the increasingly drunken cacophony.

“Yessir Mr. Harvester. Just congratulated your son on his excellent performance.” I said, hoping to nip that topic in the bud. “So we’re heading for Castella tomorrow, right?”

“That’s right. I won’t be going in person, since there’s a bunch of after-harvest cleanup work to do. Can you… make sure Albert stays out of trouble?” he asked, his voice oddly worried.

“I don’t know that he’ll need any help, he seems like he can take care of himself.” I said, but John shook his head.

“I just hope the test of manhood didn’t give him any delusions of grandeur. I want him back here in Apis after his year in Castella, helping the town grow, not trekking across Alterra on some foolish Six Summits quest… ah, but I guess that’s more my problem than yours.”

“He’s into mountain climbing?”

John laughed. “It’s a Church thing. If you want to hear about it, there’s a Church of Iron in West Castella near the school. Talk to pastor Dunkan, he’s attempted a couple of the peaks himself.”

“Think I will, you’ve piqued my interest.” I said, whapping my knee like the bitch owed me money.

Suddenly, all the levity vanished from John’s face, and his expression darkened.

That bad, huh?

“There’s one more thing I wanted to discuss, since this might be the last time we speak. It’s about your… items. The dagger and the key.”

The band finished their final song to a smattering of applause from the members of the audience who could still put two hands together. Their final note was punctuated with a loud THUD as Dirk was slain by his final beer of the night.

When the clapping died down, John continued in a low voice. “I know where you can find another key just like that one. And I have a plan for how you can get it.”