The day after Killer-throatslitter-taxevasion-littering’s defeat, although peaceful, was quite a busy time in Eden. Now that, for however briefly, no one was committing murder or arson, there was time to catch up on the funerals. And there were quite a lot of them. These funerals looked like any funeral you might have attended: murderers crying behind the ski-masks that hide their identity, a very small audience consisting of enemies, and of course an organist! You couldn’t have a funeral in Eden without someone’s organs being harvested!

Zune sat on the edge of the set of The Slightly Late Show, staring off towards Eden, looking upon the desert full of trash. It was such a shame, really, he had just cleaned it up. He took a rat from his rat sack, and ate solemnly. Behind him the I’mos were hard at work repairing the damage from the previous night. Crowhead walked up to Zune, and sat down next to him. A smile of relief crept upon his face.

“Zune, we cannot thank you enough for what you did last night. Really. Had we known the extent of Killer-throatslitter-taxevasion-littering’s power, we would not have gone through with it.”

A moment of silence hung between the kobold and the I’mos. Crowhead felt a wave of understanding wash over him. For a moment, he understood the kobold. Zune offered him a rat from his rat sack.

“Why do you pronounce ‘I’mo’ as ‘emo?’” Zune asked.

Crowhead immediately lost the epiphany before he could ascend to the next tier of the sacred arts, much to the relief of the narrator who had not brushed up on the particulars of the powers of the I’mos sect.

“Well, it’s a bit of a hot topic among disciples…” Crowhead let the words evaporate in the air. Zune nodded. Crowhead decided it would be for the best to change the topic. The small master’s wisdom was beyond him. He wiped his hands off on his skinny black jeans, cleared his throat, and spoke again.

“Seriously, I’ve never seen anything like that in my entire life. What was that last night?”

“That was the power of late night television.”

“Late night what?”

“Television.”

Truly the tiny kobold master was beyond him, using such words beyond his comprehension, but Crowhead decided it was best not to show his ignorance.

“Indeed.”

It is better to keep in the favor of someone of such a profound level of cultivation. Crowhead thought, not understanding that there was a very significant difference between cultivating the sacred arts of the

“The rest of the I’mos and I have decided that it’s best to stay here for a few months. Until we’re certain that Killer-throatslitter-taxevasion-littering is no longer a threat. And to care for Real Galadhorn. No one deserves something like that happening to them.”

Zune, for his part, was still offering Crowhead a rat from his rat-sack made of rats, gestured enthusiastically for the I’mos to partake. Bullets of sweat ran down Crowhead’s heavily-makeuped face as he prepared for the master’s wrath, should he refuse the gift.

“I’m sorry Master Zune. I cannot accept this gift. It is too kind.”

“More rats for me.” Zune shrugged and swallowed a particularly plump one. Crowhead sighed in relief. No fighting today.

“How much should I pay your people for their help?”

“We can’t accept money. We’re an anarcho-communist workers collective.”

“Would you accept rats?”

“No no no no! We cannot! That would be too generous. Your service last night could be considered a heavy debt we owe to you!”

“How much would that debt be… in rats?” Zune asked.

“Lots of rats.”

The kobold nodded in approval, and thought out his grand designs. Despite all of the ruckus of last night, Guy Blanco still hadn’t reached out to him. He was going to have to try even harder now. The epiphany hit Zune like a tunnel collapse in Mentholarix’s warrens: suddenly, and revealing of a willing lack of compliance with the practices and standards of the Collection of Unified Construction Kobolds Labor Union.

“Weekly syndication! Of course!”

Zune shot up and started to dance about, caught in a frenzy of late night fervor as he explained his detailed plans for the continued success of The Slightly Late Show with Zune Tee’m.

***

Father Milton, Langley Pinkerton, Cleopatra Bingley, Ragnar Son of Mad Titan Uroskyn and the Twelve Harpies of Winter looked at this scene from a distance away as they picnicked from within the shade of a large dead tree with hundreds of plastic bottles hanging from it.

“Ragnar demands the macaroni salad!” Ragnar punched Father Milton lightly on the shoulder, pulling the former paladin’s attention back into the picnic.

“Sorry Ragnar.” Father Milton gingerly handed the barbarian the now warm macaroni salad.

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“By what?” Cleopatra Bingley asked, feigning offense. “What could possibly be more important than this picnic?” The infamous vandal scooped up some stolen caviar on a knife, and spread across the exposed surface of a fresh brioche bun.

“-uh, I, uh-,” Father Milton couldn’t quite describe what he saw in the young kobold’s behavior that had brought on a sudden bout of nostalgia.

.

“Ragnar knows!” Ragnar declared. “He sees much of his young zeal within the religious fervor of this kobold. Dah. Hints at further developing character.” Ragnar astutely declared, before grabbing the tin of caviar from Cleopatra Bingley’s hand, and swallowing it whole: metal, price tag, and all.

“Damnit Ragnar, how am I going to get a tax write off on this picnic if you don’t give me time to write down what we paid for it?!” Langley Pinkerton huffed as he made the mistake of jabbing the barbarian in the chest with his fingers.

Ragnar grabbed his ax and swung down hard at Langley’s head in a fury no one at the picnic had quite seen before.

“Fool! You challenge son of Mad Titan on the eating of price tags?!” a whirlwind surrounded the barbarian, and for a moment Langley was certain he was going to die right then and there. This was the anger that had led to fourteen double-homicides.

