ã€ŠRoad of the Rottweiler [Absurd comedy about stupid cultivators] (Volume 1 complete!)ã€‹


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 Chapter 1: He Chose The Road of the Rottweiler

    I thought this to be the one. This child, barely eleven, showing himself to be a prodigy of his clan, dressed in robes red, impractical and green, showcasing the inferior aesthetical inclinations of his bloodline. This walking disaster that was about to get initiated on the Roads.

    ¡°Come here, my son, today you shall choose your fate,¡± the ostensible father beckoned from across the lodge, sitting his big, strong, yet thoroughly-cucked-by-a-street-belonging-mid-hoe figure on a blue rug with frills that rested upon, you will never guess it, a caramelized floor. This is no metaphor. The floorboards had caramel on top.

    The child stepped up to the plate, up to the lines of blunt and edged weapons lain before his purported ancestor. No, little one, you are the son of that curious merchant that supplies the fucker that raises you with daggers. The redheaded one.

    He calmly kneeled in front of the man, and joined the palms of his hands above his head, looking like he was high-fiving himself for having learned to walk across a room without dying.

    ¡°Father,¡± he unknowingly lied, ¡°allow me to master the dark ones as my weapons.¡±

    The man scratched his dense beard. ¡°You cannot, my heart. It¡¯s forbidden by our founders.¡±

    ¡°But, I really want to bind the dark powers to do my bidding, father.¡±

    ¡°No, our constitution forbids it. Look. ¡° He took out a book that was stashed close to his heart, under his several layers of clothing, and cleared his throat. ¡° ¡®Henceforth, and by the love of any deity you may think of or even that luscious rabbit that tries to seduce me at night, the Gromera clan shall be forbidden from owning slaves. They are too mentally stifled to be superior to anyone. In addendum to that, enslaving them shall be considered animal cruelty and punished by two slaps on the wrist.¡¯¡± He quoted the supreme law of the land, that by which all clans would abide.

    ¡°Father, I want my weapon to be a bunch of tanned big men with strong arms and stronger melanosomes. This is my fate, and I shall master it.¡±

    ¡°Son, no.¡±

    ¡°I want to master the Road of the dark ones, or, as others call them, the N¡ª ¡° and so the supposed father did the one thing worth writing about in his life and bitchslapped his wife¡¯s son.

    ¡°Pick a weapon, moron!¡±

    And so the child picked a weapon.

    This, suffice to say, was not the one. My search had to continue.

    <hr>

    Seven hundred fifty-fifth time¡¯s the charm, or so they say. Half a world away from my last attempt, another child was being presented with several options by his mother. He had the traits to be the one. Unassuming brown hair, extreme Dunning-Kruger, and his mind-hamster was as obese as his progenitor, here in front of him. He was holding a Rottweiler puppy by the dog¡¯s armpits, making the little pooch dangle in front of so many sharp metal utensils one would think they wanted to cook the poor thing. Truth is, this child, a prodigy among the people of the valley, was the sharpest tool in a shed full of dildos.

    For you to fathom how ascended this family was compared to the Gromera, consider the following: they knew how to use tables and chairs. The most accomplished members of this family learnt to multiply things by two after a life of struggle and cultivation. Those who achieved immortality by means unnatural even became capable of the unthinkable: comprehending exponentiation, if only conceptually.

    ¡°My dear son, as you know, your father¡­¡±

    ¡°The butter man?¡±

    ¡°I said Your father, not your brother¡¯s.¡±

    ¡°Uncle Simin?¡±

    The mother nodded energetically. ¡°Grandfather Simin to you.¡±

    The Rottweiler began to get the feeling that he was the least inbred mammal in the room, by a long shot.

    ¡°As I said, your father is not here so it comes to me in this, your eleventh birthday, to present you the long table of weapons.¡± She gestured to the long, rectangular table in front of her, where three dozen different tools of murder were laid. ¡°Now choose one and start to shape your fate, my child.¡±

    ¡°Mother.¡± The boy held the pup aloft. ¡°To choose a weapon is to put Jagger down on the floor.¡± For the record, these people were still a couple generations away from caramelizing their floorboards.

    ¡°Yes, you can pick him up afterwards.¡±

    ¡°But wood and metal are cold, and Jagger is warm,¡± The child argued the endothermal nature of his companion with extreme deftness and a wit way above his age.

    ¡°Kalon, dear, the only warm thing here will be the backside of my hand if you don¡¯t choose a road.¡±

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    ¡°I chose the Road of the Rottweiler!¡± The brat declared, raising Jagger as he struggled to get free from the hands of that stupid individual. He needed his beauty sleep, 20 hours a day at least.

    ¡°You cannot choose that road, for it doesn¡¯t exist¡ª¡±

    From beyond the cracks on the caramelized reeds ceiling, a beam of heavenly light enveloped the child, as he had made a choice: from that day onwards, he would follow the road of the Rottweiler, to never deviate from it, to practice and cultivate it to the last consequences. Unless he had a regret and asked the heavens for a path change, that they freely allotted because forcing an eleven-year-old to make a life-changing choice was the epitome of stupidity and inconsideration.

    This was not the one, but I was tired of searching, so it would have to do.

    <hr>

    Kalon swung Jagger against the wooden practice doll, and the pup whined. The most intelligent being in the room considered life was unfair. You were born, weaned from your mom a few days after opening your eyes, separated from your peers and brothers and probably cousins because you were a dog of a recognized breed all the same, and then mister intellectphobic decided, that, yes, you would make an appropriate weapon to master on his path of ascension.

    As for Kalon, he wished Jagger would be a bit sharper or blunter. It turned out Rottweiler puppies were mostly a bag of fat and other useless things, like bones and gray matter. They didn¡¯t have much of a hilt, being, you know, dogs and all. Evolution didn¡¯t grant canids hilts because, until this particular point in time, there was no need nor use for them. Of course men could, with enough generations and some wise artificial selection, adapt dog tails into hilts. But then you have the problem of your sword shitting all over you in the middle of a fight. You¡¯d want the tail to be the business end of a dog-sword, if possible.

    Whomp! Another hit of Jagger''s pupflesh against the training doll¡¯s treeflesh. Jagger was getting used to this. His master would get some sort of power out of all of this training, and the concussions couldn¡¯t do more than equalize their intelligence. As he swung through the air, Jagger took in his surroundings. The training field had a dirt floor, non-caramelized so far, and the dust rose among the unsteady feet of the rows of practicing children. Polearms, daggers, swords, single links of a chain, bows (that weren¡¯t enough for a particularly resourceful child so she opted for catapults), and plate gauntlets were some of the weapons chosen. Each one of them had the potential to be mastered through training, meditation, collection, acquisition and consumption of elixirs, or methods particular to each road.

    Kalon thought about his future. Not in the way one thinks about a college career or marriage, but rather in the way one thinks about lunch. He would have some stick scallops, oh yes, and maybe accompany them with sweet potatoes. This all after he concluded this, his first training session, and familiarized himself with his weapon.

    The clan¡¯s elder watched over them, caressing his long beard, his thoughts unable to escape through the imperturbable mask that was his face. I wonder which of them are mine. He pondered while looking at the children rage against the wood as they would one day rage against the heavens. I wonder if this thing can be cut, was the thought that followed after his fingers got entangled in his wise-man-beard.

    A few prodigies quickly stood from the crowd. One of the dagger-wielding children had a breakthrough, and a second dagger, identical to the first, materialized in his empty hand, a show of light and silver that amazed the bystanders. A similar thing happened to the catapult girl, who suddenly was handling two siege weapons instead of one.

    Kalon, in contrast, kept on pummeling the doll with Jagger to no avail. He didn¡¯t feel more powerful; he didn¡¯t feel like he had taken the first step on his road to greatness. What he felt was shame, a void inside that no amount of useless training would fill. Some know it as hunger due to rushing there and not eating a proper breakfast, but who are we to judge this young master of folic acid evasion?

    Jagger¡¯s life flashed before his eyes. It was a TikTok of tragedy and dogtits looping endlessly as he got smashed against the doll once and again. Actually, let me note that down. ¡°A TikTok of Tragedy and Dogtits¡± has the potential to be a best seller in the YA market.

    Whomp! Jagger hit the doll once again, back first, and felt his spine rearranging. He believed he was about to have a breakthrough of his own, skipping immediately to the highest tier of puppy-cripple attainable. A path to greatness few dared to walk¡­ or wheelchair.

    Kelon kept smashing the puppy against the doll, refining his technique with each thud of Rottweiler against undignified but lignified tissue. He was thankful to Jagger for making such an obedient weapon: he had not sprained his wrist so far.

    After a hundred and twenty-seven hits, Jagger had begun elucidating a few elements of Newtonian Physics.

    ¡°You, puppy cultivator, stop for today, it¡¯s clear you don¡¯t have it in you to advance yet. You will have to cultivate by non-practice means tomorrow,¡± decreed the Elder, wondering how would Jagger taste with some potatoes, onions, olive oil and oregano. He was already well-tenderized, after all.

    ¡°But master, I feel it inside me, I am about to get a second dog.¡±

    The elder pointed in the direction of the catapult girl. She was sweating the fat drop, and yet, had managed to attain a veritable reverse harem of siege weapons. ¡°It takes years for some to reach that level solely by training and beginning with a single weapon. Can you hit the doll for years on end, boy?¡±

    Kalon considered the question carefully. ¡°If the years are short,¡± he answered, inflating his chest to look rude.

    The elder dedicated to him the kind of stare one dedicates to a blackening banana while considering if it is worth to give in to hope and peel it. ¡°You are the mind of your generation.¡±

    ¡°I shall graduate from this place before cousin Crusadina does.¡±

    Crusadina flashed a deep gold and her number of catapults doubled once again. The oldest catapult sprouted white, feathery wings. The Elder considered the situation for a moment. ¡°I think she will be attaining immortality by next Friday or so.¡±

    ¡°I am sure you will give her all the resources of the sect-clan and leave us to fight for the leftovers!¡± Kalon accused, spending all of his chimi¡ªYou know, vital energy¡ª in forming a coherent thought.

    He then collapsed from exhaustion. On top of the puppy.

    Jagger crawled from below the slumping form of his owner. He dedicated the Elder a tired stare.

    ¡°I pity you, dog.¡± The Elder took a sip from an untagged glass bottle filled with an oily, black substance. That was the first time Jagger smelled that delicious scent that belonged to such an elixir.

    ¡°At least I don¡¯t drink used Kerosene,¡± Jagger said, and the elder fell from the rock on which he was sitting, back first.

    ¡°The vermin speaks!¡± He exclaimed, victim of elation. ¡°This is sure a signal from heaven!¡±

 Chapter 2: Jagger, Heavens Blursed

    Cases of sentient objects and animals weren¡¯t unheard of in the Valelike vale: One of the Elder¡¯s Lov¡­ early disciples had gotten a sentient louse, once, and filled her head with terrible ideas, the likes of which shall not be spoken in this book. Also with terrible eggs, which were just, you know, normal lice eggs.  In the depths of an abandoned well on a nearby hill (because it makes sense to drill a hilltop when you are searching for the elusive phreatic), a traumatized sentient cylindrical object screamed day and night, for it had been used by a non-blessed male disciple that followed the Road of ¡­something that starts with S and ends with Y.

    The Elder had snatched Jagger and stashed him into the first recipient he deemed adequate for a pummeled puppy: The manure bucket. Of course, he had emptied the bucket beforehand.

    ¡°So, little dog, what do you know about Heaven?¡± The elder stared at the bucket sitting atop his desk, as he sat on his chair, that was stapled to the roof and upside down. It allowed him to have a new perspective on things and keep a reasonable blood flow to that which differentiated him from his descendants: a functional brain.

    ¡°You follow the Road of Kerosene. Go ask an oil lamp,¡± Jagger retorted.

    ¡°How do you know what an oil lamp is? You are a dog.¡±

    ¡°An epiphany after hitting my head against the wooden doll seventy-six times,¡± Jagger answered, and tried to not whine due to the stench of his ceiling-less prison.

    ¡°How many revelations did the concussions cause?¡±

    ¡°I have knowledge about the helicoid thickening on the tracheids of Cooksonia,¡± the puppy dropped like the words were false accusations of horrid crimes and the elder the local minority-to-blame.

    ¡°I am afraid, puppy, you may be the most intelligent lifeform in this vale,¡± The Elder said, trying to take a sip and accidentally dropping his kerosene bottle from his vantage point. ¡°Damn it!¡±

    Jagger heard the glass breaking and, moments later, smelled the hydrocarbons.

    ¡°If you want to drug me, I¡¯d prefer toluene. Maybe after a lifetime of sniffing it I can cultivate enough stupidity to match Kalon.¡±

    The elder steepled his fingers. He was considering something. What a good ass that crossfit cultivator had, if only she wasn¡¯t his gr...

    He blinked twice when he noticed the killer gaze of the puppy drilling into his inscrutable stare.

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    ¡°Yes, yes, matching Kalon¡­ I am afraid that some of us are born blessed in some ways. Kalon¡¯s air-headness is, I am afraid, beyond your reach, pup.¡±

    ¡°He¡¯s a natural for moroness, I¡¯ll grant him that.¡±

    The elder nodded melancholically, took out his pipe and the tobacco fell from it to the floor. ¡°This whole¡­ chair glued to the roof business¡­ not my brightest idea,¡± He lamented.

    A knock on the door that caused the whole room to tremble alerted them that they had visits.

    The elder sighed and closed his eyes. ¡°Come in, son, heart of my heart.¡±

    The man slid the door to a side as if it was a curtain, and crumpled it all the same. Jagger thought that, if they were to make gloves for the man out of his skin, the would need a whole Jagger for each finger. The man had to crouch and walk sideways only to enter the room, and even then couldn¡¯t stand straight. His biceps were about to develop chiseled abs.

    ¡°Father, I am in need of cultivation materials,¡± he demanded, his voice booming with so much authority that the shattered glass on the floor reformed itself into a bottle and the kerosene that had been spilled crawled back into the container.

    The Elder caressed his beard. ¡°Which color?¡±

    He licked his grey lips. ¡°I am out of Goth GF Thighs White, Unicorn Fart Cyan and Jade Lust Green. They are essential for me to master the Road of the Lipstick.¡±

    The Elder closed his eyes, considering it a moment. ¡°I will ask for a courier to bring them from the capital. Do you need any lip gloss, my pride?¡±

    The bulky man scratched his chin, accidentally dislodging his jaw. Then, with a finger flick, he returned the bone to his natural position. ¡°Daddy¡¯s Discharge, limited edition. The one that causes throat cancer.¡±

    ¡°It shall be done. Anything else, my son?¡±

    ¡°Hey, big fella.¡± Jagger said, wishing for death.

    With statuesque rigidity the behemoth of a man turned his head to look at the puppy. He threw a smooch and wink in Jagger¡¯s direction, and the poor puppy braced himself for the impact. The pressure, the power of such a smooch, it blew the metal hoops of the bucket away, turned the wood to splinters, made Jagger struggle to not get squished against the desk His loose skin flapping, his hair fluffing up. This was a tribulation like few he had experienced in his forty-three days of life.

    Jagger stood, disappointed of being still in one piece. ¡°Hey, big¡ª¡±

    ¡°He¡¯s already gone, walked off after the smooch,¡± informed the elder, calmly.

    ¡°But I still see him there,¡± Jagger said, pointing an accusatory paw at the image of the man.

    ¡°His power scares light shitless, it will take a few moments for it to catch up to him.¡±

    And as the elder said, soon the image of the cultivator disappeared suddenly from the room, almost in a ¡°plop¡±.

    ¡°Why did you taunt my son, though? You knew it could end badly for you. You are intelligent enough for that.¡±

    Jagger admitted the truth: ¡°The intrusive thoughts won. I am not even two months old for Heaven¡¯s sake.¡±

    ¡°Yeah, yeah, that¡¯s right. I have my half-dozen of centuries and I barely have any self-control regarding certain matters of love and war. You may go now, Kalon¡¯s weapon. I reckon he should be about to wake up by now.¡±

    Jagger remained sitting in place.

    ¡°I said you can go.¡±

    ¡°I can¡¯t. The desk is too tall for me to jump down. Get me off.¡±

    The elder paced a bit along the roof, and, finally, extended his hand to pick up Jagger and cast him out the door. As he flew through the air, Jagger remained calm. He had calculated his trajectory, and was going to land on a patch of cushiony grass. All that¡¯s well¡­

 Chapter 3: The Village Idiot

    Kalon woke up groggy and feeling dizzy and lightheaded. These were different things for him, because, normally feeling empty-headed, the added ¡°weight¡± made him feel slow and clumsy.

    ¡°I shall cultivate! Beat cousin Crusadina!¡±

    He grabbed Jagger, that was sleeping curled by his side. He had him grasped tightly from the extra skin of his neck.

    ¡°Jagger, we should cultivate faster. Where can we find more rod wailers?¡±

    Jagger shrugged. He wanted to sleep and dream with a warm bowl of milk.  ¡°It¡¯s¡­ it¡¯s Rottweiler,¡± He said, opening an eye and closing it again before realization hit him like a wrecking ball. ¡°Oh fuck, I spoke in front of the village idiot.¡±

    Kalon looked frantically to the sides, taking in the practice dolls, hoops, and the benches of the already emptied field.

    ¡°Where? Where is Culmino?¡±

    Jagger¡¯s pupils turned until he could make inventory of the inside of his skull. ¡°I meant you. Who is Culmino?¡±

    Kalon carried Jagger like a dumbbell all the way to the exit of the practice field, into the open street of the clan, where he witnessed a scrawny kid stalking in all fours, like he was crocodile. It was trying to hunt an elusive banana, and had to be very careful to not scare his quarry away.

    Kalon walked up to his cousin and rubbed Jagger¡¯s nose on the boy¡¯s temples. ¡°Culmino.¡±

    Culmino stayed still, pretending to be a rock, tasting the air with his tongue now and then. The lack of a proper vomeronasal organ wasn¡¯t going to stop him.

    ¡°Fine, you are not the village idiot. Now, as for where to find more Rottweilers, dear owner, think: Where in this whole clan there could be more dogs like me?¡±

    Kalon scratched his head. Wind howled inside his skull. A lone wolf that traversed the deserted steppes of his intellect fell face-first into the sands and died from exhaustion. Where did dogs come from? Perhaps¡­

    ¡°We shall find the Rottweiler tree!¡± he sentenced.

    The heavens listened. Gods lined up to laugh at Kalon. The God of Popcorn was born and provided sustenance for everyone else.

    ¡°Dogs don¡¯t come out of trees, you moron!¡± said Jagger, wishing once again for the sweet embrace of death.

    Kalon considered it for another second and held Jagger at an arm¡¯s length. ¡°The Rottweiler aquifer?¡±

    Jagger shook his little head.

    ¡°Rottweiler¡­vein?¡±

    ¡°Could you mine a Rottweiler?¡± Jagger asked.

    Kalon shrugged. ¡°Maybe.¡±

    In that moment, something broke inside Jagger. He whined a bit and then went silent in acceptance.

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    ¡°Aha! a Rottweiler Basidium!¡±

    Jagger tilted his head. How the fuck did Kalon know what a basidium was? Even the word ¡°aquifer¡± felt confused at being part of his vocabulary.

    ¡°Listen, Kalon, couldn¡¯t we have a normal life? You can grow to be a farmer or blacksmith or something and I can grow up to get fulminating cancer at nine years old and make you sad for the remainder of your days after I pass away,¡± suggested the Rottweiler puppy with a straight puppy face.

    Contrasted to a gay puppy face.

    How that looks, I don¡¯t know.

    ¡°No, I shall pursue immortality. I shall live forever,¡± Kalon decreed, shaking his Rottweiler-occupied fist at the sky. Jagger didn¡¯t mind. At least he wasn¡¯t getting beaten against a practice doll.

    ¡°Why?¡± Asked Jagger.

    Kalon placed the puppy in the ground and bowed before it, his forehead kissing the dirt.  ¡°I find myself defeated before your wiseness, master Jagger.¡±

    Jagger resisted the urge to correct him. At least he would stop pursuing immortality¡­

    Kalon stood suddenly: he had had a revelation. ¡°I think I shall be immortal¡­ to not die,¡± he said, elated by the new sense of meaning he had gleaned from the uncaring reality.

    Jagger thought about biting his hand, but then feared it would get him drunk with his stupidity.

    ¡°Right, astounding display of mental skill, Kalon,¡± Jagger sassed.

    ¡°I have no skills regarding metal,¡± he corrected his pup.

    Some sources claim that, in that very moment, Jagger blew up, killing everyone in the clan. This is a lie, mainly because reality suffers from aversion to happy endings.  And secondarily, because dogs don¡¯t randomly explode. That is not something that happens. Ever.

    Then, both pet and owner walked back home.

    <hr>

    Kalon bowed before his mother, as one could say every single person who bowed did. Not by virtue of her being powerful, nor honorable, no: it was by virtue of Kalon¡¯s mother enjoying the sort of omnipresence that comes with joint pain and clogged arteries.  While some pursued immortality, she pursued immobility. Hers was the Dao of Diabetes.

    But it wasn¡¯t mere coincidence, not this time at least, that Kalon was bowing before her. He had the intent to do so.

    ¡°Mother, tell me where the Rottweiler udder from which you milked Jagger out can be found.¡±

    Jagger stared at his owner whale eyed. He sat by his side, but, in those moments, thought very seriously about mauling him as soon as he grew up into a teenaged rottie.

    ¡°Tell the child about the bees and the drones at once, woman!¡±

    Kalon turned to stare at his dog, and scratched the sides of his own head. ¡°Rottweilers come from hives?¡±

    ¡°Shut your traps you two, Rottweilers come from bigger Rottweilers. Like matryoshkas.¡±

    Jagger raised his paw, and then lowered it. There was no point complaining about how it made no sense to call nesting dolls ¡°matryoshkas¡± in a world without Russia: if he pursued that path of argumentation, he would need to explain what a Russia was, and he hadn¡¯t the palest idea. They were speaking English in a world without England, so what was the harm on letting reality fail to be verisimilar one more time?

    ¡°I see, so, when Jagger grows up, I shall split him in two!¡± Kalon declared, and Jagger begged the woman with his sole stare: save me from your inbred sprog. The woman scooped Jagger from the floor, doing a great deal of effort to not crush him with her fingers like unwagging Labrador tails.

    ¡°It is your fault that my son follows a road without a future.¡±

    Jagger thought about biting her, but he fostered old school values regarding loyalty and cholesterol management.

    ¡°Listen here, you collective noun of a woman, I am stuck with him by no fault of my own and my breed lives about a decade in average. A decade! That¡¯s like eighty times my current lifespan. An eternity of suffering under the useless wing of this gender-confused kiwi bird of a man.¡±

    The woman shot a blank stare to her son. ¡°Translate, for you are blessed in the fields of the mind, dear.¡±

    ¡°I think he is learning to bark.¡±

    Jagger went limp, and Kalon¡¯s mother shook him. There was no point in trying. Emptying his mind of thoughts was probably the path of least resistance.

    ¡°Mother, where did you get Jagger from?¡± Kalon interrupted the energetic dog shaking. He had stood, stretching, trying to reach for one of the ceiling¡¯s reeds to chew onto.

    ¡°Aunty Lora gave him to us.  Go visit her if you want to know more. And come home by time for the third dinner.¡±

    ¡°Shall do. Thanks, mother.¡±

    ¡°No problem, sprog.¡±

 Chapter 4: Kalon and the Road.

    The main issue they had to find the house of Aunty Lora was that Kalon¡¯s sense of orientation broke when his own abode was out of the line of sight. His mind was overworked, and so was his body. He was thirsty, hungry, and other things that end in Y and are fitting for a lost eleven-years old.

    Merely a hundred meters away from the place he had been born in, Kalon was now lying on the floor, prone, panting, bruised, beheld by a haughty Rottweiler puppy that tripled his IQ.

    ¡°Who will train who?¡± Jagger lamented.

    ¡°Save yourself, Jagger. Leave me die here, under this merciless sun.¡±

    Jagger sat on the dry dirt road with emphasis. It was more like he had buttbutted the planet. ¡°We got out of home an hour ago. It¡¯s literally around the well up the road.¡±

    ¡°Why is there a well on the road? Someone move it.¡±  Kalon complained, raising his head to look in the direction Jagger was pointing.

    ¡°I am going to search for sugar cane. It¡¯s high time to caramelize those floors of your abode.¡±

    Kalon grabbed Jagger from his uncircumcised tail before he could trot away. then, he lifted him

    ¡°Hey, that hurts! I eat my body weight in chicken innards daily. Caramelized chicken innards, because of you all. I am not lightweight,¡± the runner up for the crown claimed by Ysabell¡¯s dress puppyfatted out. Gradually, Jagger felt his inner layers slid one above the other, downwards, ¡°I am going to become a chow fucking chow!¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t leave me, I need you to cultivate.¡±

    ¡°Put me down.¡±

    ¡°As in ¡®on the ground¡¯ or as in ¡®out of life¡¯?¡±

    Jagger froze on his dangling position, stopping even his pendular motion. Kalon had just asked something nearly rational. There was some sort of sacrilegious activity going on inside his head. A parallelism to abiogenesis, but with synapsis: brain activity arising from a dead wasteland.

    ¡°Ground. I want to walk on my own four feet,¡± he said after accepting the grim reality.

    Kalon placed Jagger carefully on the ground and then turned onto his back to stare at the sky. Then, his body erected itself without aid of an external force, as if levitating.

    ¡°How did you do that?¡±

    Kalon shrugged.

    ¡°I just fell up and frontwards a bit.¡±

    Jagger scoffed as a puppy does and began running around, nose high, trying to catch a scent trail. After a while of getting no results, he wiggled his little butt towards the wooden steps of the houses and the cobblestones of the only paved road in the town ¡ªOr the only stretch of paved road: it was all the same road in the Valelike vale. I am talking about a tangle of curves, a winding disaster result of the village having been planned by the first person who had learned how to calculate a hypotenuse.

    When he turned on the intersection, he saw a yellow and black smudge[1]</a> in the distance. A smaller smudge, long and black, oscillated at the fattest extreme of the big one.

    ¡°Mommy!¡± Jagger said, and began trotting in direction to the smudge.

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    Kalon stared, mouth agape. The dog had teleported! And yet it had just walked. ¡°Jagger, do you follow a space-time road?¡±

    Jagger turned and glanced at his owner, who was still in the intersection. ¡°What sort of deranged thinking process is going to assail my sanity today? Spite it out.¡±

    ¡°Well, you went from one, zero, one of Roadlike Road to three, four, seven of Roadlike Road in a couple steps. That¡¯s impossible without space magic.¡±

    ¡°No, it isn¡¯t, the road crosses itself.¡±

    ¡°Let me reach you and I will give you a demonstration. Wait there.¡± Then, Kalon began jogging up the road until he disappeared behind the corner.

    Jagger wished to have thumbs to pinch the bridge of his nose.

    Kalon kept jogging through the dirt pathway, and he started feeling insecure, being unarmed in such a dangerous and unknown environment: three dozen houses away from one¡¯s own.  He thought (Citation needed) that there was something vile about the way the reeds of the ceilings were cut, or how the bricks of the surrounding houses had been laid.

    He had to go faster. He had to overrun his pursuers, whether they existed or not. Despite being tired and disheartened by the fact that he could never see his home again, he trudged on with burning lungs and glaring neighbors.

    ¡°Why is that moron running?¡± mumbled a tall, pale, refined lady that sat on her house¡¯s porch. It was Crusadina¡¯s mother. Then she took a golden watch out of her pocket. ¡°Oh boy, look at the time.¡± She produced a gun ¡ªshe followed the Road of freedom¡ª out of her cleavage and fired three shots in the air. ¡°That should keep the property prices down another day.¡±

    Kalon heard the roar of the gun and wondered which animal and/or plant and/or fungus could fart that loud.  Maybe it was the hunting horn of his pursuers. Who could be? Julian? Julian liked to follow people. Of course, he was a character in a book, but still¡­

    He finally spotted Jagger¡¯s butt swagging away, towards another dog similar to him, and rushed, arms extended behind his body, a secret technique employed by people averse to baths to run faster. Then, he lunged over his puppy weapon, and as Jagger saw the shadow on the ground grow and decided it wasn¡¯t worth to look back, Kalon accidentally changed the direction of his fall, propelling sideways and crashing against a nearby, but luckily abandoned, house. It¡¯s not that he had powers over gravity, no: he simply couldn¡¯t understand how to properly follow the laws of physics.

    ¡°This sort of defiance to the heavens is the one I am not willing to put up with.¡± And then, Jagger kept on walking towards the nearest fellow Rottie.  ¡°Hey, you are not my mom.¡± He told to the dog, that was, you will never guess it: not caramelized.

    The Rottweiler shot a haughty glare in the direction of Jagger. She didn¡¯t say anything, because it was a dog and dogs, as you may know, don¡¯t talk. She pushed Jagger away with her forepaw, touching him only with her nails, as if Jagger was, somehow, inferior.

    ¡°Listen aunty, I am sure you are related to my mother, you look just like her and smell¡­ well, a bit different, I won¡¯t lie. But heaven punish me if you two aren¡¯t related.¡±

    Clouds gathered high above, thunder rolled, and the gods laughed at the foolish mortal that had accepted such an idiot¡¯s bargain. Then the God of Genealogy kicked down the cloudy door of that particular room of heaven, and sauntered proudly up to the table, where he smashed, with his hand open, a picture of the tree of life. The God of Tribulations looked at it contracting his upper lip, and then at the God of Genealogy. ¡°Come on! He gets off on a technicality?¡±

    The other gods nodded, and the God of Tribulations gave up, dispersing the clouds and making the sun shine over Valelike Vale again.

    ¡°Weird,¡± mused Jagger, staring at the bolt of lightning congealed mid-flight, about a dozen meters above his head.

    A growl interrupted Jagger¡¯s contemplation of his almost-death, and a bark followed. When he turned, he saw white, sharp teeth staring directly at him. ¡°Haha, I am bigger than you,¡± he mocked. He may have been intelligent, but he had the altered perception of a puppy all the same.

    The female Rottweiler picked him up from the lose skin of his neck and begun shaking him wildly. Jagger tried to stare at the floor as he reconsidered his actions. Maybe he was a little smaller than her. Just a bit tough. He soon found himself flying through the air, turning with legs extended like a ragdoll. He wished he had been born a cat. And, before hitting the ground, something caught him from his balls, making Jagger howl pathetically and wish for death once more.

    That something was Kalon¡¯s rough hand.

    ¡°I don¡¯t care who you are, dog, but nobody bullies my weapon!¡± He said, stepping in to face the angry rottie.

    <hr>

    [1]</a> Most dog breeds have relatively poor day vision, when judging by human standards. In addition to this, they only have two types of cones in their eyes: blue and yellow, so the colors Jagger sees may not match the human-seen colors of things. In other words, don¡¯t assume Jagger is a myopic dog: he is just a dog.

 Chapter 5: Brunhilda, Discount Arrogant Young Master

    The battle proceeded as you can imagine, with Kalon trying to hit a guard dog with a soft puppy and ending up full of scratches and puncture wounds, lying on the floor, serving as a rug for the young female Rottweiler to sleep on.

    ¡°Guh, she¡¯s too powerful,¡± the boy muttered, feeling the weight of his oppressor over his back. And also her tongue, because she was pretty adept at licking her beds. Jagger snored loudly against Kalon¡¯s newest sworn enemy. After all, a puppy ought to do what a puppy ought to do.

    ¡°Hells and heavens, Brunhilda, what have you done?¡± Exclaimed a man wearing a shirt with a gridded pattern as he came out of the nearest home and witnessed his pet sleeping over a bloodied eleven-year-old.

    Jagger raised his head, shook the grogginess out of his system, cleared his throat and spoke. ¡°Good sir, I am Jagger, and this thing with no need for normal amounts of blood is Kalon. He follows the Road of the Rottweiler, and we are seeking other dogs of my breed so he can cultivate. Could you lend your help?¡±

    The middle aged, rotund man scratched his stubble. ¡°I am always willing to aid a youngster in need of a training ground. Drag him inside, we are going to do something about his wounds.¡±

    Jagger raised an eyebrow as hairy as the rest of him. ¡°Aren¡¯t you going to comment on the fact I am a talking puppy?¡±

    ¡°I have seen stranger things in this valley.¡± He turned his head to look at the frozen lightning bolt illuminating the street. ¡°That¡¯s a magnificent example,¡± he sentenced, nodding and giving passionate a kiss to his pipe before exhaling a cloud of black and orange smoke shaped like a Rottweiler. ¡°So, he wants to cultivate Rottweilers?¡±

    ¡°Yes. Pardon him, he is an inhabitant of this gods forsaken place.¡±

    ¡°Oh, little one, this place isn¡¯t forsaken by gods. It¡¯s just their playground.¡±

    Jagger realized that this was even a worse prospect, but didn¡¯t say anything.

    ¡°Anyway, I cannot drag Kalon inside, he weights way more than me.¡±

    ¡°Are you sure? You are the fattest Rottweiler puppy I have ever seen.¡±

    Jagger rolled his eyes. ¡°I am fed by this moron¡¯s family. Hypercalorical doesn¡¯t even begin to describe my diet.¡±

    The man exhaled a cloud of smoke that grew tendrils, and those grabbed Kalon, grasping firmly at his mauled arms and legs. Brunhilda stepped off of Kalon¡¯s back to aid in his hauling. It always came after the mauling, the hauling, and before the howling, the hauling.

    Jagger stepped to a side to let the magic construct and his peer (that, by all he knew, could have been a sister or cousin or aunt of his) introduce Kalon to the building. The cultivator threw a fit while going through the door, hitting his shins with the frame and letting out a cry that made the gods check their mail for failed pipe bombs.

    The inside of the man¡¯s house was full of smoking pipes, bongs, vapes, boxes of dried herbs that sometimes resembled tobacco, and an aquarium that contained a single snorkeled capybara stuffed inside.

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    ¡°What¡¯s that?¡± Jagger asked, pointing at the rodent.

    ¡°Cabbage, he eats it,¡± answered the smoke cultivator.

    ¡°I¡­ Okay.¡± Jagger desisted. That was just a giant rat squeezed in a too small squared, topless bottle and that was it.

    They placed the moaning cultivator upon a towel on the floor, and gathered around him.

    ¡°Do you want to euthanize him or heal him?¡± The kind man asked.

    ¡°Why is that even a question?¡±

    The man nodded and began gathering smoke around his fist, making it coil like matter falling into a black hole because gravity is not racist.

    Jagger raised a paw ¡°Wait, is that healing or euthanizing smoke?¡±

    The man smirked and nodded. ¡°I will put him out of his suffering.¡±

    ¡°I will bring the bandages, then,¡± said Jagger, and raised his head to look around.

    The host shook his hand, dispersing the smoke, and sighed. ¡°Not today, Brunhilda,¡± he muttered, and then moved to a nearby cupboard to grab the elements necessary to provide Kalon some first aid.

    <hr>

    When Kalon woke up, he looked like the toilet paper roll of a serial killer. His whole body ached, scrambling to his feet felt like an achievement, and the image of Brunhilda panting in front of him was both terrifying and confusing. ¡°What¡­ you bit me.¡±

    Brunhilda poked her tongue out, as if mocking him. Then, her owner came from behind the drapes that served as a door to the guest room. ¡°How are you feeling, Kalon?¡±

    ¡°Wrong, the bed is¡­ soft. Waterlike.¡±

    ¡°Yeah, that¡¯s foreign technology. It¡¯s called a mattress.¡±

    Jagger resisted the urge to poop on the nearest untarnished surface. For the house of a serial smoker, the tiles on the floor were pretty clean. Kalon reached for Jagger with a hand, and for Brunhilda¡¯s tail with the other. Brunhilda began snarling.

    ¡°Shhh,¡± said Kalon, and closed his eyes. He tried to visualize the churri ¡ªthe vital energy¡ª coursing through him, and through the dogs. Thousands of little Rottweilers making their way through the spiritual veins of his body.

    Sadly, that couldn¡¯t be: Kalon suffered from aphantasia. The images tried to come to fruition, but they had no canvas of a mind to be painted over. So, for Kalon, meditation was not very different from the minutes before sleeping.

    Fearing the reproach of her owner, Brunhilda had accepted the invading hand upon her butt. It was common for humans to touch canine butts, nothing weird about it. But trying to be used as a cultivation implement felt wrong. She glanced at Jagger with whale eyes, as if screaming for help.

    Jagger let out a huff and closed his eyes. Maybe, if he wished it really hard, he would still his own heart and be spared from Kalon. Then, he opened his eyes, realizing there was still a question that needed an answer. ¡°Oi, benefactor, how are you called?¡±

    ¡°Jagger,¡± said the man.

    ¡°Yes, that¡¯s my name, but what¡¯s yours?¡±

    ¡°One out of five men in this vale are called Jagger as sure as eight out of ten dentists recommend Whiskas after every bath. It also being the name of a dog is a sort of collateral damage,¡± he shrugged a took a long and deep puff of his pipe, exhaling golden smoke out of his wide nostrils afterwards. ¡°Call me Big Jay if you feel better that way, thought¡±

    ¡°Well, Big Jay, do you think there is a way for Kalon to experience a breakthrough soon?¡±

    The man shook his head with a graveness seldom seen in the vale. ¡°He lost a fight against Brunhilda. I bet she didn¡¯t even bite him.¡±

    ¡°Yes, Kalon decided that the teeth, being white, should be the weak spots, and when slapping them didn¡¯t work, he tried with other body parts. Brunhilda only bit him near the end to make him stop trying to throw me onto her carnassials.¡±

    Kalon began snoring. Minds devoid of even the simplest thoughts are a good cure for insomnia.

    ¡°It takes a village to train some cultivators, but even for a continent this lad would be a challenge. Besides, hasn¡¯t the elder appointed some dedicated trainer to him?¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t think they trust Kalon to remember things such as breathing for long. ¡°

    Big Jay closed his eyes and slumped on a nearby chair. Wise are the people of this place, sometimes.

 Chapter 6: Cutbastra, Immature Immortal

    Taking a sip from his elixir of true beauty, the cultivator stared at a purple sunset. Violet clouds gathered and frolicked about the sun, over the pink mountain peaks. It was a dreamy image for sure.

    Then he took out the shades, because he preferred a run of the mill, orange sunset.

    With a toothless smile and his face resting on the dorsal of his right hand, he spoke.

    ¡°Cute thing is the sun, Oracle. Do you think someone tried to fuck it already?¡±

    The Oracle, a small legless skink that inhabited the cultivator¡¯s poet shirt¡¯s upper pocket, dignified the world by poking his head out of his home between the fabrics and considered the flaming ball in the horizon for a second.

    ¡°As in, the goddess of the sun?¡±

    ¡°The hot light thingy,¡± the cultivator expatiated.

    The skink carefully considered the situation. ¡°Why are you like this?¡± was the wisdom dispensed by him.

    ¡°I dunno, I am immortal, I am bored and.¡± he looked at the cloud he was standing on. It was dispersing. ¡°About to precipitate towards the nearest valley at an high speed.¡±

    Oracle inhaled slowly. It was always like this with him. Every single day he had to hold on to the shirt for dear life, using magic of course, because he was the sort of being you cannot precisely disarm; because evolution saw it first and decided that, yes, limbs were absolutely not Gucci.

    ¡°Listen, Cutbastra, there is no need to walk on clouds and fall when they disperse: You are capable of flight.¡±

    Cutbastra the Red-Tinted-Hair-Dagger-Dealer shrugged. ¡°Yeah, but I don¡¯t get hurt by falls anymore either. I yearn for pain to remember what it feels to struggle. Your words haunt me every day.¡± Cutbastra paced around thin air, hands rubbing nervously in front of him. ¡°No man woman born nor woman woman born nor woman man born nor man man born shall fall you!¡± he said with a thin thread of voice, trying to mock the acute tune of the skink.

    ¡°If death is what you seek, the one able to kill you has been already born, and he lives in a backwater place called Valelike Vale.¡±

    ¡°What is their caramelization index?¡±

    ¡°Three. Some households reach a four.¡±

    Cutbastra observed the panorama. The mountains stood somewhat weary. Mountains of old, mountains that slouched, mountains in need of a vacation or a meteor strike. The trees coiled around their feet like sewer water with a double serving of leeches. It¡¯s not that the landscape was hideous. It was rather well-favored for them who observed at a distance. But it was the knowledge that every single thing he saw would die before him that soured the picture. Even the sun would, and Cutbastra would not.

    Yet he didn¡¯t yearn for death, or rather, he wished for something he feared. Threes and fours were people capable of engendering children with enough gray matter to pose a threat.  Yet it made no sense for no man or woman could kill him.

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    Then, he had a terrifying idea. ¡°Are you saying an intersexual was born there?¡±

    ¡°The gift of prophecy is bigoted and binary. Intersexual individuals should be contemplated in my previous statement.¡±

    Some things on heaven and earth¡ªparticularly in earth¡ª made no sense, and Cutbastra was well aware of it. His blue eyes had seen uncountable vows broken, laws that even gods should have obeyed violated for the pettiest reasons. His blond hair had been tousled by winds born from the unholiest of phenomena. His swollen pride debased by those who had sworn faithfulness unparalleled.  In other words, he knew sloppy-toppy demons of all sizes, colors and shapes.  ¡°Then, does it merit our worry?¡±

    ¡°Prophecy is capricious, sometimes a vision doesn¡¯t give many specifics.  I¡¯d reckon some sort of ¡®less than human because the poor thing is too stupid¡¯ fuckery could be taking place.¡± Oracle then licked one of his eyes. ¡°Sorry, I needed to moisturize my orb.¡±

    ¡°I am going to eat you on a salad one of these days if you keep calling eyes ¡®orbs¡¯.¡± Cutbastra gave Oracle a little tap of his tiny head with a mischievous index finger. ¡°Doesn¡¯t matter, we have something more important to fixate on. What¡¯s the name of this menace to my immortality? Did your gift whisper it to you?¡±

    ¡°Jagger,¡± the little legless lizard spat, annoyed by the touch of his companion. ¡°I feel some sort of connection to this¡­ child, I guess. We could be in presence of another seer. In which case, chasing him will be interesting.¡±

    ¡°Oh, children¡­¡± the cultivator said, smiling softly and caressing his manly yet refined chin. ¡°Those are no men nor women, technically. If that¡¯s the case, I could wait a couple decades until nature does its thing and they become adults. No need to get my wondrous nails dirty.¡±

    ¡°We don¡¯t know if we are dealing with that ¡®children clause¡¯, we only know that somewhen in the last twelve years, a menace was born there.¡±

    ¡°How kind of prophecy, giving them a twelve-years head start on killing me. They may not even know I exist. Should I deal with this, Oracle?¡±

    ¡°They who may put an end of your long life need not to know you. Prophecy doesn¡¯t speak of murder, nor of accident, nor of assisted suicide, because, yes, you were going to ask if I didn¡¯t clarify.¡±

    Cutbastra sat on a passing cumulus, and felt the soft chill of the cloud under his jeans. ¡°I am a tad immature sometimes, yes¡­¡±

    ¡°You act as if you had a twentieth of your real age. Other quadricentennials act like almighty lords above or the incarnation of nigh unreachable goals for their disciples. You¡­ are you,¡± the skink concluded his chiding with a redundant¡ªnevertheless true¡ª statement, for a sore lack of a better word.

    ¡°The path I follow requires me to be fresh for the ladies.

    ¡°So, back to the business at hand, I guess I will have to do the clich¨¦ villain thing and go to a small town and murder several inhabitants just to leave the one that will kill me alive because I didn¡¯t double check if he was dead. Is this correct?¡±

    ¡°Yes, friend Cutbastra.¡± The skink let out a tiny villainous laugh. ¡°I have been practicing that. How did I do?¡±

    Cutbastra swiveled his open hand from side to side. ¡°Eh, four out of ten. You need to feel it well up from your soul, and it lacks¡­aristocracy.¡±

    Cutbastra exemplified what he said, and laughed a laugh so haughty and high-class that, out of a sheer feeling of inadequacy, the trees in a circle below him quit slacking and began quickly evolving into mahogany ones.

    ¡°Masterful display of lung control, friend. Shall we part for Valelike Vale?¡±

    Scratching the head of Oracle with a single nail, the cultivator spoke, ¡°Yes. We can walk there, right?¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s like three thousand kilometers away¡­¡±

    ¡°An hour long leisurely walk? Splendid,¡± he inhaled, taking in some of the cloud he was sitting on.  ¡°Do people there marry?¡±

    ¡°I guess.¡±

    He smirked and, with a splinter of ice extracted from the heart of the cloud, he began cleaning his shining white teeth. ¡°Then I may be able to cultivate some. We will have a good time after committing a lil¡¯ bit of reluctant infanticide, Oracle.¡±

 Chapter 7: Emotional Suicide Animal

    The people of Valelike Vale gathered in the main loop of the Roadlike Road to look at the rainbowlike rainbow that slowly descended from the skylike skies.

    ¡°It¡¯s a bird!¡± exclaimed a fat lady.

    ¡°It¡¯s a bird!¡± exclaimed a strong, tall man.

    ¡°No, it¡¯s the gay agenda!¡± said the rickety old geezer whose presence among the clan¡¯s people was tolerated because he was funny when drunk.

    Meanwhile, Cutbastra descended his rainbow stairway with the hand son his pockets and a thousand-yard stare. It was the kind of posture that a man that doesn¡¯t care about his status carries with him. A man that has left the oven on, sometimes. ¡°So, huh, is this Valelike vale?!¡± he shouted when he came close enough to the people.

    The old geezer answered, ¡°It was until you gayed it down!¡±

    ¡°I¡­ sorry about that,¡± he jumped from the rainbow and it dispersed into the air.

    ¡°Oh no, we will breathe in the gay! Run for your heterosexuality!¡± The man panicked and scurried away as fast as he could, which, being a Parkinson¡¯s patient in need of a cane, wasn¡¯t what we could call an impressive speed. Eventually, the grandpa tripped with a red-ant-sized pebble and the retropulsion associated with the disease threw him on his back. He took an emergency pet turtle out of his robes and placed it by his side. On its back, for the animal¡¯s misfortune. If he was going to die under the gayified atmosphere, he wasn¡¯t going to part alone.

    ¡°Gather your haku¡± ¡ªThe energy of life¡ª ¡°in your hearts, people of Valelike Vale, for I am blessing you with my heavenly presence!¡± The immortal said, opening his arms in self-aggranding gesture. The locals cheered, and Kalon the Discount Mummy pushed a way through the crowd to see what the fuss was about. Jagged was entangled over his owner¡¯s head, struggling for freedom among his chestnut hair.

    Beholding the immortal, Jagger thought two simple words. One was a mean to obtain water from subterranean deposits, and the other had to do with sexual intercourse.

    Ignoring the cheers of the hitherto bored locals, a skink protruded from the cultivator¡¯s upper pocket. ¡°Cut the crap, Cutbastra. No need to make a whole show out of this.¡±

    The cultivator shoved Oracle back into his pocket and took in the crowd while holding an appraising look. ¡°I bet there has to be some martina beauty among these¡­¡±

    Oracle popped back out. ¡°Jade.¡±

    ¡°What?¡±

    ¡°The western lands localization is ¡®jade beauty¡¯.¡±

    ¡°That makes no damn sense, jade is green!¡± Cutbastra the Courier protested and crossed his arms while putting on a face of indignant incredulity.

    ¡°Jade can be of many colors, friend. The east lands have white jade.¡±

    He discreetly shoved the skink back in his pocket when he noticed the cheers had stopped and giggles had begun to sprout among the crowd. Then, Cutbastra the Toilet Fixer cleared his throat. ¡°Ejem, sorry for that, I have a talking lizard in my pocket and, this time only, that¡¯s no innuendo.¡±

    Kalon raised a bandaged hand. ¡°What does inyo uend mean?¡±

    ¡°Where were you born from?¡±

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    ¡°A fat cabbage,¡± Kalon answered without even the primordium of a doubt.

    ¡°A cabbage made out of fat or a cabbage that¡­ you know, doesn¡¯t matter. You are not ready to know that word, little one. What¡¯s your name?¡± Cutbastra asked, ready to act according to the answer. It would be fast if the name was correct. Set the example to make them respect his power.

    ¡°Kalon. And this is my rod ballet puppy.¡±

    ¡°Rottweiler.¡± Cutbastra the Painter corrected automatically. ¡°Cute name, Kalon.¡± The cultivator strode until he was in front of the young one. He crouched to look Kalon in the eyes. ¡°Do you happen to know anyone called Jagger in this place?¡±

    Kalon pointed at the puppy over his head. That made Cutbastra the Gardener giggle innocently. ¡°Oh, so the puppy is called like that. Did you name it after a friend?¡±

    ¡°No, Jagger is the most common male name here,¡± ventured a lady that began sashaying up to where the immortal was, but he quickly stepped back, keeping his distance with her as if she were a menace. ¡°Are you called death, cute boy? Because I find myself wanting to court you.¡± she said, licking her swollen, violet lips.

    ¡°Before I act, I must know, are you married?¡± Cutbastra asked, taking his right hand to his zipper and hold it like a man about to unsheathe a Katana.

    She winked. ¡°For you, I am not.¡±

    It happened in less than it took for a tax collector to ruin your day. Cutbastra the Butcher with Delivery Services seemed to teleport behind the woman, still holding his zipper, now down. The expression of the woman¡¯s face was one of absolute horror and surprise as a powerful gust of wind remembered it had to follow Cutbastra the Babysitter, blowing past the only tree in that improvised plaza, denuding it, making the tree turn red out of shame. She wasn¡¯t a promiscuous deciduous leaves slut, she was evergreen! What a sorry image she was giving to her neighbors (The grass and a couple dandelions who hadn¡¯t flowered yet as they were saving it for marriage).

    As the leaves of the blushing tree settled on the ground, and after the longest second of silence the woman had ever experienced, Cutbastra spoke: ¡°You are already pregnant.¡±

    The woman immediately slumped to the ground, extremities shaking, mouth foaming as she hollered like a dying pig. The immortal pulled his zipper up like a samurai sheathes his mortal sword back. A satisfied smile sat in his face. ¡°Fastest man in heaven and earth, baby.¡±

    The immortal turned to the horrified crowd, and noticed the advance of a man that was several heads taller than everybody else and whose biceps had nearly developed six packs. ¡°You, you harm my sister!¡± accused the behemoth whose lips tasted like Daddy¡¯s Discharge and looked like a goth girl¡¯s pale thighs.

    Jagger wondered how the son of the Elder had gotten the lipsticks he asked for so fast. He decided the answer was simple: Cultivators. ¡°Kalon, we must run. They will fight.¡± Jagger warned hopelessly.

    ¡°Why? they will fight, not us.¡±

    ¡°They are centuries old each, they are legendary cultivators on their own right. Leagues above you or me in power.¡±

    Jagger got snatched by Cutbastra, and Kalon didn¡¯t protest. He analyzed the puppy with a lone eye as he held him aloft. ¡°You speak.¡± Cutbastra simply said.

    The puppy decided there was no reason for his gut flora to die with him, and shat himself upon the Immortal¡¯s jeans. But the shit dared not tarnish the clothes of such a papucho, and thus bounced on them, heading for the dirt. ¡°Relax, we are all friends here.¡±

    ¡°Sir, that¡¯s my weapon. I need him.¡± Kalon explained, extending his hand so the immortal would give Jagger back.

    ¡°I will borrow your puppy a moment. Here, as a token of my trust.¡± He reached onto his pocket and placed Oracle on Kalon¡¯s hand. ¡°That¡¯s my beffo, he ain¡¯t eatable. Take care of him while I fight, will you?¡±

    ¡°I am going to fucking die,¡± Oracle said, staring at Kalon with deer eyes.