“Accidental. Accident double homicides.” Ragnar corrected the narrator, fury in his throat.

“Sorry, sorry sorry!” Langley cowered, grateful that Raganar’s ax had just barely missed his hand.

Cleopatra put her hand on Ragnar’s shoulder to calm him

“Ragnar, it’s okay. He didn’t mean it. He’s just a paper pusher. Remember? Not an actual criminal.”

The whirlwind around the picnic subsided. It was quiet for a moment. A grin crept across Ragnar’s face as he threw his anger aside.

“Was funny joke I play on you, Langley!” Ragnar laughed and slapped his leg. From behind the barbarian, Cleopatra shot Langley a look that clearly meant “laugh at Ragnar’s joke if you value your attachment to your limbs” before she started to (very obviously) feign laughter. Langley joined in, and finally Father Milton.

“Ragnar so funny!” the barbarian couldn’t stop as he fell into uncontrollable laughter, which, if described in full detail, would have taken up 45 pages of beautiful and evocative description. The narrator’s incredibly uptight parole officer, unfortunately, outright refused to consider the inclusion of such a necessary and important detail.

So, begrudgingly, the laughter soon subsided, leaving a lull in the conversation. Father Milton broke it, this time.

“Ragnar, do you really think I have a chance at redemption after…what I’ve done?”

“Dah. Is very obvious part of character arc. You nostalgic for past, when faith strong and life had meaning. See what abandoned, now prepare pursuit of such thing.” Ragnar grabbed a rat from the picnic basket (clearly Zune had put it there), considered a moment, and pet it.

“Very obvious part of my character arc is no longer get mad ever. Unless joking!” Ragnar said, causing everyone to feign laughter again.

“Is this something your parents taught you? How common are character arcs in titan culture?” Father Milton grabbed another rat from the picnic basket, threw it into the grass behind him, and then grabbed a container full of potato salad.

“No. Is not. Learned it from a book.” Ragnar said, which was true. A few years ago the son of the Mad Titan had encountered a pesky group of teenagers who had come to hunt him down for some sort of bounty. During the ensuing bar fight, a girl wearing a strange hat and leather duster hit him over the head with a copy of The Complete Works of Shakespeare. This, unfortunately, caused the barbarian to experience a rare moment of narrative awareness. He narrowly escaped with his life.

Since that moment, Ragnar had an innate understanding of the structural principles that founded Absurdia, and a terrible fear of books, leather dusters, and cowboy hats. He knew, one day, he would need to overcome these things to wrap up his character arc. And it would be a glorious day.

Of course, Ragnar was not aware that he was the only person who had ever experienced literary osmosis (and lived), and so ignored giving these details to his friends. Not that they would ever drop their own self-interest for long enough to realize there was anything strange about the whole ordeal.

“You’ve given me a great idea, Ragnar, I should pick up reading the Collected Writings on Brestmylc again. Thank you friend!” The ex-paladin offered Ragnar the container of potato salad.

Ragnar, however, was not that kind of barbarian, and declined the abominable substance.

***

Far off, in the western and slightly-northerly (but not too northerly) desert, the Gunslinger removed her hat to wipe of brow of sweat. It was far too hot out to be wearing a leather duster, but the Gunslinger didn’t care. Someone, -something had found the music of the late American composer Lou Harrison. She had to find out; could not rest until she knew: had her brother’s grave been defiled?

The desert wind kicked and blew, taking her hat with it. It felt almost like nature itself was mocking her as she ran to grab it, only to find that it had stuck itself to the top of a 30-foot tall saguaro cactus.

“Why do all of my fucking abilities require having a gun?! God I fucking hate this place!” Emma yelled in frustration as she kicked the cactus, jamming a needle into her shoe. She fell to the sand in pain.

“Ouch! Uggggghhhh!” she said, as she accidentally rolled down an 80 foot sand dune.

“Ow-ow-ow-ow-ow-ow.” her yelps of pain coincided with each time her body hit the dune on her way down.

She skidded to a slow landing at the bottom, and looked up the sharp peak of the massive dune.

“I never should have come here. This was a mistake.”

Emma pulled the needle out of her food and turned away from the dune, only to find that her hat had been conveniently placed right at her feet by an invisible force.

“Huh.” she set it back on her head, and gave a salute to whatever invisible parole agent had interfered in the narrative. By the time day gave way to night, she had made it to her destination. She looked solemnly at the unassuming site of her brother’s unmarked grave.

Emma collected her focus as she accessed her inventory, pulled out a shovel, and began to dig. She found her brother’s body, but no Zune™. Anguish overcame her. She recalled her vow of vengeance. How these past few years she had failed over and over and over. She hated herself for what had happened to her brother.

If only I had been able to find a Colt Model 1848. She thought to herself (for most of her abilities required that). And still, five years later, she had yet to find one. Fury burned in her heart. If she couldn’t kill Mentholarix in an act of revenge, she could kill whoever had defiled her brother’s grave.

Curiously, whoever had stolen it had forgotten the solar charger. The Gunslinger put it into her inventory, just in case she needed it on her newly forged path of vengeance. She would snuff out the life of whoever had stolen her brother’s prized Zune™.

It shouldn’t be that hard to track down. The Gunslinger thought to herself, incorrectly, as she walked off into the night.