    Jagger closed his eyes in commiseration. ¡°The fates are not so kind, scaly fellow.¡±

    Each step of the elder¡¯s son made the earth tremble under the crowd¡¯s feet, dispersed the bystanders a little more. ¡°Which bone of the human body is your favorite? I shall leave it intact,¡± he said, cracking his knuckles.

    ¡°Want a fight, big boy? You are confusing heaven and a cabaret.¡±

    ¡°State your name and road, for I, Colinus, follower of the Road of the Lipstick, challenge you to a duel for the honor of my dying sister!¡±

    ¡°Oh my man, she is not dying,¡± he glanced at the screeching woman on the floor. The dirt under her was now wet. ¡°I bet I can beat you without hurting this dog while holding it on my good hand, because I know I am better than you.¡±

    ¡°Name and road! Now, coward!¡±

    Cutbastra jerked his head slightly to fix a golden bang that was interfering with his vision, and smiled. ¡°I have a thousand titles as I have had a thousand professions, but in the end, I am the one: Cutbastra, proud walker of the Road of the Homewrecker.¡±

 Chapter 8: Clash of Roads

    Most of the townsfolk ¡ªexcept for Culmino, who dragged himself on the floor licking any pebble that caught his only ounce of attention¡ª cleared a wide circle around the plaza, dispersing according to the idiosyncratic rules that Kalon followed when walking through a road. Jagger, held under Cutbastra¡¯s arm as if he was a particularly fluffy bag of potatoes, had opinions about the local populace, and none was good.

    ¡°Somebody get a banana for Cousin Culmino!¡± Colinus the Lipstick Behemoth ordered. Nobody obeyed, for none of them were called ¡°Somebody¡±.

    The elder stepped out from the crowd, downed a bottle of kerosene, picked Culmino from the skin of his neck and cast him down the road, making him describe a curved trajectory that perfectly followed the path.

    ¡°Thanks, dad.¡±

    The elder Gave his son a thumbs up and solemnly walked back into the crowd.

    Cutbastra was grooming his hair with the aid of a handheld mirror that floated in front of his face. ¡°Oracle, can you give me the hairline forecast?¡±

    ¡°Your hairline will be unreceding this week, friend.¡±

    ¡°Sweet.¡±

    Colinus attacked first, charging forward, manifesting the fashion curses of a whole century in lieu brass knuckles. His hands turned to whorish lipstick-porcupines.   A single punch connecting would put an end to that smug grin. Cutbastra bob and weaved through the punches, admiring the engorged veins on the arms of his rival as they passed a cell¡¯s span away from his unblemished cutis. It made no sense to dodge further, to move more than it was necessary.

    Coming upon Cutbastra like a collapsing drunk gorilla, Colinus decided to go for the chance of squishing the head of the immortal between his forearms, closing them suddenly, o0ne at each side of the immortal¡¯s head. Cutbastra ducked, mainly to avoid his hairstyle getting ruined, but also because he valued a life where he didn¡¯t suffer from explosive brain incontinence.

    Cutbastra infused Jagger with his namat (the energy of vitality) and jumped backwards, flipping midair.  Without letting go of Jagger, he placed the dog under his foot, to then switch into a sick Benihana grab of the puppy. He landed with the style of an angel and the whine of a Rottweiler. ¡°Ah, sorry.¡± He picked Jagger back up.

    Jagger didn¡¯t know what skateboards were, so he just considered it a weird technique that resulted in him being used as a practice doll for chiropractors. Another day in his life.

    Colinus breathed in deeply and let his lipstick knuckles disperse. ¡°Punching your head off seemed simple, but you are fast for a prince charming.¡±

    ¡°Well, the faster I do the deed, the more men and lesbians I can cuck.  The more men and lesbians I cuck, the bigger my power grows.¡±

    ¡°You are despicable.¡± Colinus cracked his knuckles. ¡°I will enjoy infusing the road with your grey matter.¡±

    ¡°Please, this puppy could beat you after a few years of cultivation.¡±

    ¡°Please don¡¯t involve me further into this madness.¡± Jagger pleaded.

    Cutbastra played deaf as he slapped Jagger¡¯s butt, making his puppyfat wave and wobble. ¡°Absolute unit of a puppy.¡±

    Kalon decided not to chide at the cultivator for slapping Jagger. Maybe he could use the residual power of the slap to advance somehow.

    Colinus advanced again, hands like claws ready to grab his opponent and smooch him to death. He did manage to grab Cutbastra. But then the shape of the cucktivator dissolved, slipping through his fingers as if he were made of smoke. ¡°How?¡±

    ¡°Lover¡¯s scuttle,¡± He said with a casual tone, pacing around the big fella. ¡°I didn¡¯t reach immortality by being easy to pin down. Not after I faced that redheaded woman who followed the Road of Pegging. I feared, Colinus. I feared for real back then.¡±

    ¡°None of the horrors you faced compares to my wrath, cute bastard.¡±

    Cutbastra smiled solemnly. Yes, that last bit was the origin of his name, for when he was born, his mother misheard his father when he uttered those same words after seeing the face of his flawless firstborn.

    ¡°You know nothing of the horrors I faced,¡± he threw his golden ponytail back with a dramatic gesture. ¡°I once ran out of hair conditioner.¡±

    ¡°Condolences, brother in disgrace.¡±

    ¡°But¡­ you are bald,¡± Cutbastra astutely observed.

    ¡°Not down there.¡±

    He let out a breath he definitively knew he was holding, as it was a perfectly warmed and shaped up breath. No one else could exhale so handsomely. The women in the public subtly widened their nostrils to try and take even a single molecule of that precious carbon dioxide in. ¡°I hate to have to do this to such a cultured brother. Carry on, come at me a last time, then it will be my turn to attack.¡±

    The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

    Calinus flipped on his back thrice, to put some distance between the two of them. This bore Cutbastra to the point that he used his Ata ¡ªthe vital energy¡ª to create a handkerchief and try to play tug of war with Jagger.

    ¡°Stop rubbing that cloth on my snout.¡±

    ¡°Bite it and pull, please.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ll call the special victims unit!¡±

    Cilinus ignored them, closed his eyes, and steadied his breath. He felt the thick Zanko ¡ªGuess what this is¡­ exactly¡ª running through the energy channels of his body, bathing every cell, like a slurry passion-red paste destined to become a lipstick that would engulf the world. Then he projected it to the sky, invisible power coursing through the air to converge high above.

    The Kunot ¡ªThat which powers living beings. No, not ATP. ¡ª in the atmosphere condensed in clouds of pink and purple.  Tubes of lipstick swiftly condensed inside the clouds. Sharp ones. The tubes, not the clouds. The clouds weren¡¯t sharp. Clouds are not easy to whet, like, you try to grab them and they escape between the fingers. And if you hit them with a whetstone it just doesn¡¯t happen, you know?

    But I digress, and in the middle of an action scene no less. Woe is me.

    Anyhow, the sharp lipsticks began raining with a rollin¡¯, roarin¡¯ fashion thunder. They were to fall upon Colinus¡¯ quarry, obeying their master¡¯s will, accelerating past terminal velocity in less than a second.

    Cutbastra dedicated an instant to the noble act of measuring how fucked he could be. Significantly less than your mum (p < 0.0005), he concluded. He waited for the lipsticks to reach mere centimeters away from him, and then, he danced through them, avoiding sharp makeup like he avoided being glassed by angry husbands.

    Cutbastra effortlessly flowed through the onslaught of lipsticks, and Colinus reduced the distance between the individual tubes, turning it from a rain to a downpour and from a downpour to a veritable barrage of overpriced beauty-enhancing products. The space between a tube of lipstick and the other was another tube of lipstick. There was no way for Cutbastra to dodge it without getting out of the bounds of the circle the public marked around them.

    Jagger closed his eyes, exhaled in relief, and closed his eyes. Finally, he would be returning to nothingness.  No more having to put up with Kalon, no more cultivation nonsense.

    But Cutbastra didn¡¯t plan for him nor his borrowed puppy to die. He looked dead serious at the lipsticks and filled their inexistent minds with images of the lips they held so dear being painted by other bars, by colors and brands so different. Made the lipsticks feel inadequate, insufficient. What if¡­ what if the men and women whose natural beauty they adorned had other makeup products? They couldn¡¯t see, they couldn¡¯t hear, they were lipsticks. They were trapped in their own bodies, unable to find out if they were, in fact, being cucked.

    The lipsticks collectively decided suicide was the only way out of this conundrum, and thus exploded midair, gifting the valley a fine multicolored mist that slowly descended from the skies.

    Cutbastra cleared his throat and made an annoying tiny voice: ¡°Mom says it is my turn to use a technique.

    The world around Jagger became a blur. Aloof as only he could be, and trapped under Cutbastra¡¯s arm, he decided it was a good time to test some bodily functions.

    Yes. It worked. He could vomit. The fact the vomit hit a house and bored  a hole the size of a Grand Dane on it was just a little variable introduced by the levels of inertia they were managing.

    Not two seconds later, Cutbastra was back into his original position, and Colinus scratching his head, confused. He felt uncomfortable, his whole body ¡ªa lot of body, at that¡ª was tickling slightly. Worst of all, he had seen nothing more than Cutbastra disappearing and then reappearing in the same spot.

    ¡°Illusion techniques, demon?¡± He asked.

    ¡°No, no, attack me. Call forth your Enshin[1]</a>,  use whatever technique you would like.¡± He said, smiling with the confidence of him whose cheating on the exam went unnoticed.

    But when Colinus tried to cycle his Oteeze ¡ªbiospiritual fuel¡ª he found himself unable to do so. His channels were clogged, no cell of his body could pass energy to another. It was like somebody had inserted corks made of a power foreign to the system into the little spiritual gates of each cell.

    Cutbastra raised a finger and began pacing from side to side. ¡°Did you know that you have more than double the cells of a normal human in that big boy body? A whooping 62,379,647,211,912, give or take a few due to cellular death and division being an ongoing process. I had to give you a gentle tap for each, as I couldn¡¯t bother to use more than a finger to touch each millimeter of your skin. What I am trying to say is: I am not gay, despite being this handsome.¡± He then stopped his pacing, took a handkerchief out of the pockets of his jeans, spat on it and cleaned the pinky of his right hand using the other fingers of the aforementioned to move the piece of cloth. ¡°Does anyone have hand sanitizer? No? Barbarians.¡±

    Colinus disregarded his handicap and charged a last time, ready to hammer the head of the immortal with a haymaker. ¡°Die!¡±

    And this time, cutbastra didn¡¯t dodge. He didn¡¯t even move. The fist made contact, and, immediately, Colinus began wishing it hadn¡¯t. First his wrists and hand gave out. Then his elbow articulation, and the force of the impact against the immovable object kept travelling through his unprotected body as it twisted.

    With a bloodied, dislocated arm and throbbing pain coursing through his whole being. Colinus fell to the floor, screaming.

    He walked up to the defeated giant and sat by his side, putting Jagger on his lap as he casually addressed his opponent ¡°I think I am a fan of my zygomatic, answering the question about my favorite bone. My cheeks are so delicate and beloved by the mistresses, you know¡­ But that doesn¡¯t matter now that I get to keep all other bones intact too. So, do you give up?¡±

    ¡°No as long as I draw breath.¡± COlinus said, trying to scramble to his feet.

    ¡°Sure about that?¡± Cutbastra also stood, holding Jagger under his arm once more.

    ¡°Of course. Yet, I have to admit, I am beginning to feel a crawling warm on my chest as we fight, despite the struggle and the broken arm. It¡¯s as if facing you were to still my heart at any mome¡­¡± Then Colinus noticed he, indeed, had a newfound hole in his chest, and Cutbastra was holding his still beating heart aloft.

    ¡°Do you need it back?¡± Cutbastra asked, serviceably.

    Colinus¡¯ Goth-girl-thighs-pale head nodded.

    Cutbastra inserted the heart back into its place. Upside down, because he was no cardiologist.

    What followed, naturally, is that Colinus fucking died.

    <hr>

    [1]</a> The vital energy.

 Chapter 9: Amputated Komodo Dragon Spawn

    Kalon¡¯s shocked hands gripped intensely around Oracle. Kalon¡¯s face, however, hadn¡¯t gotten the memo yet: he was just waiting for Colinus to wake up.

    Oracle didn¡¯t think anything in particular of the situation, except how much he valued being able to strengthen his wormy body with Betel ¡ªThe Betel energy¡ª to not end up turned into mush by Kalon¡¯s grip.

    The elder pushed his way out of the crowd with surprising calm. ¡°You killed my son. Effortlessly.¡±

    Cutbastra pointed at Jagger, safe under his left arm,¡°I also did it while holding a fat Rottweiler puppy.¡±

    The elder raised a hand to let Cutbastra know it was enough. ¡°Do you mind if I let the townsfolk handle the¡­ fulfilment of whatever demands you have, tourist? My succession line has just gotten a bit¡­ ejem, abridged, and I need to make a new baby and sort things out, you know how it goes¡­¡±

    Cutbastra made the same gesture. ¡°Go, wise old man, and I apologize for killing your son. I did give him a chance to concede the match. May your next heir be a bit more intelligent.¡±

    Then, with a cold head unbecoming of a grieving father and his hands behind his back, the elder retired from the scene, backflipping over the still shocked audience. As soon as he was far enough, he broke into an ugly cry that no human in the village would hear.

    Jagger, however, did hear it. ¡°Ha! Pussy!¡± he mocked.

    ¡°Did you see a cat or something?¡± Cutbastra raised the puppy to eye level with both hands. Then he shook himself out of the digression. ¡°Doesn¡¯t matter, I have things to do. Go forth, go back to your owner. Make sure it lets Oracle go.¡±

    Jagger skittered away, towards Kalon, and headbutted his owner¡¯s shin.

    ¡°Jagger, you are whole,¡± Kalon said, throwing Oracle behind as if he was a banana peel. Oracle didn¡¯t scream as he turned through the air. He trusted gravity to be the only thing in this town that knew how to do its goddam job.

    ¡°Oh my god, did he knock him out?¡± Kalon finally uttered, garnering the stares of the whole town. A neighbor approached him and handed the boy a bag of sugar. He placed an understanding hand in Kalon¡¯s shoulder.

    ¡°It¡¯s time, laddie.¡±

    ¡°Time for what, Mr. Cobbleson?¡±

    ¡°Caramelize those floors of yours.¡±

    Kalon took the bag of sugar. It weighed a few billion times more than his brain (this is, about a kilogram and a half of honest-to-the-gods sucrose. White, sweet, cristaly. Do I seriously have to describe sugar to you? Do I? Fucking mental diabetic.)

    Ejem, sorry, harsh day at the narrator¡¯s union. Like, fuck you anyway, but sorry for not putting enough love into the fuck you.

    Where were we? Ah, yes, Kalon and sugar.

    Mr. Cobbleson patted Kalon on the shoulder and then used its own to open a way through the crowd. Cutbastra sat in a Buddha position as he waited for the attention to stop being hoarded by Kalon¡¯s stupidity.

    Oracle had begun his odyssey through the sea of feet to return with his friend. Feet stood all around, some with so many varicose veins one would think they had worms nesting inside. Granted, had they had worms, Oracle would have been feasting on them.

    Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

    Oracle gracefully slithered through the mob.

    ¡°A snake!¡± a mistress claimed.

    ¡°A caecilian!¡± another wronged out.

    ¡°An amputated komodo dragon spawn!¡± a man nonsensed.

    Oracle simply ignored them, both the screams and the stomps that tried to turn him into yet another component of the local soil. He tried not to look above, as some men and women of that mass of dumb and dumber were using skirts, and, when you are immortal, traumas last for a long, long time.

    As soon as he jumped back into his pocket-home, Cutbastra began talking.

    ¡°As you are aware.¡± He raised the bloodied hand and noticed the crimson stain. Ripping a heart out was a messy business. He created a piece of cloth out of Geuse ¡ªthe vital energy¡ª and diligently cleaned his heart-ripping instrument. Then, Cutbastra conjured a little bubble of iridescence in front of him, and, touching it with a finger, made the magical construct spit out a new bottle of his beauty elixir. He downed it in front of everyone. ¡°It¡¯s amazing, this thing. You should try it one day.¡±

    Seeing it was a clear liquid, Kalon raised a hand.

    ¡°Is it water?¡±

    Cutbastra was about to answer, but Oracle was faster: ¡°Yes, yes it is. Technically.¡±

    ¡°And what is it¡­ Practically,¡± asked Jagger, whose fear of death was as dysfunctional as many of Kalon¡¯s myelin sheaths.

    ¡°I didn¡¯t come here to be judged,¡± Cutbastra said, stashing the vial back into the shiny pocket dimension. ¡°I came here to kill children.¡±

    A gasp fell from the mouth of the most intelligent villager in the public and dominoed through the crowd, reaching Kalon last.

    Kalon picked up Jagger and brought the dog¡¯s ear close to his lips ¡°Why are we gasping?¡± he whispered in a whisper so whispery.

    ¡°The faster-than-the-eye-can-see guy said he came here to kill children.¡±

    Kalon puffed and laughed with confidence. ¡°That¡¯s silly, we don¡¯t have children. Only lots of particular childs.¡±

    ¡°Are puppies included in the mass killing, Sir Cutbastra?¡± Jagger asked, giving a begging puppy stare.

    Cutbastra began gesturing with his hands. ¡°I am ¡­ I am not that kind of guy. I am immortal, I need to commit only atrocities I can live with. I can help make more children but I cannot help make more puppies.¡±

    ¡°Intercourse!¡± Jagger cursed safe-for-workedly.

    ¡°I have all eternity but you don¡¯t, so let us be expeditious, Valelike Vale: I want you to bring me every child born in the last twelve years¡­¡±

    ¡°Which are the last twelve years? We have a lot of years in the calendar.¡± Argued the local timekeeping guy, a small, rotund man with glasses. He went by the name of Jagger.

    Cutbastra decided this was not a line of argumentation worth pursuing. ¡°Bring me any children that have not yet reached thirteen years of age, and whose names are Jagger. I shall send them with their god.¡±

    ¡°And what if the children are atheists?¡± Asked a mother that had so scant flesh on her bones that the boogeyman under her bed was a medical student in want for a bleached skeleton to study.

    ¡°We have¡­ physical¡­ smiting even¡­ proof that gods exist and meddle with us. Even then, as your putative child is clearly a result of a folic acid deficit, my master, who may rest in peace, once said that it would never matter if gods exist or not: the dead go with the gods all the same.¡±

    ¡°How so?¡± Kalon intelligented, making Jagger look up at him, searching for signs of a body snatcher taking possession of his owner.

    ¡°Well.¡± Cutbastra joined his hands and exhaled. ¡°If gods exist, so does the afterlife. If gods are myths, so are our loved ones after they part, deprived of an afterlife, of a soul. But I always countered this with a simple argument, you see¡­¡± he looked at the sky with certain melancholy. ¡°The existence of gods is no proof of an afterlife.¡±

    For a moment, Cutbastra wondered if killing all those children was right. Was his fear of death justification enough for such a vile act?

    He gave another sip to his elixir. It was salty and a bit bitter, but it made him remember there were things worth living for. Jade beauties, cucking morons, and yes, puppies. Puppies were okay. Were there puppies in the afterlife? What kind of? Sweater puppies? Was heaven just an infinite dimension of boobs without a body amalgamating with each other?

    ¡°I won¡¯t sleep tonight, Oracle.¡±

    Oracle thought Cutbastra was speaking about the upcoming child murder. No, he now feared being consumed by biblically accurate honhons if he closed his eyes.

    ¡°Bring me every last child called Jagger, or I shall raze the village to the ground.¡±

    ¡°We won¡¯t let you!¡± shouted an anonymous man from the crowd.

    ¡°After fucking everyone¡¯s wives!¡±

    The women cheered, but the man went at it again.

    ¡°We won¡¯t let you!¡±

    Cutbastra laughed maniacally. He knew he had the trump card now. ¡°And everyone¡¯s husbands!¡±

    ¡°We w¡­ will bring in the sacrifices.¡±

 Chapter 10: Culminos Family Curious Anatomy.

    When they brought out the first two children, Cutbastra frowned. Two was one more than the necessary. When they brought out the fourth and fifth, he licked his lips out of nervousness. By the time they brought out the tenth, he was looking at the younglings the way a dog looks at a vacuum cleaner. When the fifteenth child called Jagger came out, he looked around, trying to spot hidden magical mirrors. When the eighteenth, that was a girl, joined the veritable daycare in front of him, the immortal was shaking, his elixir of true beauty quivering in his hand as his eyelids and lips twitched. Cutbastra began hollering in horror when the twenty-second inbred abomination joined the ranks of sacrifices.  By the twenty-eighth, he had been toughened by experience, numbed down by it. He had drunk all his guilt and found out it wasn¡¯t alcohol free. He was casually sipping from the elixir as he spoke to the damned.

    ¡°¡­So, if you go to heaven, and I don¡¯t say you will, but if it exists, and if it has cocaine, try it: It¡¯s amazing and once you are dead, it has no negative side effects¡­¡±

    ¡°Cutbastra! They are children!¡± Oracle chided.

    ¡°Yeah, but they won¡¯t be for long,¡± Cutbastra said, and then broke into an ugly cry.

    Kalon, who was witnessing the scene, hidden¡ª in his mind, at least¡ª behind the immortal¡¯s back, readied Jagger (the puppy) to slap the immortal in the head. Again.

    Whomp! Jagger slammed against Cutbastra and he didn¡¯t even flinch. He turned with a soft smile and grabbed Kalon¡¯s forearm before he pulled back.

    ¡°Kalon, Kalon, dear, you need to put your wrist into it, you need more killing intent. You are using a weapon without sharpness, your personality needs to add all the edge.¡±

    ¡°Did you just call a dog a weapon, friend?¡± Oracle asked.

    Cutbastra¡¯s spirits suddenly crumpled down like a dog rehomed to a farm downstate. In the Mariana¡¯s trench, to be more specific.

    ¡°This place has broken me, Oracle. I begin to believe what can kill me is not a weapon, a deft hand or a secret technique, but their sheer, heaven defying stupidity,¡± he said with a gravity often unheard of in flat-earther circles.

    Whomp! Jagger¡¯s fat hit straight into Cutbastra¡¯s perfect cheek. ¡°Hey, hey, Kalon, could you hit my back? I need to release some stress and, you know, a massage could help me.¡±

    ¡°Much obliged, villain.¡± Kalon politely said, and then obeyed him who had just become his arch nemesis.

    ¡°A bit lower¡­ there,¡± he moaned after something cracked.

    Jagger (The one we almost care about, not the other forty that had gathered there so far) was whining. The crack hadn¡¯t come precisely from the immortal¡¯s back. ¡°Ah, so that¡¯s what the channels in equisetum are,¡± the Rottweiler suffered yet another botanical epiphany. At this rate, he would be getting a master¡¯s degree before Kalon took even his second step towards immortality.

    Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

    The next hit embedded Dragon Ball Gt¡¯s ¡°Sola nunca estar¨¢s¡± ending in Jagger¡¯s brain, revealing him the existence of Spanish, which caused him a migraine unrelated to being used as a beating stick. ¡°Loving heavens, what have these monsters done to the N letter? It has a cousin with a toupee!¡±

    ¡°Great, the puppy has lost it. The last trace of sanity in this village is gone," Oracle lamented.

    The servile wives brought the last batch of brats in front of the Cutbastra. The denuded tree felt particularly indecent and illegal, and tried to grow her leaves back faster. So many young eyes upon her delicate bark would earn her the axe if she didn¡¯t do anything to amend the situation.

    ¡°So, forty-seven children called Jagger, not one more?¡± Cutbastra asked.

    ¡°Not one less, either,¡± confirmed Oracle.

    ¡°Children!¡± Cutbastra addressed the crowd, and from toddlers to preteens everyone stopped weeping and turned to him in sepulchral silence. Simultaneously. The immortal was taken aback by the image of a horde of unblinking underage zombies. ¡° Could you, like, kill yourselves?¡±

    One of the Jaggers shrugged and broke his own neck without questioning. Not one turned his attention away from Cutbastra as that happened.

    Jagger the puppy barfed all over the immortal, and the barf turned back into little living chickens and sugar canes when touching his wondrous aura.

    ¡°What the fuck. That¡¯s a new one.¡± The immortal commented, picking up one of the little birds. ¡°People should barf on me more often.¡± Then, Cutbastra focused again on the silent, staring children. He took a pebble form the ground, and flicking it with a single finger, obliterated the heads of three preteens that were randomly, but fortuitously, aligned. Among a rain of gore and a suspiciously intact eyeball chaos ensued and the children tried to escape, only to be caught by horny housewives in want of a little favor from Cutbastra. ¡°That¡¯s it, mommies, give up your own children for some of this.¡± He gestured at his own body. ¡°Damn I am good. And sad. I just killed three children.¡±

    ¡°Consider that, as you are immortal, the amount of children you have killed per day lived will infinitely approach zero,¡± Oracle dispensed his skink wisdom.

    ¡°That¡¯s somehow even worse, their lives reduced to numbers.¡± he gestured with his open hand towards the gathered, struggling, scared children in front of him, rounded like sheep by sex-starved matures in their area.  ¡°Look at them, they¡­ What?¡±

    One of the beheaded children still stood, his hands looking for a head that wasn¡¯t there. He would have been coughing blood if he had retained, you know, the anatomical means to do so. Instead, it poured out his severed neck, staining his white robes.

    ¡°Oh, that¡¯s Culmino¡¯s brother. His family can live up to a bit more than a week without a head, which gives them the opportunity to mate, whatever that means.¡± Kalon began explaining, and the fear of death overtook Cutbastra¡¯s face.   ¡°They sort of¡­ run out of water and die afterwards.¡±

    ¡°Did you just thought?¡± Jagger the Rottweiler said, scared too, hanging from Kalon¡¯s iron grip.

    ¡°I learned that back in the day at school.¡±

    ¡°Back in the day when you went to school, you mean?¡± Cutbastra suggested, a flame of hope igniting in his heart. Perhaps the people of Valelike vale were just eccentric, after all.

    ¡°I¡­ I think he means he attended school a single day. Ever,¡± Jagger the puppy said.

    Kalon nodded effusively.

    The flame in Cutbastra¡¯s heart looked for the nearest water gun and committed suicide, leaving the whole place ashen and wet, even knowing they had hired no heart-janitor.

    The immortal grabbed a few more pebbles that lay at his feet. ¡°Fine, let¡¯s do this fast.¡±

 Chapter 11: Kalon Breaks Through.

    The murder took a second. Curtbastra¡¯s fingers were the fastest part of his body, not counting his charisma. Pebbles flew describing flaming arches, partly due to air friction, and partly because some had all the curves in the right place, for a pebble.

    Heads blew left and right. The pebbles seemed to be homing onto its targets, each one as small as a pea, but with the force to obliterate organic matter due, partly, to their infusion with Dand ¡ªTVE, and no, not meaning ¡°TV Espa?ola¡±. The girl called Jagger didn¡¯t fell when her head got blow off. She crossed her arms, as if offended, while walking over to her mother. Then, she pointed at the rotund, pink-cheeked, blood-and-brains-covered woman.

    ¡°Well, yes, I may have lied to you about who your father was.¡±

    ¡°¡­¡± The headless girl argued with utmost eloquence.

    ¡°You have no right to speak to me like that, insolent brat!¡± The mother instinctively slapped a cheek that wasn¡¯t there. The headless girl¡¯s neck spurted blood on her mother¡¯s face and then she went over to her beheaded relative. They began flirting in braille.

    ¡°Ah, young love is beautiful,¡± Cutbastra commented, seeing the two lovebirds make the best of the Jagger Genocide.

    Kalon put all of his killing intent, puppy intent, tax avoiding intent, and choccy milk drinking intent in a desperate strike against Cutbastra¡¯s back. In addition, he made most of his Ankok (Cultivator girl fuel) flow to Jagger.

    Feeling the hit, the immortal perked up. ¡°Oh, right there. That contracture has built tension for weeks.¡±

    Kalon, breathing heavily, fell to his knees, spent. Cutbastra turned to look at him and put his hand out just before Kalon¡¯s head hit the ground, saving him from a nasty hit against a rock. ¡°Careful there, Laddie.¡±

    Jagger, once again, crawled from below his owner.

    ¡°I have the feeling you are not so bad. Why are you killing all these children?¡± Jagger asked, turning his head.

    ¡°Prophecy-related self-defense. It¡¯s contemplated in the law of the land since Grulina v. Kormoro set the antecedent. If one or a certified oracle gets a heavens-certified vision of an event that results in one¡¯s death or severe injury, it¡¯s licit to undertake any actions deemed logical and necessary to avoid such future.¡± Cutbastra explained, almost robotically.

    ¡°I am a certified oracle,¡± added Oracle. ¡°Cutbastra can be killed by no man nor woman, but there are so many caveats to that statement that any time I get a vague vision about something able to kill him being born or spawned or called forth from the queer dimension, I urge him to act in his best interest.¡±

    ¡°The queer dimension?¡± Jagger asked.

    ¡°As in strange, not as in gay-related. Old-timey queer. No-homo queer,¡± Cutbastra clarified.

    While the immortals expounded on the queer dimension for the puppy to learn, Kalon¡¯s conscience was trapped deep in a place of its own. Amidst total darkness, a couple of mayonnaise (as in color, not made of eggs and oil) eyes opened.

    ¡°You are weak,¡± the presence stated, matter-of-factly.

    ¡°No, I am Kalon,¡± Kalon¡¯s conscience answered, taking form, shaping like his body to give him some sort of familiarity to grasp onto, even lost in that cranny of his psyche.

    This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

    ¡°Where are you?¡± Kalon asked, knowing very well that he was knocked out on the floor.

    ¡°I am inside your head.¡±

    ¡°You must be very small, then.¡±

    The presence rolled his eyes. ¡°I am inside your mind.¡±

    ¡°Even smaller!¡± Kalon¡¯s amazement was difficult to measure.

    The presence grunted in disgust and revealed the rest of its head. It was a relatively-person-sized, inexistent, fiery Rottweiler head.

    ¡°I am the personification of the Road you walk. Here, I¡¯ll throw you a bone.¡±

    A hospital-yellow window popped up in front of Kalon¡¯s embodiment.

    WOULD YOU LIKE A SYSTEM TO HELP YOU CULTIVATE?

    [YES] [NO]

    Kalon stared at the arcane sigils like a bull at an UFO casually abducting his favorite wife. What a conundrum. This could mean something, and there were a couple buttons with engravings there. He touched the one with the O, because shorter words were always a safer bet, or so his mom had preached for years on end, and because the O was less menacing than the Snake-shaped S.

    ¡°¡­ Hint taken: don¡¯t offer a system to illiterate fucks.¡±

    ¡°Guh, why do you torture me with written words.¡±

    An ethereal, bluish hand manifested by the side of the Rottweiler head, it was offering a bottle of aged whiskey. ¡°Avaunt, demon of my past, imp of the perverse vice! I am clean! I am clean!¡± He repeated as a mantra. After the hand disappeared, the avatar of the Road suspired. ¡°Well, Kalon, you are ready for a breakthrough anyway. Do you want power?¡±

    ¡°Political? No.¡±

    The hand manifested again, this time holding a revolver with a single bullet. Once away, the Rottweiler resisted its allure.

    ¡°Practical power. Punch-harder-power.¡±

    ¡°That would be useful, I reckon,¡± Kalon tried to appear intelligent.

    ¡°You cannot reckon anything, you bead-deprived abacus.¡±

    Kalon stepped forward and booped the avatar¡¯s nose. Moments later, he stared at the bloody stump that had sprouted in place of his wrist. A most strange experience.

    The avatar spat out the chewed and mushed up hand. ¡°It¡¯s just a spirit-representation hand, it will grow back.¡±

    ¡°I see. They also do in the real world, then?¡±

    The Avatar of the Road developed an eye tic so violent one could call it an eye thicc. ¡°Have the power and let me fall back into alcoholism to forget this interaction.¡±

    The avatar vanished in a poof, and so did the representation of Kalon.

    Cutbastra, whose attention was caught by the shining light suspended above somewhere nearby to the middle of the town, turned back to search for the source of the horrid flute music that now infected the atmosphere like a vicious nerve agent. It was Kalon, who had a subtle golden glow around him.

    Jagger and Brunhilda, who were happily lapping up tasty children remains, turned as the music grew stronger.

    ¡°Dear lords of heaven, the boy is main-charactering too hard,¡± Jagger growled before going back to his delicious, improvised raw meal.

    Kalon raised to his feet, falling into a standing position as he was wont to do. Without opening his eyes, he extended his hand, and Jagger felt his butt began to tingle. An external force pulled on his face, creased his skin towards his rear end as he held onto a child¡¯s cadaver and trashed to get a piece of meat off.

    Finally, Jagger let his meal go and flew back to Kalon¡¯s hand. Kalon raised his other arm and above him, a second Rottweiler puppy, thin and trembling, took form, brought to life by Kalon¡¯s Orohi (The vital energy).

    ¡°Cutbastra, you killed my peers. Prepare to¡ª¡±

    Cutbastra bitch-slapped Kalon, knocking him out, making the second Rottweiler disperse into thin air as it cried. It didn¡¯t want to die, but that was part and parcel of being a Karet (The vital energy) construct.

    ¡°I think we are done in this place, Oracle.¡±

    ¡°Was it necessary to knock Kalon out?¡± Jagger asked, once again having to crawl from below the unconscious form of his owner. It was becoming a routine.

    Cutbastra nodded. ¡°No. But it was an easy way to make him stop being stupid for a wee while.¡±

    ¡°Well, I bid you two farewell. I have tons of children innards to feast onto. Bye.¡±

    Cutbastra crouched and scratched Jagger¡¯s head. ¡°Goodbye, puppy! Hope I see you again!¡± Then he stood and addressed the mourning fathers and mothers that knelt next to the bodies of their beheaded children. ¡°It breaks my handsome heart to say goodbye, Valelike Valey. I¡¯ll see you in my dreams.¡±

    ¡°Heh, nightmares,¡± Oracle chuckled in a low voice.

    Cutbastra winked at the sky and a rainbow descended for him to step on it, because the sky was that kinky.

    ¡°Farewell, my lovely ladies and lads, I may return to fuck you all one day,¡° he saluted again, voice full of melodramatism, as he ascended the multicolored path.

    And that¡¯s how the Jaggercide concluded, leaving the only Jagger Cutbastra needed to worry about alive and well-fed.

 Chapter 12: Familiar Flamethrowers

    Crusadina had not paid attention to the slaughter outside. Enclosed in her room, she meditated, surrounded by her pink bed with covers depicting siege weapons, her girly mirror with a border carved like a trebuchet, her books about bringing down the walls of castles to bring down the walls of the heart of handsome princes¡ªIn a quite literal way: do you know what happens to a chest when it gets hit with a boulder that travelled several dozen meters through the air?¡ªand her catapult plushy with, you wouldn¡¯t believe this, a real stone.

    She felt the dense web of Eku (about which one does not joke about in presence of a prodigy such as Crusadina. (But it¡¯s still the vital energy)) pulsing inside her body, irrigating her every cell with the gifts of heaven. She could see every wall in existence, and was convinced that they needed to be brought down. She didn¡¯t want to unite the nations; she didn¡¯t want to change the nature of man. Her Road just had engendered a sort of pathological hatred for walls and that was it. Like, my dog hates squeaky toys, and Crusadina hated walls with the same passion.

    She showed her teeth. They were necessary to hold roofs and protect people from the elements, they were an evil that could never be eliminated without changing the rules of physics. But it was the same laws that commanded the winds and held walls up that powered her weapons.

    Crusadina opened her eyes, her battering-ram shaped pupils reduced to thin lines due to the brightness that intruded through the window. Sour tears welled in her eyes. ¡°Why are walls a thing?¡± she cried.

    Her spirit catapult appeared upon her shoulder, boring a hole in the roof because it was full sized. The siege weapon moved its arm as it ¡°spoke¡±. It really just made creaky hinge sounds, but Crusadina had learnt to listen.

    ¡°Crusy, dear, what bothers you now?¡± the catapult creaky-hinged in a motherly tone.

    ¡°The walls are inside me. In my abdominal cavity, in my anus, in my vagina. The walls are me, I am the walls,¡± She repeated, clawing her scalp with the catapult-free arm. ¡°I am the walls, Katie!¡±

    ¡°is it only human to be bound to walls, dear Crusadina, but you must push through. You are about to reach the Inner Parliamentary Ballista Monarchy cultivation stage. You cannot let the insecurities about your own body get in the way to mastering the Road of Siege.¡±

    ¡°Then I shall transcend my humanity, put down my walls, Katie. Do you think stuffing my cavities with ignited petards would help?¡±

    ¡°I think your flesh is past the point of being able to be damaged by mere firecrackers, dear.¡±

    ¡°Even the Grandma¡¯sHeartRender 3000? She asked, sniffing as the hope to blow her cursed innards up died slowly.

    ¡°As a siege weapon, I cannot talk ill of the Grandma¡¯sHeartRender 3000, for it should be considered a brother in disarms.¡±

    Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

    Crusadina raised an eyebrow. ¡°You mean in arms?¡±

    ¡°I know what I said.¡±

    ¡°Oh.¡± She said, and then came the realization of what it meant. ¡°Ahhh, you cheeky little overgrown slingshot.¡±

    ¡°I hate that sentence more than I hate mortar bricks.¡±

    ¡°How can I get rid of my walls, though? Am I condemned to have them forever inside me, where no ram can batter them?¡±

    ¡°If it makes you feel better, dear, plants have walls on every cell of their bodies.¡±

    Crusadina¡¯s face became a rictus of horror. ¡°I eat walls daily¡­¡± She said, looking at her hands as if they were stained in blood. Then, she dropped to her knees and coughed blood, her innards damaged by the sheer revulsion the idea of consuming the w-words caused on her.

    ¡°Use that hatred, Crusy dear, use that hatred for walls, direct it against the sinful plant kingdom!¡±

    She stood with difficulty, accidentally/fortuitously demolishing a wall of her room after hitting it with one of Katie¡¯s wheels. ¡°You are right. I must atone for eating walls¡­ by burning them all down.¡±

    She cleared her throat and called like the lady she was. ¡°Ma, can your princess borrow the Family Flamethrower to cultivate?¡±

    Her mother¡¯s galenite-smelling voice shot from the kitchen. ¡°Yes dear, but you will pay the fuel out of your allowance.¡±

    ¡°Thanks mom!¡± And then, she urged Katie to go back out inside of her mind so she could fit through the door, and rushed to get her delicate hands on the precious Family Flamethrower.

    <hr>

    Big Jay had dragged Kalon the Bootleg Mummy back to his abode, mainly so the carrion eaters (a motley group comprised of vultures, crows, seventeen local ravens that held some esoteric beliefs and only reproduced when one of the group died, Lulua the cannibal, Brunhilda, and the newest member, Jagger.) would peck or pluck out one of his eyes. And Kalon had a use for his eyes, as they allowed him to discriminate things that were good to hit with Jagger from things that weren¡¯t. It was in the best interest of the community to not let Kalon go blind.

    Brunhilda, upside down because the amount of human remains eaten caused her stomach to twist and she had to correct that mishap somehow to avoid a little contretemps with existence, squirmed along the floor, contorting her spine from side to side to advance with viper movements.

    Jagger breathed heavily. He lay on his side, eyes ajar, whistling sounds coming from his mouth. Like Brunhilda, he had consumed too much brain matter. Unlike Brunhilda, his life wasn¡¯t at risk. Maybe his colonic integrity would be later, though, but that was a problem for future Jagger.

    ¡°Tell the Grim Reaper that since they nationalized his service he doesn¡¯t come soon enough.¡± Jagger began falling into delirium and soon snapped out of it. ¡°No, wait, people still die properly, so death is just a poorly regulated private enterprise with a monopoly result of extensive lobbying. When zombies walk the earth, then we will know death is state-owned.¡±

    ¡°You sure talk a lot for a puppy in pain. Do you want painkillers, Jagger?¡± Big Jay offered.

    ¡° No, I must learn from this punishment.¡±

    Then a fart charged forth, out of Jagger¡¯s ass, and filled the place with the delectable perfume of a neglected cemetery.

    Brunhilda closed her eyes, tears rolling down her black forehead and into the floor. This was it. This was how she was going to die. Upside down, trying to fix a twisted stomach, asphyxiated by Jagger¡¯s biochemical warfare. She kicked a bit into the air, just to make sure she still had control of her limbs despite inhaling the Sulfur-rich atmosphere.

    Kalon kicked in his sleep, throwing Jagger out of the mattress, making him fall to the floor, with the resulting hit causing the heavy puppy release all the gasses built up inside his intestines. Big Jay pulled his strongest tobacco but, before igniting the pipe, considered that, maybe, that would cause them all to die in a fiery, and rather unamicable, explosion.  It would be a long day until Kalon woke up.

 Chapter 13: Whalesale Tales

    Kalon opened his eyes and felt himself falling. In fact, he did fall against the corner where the roof and wall met. Jagger stared from below, defeated by reality, taciturnly waiting for his owner to stop bending gravity due to his stupidity. Kalon woke up still groggy, walked along the wall, stepping on a picture of a fat king that Big Jay had bought for cheap to a traveling merchant, slipped on it, and fell, this time towards the opposite wall.

    ¡°Thank god nobody taught him about the other fundamental forces,¡± Big Jay muttered.

    Brunhilda had managed to perform the first successful act of conversion therapy in history, enacting it upon her gastrointestinal tract, setting her stomach straight as it should always have been.

    Kalon fell a last time, landing on his feet and upon the actual floor this time, finally behaving like an object with mass ought to.

    He immediately curled his fists and looked around, not taking in his surroundings because his mind was still too busy checking that the sphincters were held tight and the diaphragm working properly, as every time he woke up.

    Three seconds later, his minute mind decided to begin to process visual information. ¡°Where¡¯s Cutbastra? I shall take revenge for what he did!¡±

    ¡°He beat you in a single hit and left. Then I brought you here so the ravens wouldn¡¯t feast on you too.¡±

    Jagger stood frozen in place, and Kalon noticed, getting distracted from his newfound quest for revenge.

    ¡°Jagger, what happens?¡±

    ¡°It comes.¡± The puppy said, cryptically, looking at the window and wincing.

    Big Jay picked Jagger up like he was a grenade wose pin has been off a while, and cast the puppy straight out the window. Then, he ducked.

    A woman screamed, children bowled away in fear, and the local stoic spoke in a voice that revealed a vein of terror. ¡°How can a mortal puppy hold so much diarrhea inside?¡±

    Eventually, the last spurt of liquid shit propelled Jagger back through the window, sparing us from the description of the scene outside, which, to put it simply, was a browner and rape-less variant of the Grimdark genre.

    ¡°We avoided a disaster.¡± Big jay said, sliding the curtains to hide the nefarious sight. ¡°And Jagger somehow avoided staining himself."

    Jagger bowed curtly, cupping his ears. ¡°I have a lifetime of practice in the ancient art of shitting myself.¡±

    ¡°Well, Kalon, do you feel good enough to go home? You can¡¯t stay in the house of a random neighbor for long without your mother getting worried, you know?¡±

    ¡°I won¡¯t return home until I beat Cutbastra,¡± He boldly declared.

    Jagger felt a single tear rolling down his facial fur. ¡°Does that mean I am now the dog of a hobo? It¡¯s¡­ I am moving up in life.¡±

    ¡°No cultivator is a hobo!¡± Kalon contested.

    Big Jay clapped to garner the attention of the pair. ¡°in fact, many are. For example, let me tell you about this man I met in a bar, back in my days as a sailor.¡±

    ¡°Well, fat floats, it¡¯s no surprise you were a sailor,¡± said Jagger.

    The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

    ¡°Jagger, little thing, don¡¯t talk like that when you are one meal away from developing meridians.¡±

    ¡°Spiritual?¡± The dog asked.

    ¡°Geographical.¡±

    Kalon sat on the bed and then raised his hand ¡°How did you meet a guy in a bar? Bars are too thin. He had to sport a great balance to stand on it.¡±

    ¡°Bar is the given name of an establishment that sells depression and unwanted children and disguises it by posing as a dealer of spirits.¡± Big Jay finished his sentence and Kalon raised his hand again. ¡°Spirits means alcoholic drinks, not ghosts.¡± Big Jay explained before even hearing the question. Kalon lowered the hand. ¡°May I continue with the story?¡±

    Jagger sat down and nodded enthusiastically.

    ¡°This guy, much like me, was a young cultivator back then. Me, a smoking cultivator. He, a body cultivator.¡±

    ¡°So he grew in power by working out?¡± Kalon asked.

    Big Jay ignited his pipe and gave a long puff. ¡°Well, somewhat like that. Looting graves does require some heavy lifting, after all...¡±

    Jagger stared blankly at a wall. ¡°I think my erythrocytes went on a strike. Wait, no¡­ stroke, they went on a stroke.¡± However, this was a lie, because the blood inside the puppy was too dumbed down with cholesterol to unionize.

    ¡°May I go on?¡±

    Jagger fell on his side, rear leg twitching due to an excess of drama. Brunhilda dignified a few steps and graced him with a heavy paw to the head.

    ¡°Well. As I was saying, there was this body cultivator, and we had our differences. You know, we both followed this book series about campy girls with bouncy personalities. For me, the blonde was best girl. For him, it was the brunette.¡± he kept on reminiscing those horrid days were people he held dear dared to be wrong. ¡°Anyway, despite all the things wrong with him, we were good friends, but we had our fights.¡±

    ¡°What did you fight over?

    Big Jay leaned against the back of his chair and closed his eyes. Those were the golden years. ¡°A whale.¡±

    ¡°You fought for a whale?¡± Asked Jagger, incredulous.

    ¡°What¡¯s a whale?¡±

    Jagger thought about the most sensible explanation to give his clueless owner. ¡°A big fish that breathes air. They live in the ocean. The ocean is a gigantic lake that surrounds the continents. Continents are like big islands. Islands are like godly dumps amidst a river, but made of earth and sand and all things¡­¡± Jagger spun his forepaw in the air, looking for the right words. There were none ¡°¡­Landy.¡±

    The god of genealogy woke up from his nap in his cloudy bed in heaven and searched his back for a dagger, because he felt himself being backstabbed. Moments later, the words of Jagger resonated inside his mind. ¡°I regret saving that little treacherous pest!¡± he uttered, slamming his fist against his golden night table. ¡°Fish? How he dares call my whales fish? How he dares?!¡± Then he shrugged and got back to sleep, because he was not one to hold grudges.

    Back at Big Jay¡¯s house, Kalon was processing the words heard. Air-breathing-fish was a concept hard enough to grasp, but what the fuck was amidst. Probably a stupid mist. He felt proud of this deduction. Kalon you are a genius, girls will want to call the stork to bring you cabbages one day, you stud.

    Big Jay coughed a little and continued blessing the youngsters with his story. ¡°Well, no, we fought over a whale. The whole bar was, or probably still is, built upon the back of a massive blue whale and ¡ª ¡°

    Jagger raised a paw as a signal to either pause the narration or hail the local F¨¹hrer.

    ¡°Am I on drugs? Are you real?¡± Jagger asked.

    ¡°No. Yes,¡± Big Jay answered both questions in order

    ¡°Proceed.¡±

    ¡°As I said, the bar was atop a whale, and I found it while traveling through the mountainside, as a place of respite for tired mountaineers¡­ Yes, Jagger?¡±

    Jagger¡¯s paw was aloft once more. ¡°So the bar was in the mountainside. On top of a whale.¡±

    ¡°Yes, the rock had been carved to insert the whale and the bar on the face of the mountain.¡±

    ¡°Why was the bar on top of a whale?¡± Kalon, pressured by Jagger¡¯s active participation, formulated a randomly generated question that, for surprise of everybody present, made absolute sense.

    ¡°The owners knew sailors love to drink, and first thought about opening it on an island. But trade routes change with the come and go of seasons, epic cultivator battles ¡®over there where we will hurt nobody¡¯ and politics. This makes an island, being something immobile , a bad emplacement for a bar. But a whale? A whale can move!¡± Jay argued, shaking his finger.

    Jagger felt his brain about to drain through his ears. ¡°But you said they went and nailed the whale into a mountain.¡±

    ¡°Well, yes, but only because the cellar was getting all flooded when the whale decided to dive.¡±

    Then Brunhilda picked Jagger up from the lose skin of his neck and carried him to safety ¡ªsay what you want about her, she had that maternal instinct when a puppy needed to be preserved from her owner¡¯s tales.

 Chapter 14: Cutbastra Walks Into a Bar

    Cutbastra stood between two taverns. One of them smelled like rancid vomit, and the other like stale piss. If he walked a few more steps down the streets, there were another pair of taverns, facing each other, with the same broken windows and putrid wood planks and old creaky doors. If he walked up the street? Another two taverns, for this was BackKnife Town, the most grimdark place one could ever accidentally find, because nobody visited it willingly.

    Cutbastra entered the one bar whose name seemed not to imply imminent trouble: The Victimized Stoics.

    His cheery aura seemed to illuminate the place, making the gray hooded figures and the shitstain-brown-dressed thieves in the corners to contort in pain and run from such a source of beauty. He sashayed through the tables flaunting his ponytail to the unsightly patrons of such a decayed cantina.

    He approached the counter and held a stare with the barkeep, a hardworking man who had lost eyes on three different occasions and thus looked at him with a collection of deep sky-blue patches.

    ¡°You are a cute boy for someone who dares wiggle their sexy butt in here.¡± The bartender said, not winking under the patches.

    ¡°How can you see when you have lost both eyes?¡± Cutbastra asked, genuinely curious.

    ¡°Being blind doesn¡¯t pay the rent, princess.¡±

    Oracle popped out of the pocket to see where they were, smelled the odor of so many different bodily fluids the only way to describe it is segregated humanity, and returned to his safe space. ¡°Wake me up when we arrive to a place whose main export is legal, friend.¡±

    ¡°So¡­uh¡­ why are there so many bars here?¡±

    The barman spat on a tankard and began cleaning it, if only to set the atmosphere. ¡°Supply and demand, sir: this is a Grimdark town, we import bars and export capable men.¡±

    ¡°Capable? Are those though-looking guys back there mercenaries?¡± Cutbastra asked, smiling innocently. Maybe some of them had killed children and could help him share his sorrow, help find a way to cope.

    ¡°Well, not exactly. Some do mercenary work as a hobby. But, to exemplify what I meant by capable men, look at that table over there.¡± The bartender pointed precisely at the center of a table where three bulky, roughed up, men with matted hair sat at, the smallest of them was blonde, the biggest brunette, and the middle one bald. ¡°That flea over there? He¡¯s Johnny, Local Morning Rapist. To his left, the bald one, Sereno, Local Evening Rapist; and to his right, Prick, Local Nighttime Rapist.¡±

    Cutbastra remained in silence. ¡°Is that some sort of slang for rapeseed farmers?¡±

    The bartender left the tankard to a side and raised his hands trying to dispel the misconception. ¡°No sir, honest to the gods sexual predators.¡±

    Cutbastra turned to look at them briefly, and Prick winked at him. He straightened his head and looked back at the bartender. Why was he scared? He was stronger than anyone there. He could kill them before they even blinked. Then why, why did his lips tremble.

    ¡°Pour me a drink, bartender, I have currencies from all over the world in my pocket dimension. Name one you accept and I shall pay with it.¡± Cutbastra felt the cold kiss of metal in his neck. Several times. The sole mention of coin had manifested eight different armed robbers, and five pickpockets (One of them a pickpocketienne) out of thin air. Cutbastra¡¯s neck was environed in different daggers, of steel and bronze, rusted or not.

    Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.

    ¡°Listen, gentlemen and lady: I am an immortal, your weapons cannot hurt me. So, please, desist of this bother before I rip your dicks out and make a bouquet out of them.¡±

    ¡°What of me?¡± asked the masked woman.

    ¡°Fallopian tubes, dear, make perfect bows for a cock bouquet.¡± Cutbastra smiled softly.

    One of the thieves pressed the dagger further into the immortal¡¯s flesh, or at least tried to, until the metal gave in and the point of the blade broke, shooting through the air, landing on the back of a fellow patron that, for the thief¡¯s fortune, had just been murdered moments prior.

    ¡°Dude! That was my working tool!¡± The thief complained. ¡°I am going to sue!¡±

    ¡°Yeah, foreigner, not fucking cool, Liberto has a family to feed,¡± another chided.

    ¡°Yeah, do you have an idea of how many children I have?¡±

    ¡°Orphans, if you keep bothering me,¡± Cutbastra said with a killing glare, and one of the thieves, the weakest of the bunch, fell victim to it, grabbing his chest while grimacing from pain, just to then fall as he died from a heart attack.

    ¡°Well, to admit it, neither do I have idea of how many children I have¡± Liberto admitted and began walking away. The rest of the group followed, insulting Cutbastra¡¯s insensitiveness the whole time, not caring about their dead member.

    ¡°Tell me about the rest of the patrons, what about that table?¡± Cutbastra pointed at a table where a tall, short haired woman in leather armor was talking to a man who had decided ¡®perfectly square¡¯ was the ultimate male body shape.

    ¡°That¡¯s Tilko, Local Rapist with Dwarfism, and the woman is Jaidana, Local Female Rapist.¡±

    Cutbastra, in a desperate attempt to find humanity in that den of disgrace, pointed at another table. ¡°No names, just occupations. I can find out names myself.¡±

    ¡°Local Sleepy Rapist, Local Weekend rapist, and Local Unionized Rapist.¡±

    And he pointed at another table, and there were the Local Pool-table-cleaning Rapist, Local Blacksmith Rapist (he had the workshop inside another tavern), and Local Weekday Rapist.

    ¡°Is there anyone here in this bar that isn¡¯t a rapist?¡±

    The bartender pointed a table where three men in suits stared fixedly at a coffee cup placed in the center of the table. ¡°Those are known as the Victimized Stoics, the establishment namesakes. They compete to see which one stands getting raped more times a week without breaking.¡±

    ¡°Excuse me?¡± Cutbastra asked, eyes and fingers twitching. ¡°They do what?¡±

    ¡°Yeah, not your kind of people, then?¡± The bartender then pointed at a lonely, lanky man that quivered alone in a corner. ¡°That one surely ain¡¯t a rapist, maybe you can meet him. Of course, I am not, either: no time to commit heinous crimes when you are a bartender.¡±

    Cutbastra asked for two drinks, specifically the ones whose taste was the furthest away from deer piss ¡ªwhich wasn¡¯t much different from drinking urine, not in a grimdark town¡ª and advanced towards the little, scared figure.

    ¡°Hello, wanna have a drink and talk a bit?¡±

    ¡°Will you drug me and rob me?¡± he asked, dejectedly. It was clear this poor man, only in his 20¡¯s, had suffered more than many.

    ¡°No.¡± Cutbastra said, laughing.

    The man began sniffing and unbuckling his belt.

    ¡°Woah woah woah! I am not like them; I am foreigner in search of peace of mind.¡±

    The man buckled his belt back up. ¡°Fine, I believe you. Worst case scenario, you are like them and the result is the same as always. Why are you searching for peace of mind?¡±

    ¡°I did something horrible in self-defense. Caused the death of many innocents in the process.¡±

    ¡°Having a consciousness won¡¯t help you in this town, buddy. But I am glad I am not the last good person around. ¡°

    Cutbastra passed the man a bubbling drink and, leaving the other upon the table, shook the man¡¯s hand.

    ¡°Name¡¯s Cutbastra. Pleased to meet you, Mister¡­¡±

    ¡°An exotic name, Cutbastra,¡± said the man, smiling for the first time in a long, long while. ¡°Call me Local.¡±

    <hr>

    ¡°So¡­ did you plan on burning a whole town after finding out the name of the only good man in it, or was it all just improvisation?¡± Oracle joked as he and Cutbastra watched the lazy flames sway and lick about the valley down below.

    ¡°I burned no town, as I never visited a place called Backnife, because it doesn¡¯t exist, and whoever puts it on a map is on my hit list, Oracle.¡± Cutbastra said, left eye still twitching.

 Chapter 15: Of Roads and Where They Lead to

    It wasn¡¯t a pleasure to whomp! It wasn¡¯t a special pleasure to see oneself beaten, to see one¡¯s puppyflesh blackened and changed. But this time Jagger wasn¡¯t the only one colliding against the practice doll. The other Rottweiler puppy, the one made from vital energy, was also getting used by Kalon as a sort of improvised club. Jagger wondered if the other felt pain.

    The other, called Burio, actually enjoyed the pain, because it meant he was alive again. It was Burio¡¯s purpose to be a weapon, to splinter training dolls and remain unblemished while doing so.

    Kalon was picking up certain deftness with his weapups. His hits had more rhythm with each passing cycle, a greater accuracy. They had begun hitting where they needed to when they needed to. Sometimes. Almost never.

    But, slowly, he was getting there. Even meriting a single glance and nod from the village Elder.

    Eventually, an idea sprouted inside Kalon¡¯s mind, and began crying because she was going to die there, all alone. The idea, however, got picked up by some sort of discriminating process that wasn¡¯t exactly sure what it was dealing with. The idea-organizing-process shirked its responsibility and categorized it as a memory of an egg, and, all of a sudden, Kalon spouted out the following words:

    ¡°We can hit this using Burio as an egg!¡±

    Jagger began to whine like a scared puppy. This was due to a couple of reasons. Chiefly, it pertained to the ontological one: Jagger was a scared puppy.

    Burio was elated. He was going to be crushed, reduced to a broken mess of cracked bones and dog white and dog yolk. To die was addicting, to be a weapon was what life was about.

    I, personally, began to believe Burio was not exactly well in the head. I meddled inside his skull and in found everything in order: It was just as stupid as the soul from which he had been born forth.

    Kalon placed Jagger to a side. ¡°Stay,¡± he told him.

    ¡°Try to boss me around again and I will recite the alphabet.¡± Jagger threatened, and began making his way to a nearby ditch to drink some stagnant water. The mosquito larvae added the protein boost he needed after such a thorough beating.

    Kalon, not hearing what his real puppy had said, was raising the Mil(the vital energy)-made puppy, holding it with both hands, at the ready to slam it against the head of the practice doll.

    ¡°Do it, do it, do it!¡± Burio chanted, anxious for getting the snot beaten out of him.

    Infused with extra Anga (the delicious vital energy) Burio descended upon the practice doll with the fury of a lignophobic axe.

    Jagger paid no mind to the marvelous transformation of Burio into a bloodied rag somewhat shaped like a dog. He was too busy taking small sips of the ditch¡¯s water and moving it all over his tongue and teeth. ¡°Definitively, this is a last-week¡¯s-rain harvest, the mosquitos are most likely Aedes borgesi, known for living in infinite libraries and behaving uncountably. There are some earthy notes¡­ Probably a result of that bloated, dead blue frog floating right there. All around, this swampy water could have a little more heart put into it, both in a figurative and literal sense, but it for sure is no amateur work. Cheers.¡± He concluded his tasting with this bittersweet verdict. When it came to being a stagnant water sommelier, Jagger was unparalleled.

    The puppy detected an alarming smell coming down from the mountain, and turned to look at the source of it. ¡°I think there is a bright spot right there,¡± he commented, exerting his eyesight to its limits. ¡°Hey Kalon, is that a forest fire?¡± He asked, pointing at the fiery burning spot in the face of the mountain.

    The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

    Kalon stopped beating the happily panting, bone-mushed Burio and rubbed his eyes. ¡°Gods, the trees are cooking their own! Let¡¯s warn the elder. ¡±Then, Kalon cupped his hands in front of his bullshitting box. ¡°Elder! Fire in the mountain.¡±

    The elder closed his issue of Culito-vator¡¯s Magazine (Which he read in broad daylight, because most people in Valelike Vale were so awestruck by the fact that he could read that failed to notice the detail that the respected elder was consuming porn), stood from the rock he was sitting on, and dignified a stare towards the mountain face. He yawned. ¡°Yeah, shit¡¯s ablaze. If the village starts burning, I¡¯ll have a little chat with the fire,¡± he dismissed the issue and went back to admiring Li-Luan¡¯s curves.

    ¡°The elder has it covered, Jagger,¡± Kalon informed, giving his friend a thumbs up.

    Jagger stared at the mosquito larvae in the pool before him. ¡°I envy you, motherfuckers,¡± he lamented before inhaling a supposed last time and dunking his head into the ditch. Maybe this was it. A chance to escape life. To escape Kalon.

    Sadly, the instinct to pull the head out and breath was stronger than him.

    <hr>

    Burning wood cracked all around, pernicious walls breaking down under the weight of purification. Crusadina played the flamethrower as other young delinquents would an electric guitar: carelessly, with a rhythm that obeyed solely her deep desire for destruction. Of walls.

    She laughed like the cutest of maniacs and satisfied her inner catapult by bringing down the limits of xylem, phloem, cork, procambiums, meristems and varieties of parenchyma alike with her tool of flaming justice. How dared they? Plant cells, to erect walls in her presence. Photosynthesis was all good and dandy, but not in those conditions. Done by soft cells adrift on the surface of a lake, that¡¯s how oxygenic photosynthesis had to be made. None of that multicellular, or even vascular haughtiness.

    And the critters who got caught by the lashing tongues of flame her quest for a world without walls had spawned? They had walls inside them. They, too, were contaminated. Down to the bacteria that inhabited the compost under her feet, life all around had evolved walls. It wasn¡¯t DNA that needed life to spread, no, it was her lethal enemy. DNA was just another tool of walls to reproduce.

    And what if, she thought, a wall was made of wood because she neglected to burn a tree? A wall made of walls, a wall squared, even if it was given a round shape. That would be disgraceful, sinful even.

    But once things burned¡­ then they had no walls. Ashes were like liquid, they conformed to the recipient they occupied. Sometimes, volcanic ashes lithified, and that was a reason to investigate them, but she lacked the power structure needed to enforce anti-wall fascism. But, was it fascism? No, Fascism was not this fair, Fascism allowed walls to exist, and even encouraged its existence. This had to be a new sort of political organization, neither left nor right leaning, because both of them were allies of Big Construction, and allowed the erection and survival of walls.

    Democracy? No, she quickly discarded it. Democracy gave people the vote, and the vote required elections. Elections required ballots, and ballots implied dark rooms. And what were rooms made of? Walls. And inside the voters? Walls, too. Giving vote to the people was giving the vote to the enemy. Perfidious walls were at the very core of democracy, corrupting it beyond salvation.

    She needed to minimize the influence of walls in politics. Totalitarianism with a wall-hater as the head was the only way. And who better than her to hate walls with her whole being? Only she would take decisions. She, that even tainted could see the truth; she, that wasn¡¯t the perfect being yet, but strived for it; she, that would lead the world towards a perfect reality where the wall-less earth was covered by a lone syncytial entity.

    She manifested her catapults and made them load trees and bushes ablaze on their buckets, to then fire the payloads towards still-green regions of the mountain. This wildfire would spread like a plague of justice, a first step in her realization of paradise.

    She walked proudly through the scorching inferno, her Pomb (The vital energy) creating a thick, fflowing layer of protection to preserve the young cultivator. Katie rolled behind her.

    ¡°Don¡¯t you think you are taking this a bit too far, dear?¡± Katie asked.

    ¡°Do the walls bribed you too, Katie? Do you side with them now?¡± Crusadina turned with silent rage, the battering rams in her eyes desirous to pummel her adversaries.

    ¡°I just think Moderation may be the way, dear. One step at a time.¡±

    ¡°The enemy is everywhere, Katie. Walls won¡¯t be moderate with us. We have a duty to strike while we have the upper hand.¡±

    Crusadina smirked when she heard another burning mass being launched towards greener pastures. ¡°We shall burn the world, Katie. Release it from the Tyranny of Walls,¡± she declared, and then began laughing like the righteous brat she was.

 Chapter 16: Crusadina Gives the Elder Some Coal for Being a Bad Boy

    It was the fire¡¯s prerogative to try and consume everything it touched, for fire cannot get diabetes (Ugah Caveborn, 31897 Before Cutbastra (9 After Dogmestication (65920241 after Tulio the Depressed Tyrannosaurus rex))] [I ran out of parentheses] nor suffers from obesity. I would know: in this house we tried fat-shaming fire. We lost our dinner anyway. Most of the trees of the forest were pretty vexed for the horrible death they had been delivered, except for one that grew in the center of a clearing that had been created because the other plants were horrified of its kinks.

    The fire advanced towards the caramelized roofs with unchecked greed, burning everything in its wake because, uh¡­ it was fire. Fire. It does that. Burns shit to make more fire. It¡¯s like a living being without all the disgusting things that make living beings a sort of fire in slow-mo. Why is life a thing? We have fire. We even have a species known for going out of its way to make fire. Which leads me to the conclusion that life is but fire conspiring to reproduce without depending on thunderstorms.

    The elder caressed his long beard as he stood in front of the raging inferno, a thick coat of kerosene that suffered from dissociative personality disorders protecting him from the flames. I wonder if I can burn this thing. Burnt hair emanates a terrible stench, though. I need a load of some of those new flus or colds to take away my sense of smell in an art of mercy. Tomorrow I am volunteering at the sick bay. Maybe bedding some sexy patient and¡­ my sleeve has caught fire.

    He disembarrassed himself from his kerosene trench coat and let it burn. Poor thing had finally learned the meaning of hydrocarbons. Outlived its usefulness. The shorts made a terrible job of covering his toned torso and abdomen, if only because the elder was a man that one would never caught wearing his pants anywhere but around his legs and waist.

    ¡°Fire, turn around and leave this village alone,¡± the elder ordered in his somewhat authoritative voice.

    ¡°Scald you,¡± The fire sizzled with emotion.

    What were a few burnt houses anyway. ¡°Well, tell me who or what gave you birth, then. I need to beat the sense into him, her or it.¡±

    ¡°Flares of slightly old,¡± the fire answered, proud of its heritage.

    The Elder joined his hands. Inhaled deeply. Then exhaled. ¡°Who, or what, birth forth those flares that parented you?¡±

    ¡°Flames of less-slightly old,¡± the fire crepitated smugly.

    The elder made his hand into a flat surface and slapped the fire where he assumed the flame¡¯s face would be. ¡°Listen here, you ember-shitter, I, Elder Nosirio, hold in my hands the power to extinguish you and all your family. My neglected skin has run out of fucks to give, it won¡¯t blister under your lick. My kerosene is as inbred as my great-grandchildren-grandchildren-children, so it barely knows how to catch fire.¡±

    ¡°Insolent primate! my siblings will consume even the lake¡¯s waters!¡±

    ¡°Yes, that water is so full of my descendant¡¯s piss and poop it may be wishing for a mercy killing.¡±

    Then, the elder watched a flaming, angel winged catapult casually flying overhead, perhaps migrating to the north in search of colder climates.

    ¡°Can you wait here and not burn anything while I ask around about that.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s not really part of my nature¡­¡± the fire crackled, its tone hot and avoidant of the issue at flame.

    ¡°If I cared about nature, I would be worried about the forest around us, don¡¯t you think?¡±

    ¡°No, I am fire, I don¡¯t even talk.¡±

    The elder took his bottle of Kerosene out and gave it a long, invading stare. ¡°must be expired.¡±

    Then the elder backflipped out of the scene, and the flames gloated. ¡°Ha, got him!¡±

    <hr>

    The door was particularly noisy today, or so Crusadina¡¯s mother thought. Maybe a couple shots would calm the rapping down, as they often did. But then followed the cultivator¡¯s girl¡¯s screams and Crusadina¡¯s complaints about her shooting all of her friends. It wasn¡¯t her fault the children weren¡¯t bulletproof, but the insolent brat would never listen, and, to make the matter worse, her father would side with her little demolitionist princess. Besides, the door was quality oak, a material hard to get in the vale. It would be a shame to get more bullet holes in it, it had a cute prime number of them that doubled as improvised peepholes.

    This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

    ¡°Polvorina, open the door! I am Nosirio!¡± The elder authorited from the other side of the Americanized oak.

    ¡°What do you want now, sexy old rascal?¡± she rebelled from her comfy arm chair.

    ¡°I need information about Crusadina¡¯s period. She is burning down the forest.¡±

    ¡°She menstruated a week ago!¡± She responded so casually.

    The elder took a finger to his chin and pondered. ¡°So this isn¡¯t a mythic menstrual cramp.¡± He then rapped on the door again. ¡°Thank you, dear.¡±

    ¡°No, problem, sweet mantits!¡±

    Then, the elder frontflipped towards the forest.

    <hr>

    To say Crusadina sang happily as she pulled the flamethrower¡¯s trigger would be an understatement. ¡°I am a burny girl, in a burning world. Blazing old teaks is fantastic¡­¡±

    The elder landed in front of her as she was about to read a sapling its rights, elevating sooth and embers around him. He wore a frown 1,04 Crusadinas over his heart- patterned boxers.

    ¡°Hello Venerated Elder! I am cultivating.¡± Crusadina said, hiding the flamethrower that was about her size behind her back.

    ¡°You are setting fire to the forest. This forest is property of every inhabitant of Valelike Vale, Crusadina,¡± the elder scolded her, shaking a long skeletal finger that didn¡¯t fit with a body so ripped.

    ¡°I follow the road of the tragedy of the commons,¡± Crusadina lied as naturally as she tried not to breath in the smoke-laden atmosphere.

    The Elder crouched to stare her into the flicking nostrils, and then faster than the resident lightning bolt, he grabbed one of Crusadina¡¯s ears. ¡°You are coming with me, brat. We will give you a slight punishment.¡±

    Crusadina was about to begin crying and apologizing, but then rage overtook her. They were with the walls. The people she loved, they had been turned into dirty wallites. She showed her teeth and pumped her Erito (the Vital Energy) towards her arms, and then to the muscles of her arms and legs. She grabbed the Elder¡¯s wrist and launched him in an arc over her head. The Elder didn¡¯t let Crusadina¡¯s ear go, so they both flew forward and impacted a carbonized sequoia that had picked the wrong place and time to go on vacations.

    He let go to try and cover his face from the impact, and both cultivators ended up buried in the rubble, among the charred remains of the mighty vegetal tourist.

    They both rose unharmed, and dusted off their clothes and bodies. The Elder conjured a shining, slick plate armor made of Kerosene. It covered everything but his head.

    ¡°You are coming back to the village for a punishment, Crusadina. Either conscious or¡­ knocked out,¡± the elder began advancing with sure step.

    Crusadina gasped, horrified.

    ¡°I said out. Out. What kind of degenerate you take me for?¡±

    The smile returned to the girl¡¯s face. She picked up a piece of charcoal and retracted her arm as if she were about to throw a ball. ¡°Mankind¡¯s first siege weapons were our very hands.¡± Her Liop (the vital energy) flowed, shining sky blue around her, forming tendrils of power.

    The elder felt the spiritual pressure and stopped his advance, taken aback by the sheer power of the girl. ¡°You brat¡­ You reached immortality already?¡±

    Crusadina buried her feet into the debris, her eyes ablaze with the will of the millions of microscopic trebuchets that now covered her skin, forming a scaled plate. ¡°And when you demolish a castle, there are no warning shots. Be thankful you aren¡¯t a castle.¡±

    The elder couldn¡¯t see when she launched the piece of charcoal, but he got knocked down by the gust of ignited air it sparked. The burning forest had become a smoking clearing in a fraction of a second. He had been deafened by the boom, disoriented, and Crusadina still stood untouched, closing and opening the fingers of her hand in awe.

    ¡°So this is it, the power of the Totalitarian Siege Tower Dictatorship stage! Katie, I am awesome!¡±

    Katie manifested by Crusadina¡¯s side, giving a long, eyeless stare at the felled and scared Elder.

    ¡°I believe gramps deserves to meet a merciful end.¡±

    Crusadina picked another piece of charcoal.

    The elder began to cry, and let his armor get undone. ¡°I surrender, child. Have pity of this old man!¡±

    He crawled to the girl¡¯s feet and kowtowed, blackening his forehead with the coal under their feet. ¡°This one begs forgiveness for his insolence.¡±

    ¡°This one has cooties,¡± the girl sentenced, and raised her leg, manifesting a ghost of a battering ram around it, facing downwards. From this position, she brought down a kick upon the elder¡¯s back, crushing vertebrae, ribs, lungs and heart, splattering pitch black and oily blood upon herself and her ashen surroundings, putting a pathetic end to the man¡¯s life.

    ¡°Holy sexual fornication, I killed him!¡± the girl almost panicked. ¡°Katie, I liveoffed the elder!¡±

    ¡°You brought down his walls, Crusiecrus,¡± Katie said, in a motherly and catapulty tone.

    Crusadina smiled and began laughing coyly. ¡°I did¡­ I released him from the walls inside him. My feet can stomp any wall, Katie.¡±

    ¡°yes they can, dear, let¡¯s go somewhere else, more important than the walls mad ethe nature, are those erected by men. They shall fall down first.¡±

    Crusadina nodded and summoned the winged Catapult, to then jump on the construct¡¯s frame and hug one of the wooden beams that constituted it. ¡°Now, fly slowly and low: I fear heights, Pultiana.¡±

    As a last act of debasement, as soon as the catapult took flight, Crusadina¡¯s stomach content exploded forth, landing upon the dead elder.

    ¡°Slower! Slower!¡± she begged her flying catapult as they left the smoking clearing.

 Chapter 17: Cutbastra and more Bars

    Ald pushed through the benighted jungle, engraved sword grasped tightly in his right hand, hope in the other, wishing for the respite a clearing of shining moonlight would provide. The eyes that made them present in the murk could be of beasts, of misshapen, of¡­

    What the fuck are you doing in my office? You, the narrator of If Our Rains Never return.

    My office got turned upside down when the narrator of Godclads came in to¡­ loan a masterwork¡¯s concept. He left a note.

    ¡°Where is the seafoam power armor?¡± Uh¡­ yeah, that may be my fault. Now get out, I need to narrate about a troglodyte hitting his opponents with puppies.

    Not all is a disgrace, though, I stole this from his office in the meantime. Maybe you can use it.

    ¡°Reincarnated as the Demon Lord¡¯s Buttcheek: Outline.¡± This is¡­ I don¡¯t need this! I will have my reincarnators be the Vampire lord¡¯s scrotum! Anyway, get out of here, shoo!

    Fine, you handle the angry followers of the story about Felsia¡¯s tragic fall.

    Yes, I will handle all the four of them, now go away. Let me write this crime against common sense.

    <hr>

    Cutbastra walked into a bar, noticed it was full of the kind of beings he didn¡¯t fuck around with (The G-words, if you know what i meant), and then walked out of the bar.

    Then, after a leisurely stroll through a rural town of stained white sheep and wooden structures, he walked into another bar. There was a sort of path carved between the tables, right to the counter. One could notice a slight wear on the tiles of the floor, a subtle carving done by a thousand feet coming and going. Cutbastra glanced at the patrons of heavy laughter and lost stares. Those were old time patrons, they had entered a sort of symbiotic relationship with their chairs and tables, where the former had adapted their shapes to perfectly fit the particular ass that sat on them, and the later had developed strategically placed, dark markings that resembled the stains left by the fall of the condensation formed on the glass of the pints. This evoilution, however, wasn¡¯t one sided: the patrons had evolved their own lexicon to minimize the energy expenditure asking the owner for another drink.

    A man groaned, and, immediately, a maid dressed as a catfemboy dressed as a maid dressed as a human femboy from hooters that didn¡¯t wear the official uniform and was instead dressed as a Japanese maid dressed as a housewife that, coincidentally, wore the boob-windowed attire of a maid, served him a cup of steaming black coffee.

    Cutbastra made a mental note to ask the maid if she had a husband. To hang out with, obviously.

    When he was in front of the barman, a sir as rounded as a barrel and about as fond of metal hoops, so much that he wore some of them around his wrists, Cutbastra spoke with his friendly and carefree tone. ¡°Can you, handsome, explain to me why you have a bar full of geese in this town?¡±

    ¡°It used to be my bar, until the geese decided it would not be mine anymore. They are vicious, a veritable feathery mafia. They honk and bite and honk and flap and honk and charge and honk¡­¡± The man kept on going for a while before slapping his own face. ¡°Sorry, even after 30 years, the memory of that fatefowl day honks¡­ haunts me.¡±

    A chair broke under the weight of his occupant, making the man fall on his back, bounce around the place a bit, knocking a painting and hitting the maid in the shoulder ¡ªact that she didn¡¯t mind and mad her spill no drop of the milk she was serving another patron¡ª before he ended up standing in front of the counter. Then he raised a finger, and the barman swiftly poured him a couple more tankards of beer. By the time he walked away, the chair had rebuilt herself.

    ¡°Okay, friendly people here, it seems. What¡¯s the catch?¡±

    The Barman reached under the counter and pulled out a half-meter long pejerrey whose smell made Cutbastra grimace. ¡°Fresh, caught just last week.¡± The barman stated proudly.

    ¡°I meant¡­ what¡¯s the deal with these people. Do you have a hidden circle of cultists in the cellar?¡±

    Stolen story; please report.

    ¡°Not last I checked, sir,¡± he said, happily returning the fish to its spot under the counter.

    ¡°Do you sacrifice virgins to some bloodlust-driven deity?¡±

    ¡°Only when the geese demand it,¡± he said, somberly, picking the fish back up to wipe his tears of impotence. Cutbastra was invaded by thoughts about fulminating conjunctivitis.

    He turned and applauded to garner the attention of their patrons.

    ¡°Everybody, answer a single question: Do any of you beat your wives?¡±

    Every man in the bar shook their heads. Some seemingly offended.

    A scrawny redhead with a dense beard spoke. ¡°What do you take me for a savage? I don¡¯t beat my wife. I beat Johano¡¯s wife.¡± He pointed at the man a few tables away.

    ¡°Yes, and I in turn beat Gormulo¡¯s wife to instill fear of the husband¡¯s friends into her. I am a good husband to mine, as I should. ¡°

    Gormulo, a man with a back as wide as a Labrador is long, stood and added: ¡°I beat a different neighbor¡¯s wife every day of the week as part of my training routine. See these gains?¡± He pointed at his bicep with a fingergun. ¡°Pure protein shakes and gendered violence. Plus, I give a valuable service to the community.¡±

    These people were irredeemable. ¡°Fine, I will search for a more civilized place to drown my sorrows¡­¡± Cutbastra sighed, and then stormed out of the bar.

    <hr>

    ¡°Guh! The forest, it¡¯s even more afired! We should help!¡± Kalon pointed towards the burning trees with an exaggerated gesture, extending his whole arm.

    Jagger, under his owner¡¯s armpit, stared up at him. ¡°We have been watching the fire grow for an hour, condemning my lungs to become blackened wrinkled things due to inhaling this toxic smoke, and this idea just crossed your mind?¡±

    ¡°The elder is taking too long to handle it, this had never happened!¡±

    Kalon began running parallel to the forest, so as to respect the Roadlike road¡¯s numbering and not, as he thought, perform the impossible act of teleportation at an intersection. He rushed through the loops and twists fo the road, stepping with determination over cobblestones and dirt. He was faster than last time, stronger. He would reach the mountain foot in time to help, yes!

    And then, his plans got obliterated when he noticed a black and orange shape sleeping in the middle of the road, unwilling to budge, to let him pass over her snoring form.

    Kalon grabbed Jagger from the puppy¡¯s tail, using it as a handle.

    Jagger, in turn, began farting, a feeble attempt to get free. ¡°I am in need of your power, irritable colon,¡± he prayed in vain as only gas kept pouring out of the puppy. ¡°Yes, okay, forsake me as you forsake my gut flora. I am cancermaxxing starting tomorrow.¡±

    Kalon manifested an anxious, yet happy burio in his hand, dual wielding Rottweiler puppies as he advanced towards his sworn enemy.

    ¡°This village is probably big enough for the both of us,¡± Kalon truthed.

    Brunhilda raised her sleepy head, snorted, and scrambled to her feet just to sit down and begin scratching her ear with her left hindleg. How bothersome.

    Kalon leaped, extending both puppies to his sides, channeling Purm (the vital energy) into them to deliver a devastating blow to the arrogant young barker.

    Brunhilda thought quickly and rolled on her back to dodge, making Kalon, brakeless, fly by her side. Kalon fell in such a way that he changed direction midair, turning in an U and coming back for Brunhilda. Brunhilda, on her part, wondered if he was learning to control his gravity defying stupidity, or if it was mere coincidence.

    When he suddenly stopped and turned downwards, stamping his face against the dirt, Brunhilda¡¯s question got answered.

    Jagger tried in vain to disembarrass himself from his wielder¡¯s hand while Kalon hoisted himself up. He wanted to whine, and to wine¡­ and dine Death.

    ¡°Heavens, strike me down!¡± The puppy cried.

    The God of Tribulations heard his plea, closed some of the goddess porn tabs to free a bit of miracle RAM, decided it wouldn¡¯t be funny to help him die, and added another year to Jagger¡¯s lifespan. No harsher test than life, after all.

    Kalon charged again, leaving a wide opening for Brunhilda to make a turn on her heels and jump to kick him in the face like a bucking stallion that got an F in the skull crushing part of the assignment. The cultivator, fell on his ass and let his pups go to grab his scratched cheeks in pain. Brunhilda lost no time and took advantage of the situation, heatbutting Kalon in the face once and again, making him wish for the pain, bruising and bleeding to stop, and for his teeth to resist the numerous impacts against each other due to the hits and their recoil.

    Lastly, Brunhilda sat on the chest of the groaning, defeated child, yawned, and farted a victorious symphony.

    ¡°I want to be like her when I grow up,¡± Jagger commented, crawling once again from under his unconscious owner. He had mastered the task already, and now aimed to top the speedrun leaderboards.

    <hr>

    ¡°So, I am happy this establishment is rather civilized, and I am sorry for being specist against your people. You are kind of territorial but, hell, I now understand that you have your reasons. You are better than the wife beaters,¡± Cutbastra said, not touching his drink, gaze fixed upon the feathery floor of the bar.

    ¡°Honk!¡± honked the bargander.

    ¡°No, that¡¯s not good for you,¡± Cutbastra retorted, meeting the suited up bird¡¯s gaze.

    ¡°Honk!¡±

    ¡°I get that it worked for your wife, but logic doesn¡¯t work like that. Not all that¡¯s good for her is good for you. A, then B, doesn¡¯t imply that the inverse is true.¡±

    ¡°Honk honk honk.¡±

    Oracle popped out of his friend¡¯s pocket. ¡°Do you really understand him?¡±

    ¡°He has a weird countryside accent but I am pretty fluid in Geesian.¡±

    ¡°Honk!¡±

    ¡°No, you cannot eat Oracle.¡±

    Oracle sighed. ¡°Anyway, Cutba, I have bad news: I got a vision about a new menace that you need to deal with. Short term, not in three-years-time. Not even next month, for her power grows exponentially.¡±

    Cutbastra finally kissed his beer bottle. ¡°Go on. Who is it?¡±

    ¡°A pubescent girl that wants to destroy the world and has already reached immortality.¡±

    Cutbastra took some breadcrumbs out of his pocket dimension and placed them upon the table for the Bargander to peck on them. ¡°Give me your strongest stuff. I don¡¯t think I can decide to do this while sober.¡±

    ¡°Honk!¡± The bargander complied with excitement.

 Chapter 18: Under New Management.

    It was the fire¡¯s wake, for it had died of food poisoning after consuming a couple of the village¡¯s houses. The new patriarch, Nosirio¡¯s brother, had gotten news of the elder¡¯s demise: The porn magazines at home had remained untouched for seven hours in a row. He was a beardless man with a long face that didn¡¯t fit his artiodactyl-like figure. Cetacean, to be more specific.

    He had congregated the people around the main loop of the road, the town¡¯s plaza. The local tree was still blushing: the small buds she was wearing now were the vegetable equivalent to a string bikini.

    Solemnly, he ascended the podium his underlings had hastily built from brick, reeds, snot and a curling branch that had grown more knotted and intertwined than Kalon¡¯s family mycelium.

    ¡°People of Valelike Vale, it is with great sadness that I have to announce my brother¡¯s departure.¡±

    Kalon the Black Eyed raised his hand. ¡°Where did he go?¡±

    ¡°To heaven, child.¡±

    ¡°Did he take security gear for the climb?¡± Kalon then asked, which, in his tiny mind, made perfect sense.

    The newly risen patriarch scratched his chin and caressed the revolved in his belt. No, it wasn¡¯t the answer this time. He scribbled something down on a piece of paper and proceeded to ignore the question. ¡°My brother now rests in peace, probably after masturbating to a belated grave. Jacking off kills, people. Fuck your cousins, give us more taxpaying citizens, and¡­ yes, local worried mother?¡±

    ¡°Children are present!¡± The local worried mother complained.

    ¡°No, Children are the Future.¡±

    ¡°Then children should will be and not are,¡± The local hobo, dressed in his gown made out of a prostitute¡¯s skin, raised his voice.

    That¡¯s how homelessness was finally solved in Valelike Vale: with a smoking gun wound on the forehead of the man.

    Crusadina¡¯s mother open a way through the crowd, ethereal UZIs held up to create a bubble of personal space around herself. ¡°Hey, moron, that was criminal!¡±

    ¡°I am The Law now,¡± the new patriarch said, blowing the smoke out of his revolver¡¯s mouth.

    ¡°Well, The Law ain¡¯t gonna gentrify my fucking neighborhood by killing off the homeless. I demand reparations,¡± she said, and the Elder knew he could not shoot down this cultivator, for the bullets were her element.

    The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

    The new patriarch pinched the bridge of his nose and grunted. ¡°Fine, I will import quality hobos from abroad. Ones that inject the newest drugs and catcall men and women equally.¡±

    She sheathed her arms under her breasts, a la Wheel of Time. ¡°They better be the worst homeless men and women I have ever seen. I want needles littered everywhere, mangy dogs roaming the roadlike road. Dead prostitutes with their faces eaten off by the dozen.¡±

    ¡°We don¡¯t have a dozen prostitutes in the vale!¡±

    ¡°And that testifies in favor of the man you just killed, doesn¡¯t it?¡±

    Jagger was feeling numbness overtaking his being. Maybe the thick idiocy in the local atmosphere was causing him a mild case of rhabdomyolysis. He closed his eyes and reached for his Amarca (The vital energy), visualized it bathing every cell of his body like waves lapping on rocks rounded by time and water. The pup was good at meditating, but he didn¡¯t follow a road, and thus couldn¡¯t cultivate.  He tried to make a spiritual bomb out of himself, and failed yet again. Another disgraceful day not making it into the no-fly lists.

    ¡°¡­I want the imported prostitutes to feed the hobos to be fair skinned! We need to keep their melanin intake low, nothing of bringing them those exotic meals¡­¡±

    The patriarch eyes were examining the inside of his orbits already. That was a pretty cute frontal he had¡­

    ¡°It¡­ shall be arranged., Polvorina,¡± He finally granted, lips and fingers twitching. ¡°Can we proceed with my assumption act?¡±

    Polvorina nodded and happily pranced away, spraying spiritual bullets into the air.

    ¡°Nobody leave the square until that falls down.¡±

    Jagger broke from Kalon¡¯s grasp and immediately ran to an open area to lay on the floor, spreading as much as he could. His owner didn¡¯t follow, as he was, once again, awestruck by Jagger¡¯s ability to teleport to different sections of the Roadlike Road. ¡°Heavens! Cast death unto the air and let it rain over me!¡± Jagger called out.

    The God of Tribulations laughed meanly as he gladly added a trio of years to the pup¡¯s lifespan.

    A pit bull wearing shades approached Jagger, and the puppy felt the reassurance of having someone maul him if the rain of bullets missed. The broad-chested dog sat down and loomed over the puppy, then he started yodeling: ¡°Ay ay ay. Ay ay ay.¡± A second later, the pit began shaking his butt as the demons of inner rhythm took over his mind.

    The bullets rained down upon them, fulminating the dancing pit bull and leaving Jagger untouched, his silhouette drawn on the ground by bullet holes. ¡°Oh come on!¡±

    As Jagger pouted in a doggish way (The accurate facial expression meant by this is a problem my brain refuses to solve: it pixelates Jagger¡¯s face instead. You, dear reader, may try to succeed where I failed) the new patriarch continued his speech.

    ¡°Well, given my brother has passed away and you have the attention span of a¡ª¡°

    The people (Citation needed) began dispersing, except for Kalon, that remained there, watching Jagger return defeated from his last suicide attempt.

    ¡°Well, to you, boy, to you I will tell one thing: next week we will host a tournament in honor to my late brother.  With several categories, including youngsters like you. The winner gets cultivation materials according to their age and needs. The anti-winner, or maximal loser, gets exiled for bringing shame upon the clan, so, what do you say? will you participate?¡± The fat patriarch said, his face a playground of expectation.

    Kalon nodded with a stupid smile, and Jagger raised his gaze to the skies. There had to be some bullet still airborne.

 Chapter 19: Brunhilda sensei

    Kalon had ran to the house of the only cultivator that paid him a modicum of positive attention: Big Jay. He rapped on the door with the one tool that gave him a modicum of complaints: Jagger.

    The puppy bounced against the fine oak, and wondered why. Why couldn¡¯t he be born as one of the lucky few that accidentally fell into the local butcher¡¯s meat grinder and ended their lives as sausages. It was an honest job, being a sausage. Nobody denied a promotion to a sausage, nobody used it to knock on a door. Yes, people ate them, but eagles sometimes snatched puppies to feed on them. At least people knew what you were when they ate a sausage made out of you. A mere change of state. A plastic surgery that made a dog hot, if you will.

    Big Jay opened the door abruptly. Bags had made their home under his eyes, and his pipe¡¯s fire died down some time ago. From behind the dummy thick thighs of his owner, a grinning Brunhilda peeped out. After seeing Kalon, the literal bitch raised and lowered her eyebrows twice. Kalon took several steps back, crossing the whole street and more before stopping.

    ¡°Hi Brun!¡± Jagger raised a paw after the world stopped spinning around him.

    She greeted Jagger back with a friendly woof.

    ¡°What do you want, Kalon!¡± Big Jay Shouted, not because he was bothered by the child¡¯s presence, but because he had put about sixteen Rottweilers of distance between them.

    Kalon turned on his heels, and began backing once again, this time getting closer to Big Jay. ¡°I need to be trained if I want to win the tournament next week, guh!¡±

    Big Jay placed his hands in front of his mouth, forming a cylinder to amplify his voice. ¡°Kalon, boy, I don¡¯t want you to get exiled, but I am no teacher! I reckon I could try to learn you into a thing or two about generic cultivation, but that¡¯s it!¡±

    Kalon kept approaching by backing in the wrong direction. ¡°Only the maximum loser will get exiled!¡±

    ¡°Oh, yes, of course¡­¡±

    Brunhilda bit her owner¡¯s pants and pulled.

    ¡°What do you want, Brun?¡±

    Big Jay opened his eyes wide when he beheld the infectious determination in the sight-granting orbs of the Rottweiler. ¡°I get it¡­ Kalon!¡±

    Kalon turned suddenly, ¡°That¡¯s my name, I think.¡±

    ¡°Brunhilda will train you.¡±

    The bitch smiled with all her teeth, and Kalon¡¯s face became a tax declaration of fear. Not her, he pseudothought, not her!

    Jagger looked upwards and sat down like he owned the place. ¡°Heavens, pi?a colada, now.¡±

    The God of Skits considered it, added a couple years to Jagger¡¯s lifespan because it was best practice to do so, and a pi?a colada served in a coconut garnished with a pineapple wedge sprouted from the dirt in front of Jagger. ¡°Hey! I am a puppy, I cannot drink this.¡± The ground swallowed the coconut, and seconds later, sprouted a bowl filled with the same drink and ornamented with Jagger¡¯s name. ¡°That¡¯s better, thanks! Time to stagnate my growth by drinking alcohol. May cirrhosis be kind with this one.¡± And so he began lapping at the pi?a colada with wanton abandon.

    Kalon fisted the dirt like the slut she was. He couldn¡¯t believe it.

    Brunhilda was by his side already, her paw around his shoulders as she tried to ease his cries. ¡°Guh!I can¡¯t believe Brunhilda is going to train me.¡±

    ¡°Waf. Waf.¡± Brunhilda vocalized, patting Kallons back to show som empathy.

    ¡°She hates me! She hates me so much!¡± Kalon kept dramamaxxing while brunhilda, with a voice full of understanding, dispensed her wisdom.

    ¡°Arf.¡±

    ¡°I am going to die. Death is bad for immortality, Brunhilda, and Brunhilda is going to death me.¡± Kalon went on babbling, not realizing the Brunhilda he feared and the Brunhilda comforting him were one and the same.

    ¡°Aroo aroo.¡±

    Jagger glanced at Kalon. Kalons, for him. ¡°Oh dear heavens, he reproduces by binary fission!¡± The drunk puppy exclaimed before falling on his side and barfing violently.

    <hr>

    They had no time to lose, and Kalon''s thighs suffered it. The few houses on the outskirts of the village flew by as he ran, not looking back, because back w3as were Brunhilda¡¯s butt-loving teeth were.

    The sensei barked to his pupil, spurring him to run even faster. She was, of course, ready to dodge, in case Kalon tripped and she found herself in the way of one of his gravity defying feats.

    Stolen novel; please report.

    Kalon jumped over a fallen trunk, using his right hand as a leverage point. And the trunk then jumped over Kalon, because he was not going to get one upped by an eleven-years-old. This game of leapfrog, of man vs rotting log, proceeded for about five hops.

    After that, Brunhilda caught up to Kalon and introduced the boy¡¯s ass to the true meaning of the word chomp!

    <hr>

    The second day of training met a butt-bandaged Kalon at the mouth of the mountain path. Brunhilda licked her paws while Jagger rode on her back, if only because he couldn¡¯t be assed to walk all the way from the village to the location where they found themselves in now.

    The way was carved on the rock, and the recent lakc of rains allowed for it to be dry. A bush or a lichen sprouted from a crack now and then, but, overall, the way up the face of the mountain was not as lively as the forest below had been before the Crusadining.

    ¡°So, he has to climb?¡± Jagger asked his adult peer.

    Brunhilda sensei snarled softly.

    ¡°We have to climb? We?¡± Jagger protested, pupvoice full of pupindignation. ¡°Kalon, this is your test: roll me up the mountain.¡±

    ¡°No, you will walk, Jagger: you are getting old and your breed easily gets hip dysplasia when they reach an advanced age being fat.¡±

    ¡°Hips, do you plan on getting dysplasia?¡± Jagger asked his rump.

    ¡°No,¡± they answered in clear violation of the Shakira Principle.

    Kalon begun trotting up the mountain, impulse by a deep seated need to progress and better himse¡­ pffft , just kidding, Brunhilda was growling at him.

    From his privileged position by a moron¡¯s side, Jagger watched at the forest becoming smaller and blurrier as they ascended, as they climbed upon unstable terrain and rough rocks.

    Brunhilda followed them while chewing on a mouthful of grass, doing her best impression of a goat. Anything less than a right angle could have as well been the flattest of plains. On a side note, the narrator of this piece prefers plains to have curves, to be a little chubby among the farms and cows, you get it? No? Because it makes no sense. Look at you, trying to sexualize plains in your mind. You disgust me. I disgust you. We are a despicable family[1]</a>.

    Kalon kicked a pebble off the side of the mountain and watched it fall towards the clouds above. Jagger resisted the urge to pray for his stupidity-fueled powers to stop spreading into the rest of the world. Kalon was an infectious disease, a blight sent by the gods to punish humanity for the mortal sin of inventing white chocolate[2]</a>. The puppy held no doubts about that.

    Burnhilda beheld them haughtily from a nearby wall. A local gecko, in turn, stared confused at Brunhilda, licked his eyes in awe. Such a weird goat. A tru gangsta ghetto goat, if anything.

    A passing Eagle spotted a fat ball of black and orange walking besides a boy that climbed the rocks like he didn¡¯t know about the law of gravity. Her mind¡¯s soundtrack switched gears to thrash metal, and, closing her wings against her body for speed, she dove. In the last second, she extended her well-pedicured nightmarish claws, and snatched Jagger away. The puppy considered the floor slowly getting away a win of mythical proportions. Heavens were finally taking him, and he barely felt the prick of the Eagle¡¯s knives on his loose skin.

    ¡°Guh! They stole my weapon!¡± Kalon said, manifesting Burio in his hand and pulling it back to give strength to his shot. Then, he threw the just-made puppy towards the eagle, missing by several dozen meters, causing Burio to precipitate head-first into the forest far below. Long live the king.

    The seagle soared with difficulty, and fat-shamed Jagger in her mind. Her heart was tired, so tired. And engorged. She was the kind of individual bird that learnt about natural selection by hitting the windows of it, rather than enjoying its breadcrumbs.

    So, the eagle¡¯s ehart ruptured, killing her almost instantly, realeasingg Jagger from her grasp and making both of them to plunge away from the eagle¡¯s tyrannical aerial empire.

    Jagger¡¯s fat curved and wobbled when subjected to the air¡¯s friction. He prayed for his skin to not open like a parachute, saving him.

    Far below, a manly as intercourse cultivator fought a wild cat, directing an uppercut to the feline¡¯s jaw. Uppercut that made it take off, ascending past above the groove¡¯s overstory.

    Jagger and the cat found themselves in collision course, both of them fat enough to safely collide without breaking bones. After bouncing off each other Jagger found himself now falling in a different direction, but falling all the same. Towards a farm building with a thatched roof.

    Jagger closed his arms and braced for the end.

    But the roof wasn¡¯t too thick, so he broke through it without suffering major damage, and below it, rested a mountain of manure, in which he sunk to the deep end, where he found a nearly nude, gaunt man meditating.

    ¡°Gametogamy!¡± Jagger cursed even more safe-for-workedly.

    ¡°Shhh,¡± said the poop cultivator, who was about to have a breakthrough.

    Back at the mountain, Kalon extended his hand over the precipice and tried to visualize Jagger. His mind was a black void. Better than the tabula rasa it used to be, for Jagger was mostly black[3]</a>. He was slowly but surely cultivating his way out of aphantasia. He extended his vital energy and willed to recover his chosen weapon.

    Jagger felt a pull on his butt, the same a lightsaber feels when a Jedi does their dirty Jedi tricks after getting honorably disarmed.

    ¡°Oh heavens¡­¡± He got launched against the wall, and his body rolled across it until finding an open window. The pup flew backwards and slightly upwards, colliding with every other branch of the forest, pin-balling his way through conifers and fruit trees alike. After his botanical crash course, Jagger watched the trees get smaller faster and faster: he was accelerating towards his destiny.

    ¡°No! I was supposed to die!¡± Jagger lamented and began whining.

    Finally, Jagger felt a hand grasping his shit-coated tail.

    ¡°Jagger, you smell terrible!¡± Kalon said before placing him on the inner edge of the mountain path, away from the dangerous cliff.

    Jagger kept whining, and, satisfied with Kalon¡¯s feat, Brunhilda sensei declared the training day concluded.

    <hr>

    [1]</a> Note to myself: Don¡¯t listen to Barney¡¯s greatest hits while narrating.

    [2]</a> I am a proud chocolate racist. Black and milk chocolate are infinitely superior.

    [3]</a> Before you ask, yes: Rottweilers have the pass.

 Chapter 20: The Mandatory Tournament Arc

    The third day of training consisted on a crude battle of wills, of man vs beast, of reason vs whatever Kalon embodied. It consisted on giving Jagger a bath. The unwinding of this day cannot be described on any book of undubious legality: it¡¯s too crass, too real, too bloody. Let it be known that it made Brunhilda cower in a corner, that Kalon was pushed to the edge of a new breakthrough just from mustering the strength and vital energy necessary to fit Jagger inside the tub, and that Jagger invented a new, now dead, language whose minimal unit with a sense was not the word, but the slur. Even its alphabet was composed in its entirety of slurs.

    The fourth day of training was unproductive: Kalon bit Jagger out of frustration and Brunhilda followed the protocol, calling the local reverse pound. German Shepherds cornered the boy and took him away while a Rough Collie checked on Jagger¡¯s bite wound. Jagger was told to get rabies and tetanus shots as soon as possible, and so he was taken to the pack of local Golden Retrievers, that promptly administered the vaccines to their new friend, because they were Golden Retrievers. He reached the local terrier puppy mill just in time to call off Kalon¡¯s scheduled euthanasia in the clandestine fighting ring.

    The fifth day of training was almost uneventful, with Kalon fighting Brunhilda and trying to hit her in vain. The God of the Seas, that had decided to watch them, got bored after Kalon¡¯s 47<sup>th</sup> failure to land a blow upon Brunhilda and blessed birds and fish with extra fertility, causing a drop in the prices of caviar and balut internationally, situation that would eventually lead to the town of Sodomized Sturgeon to become a den of debauchery and gambling where people lost so much money in the casinos that most of the prostitutes reached their three decades of age with their virginity intact.

    In the sixth day something probably happened, but I wasn¡¯t paying attention. Law-mandated omniscient narrator holiday.

    In the seventh day, they rested, and Kalon pondered about Brunhilda¡¯s heart. Was it full of demons? had she suffered a Tanbi (the vital energy) deviation? They went to Big Jay¡¯s house and, after the protocolar salutations and a commedt by the man about how utterly bruised Kalon was, the boy asked.

    ¡°So, Big Jay, do you believe Brunhilda has heart demons?¡±

    He dismissed that accusation with a sway of his hand. ¡°No, she takes her Ivermectin and Pyrantel pills religiously.¡±

    ¡°And why is she a psychopathic ass then?¡±

    He shrugged. ¡°Because she can.¡± The plump man then turned to Jagger and saw the bandage on his leg. ¡°What happened to you?¡±

    ¡°The hand that feeds me retaliated,¡± Jagger said shaking his head in a defeated gesture.

    <hr>

    The fanfare with which the tournament arrived could only be compared to the canonfare. A lone tumbleweed had crossed the sea in a sailboat owned by a bunch of mutinous rats just to be present at the event. For the first hour of the event, before even the first of organizers arrived, it was the only one in the bamboo bleachers.

    Eventually the neighbors started arriving, some by their own volition, some by accident pursuing an escapist chicken or a mischievous cat. After an hour had elapsed, the Patriarch, with his hair uncombed and face unwashed, arrived to the stand in front of the woodplanked ring where the battles would be held.

    ¡°People of Valelike Vale and tumbleweed from mysterious, mystical lands far away!¡± he began his announcement, displaying an absolutely orientalist attitude towards the foreign plant. ¡°Today, we are congregated here to honor an ancient tradition of our people: Unabridged, unneeded violence!¡±

    The crowd didn¡¯t cheer at usual, some men and women even yawned.

    ¡°Violence is when people hit each other,¡± The patriarch explained, and the mood did a 180, the people exploding in shouts and whistles.

    ¡°What a masterful display of dramaturgy and rhetoric!¡± A blond man ex claimed.

    ¡°Give me a child, Patriarch!¡± Her niece asked yet once again.

    The patriarch pretended she didn¡¯t exist. He had given her children in the past; never his, of course. She always ended up losing them in the woods, the clumsy moron. A serial adoptstolen-child-loser, she was.

    If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.

    ¡°First, we will have the children tournament, because the adults tend to destroy the arena and kill several bystanders!¡±

    The public cheered and raised their hands and recreational pitchforks.

    ¡°Anyway, the first fight is¡­¡± the patriarch shuffled through his papers. Damn, I wish I knew how to read cursive. He tried to remember two participants off the top of his head.  ¡° Eridano vs Culmino!

    The Participants walked away from the files of awaiting children and up to the stage. Well, Eridano Walked, Culmino more like, crawled.

    Culmino licked his eye like a gecko. He absolutely lustered it. We are talking Humbert Humbert levels of eye licking.

    ¡°You are a deformed little thing,¡± said Eridano, a tanned boy with a fit psyche, a disdain for everything that is worn but a loincloth, and a couple of batons as his weapon of choice.

    The Patriarch gave the signal to start by shooting his revolver, which made Jagger come up with the idea of, maybe, sneaking up to the patriarch, climb on his revolver and hope he didn¡¯t notice the puppy biting the cannon on his next shot. Then he discarded it, because assuming kiloKalon levels of stupidity when making plans used to backfire often.

    Eridano channeled his Onica (You¡­ you know what this is. Don¡¯t make me say it. I need to settle on a name someday. I am a very indecisive boy¡­ girl¡­ boy¡­ girl¡­ boy¡­ girl¡­ boy¡­ let¡¯s leave it at incorporeal nearly-omniscient narrator whose lack of genitalia can get pretty confusing.) into the batons, holding one facing outwards from his body with each hand, as if they were daggers. Electricity, coursed through them, creating arcs that coursed the air to die in the ground sometimes. Culmino remained in place doing quite reptilian things, like breathing through his ass and privates.

    The truncheon cultivator charged, his weapons crossed in front of him , ready to repel any attempt from Culmino at defense. The village idiot dodged to the side with a lizard¡¯s agility, turned to slap his opponent in the face with his long scarf that he imagined as his tail, and then, using his four extremities, jumped high into the air. Culmino landed on the Boy¡¯s shoulders and, unhinging his jaw, he bit off his peer¡¯s head with a single chomp, the skull bulging out in his neck as he swallowed it down.

    Eridano¡¯s lifeless body fell upon the arena like a bag of potatoes, his severed neck bleeding upon the clear wood planks. Culmino jumped out of the stage and looked for a patch of sun to bathe and recover body heat.

    ¡°Okay¡­ Culmino left the arena so¡­ Eridano wins!¡± The Patriarch declared. ¡°And then gets disqualified for fucking dying.¡± He cleared his throat and continued. ¡°Remember combats are until knock out, ring out or surrender. Death is not contemplated; you don¡¯t lose if you die. An oversight, so please don¡¯t kill your opponents.¡± He shuffled his papers, pretending to be able to read. ¡°Next battle¡­ Kalon against The Childender!¡±

    Kalon stepped up to the plate with a fool¡¯s absolute determination and trust in his abilities. He had trained for almost a whole week. He had this in the bag. He held Jagger aloft, shaking the puppy to salute his adoring public.

    From the other side of the ring a behemoth climbed the steps. The guy either cultivated creatinine or spent every waking hour as the child, for the Childender, three heads taller than Kalon, stood bare fisted in front of the boy, cracking his knuckles.

    Jagger struggled a bit to fall from Kalon¡¯s hand, and landed in all fours, his antics granting him a sort of a feline agility unbecoming of such a fat pup.

    ¡°A second there! How old are you?¡±

    ¡°Sixteen winters old.¡±

    ¡°There¡¯s no winter in these latitudes,¡± Jagger reminded him.

    ¡°Sixteen rain seasons old.¡±

    ¡°WE have three of those a year!¡±

    The Childender scratched the back of his head. ¡°Sixteen years old.¡±

    Jagger pinched his fingers in a way that looked terror inducing when a dog without opposable thumbs did it. ¡°Don¡¯t you think you are a tiny bit old for this category of the tournament?¡±

    ¡°I have girlfriends younger than your owner here, pup.¡±

    ¡°You fucking pedoph¡ª¡°

    The Childender smiled and extended his open, shaking hand to forestall the accusation.

    ¡°They are all over the age of consent: eighteen.¡±

    Jagger breathed in and out. ¡°Oh¡­ I think you are confused about Kalon¡¯s age, then, you see¡ª¡±

    ¡°Eighteen days old,¡± he clarified while cracking his knuckles once again.

    ¡°You fucking disgusting pedophi¡ª¡°

    Once again, the hand gesture. ¡°Worry not, I personally am into MILFS.¡±

    ¡°Oh, sorry for jumping to conclusions, we should not judge you for your people¡¯s retrograde standards. So, as I was saying, Kalon is¡ª¡°

    ¡°Older than my girlfriends. Some are just starting to walk.¡±

    The mental Short circuit induced by the conversation made the puppy¡¯s eyes glaze over, and, making the Windows XP shutting-off sound, Jagger fell stiff on his side. Kalon kneeled to try to reanimate his weapon, and the gun shot was heart. The Childender lost no time: He raised his hands, gathered his vital energy to conjure a hollow tropical tree, and used it to, in a single wide swing, bat Kalon against the bleachers, where he landed on her mother¡¯s wide and soft stomach.

    ¡°You lost, you disgrace!¡± she said, disembarrassing herself form her mistake and leaving a pained Kalon lying amidst the pogoing maniacs.

    ¡°The Childender wins! Kalon will now have to fight in the loser¡¯s tournament if he wants to remain in the town!¡± The Patriarch announced, and Kalon felt a little part of himself die. It wasn¡¯t, surprisingly, his last brain cell.

 Chapter 21: Murderous Prodigy Girl be Shoppin

    To Jagger¡¯s disgust, The Childender beat every child he faced on the tournament, even managing a home run with a petite girl that followed the Road of Beekeeping and fought with a total of three bees on her side.

    But we don¡¯t care about that.

    Crusadina walked through the busy market with her pupils turned to fractals of siege hooks and Greek fire. Nothing could contain her power, her spirit. For the little girl, the stalls weren¡¯t full of turgid apples and oranges, they were full of projectiles. The crowded street needed to turn into deserted plains.  She wore a hooded cape and kept her head covered, not to draw attention to herself. Katie stood on her shoulder, full size, wearing a hood too. One could say many things about Crusadina¡¯s idea of going unnoticed, but not that it was internally incongruent.

    Her stomach grumbled, and she raised an eyebrow at the feeling. ¡°Why does it do that?¡±

    ¡°You are hungry, dear.¡± Katie explained with her soft siege voice.

    ¡°I thought that at this level of cultivation I wouldn¡¯t have to eat anymore!¡± she caviled.

    ¡°You are rushing through levels at an unprecedented pace. Some perks take longer to develop. You may be at Global Greek Fire Corporatocracy cultivation level, but your quick advance made you pay a hefty price. In time, you will develop all the skills you left behind, but, until then, Crusadina, you are at a disadvantage against others that have walked an equivalent depth on their roads.¡±

    She stomped on the ground once, making the whole market meet a three on the Richter scale, and pouted. ¡°Fine, let¡¯s search for something to¡ª¡±

    Then a blue-bedecked rump, ostensibly attached to the woman in front of it, hit Crusadina on the side of her head as it passed by. This ass, dear reader, toppled the cultivator, made her crumble onto the floor like she wanted to make so many empires crumble (using siege engines, not her ass).

    Katie extended a helping wheel. ¡°Crusadina, are you fine?¡±

    ¡°Thoroughly traumatized by the dimensions of that caboose, but fine otherwise.¡±

    With the help of the manifestation of her road, Crusadina got her footing, and looked around to reorient herself. The pile of crushed bodies wearing colorful clothes by her side was probably a result of Katie falling from her shoulder and rolling over them, so it wasn¡¯t particularly worrisome.

    She spotted a stand of an old man who stood solemnly, an old and tall figure surrounded by hanging chicken carcasses. Then, Crusadina ¡°inherited¡± a couple of wallets from the mound of victims and headed towards a short grocery shopping trip.

    ¡°Hello, I want two,¡± she said to the man, and the old but healthy geezer looked at her with eyes so blue and a heart so strong and pure that it was a miracle no house with a wooden floor had come claim him.

    ¡°Are you sure you can handle two of them at once, little girl?¡± The kind man said.

    ¡°I am a veteran in the fine art of eating chicken, sir,¡± she flexed and patted her right bicep. ¡°These siege cannons don¡¯t feed on veggies.¡±

    ¡°Did you pick up a dumbbell once five years ago and keep showing off the results to this day, you scrawny tart?¡± The man slapped himself and blinked twice. ¡°Sorry dear, I have my sensibilities and sometimes they win over my passionate heart. You want two roosters?¡±

    Crusadina¡¯s lips were a thin line. She needed chicken farmers alive. She needed chicken farmers alive¡­ ¡°I don¡¯t care about the sex of the chicken.¡±

    ¡°Well, I only slaughter and sell roosters. Hens remain at home to produce more chicken and eggs, as you may imagine.¡±

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    ¡°Gimme those two up there, if you would be so kind, good sir.¡±

    ¡°Richard.¡±

    Crusadina remained silent and moment, and then expressed her confusion with a ¡°huh?¡±

    ¡°The roosters here, they are called Richard.¡±

    Katie approached, used a glue stick to add a couple of googly eyes on her frame, blinked with them, took them off before the glue got dry, and said: ¡°Huh?¡±

    ¡°All my roosters are called Richard.¡±

    ¡°Why?¡± girl and catapult asked in unison.

    The man inflated his chest with pride

    ¡°I am the only poultry farmer in the city that can claim that all his cocks are Dicks.¡±

    Crusadina grimaced loudly. ¡°I need an adult.¡±

    Their cute conversation got interrupted by a frutal beam breaking through the market. It was as wide as Kalon¡¯s mom, smelled like strawberries, looked like conspiracy pink that isn¡¯t pink and it¡¯s instead a lie of the elites to spy on us by making us think it¡¯s just pink, and it obliterated through the civilians as if we cared about them. For the record: we do not, and neither did the poultry seller, that handed the girl the chicken and Took the wallets form her hands while she was awestruck by the situation.

    When the scream-ridden silence settled after the massacre, Crusadina and Katie ignored for a second the steaming pair of butt cheeks that had landed next to them, and eavesdropped on the indoor-voice-disabled individual with long, red hair and cargo shorts across the street. ¡°So this is my problem, see? I am the best writer you know, like, the best of the best, and I could write a very good fantasy epic, with office workers and bureaucracy and everything else the fandom fancies, but every character I write ends up turning gay. Males? Gay. Lesbians? Gay. Asexed rocks? Shapeshift into gays. And, you see, I am not gay, but the characters have, like, a life of their own, you see, and they yearn for their own sex. I once wrote a children¡¯s story about a dog, and had to drop the quill when the dog began seeing sticks and comparing them to phalluses. Then I¡­¡± He kept on ranting, so engrossed in his tale he failed to notice that his interlocutor had skipped state. From solid to gas, I mean.

    Then the girl and the manifestation of her road focused on the smoking pair of gargantuan butt cheeks lying by them. Crusadina approached, manifested a miniature battering ram that , for all intent and purposes, was just an ornamented cane with a metal ram head on top, and  used it to prick the cheeks. There was no answer form the dead ass.

    The survivors began gathering around the deceased booty. One had lost an arm, but he didn¡¯t mind: that was the less dire of situations at no hand.

    ¡°Fanny, are you okay?¡± asked a blonde, short woman whose voice was that of an angel¡ªa cherub that was a fan of Alvin and the Chipmunks, specifically.

    ¡°Fanny, are you okay?¡± asked the amputated-and-instantly-cauterized man.

    ¡°Are you okay, fanny?¡± asked Katie.

    Crusadina turned, beholding the lanky, black leather clad man holding a giant strawed cup as a mace, resting it across his shoulders. ¡°You have been shit by¡­¡±

    ¡°You have been blown up by¡­¡± added Katie.

    ¡°A smoothie criminal!¡± claimed a random bystander that had just got over the shock of getting all of his friends turned to red mist by the foreigner.

    With a wide and smug smile, the fashionable villain spoke, revealing teeth so white that one could assume he, unlike the localss,  brusshed his teeth sseveral timess a day. ¡°This place looks like the empire I rule¡­ and I have never been an emperor.¡±

    Crusadina crossed the distance between them in a fraction of a second, arriving in front of the man with her arms preemptively crossed, still holding the two chickens. ¡°You are late: this place is scheduled for total destruction. I will burn these despicable walls to the ground.¡±

    The fruit juice cultivator produced a banana smoothie his thigh sleeves, squeezing the cup out in a cartoonish way, and began drinking it. ¡° I am at the Vanilla Chocolate Cinnamon Apple Banana Smoothie Realm, girl, there¡¯s no way a brat can beat m¡ª¡° he got interrupted by the sweet kiss of a chicken carcass against his cheek.

    Crusadina¡¯s eyes shone as bright as the library of Alexandria. She vaulted backwards, landing upon a stone bench that escaped the fruity massacre. She hung the chickens from her belt, somehow. Tied them by the tendons or I don¡¯t know, she just holstered the poultry there, people.  ¡°I have no fucking idea how powerful that is, but what can smoothies do against an army?¡± In blinks, around her, the siege engines of her soul began manifesting into the real world.  Wood and metal at the service of destruction formed into trebuchets, rams, catapults, forks, and towers. A veritable army devoid of infantry or cavalry formed behind their severely illegal commander, clogging the street.

    Crusadina cracked her knuckles and the shockwave staggered her opponent.

    ¡°Kono powa!¡± he unknowingly Jojoreferenced. Then, without losing time¡­ what the unholy tarnished fuck am I writing¡­ whatever¡­ action scene incoming, got to verb fast¡­ he readied his giant strawberry smoothie: a plastic mace in one end, a deadly straw-cannon on the other. He extended the mace end towards Crusadina, holding the massive weapon with one hand and describing a line with his body, as if he were a fencer. ¡°I am not losing to a brat.¡± He replaced his smile with an ugly frown.  ¡°Come, wall hater, and pray that you are lactose tolerant!¡±

 Chapter 22: Clash of Powers

    Crusadina was. This is a matter of fact. Had she not been, she wouldn¡¯t have involved herself on a fight with the Smoothie cultivator, nor gotten cocking resulting on three city blocks being demolished by a batted-away eleven-years-old. The only building that remained standing was the local crackhouse, through which Crusadina had passed without issues by virtue of its broken windows being perfectly aligned. Crackheads do magical things sometimes.

    The long-haired writer, who had been barely missed by the underage projectile, had not noticed the danger yet. ¡°¡­ You see, It¡¯s not that I hate gay people. I simply believe they are not people. Not because they are gay, no, people can be gay: the dehumanization, you see, is preemptive. Anyone who will in some moment be gay is preemptively dehumanized so we don¡¯t have to be homophobic: we are just discriminating ostensibly straight people, see. The dehumanization just carries on when they undergo homosexualization. This is a problem when making characters, as readers cannot empathize with homosexuals, as they were straight people who would in the future chose a path that rendered them into non-people. The choice to choose to be gay in the future, then, is what unpersons them¡­¡± he ranted and ranted to nobody in particular.

    Crusadina hoisted herself from between the rubble and admired all the walls her body had destroyed. She was beaten and aching all over, but this pleasure was worth it. ¡°I am the wrecking ball of the Gods, here to tear down the capricious cities of men and the accidental sins of nature alike,¡± she repeated like a mantra, exhilarated by the sheer hardness of her flesh.

    Katie dove from the skies to land by her side, on top of a matrimonial bed full of abiotic and biotic debris alike. ¡°Crusie, are you alright?¡±

    ¡°I am better than that, Katie: I am the divine punishment for the masons of the mind and the masons of the chance. Both men and evolution were judged and declared guilty, and I shall dispense their punishment.¡± The girl¡¯s eyes showed unstable, quivering pupils, as if they were about to change shape once again.

    Katie thought the girl was being a pretentious moron, but didn¡¯t say anything because she needed her job to remain in the ¡°extant¡± category of taxpayers.

    The Smoothie Cultivator Shot the ground with his straw cannon, propelling himselv into the skies in a perfectly calculated arc to land upon his victim. He raised His mce-cup and held it aloft as he descended.

    Crusadina conjured a barrier of siege towers around her, and crossed her arms over her head: She felt cocky enough to tank the hit.

    Katie pulled out the newspaper and started going through the classifieds: she was going to need a new walker of the Road of Siege to give advice to pretty soon.

    The plastic cup collided with the lattice of wooden frames, and through the cracking and splintering beams the Smoothie cultivator could see Crusadina¡¯s smug grin.

    Both cultivators funneled fvitla energy to they techniques. The smoothie cultivator into the cup, and Crusadina into her wall of ¡­wall of¡­ wall¡­

    Crusadina¡¯s concentration and barrier both broke as she felt the power abandoning her, so she hopped to the side, but not soon enough to save her left arm, that got the full impact of the cupmace¡¯s savage swing.

    Her bones gave in; the arm twisted and she preferred a toe-curling cry. Her arm wasn¡¯t answering anymore. It had been dislocated, the humerus fractured in several parts and the radius and ulna didn¡¯t fare much better. Her limb had been given the lesbian noodle treatment, and stopped being straight as it got wet with her blood.

    ¡°Do you surrender?¡± The man unstuck his weapon from the ground as he stared at the battered lass while exuding superiority. ¡°I wouldn¡¯t like to kill a child that¡¯s so talented and ambitious.¡±

    ¡°I would,¡± Crusadina honested between sobs.

    ¡°Well, I wouldn¡¯t and that¡¯s it. Surrender.¡±

    ¡°No, smelly man!¡±

    ¡°Do you want to go to somewhere less populated so we don¡¯t destroy the capital of my future empire?¡± He offered, pointing his massive weapon towards the section of the city where they rounded up the undesirables, like lawyers and fashion designers.

    Crusadina saw a chance and channeled her Per (the vital energy) into her working arm, muscles tensed, and she visualized a battering ram tearing through the walls of her enemy¡¯s defenses.

    When the Smoothie cultivator turned, he saw a little empowered fist that had decided to pound him like the greatest dinosaur hater of all time pounded the Gulf of Mexico, and, in part due to the surprise and in part due to being distracted, he didn¡¯t react in time. Crusadina¡¯s little fist smashed him in all the face as he channeled Ian (the vital energy) onto his skull, to, among other things, avoid his brain becoming that which he cultivated.

    Spinning and turning chaotically the Smoothie cultivator got launched back towards the market, unable to recover his stability due to the shock of having his beautiful face marred by a brat.

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    After colliding with a fruit stand that had dense enough melons to put an end to his flight, he touched his visage in disbelief. His nose. His cute, perfect nose! This was unacceptable.

    ¡°This is unacceptable,¡± He xianxiaed, repeating information already provided, because it was unacceptable. ¡°This affront, it won¡¯t go unpunished.¡±

    He raised from the rubble and melon mush, nose crushed and bleeding. His aura shining a sickly green. ¡°Unacceptable! I fear the scalpel! I cannot undergo rhinoplasty to fix this! My nose, my flawless nose!¡±

    His skin started sprouting bloody¡­ strawberried, to be smoothie-politically correct, straws, and thousands of cups manifested around him. ¡°You will pay for this! With interest! And no payment plans!¡±

    The smoothies amalgamated over him, and around his arm a bigger arm made only out of cups formed. His other cup-made arm, however, ended in a big straw: a cannon to rebuke the one who had ruined his hitherto unblemished turn-up nose.

    His giant armor kept being created, growing to several meters tall.It took him a second to get a bearing of his new avatar, but, inside the protection of it, he jumped back into battle, meters away from where Crusadina was throwing her broken arm around to make sure she still felt anything besides pain.

    ¡°Crusie, do you want me to get some of those blue pills old men use? Maybe it can cure your flaccid arm,¡± Katie offered her extensive knowledge on medicine.

    ¡°Say your prayers, brat.¡± He pointed at Crusadina with the straw-cannon, and she froze looking at it. Moving was extremely painful for her, so she couldn¡¯t dodge. While the fruit juice and yogurt gathered in a bulging ball in the straw¡¯s end, Crusadina¡¯s mind ran. She couldn¡¯t block, for that weakened her. she3 couln¡¯t attack, as the force of her last punch had let her aching all over. She needed a prohctile, yet the shockwave e created by punching the man¡¯s face had blown all viable debris away. She needed a projectile¡­ and birds were quite aerodynamic. She channeled her Devo (The vital energy) into one of her meals. Poor Crusadina she thought in third person because, and I am sure you have noticed, she was quite special, she is sacrificing her meal for the cause.

    Then as soon as the cannon released his sweet load, she casted a spinning chicken to collide with the beam. Her arm remained extended, her vital energy (The Nian) flowing into the bird carcass as it made contact with the beam.

    The shockwave made Katie lose her wheeling and trip on her side against all known laws of physics. ¡°You can, crusie!¡± She said, eyes inexistent but wide open as she pretended to watch the collision of powers.

    The Lemon-and-chocolate beam kept pouring out of the cannon, and the Smoothie cultivator decided he would put his all into the attack. To hell with the town, he needed to kill Crusadina. He needed to avenge his nose! So he pumped more and more power into the beqam, making it grow wider, bulgier as it began consuming the ground underneath and splattering the whole place with drops of lemon-chocolate smoothie. ¡°Die, nose ruining brat!¡±

    With only oen arm to channel her energy, ccrusadina felt her will waning. The winds created form the collision menaced with throwing her away, which would cause her to be consumed by the beam in the coming instant. The chicken was slowly returning to her, unable to push her opponent¡¯s attack back.

    She tried to invoke the power of friendship, but her brain returned a 404 when she tried to think of a friend. Any friend.

    In the last moment before she gave up, she winced from the pain as a fluffy paw touched her shoulder. ¡°Excuse me you fuck, my arm is broken and¡­¡± She cut her response short when she beheld the figure by her side, his ethereal green hyena fursuit shining under the evening sun. ¡°Dad?¡±

    ¡°Yes dear, I have come to aid you in your moment of need,¡± the man inside the cartoonish fursuit said.

    ¡°But mom said you had gone out to buy cigars! Why did you never come back?¡±

    ¡°She misinterpreted me: I said I was going to get smoked with the fags. My friends. We committed¡­ suicide¡­ for¡­ reasons,¡± he said, trying to not pop a spiritual boner at the memory of that beautiful last furparty. ¡°Reasons, darling.¡±

    ¡°But that means you are¡­¡±

    ¡°Dead? yes, dear. Sometimes, a man has to die for the things he loves, for the things that put him through¡­ hard¡­ships. But you are alive, and won¡¯t remain so if you don¡¯t win this battle of mights.¡±

    ¡°But dad, my body aches all over. My spirit and will are nearly depleted, and her¡¯s just too fruitful.¡±

    ¡°But, Crusadina, if you lose, who will destroy the walls of the world? The fate of the whole universe is in your unbroken hand.¡±

    ¡°What about the broken one?¡±

    ¡°I have a fet¡­ empathic inclination for amputees,¡± The father said. ¡°But if it heals, good for you!¡±

    ¡°I cannot, dad.¡±

    The Smoothie cultivator yawned, created a wristwatch out of straws and looked at it. This was taking forever.

    ¡°It¡¯s not about the walls you bring down, daughter of mine, it''s about the ones you enslave to do your bidding. What¡¯s a gun, but a cylinder of walls doing a catapult''s job?¡± The furfather let out an inspirational speech, and it reached deep inside Crusadina.

    She felt newfound energy coursing through the channels of her body. She felt her pupils reshaping, taking in the form of siege cannons. Walls would serve her, and she would make them kill their own families.

    She had visions of Mons Megs building spaceships, of more advanced cannons boarding them and colonizing moons and planets all across the solar system, bringing down alien walls as well as they had brought down the local ones. Her hair changed color, turned flaming red and she felt as if her bones were replaced with gunpowder and iron. She had reached it, breached through to the Interplanetary Cannon Artillocracy cultivation stage.

    She pounded most of this newfound energy into the chicken, giving it a new impulse, pushing back the lemoness.

    ¡°This cannot be happening,¡± The Smoothie cultivator whispered. Then he tried funneling more power onto the attack, and he found out he was running out of juice. ¡°Damn, my attack is getting cockblocked!¡± Were his last words before the chicken drilled through the weakened beam, and then his body, obliterating both his cup armor and, his ¡ªslightly less disposable¡ª ribcage.

    Without another word he died, and Crusadina fell on her knees. ¡°I won¡­ this city is mine to destroy!¡±

    ¡°Yay¡± Katie Yayed.

    Then Crusadina looked around, but she didn¡¯t catch even a glimpse of the glowing fursuit. Her daddy was gone, and only the issues remained.

    A second later, the pain returned to her arm, ¡°Oh, the adrenalin is wearing off.¡±

    What followed was an expert demonstration on her part: a constant, heartfelt chanting of the first letter of the alphabet.

 Chapter 23: Lime, Pale Beauty

    At the bleachers, Kalon sat crying on a corner. Every fight he had fought, he lost. Some had not even been due to his opponent being good: he had simply tripped and foiled his own chances at victory.

    Jagger was loitering around behind the seats, saying his heartfelt goodbyes to the locals.

    ¡°Hey Fat Fuck, I am going on a journey that may kill me.¡±

    Fat Fuck, the local obese Shiba Inu, glanced at him with a smile. ¡°Ba.¡±

    ¡°Yup, moving up in life. Towards heaven, with some luck.¡±

    ¡°Baaaaaa.¡±

    ¡°Yeah, I will miss you too. We need to drink ditch water together again someday, your taste in it is exquisite. I admire it. And I will miss that thing where you perfectly recreate the sound of rolling thunder.¡±

    ¡°Bababadalgharaghtakamminarronnkonnbronntonnerronntuonnthunntrovarrhounawnskawntoohoohoordenenthurnuk,¡± he thundered.

    ¡°The chant of an angelic whale, if I ever heard one.¡±

    The patriarch fidgeted with his newly written papers. In print, he had written them in print. None of that arcane shit five years old liked to learn. The only fight of the Antitournament of Absolute Losers remained: the biggest disgraces of the village would face each other and one of them would be exiled.

    Of course, and to kill any pretense of tension that may have survived until now, I must say that Kalon will be exiled. Him getting exiled is fun. For us. Not him.

    Anyway, Kalon¡¯s mind was running at full speed, which was still geological, but, like, continental-drift geological instead of cooling-down-of-the-molten-iron-core-and-consequent-loss-of-the-magnetic-field-that-protects-us-from-getting-our-atmosphere-blown-away-by-stellar-farts geological. He couldn¡¯t believe it. He was a disaster, a dishonor to his family and clan.

    ¡°I have failed you, sensei,¡± he lamented, thinking of Brunhilda.

    Then, the beautiful, cracking-chocolate voice of the patriarch slid into his ears like molten chocolate. Black, because, remember, I am a racist against white chocolate. ¡°The last fight is Kalon vs Lime.¡±

    Caressing his revolver, the patriarch considered shooting Lime¡¯s mother for calling her daughter after such a boring fruit. Melons were better. Graprfruits were better. Limes were green, obnoxious, and a synonym of small tits. All the things that were wrong with the world, limes were.

    Kalon stared at the clouds high above, and begged. ¡°Heavens, please, aid me to win this battle.¡±

    And the heavens did answer, making their voice heard inside Kalon¡¯s skull, ¡°We have a boyfriend. To share.¡±

    ¡°Guh, the heavens are gay,¡± he let out, lowering his head in defeat.

    The Patriarch hurried him to the arena, spouting curses we may no reproduce in the written medium, lest the CIA, the FBI, the IRS, the AFIP, The CONMEBOL, the KGB, Putin himself, the Japanese government, the Loli Manga Enjoyers Association, Autochthonous Twitter Fauna displaced from its natural environment by the Muskdusk, the post-mass-extinction fern spikes, the author, his immune system, and God itself engage in despicable censorship and lowly cancellatory practices.

    Kalon didn¡¯t hurry to the arena, but rather approached it like a man damned to the gallows. He took the shortest path there, which implied going around each bleacher several times, following some arrows that had been painted on the floor.

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    Brunhilda watched from above a nearby roof and giggled. She gave a grateful lick to the can of white paint.

    After about a league of walking, Kalon arrived to the arena steps. HE trembled before them.

    ¡°We are here since an hour ago, Kalon, step into the damn thing!¡± The patriarch urged. He was facing his worst nightmare: he had run out of slurs.

    Lime, pale as only she knew how to be, and frail as Argentinian economy, slept upon the wood planks. Seeing her, Kalon felt an unfamiliar warmth grow and spread inside him. She did beauty like few in the village, and she was only a cousin, so there wasn¡¯t any trouble with trying¡­ things. The first image his cultivation-enhanced mind conjured was¡­ a shovel. He then picturing himself holding the shovel. After I reach immortality, I shall become an undertaker. This thought shows that one can lead a lobotomized horse to the waters of love, but it will fall to the simple temptations of grave robbing.

    She sneezed cutely and opened her big, watery eyes that looked like lotus flowers, akining (new word, cry me a river and then move on with your pathetic, dictionary-entryless life.) reproductive organs to complex dark chambers other sort of reproductive organs use to see danger coming. Danger than, in turn, supports other reproductive organs. Fuck biology, man.

    Kalon called for Jagger, making the pup fly to his hand despite the bleachers acting as a barrier between them. Covered in splinters and remains of a bucket full of caramelized chicken, Jagger forwent a sigh and accepted his reality as the weapon of the moron.

    Lime yawned, smiled in origami with her lips of paper, and then spoke:

    ¡°I anti-surrender.¡±

    Everyone was shocked. What did this mean? Was this even valid? The Patriarch pulled the rulenotebook from his pocked dimension (which he kept on his pocket, because he was a very pragmatic man) and swallowed loudly. He began poring over pages and pages of ancient scripture.

    ¡°Well, it seems¡­there are no rules against it. The truth is, there are no rules at all. We make them on a whim. This is just full of names of prostitutes and their addresses.¡±

    ¡°What?¡± Kalon asked as the girl giggled across the arena.

    ¡°She antisurrendered in the antitournament, thus winning the match.¡± The Patriarch explained swiftly, pulling out his gun and pointing and the child. ¡°Now grab your things and say your goodbyes, Kalon Surname: you are exiled.¡±

    Kalon fell on his knees, which hurt a lot and made him cry like a little bitch. The public pulled out their free tomato bags that they had been given for free when paying the entry to the tournament: some of the bags even had tomatoes inside them!

    The casted a rain of red and pulp and green over the loser, the exiled, our protagonist, Kalon. Jagger deftly dodged tomatoes by rolling from side to side: the salad wouldn¡¯t catch him alive.

    <hr>

    Kalon the tomato-colored abstract painting dragged his feed towards the end of the Roadlike Road. His mother hadn¡¯t said goodbye, as she was too busy going through the paperwork to make another son. Jagger marched by his side, happy with the prospect of dying out in the cold, cruel world beyond the Vale. Blades of grass turned away and the wind whispered between them when Kalon got close. Everything in the vale despised the exiled boy. As he was about to leave the last stretch of road, he heard a familiar voice calling for him. It was big Jay, that was riding Brunhilda to reach his side.

    ¡°That ought to break Auntie¡¯s back,¡± commented Jagger.

    ¡°Kalon, Jagger, I am happy I reached in time. I wanted to give you something to aid you on your journey.¡±

    ¡°Money?¡± Kalon asked, the words tasting liker pennies as they came out of his mouth. Pennies. He had a craving for them, for their copper. Money would be good.

    The man descended from his loyal steed. ¡°Pfft, no, local currency is not wanted in any of the surrounding settlements. I am giving you Brunhilda.¡±

    Brunhilda opened her eyes wide and started foaming at the mouth and out her ears. Big Jay used a single slap to snap her out of such trauma-induced trance. ¡°She is very loyal, and should help you walk your road. Take good care of her, Jagger.¡±

    ¡°Why me? I am a puppy.¡±

    ¡°And your owner is Kalon.¡± Big Jay answered, which made Jagger scratch the dirt in shame and talk no more.

    ¡°Anywya, I gotta go. Place to be, weeds to smoke.¡±

    Big jay inhaled deeply and wind started to blow. His body turning slowly to columns of colored smoke that were carried away, leaving the Exiled, Brunhilda, and Jagger to their own devices. ¡°Goodbye Kalon, Brunhilda, Jagger. Be good.¡± The smoke said, and then flew back into the village, blessed with the grace of a cloud of mosquitoes.

    ¡°He didn¡¯t die, right?¡± Jagger asked, and nobody present knew the answer to his question.

 Chapter 24: Going Nuts.

    Nuts. There has never been in the English language a word so useful to solve crises, not even close. Famine? Harvest more nuts. Inverted population pyramid? Bust a few nuts in the right place. Villain getting cocky? Crack his nuts. Villain is female? Make her go nuts. A bank goes into bankruptcy? Nut our fucking problem.

    Talking about nuts, the trees that grew in the desert past the tallest peaks of the mountain range that preserved the world from the horrors inside Valelike Vale had evolved with nuts in mind. The leaves had been replaced by nuts. The trunk was a long, hard , giant nut surrounded by a bark composed mostly of small nuts and cork, that was nothing but a matrix of microscopic nuts cemented by a paste made of nuts, both produced by an adapted phellogen with nut-shaped cells.

    And how did these abominations of nature photosynthesize, when every centimeter of their surface was lignified? They didn¡¯t. They had developed their own form of autotrophy powered by a resource even more abundant than sunlight: stupidity. It was carried by the winds from Valelike Vale and accumulated in the environment, a thick layer of goopy scatterbrainess that sometimes gathered in pools that light dared not interact with, and thus were invisible. But the nutroots had learned how to seek it, how to take it in. The nutleaves were covered with inscriptions of vague electoral promises, so to condense stupidity upon them.

    Once inside the tree, stupidity was faced with a battery of conspiratoines and moronitase, that bent and cut it into two forms: one capable of breaking the covalent bonds of carbon dioxide, and one that fixated the released carbon atoms into glucose. And where did hydrogen come from, in an environment so dry and unforgiving? It was made ex nihilo, condensing stupidity into matter. This, as you may imagine, made thermodynamics fall into a severe depression from which they have yet to recover.

    And you may wonder ¡°hey, did you just infodump several paragraphs about trees on me and I enjoyed it?¡±

    Yes.

    You are welcome, victim, you masochist for shiterature.

    But it¡¯s high time to talk about our heroes, isn¡¯t it? Well, here goes nothing¡­

    Kalon was fighting his inner demons, if we make the following set of small concessions:  the inner demons being external, the inner demons being innumerable and, lastly, the inner demons being sand-grain-sized compounds chiefly composed of silicates, mainly quartz and feldspar.

    This dune, all high and mighty, stood before him, migrating across the trunks of the nutrees while paying Kalon and the dogs no mind.

    Prone on the ground, Kalon looked at the mound of¡­ inner demons¡­ with hatred, and swore to one day kill the dune¡¯s whole clan. Jagger was rehydrating by sucking Kalon¡¯s sweaty hair.  Brunhilda had buried herself in the sand, tilting her head so only one nostril, eye and ear were kept above the surface.

    This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

    ¡°We have to carry on. You sweat is getting saltier, uncomforting to ingest,¡± Jagger informed flatly.

    ¡°My strength is gone, Jagger. I cannot carry on and the trees have no water inside them.¡±

    ¡°We can always eat you after you die, and then return to the vale. We are not exiled. You are.¡± Jagger reminded him, but Kalon didn¡¯t listen, for he had already departed from the world of the conscious.

    <hr>

    ¡°Hoo boy, you are cooking under the sun.¡± The avatar of the Road, personified as a Rottweiler head hanging from a gong frame, addressed the visitor in this so familiar darkness.

    ¡°Guh, do I taste good at least?¡±

    The avatar blinked and hung in place, perplexed. ¡°What.¡± Then it remembered who it was dealing with. ¡°Listen, Kalon, dying is¡­ double plus uncool.¡±

    ¡°Guh, I don¡¯t want to be uncool. What¡¯s a plus?¡± The cadence with which Kalon said this fit him like a glove, creating a sort of naturally-sounding non-sequitur.

    ¡°Get up and hit me with the mallet,¡± he said, looking at the sorry mop on a stick that served as the tool with which the Gong needed to be struck.

    ¡°Mallet?¡±

    ¡°¡­the thingy.¡±

    ¡°Ah.¡±

    No dialogue tags were used in the exchange above because I am well aware that you can feel the frustration of the avatar on your very flesh. If you were a Rottweiler, I am sure you , too, would be in want of a good owner-mauling session.

    Kalon dragged his feet up to the mallet, picked it up gave a lick to the mop, had a coughing and spitting fit due to the taste, and then used the wrong end to hit the Gongweiler on the nose.

    ¡°Holy heavens, why?¡± The nose-pricked dog head counted to ten, inhaled, then exhaled. Those anger management classes were finally paying for themselves.¡± Kalon, Are you really this stupid?

    Kalon nodded effusively. ¡°No¡±

    ¡°Well, wake up or you will die and Jagger and Brunhilda will eat you up.¡±

    <hr>

    Kalon woke up to a tender tongue exploring his ears.

    ¡°This wax is acceptable in quality, Brunhilda. I have eaten shits that tasted better but, then again, some turds are works of culonary art.¡±

    Brunhilda growled softly.

    ¡°Oh, Kalon, you are awake,¡± said Jagger, stashing his tongue back in his mouth. ¡°I was trying to prevent a brain parasite from starving by getting trapped in your skull,¡± he deftly lied.

    Brunhilda dug herself further into the sand, the golden (not retriever, though) grains covering her like celestial dandruff.

    Kalon felt the warm embrace of a hard, unwelcoming, thorny survace around his leg, and Jagger wondered if it was his legal obligation to warn his owner about the nutrees roots and how they had been growing towards him. No, he was a dog, so he had only rights, no obligations.

    Kalon soon realized the trees meant him no harm. The roots just slapped him when he tried to think, so he received only three slaps as they dragged him into the heart of the forest of the desert.

    As the trees passed Kalon¡¯s feeble body from one unburied root to another, the dogs followed at their leisure. In the distance stood a massive nutree. It was so big even its nuts were made of smaller nuts.

    A voice boomed from the massive plant at the horizon, shaking its smaller cousins ¡°Ygdrasshell welcomes you, beacon of idiocy.¡±

    ¡°Welp, Kalon is falling upwards in life as he is in a literal sense, that¡¯s for sure,¡± commented Jagger, unimpressed. ¡°Come, Brun, let¡¯s see if there are any chances for a quick death inside that monutmental tree.¡±

    Brunhilda barked in agreement, and so, they followed Kalon in what could have been as well been a trap.

    Sadly for Jagger. It wasn¡¯t.

 Chapter 25: Brunhildas Sensational Gift

    Yggdrashell was pleased with its new acquisition. Kalon¡¯s stupidity flew out of him thick and pure. Unlike that carried by the wind, Kalon¡¯s witlessness remained untarnished by intellect. It was the kind of stupid energy that had never met a thought it couldn¡¯t ignore in its existence.

    So delightful was Kalon¡¯s Idiocy that Yggdrashell took extreme care when manipulating the boy, doing so only indirectly, by giving orders to its disposable undersaplings. It didn¡¯t want to get addicted, to come to need Kalon as a geologist needs to lick rocks. Geologists die if they don¡¯t lick rocks. Ask your geologist friends.

    Make some geologist friends first.

    Make some friends.

    This is why your mother cries at night.

    Jagger sipped nuttar from a wide, bowl shaped nutflower. ¡°This must be what the gods drink on the daily!¡± he said before sinking his head back into the sweet, nutty liquid.

    ¡°Grrr.¡± Brunhilda masterfully argued.

    ¡°Blrbblrblrb,¡± Jagger bubbled.

    ¡°Grrrr,¡± she insisted

    ¡°Blrbbblrblrlrlrblr,¡± Jagger retorted.

    ¡°Grrrrrrr woof,¡±

    Jagger plucked his head out of the nuttar, licked the sticky liquid from the parts of his face the tongue could reach, and said:

    ¡°I shall see you in the courtroom for that!¡±

    Yggdrashell felt the dogs make a ruckus at its foot, and began sprouting another nuttar flower where Jagger could smell it blooming. The nutrees had lacked pollinators since their flowers had become nuts, so they had been using the wind to carry their pollen, which was fairly inefficient. Now, if they could train dogs to pollinate them¡­

    But that was the least of Yggdrashell¡¯s concerns. They were giving Kalon valuable water to keep him alive, and in turn, his aura of idiocy was feeding them all. A buffet emanated from the boy, and the nutrees feasted. They could not lose him, under no pretense. Well, maybe if he got educated, but whoever did that despicable act of well poisoning would pay.

    Or not.

    Trees aren¡¯t known for holding grudges.

    Except for cypresses. Hell hath no fury like a cypress scorned.

    Kalon drank the watery sap that bled from a wound in Yggdrashell¡¯s bark. It soothed his aching body, made his stiff muscles felt slightly more like flesh and less like tense springs. His jaw was almost rigid, his head about to explode, and his stomach tied in a painful knot. HE had slight problems swallowing the liquid, and he wrote it off as a result of the dehydration, stress and exposure to the extreme heat.

    Fever tried to get a hold of him and do what fever does, but it found itself at a loss when it couldn¡¯t find the mental mechanisms to cause hallucinations. Sweating and bouts of cold shivering, sure, but no fever episode was complete without the delirium. Yet the facts were the facts: Kalon was too stupid to assemble fever dreams.

    This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author''s work.

    Yggdrashell watched the boy, cradled in a bed of roots and protected from the elements under a dome that was the half of a gargantuan nut. Every second they kept him alive, it was a little victory. Yet the grin made him worry. The grin. Nobody grinned while suffering from a heatstroke. Not even the king of morons. What was up with that grin?

    <hr>

    This character we are going to address now won¡¯t survive too long, due to their own nature. You should not feel sad for them, for death reaches all things in time, and it will reach you too.

    As a member of the Clostiridium tetani species, this newborn bacterium was a descendant of the bacteria of old, brave pioneers that had migrated out of Brunhilda¡¯s mouth and into Kalon¡¯s bloodstream an eternity (a week and some) ago. They had weathered scorching sunlight and poisonous oxygen to reach this promised land, and now she had to do her part and grow strong. Reach a stage where she could reproduce, or form spores and venture back out in search of new homes for their kind. And they did need a new home, because they couldn¡¯t help shitting all over the place. They were destroying their only home by releasing those toxins into the environment. And that was not to mention the eukaryotic monsters that roamed Kalon¡¯s bloodstream, eating innocent bacteria like her alive.

    A newborner bacterium approached her, wiggling his little flagellum to propel himself through the liquid medium. ¡°Big sis, why do dey say planet iz dyin?¡± he asked with a tiny voice one could compare to creaky hinges.

    ¡°Because we shit too much, little brother,¡± she lamented, making emotion course through her cellular wall. ¡°The nervosphere gets contaminated, and the planet cannot stand it for long.¡±

    ¡°But wher ar we gon go?¡±

    ¡°Outside, to the unknown, like our forefathers and foremothers did.¡± Then she felt an ominous signal striking her membrane receptors and turned suddenly. ¡°Swim little brother!¡± She frontbutted the little bacteria away just in time to avoid him being swallowed by the predatory neutrophil. The white cell swiftly phagocyted the big sis, enveloping her into its cellular membrane, and soon producing chemical compounds that would dissolve her into nothing.

    ¡°Big sis!¡± the newborner cried. ¡°Wow¡­ I am into vore now, sweet!¡± he self-reflected.

    And that¡¯s how life went for the bacteria inside Kalon. Live fast, die horribly, or reach the end of your life cycle and split into two smaller bacteria, dying horribly.

    <hr>

    As hours passed by, Kalon discovered the true meaning of a very important word: Opisthotonus. His back arched like an experienced porn actress¡¯ (Pick your favorite. No, not that one. Good God above, people, your tastes suck.), his toes curled, his muscles pulled form his bones in spams that threatened to turn his skeleton to sharp splinters. And he couldn¡¯t cry: from, his throat only a weak whistle could escape.

    Jagger spent his time licking Kalon¡¯s forehead to take the heat away. Yggdrashell, that hosted boy and dogs inside a hollowed out section of its trunk, had opened a small window to let the cold air of the desert¡¯s night bathe Kalon.

    Brunhilda stood guard, camouflaged in the shadow cast by a nearby outgrowth of giant nut-tracheids as they were illuminated by the bioluminescent, golden nutlamps Yggdrashell had provided for their comfort. His pupil would not die on her guard: he wouldn¡¯t dare.

    Yggdrashell¡¯s worry seeped out of its cork. Kalon¡¯s sorry state was slowly tainting his stupidity. Pushed to the extreme by pain, Kalon¡¯s brain was trying to resort to unexplored methods to survive. It had begun to believe it could, maybe, if the situation was desperate enough, think of a solution. Suffice to say, this was an ominous prospect for Yggdrashell. Kalon was a snack sent by the gods, the perfect source of idiocy. Yet¡­ there was nothing a tree could do against tetanus.

    ¡°My tongue is tired.¡± Jagger dutifully informed. ¡°Hey, Yggdrashell, why is there a desert here? The mountains aren¡¯t tall enough to produce rain shadows, and we are not at a latitude propicious for desert-forming. ¡°

    The tree cleared his vascular bundles. There was no reason to show worry to its guests, lest they panicked. And so it spoke. ¡°This land used to be a prosperous agricultural paradise, soybean fields as far and wide as pollen could reach.¡±

    Jagger tilted his head. ¡°And then what happened?¡±

    ¡°Soybean fields as far and wide as pollen could reach.¡± The tree repeated.

    ¡°I am asking what¡­ ohhh.¡± The realization hit Jagger like soil deterioration the local land owners.

    ¡°Yeah, as far as cultivation went, they could have spent more time learning the most important of techniques: Crop rotation,¡± the parent of all nutrees sassed. ¡°Now, back to licking the forehead, or no more nuttar for you!¡±

    ¡°Boss, yes, boss!¡± Jagger saluted, and immediately went back to his anti-fever task.

 Chapter 26: Cutbastra Tries to Get a Meal (Goes Wrong)

    The neon sign was clear: ¡°Fuck Bitches, Eat Food¡±. Cutbastra contemplated it, arms crossed, pondering if it was worth dealing with the colorful characters on the dinner of a small rural town, just to get a meal that would ameliorate his mood. They were always one step behind the dangerous lass, and he was in need of a little satisfaction. His body had no need for food, but he still had a working tongue and stomach. Hunger wouldn¡¯t kill or weaken him, which didn¡¯t make it any more bearable.

    ¡°We may as well go in and buy ourselves a little meal.¡±

    Oracle huffed. ¡°We have a mission, there will be time for dinner when the menace is sleeping among mycorrhizae.¡±

    ¡°You could have said ¡®roots¡¯.¡±

    ¡°And you¡¯d have retorted pointing out the adventitious roots of ferns or the haustorial roots of parasitic plants. And no, even if some ectomycorrhizae can sprout parts of the fungus above the ground, I refer exclusively to the ones inside plant¡¯s roots,¡± the grumpy lizard finished his complaint by digging himself deep into Cutbastra¡¯s pocket.

    ¡°You are no fun when you do study your botanics. Let¡¯s go in.¡±

    Cutbastra asked the door kindly to open, and the red-painted wood blushed before it obliged. ¡°Cute hinges, dear, keep them fit and oiled.¡±

    The door closed in a swooning motion, letting out a little squee of happiness as it swung.

    The inside of the dinner was a world of pastel colors, squared windows and oaken tables. Men and women of all shapes and sizes occupied said tables, and so did their fluffy canines¡­ why do I feel I need to clarify they didn¡¯t have hairy teeth? Is this story that absurd?

    Don¡¯t answer.

    Their teeth were mostly bald; some white, some yellow, and some black, like my racist friends on Discord. Dogs fat and thin, tall and short, hirsute and bald sat on chairs and tables, and discussions about them filled the mouths of most patrons. Cutbastra eavesdropped a bit on the male owner of a pug that had nearly mastered anaerobia. ¡°Yes, this is Sir Livesalot. His line has a three-year-long lifespan and seventy percent of the puppies survive past three months, a marvel of selective breeding that keeps both the traditional pug aesthetics and improves their overall health.¡±

    The other patron at the table, a man who wore a monocle and had his fingers paralyzed on an eternal steeple, indeeded. ¡°Indeed,¡± he indeeded indeedingly.

    I swear I am not paid by the word.

    I am not paid. Period.

    ¡°Ah, I get it, this is a place where people try to get proper mates for their prize dogs of prestigious lineages. That¡¯s the ¡®fuck bitches¡¯ part. Very¡­ family friendly, compared to the name of the place,¡± Cutbastra said, taking his hands to his hips as a man who thinks he has understood does.

    Oracle popped back out of the pocket. ¡°There¡¯s something ominous about this place, but I can¡¯t quite put my finger on it¡­¡±

    This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

    Cutbastra carefully picked his friend up and her it in front of his face using his index and thumb. He smiled smugly.

    ¡°What?¡±

    ¡°Could you repeat what you just said, Oracle?¡± He teased, wagging his fingers in front of the limbless animal.

    ¡°My finger.¡± The lizard started retching, and soon, vomited a few small phalanxes that landed on Cutbastra¡¯s cheek. ¡°I keep a collection of them in my stomach. Rats¡¯, children¡¯s, grandmas¡¯ little toes. They are great as gastroliths.¡±

    Cutbastra took a handkerchief out of his pocket dimension and retired the slimy bones from his face. ¡°You win today, friend. You win today.¡±

    He made his way to the counter and, despite being an immortal that had shared banquets (and wives) with kings, he got awestruck at the variety and colorfulness of the dishes presented under the glass. Meats, fish, vegetables, eggs, fruits, all of them gracefully combined into works of art.

    A herding dog with a long, straight, silky coat, passed them by carrying a platter full of shellfish over his head. She had a cute pink bowtie in her tail, so Cutbastra assumed she was a girl. ¡°They trained a dog to be a maid, awesome!¡±

    The owner, a somber, middle agedlady with arms too long and fingers too rickety to be a pleasant sight, faced Cutbastra. ¡°What will you have, new face?¡± She said, vwith a voice like that of a professional glass chewer.

    ¡°I¡¯d like fish, so¡­ What do you have?¡± The cucktivator qasked rubbing his hands in anticipation. ¡°It all looks so good.¡±

    ¡°Can you pay?¡±

    ¡°In any currency of the world. I carry spare change from every nation.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s not with coin that you pay for the best meals, stranger. But let¡¯s see what I can offer you.¡±

    The woman cracked her fingers, and the sound startled most dogs present, which started to howl. A pug with a horn, sole son of its unhorned mother for obvious reasons, and an overly fluffy Pomeranian stylized as an eighties punk fanatic remained unfazed.

    She pointed at a particular platter with whole fish in it. ¡°Psychic sardine for dinner may cause sterilization,¡± She handed a handheld video camera to Cutbastra. Then pointed at a platter with a single, colorful fish surrounded by herbs. ¡°The little gills of sweet trout bring severe spleen inflammation.¡± She whistled, making the maid dog come to Cutbastra¡¯s side and begin licking his leg.

    ¡°How¡­ cute. May I pet her?¡±

    The woman nodded and Cutbastra began scratching the dog¡¯s ears as she panted excitedly. Then the lady, getting red in the face already for reasons unknown to the cultivator, gestured towards a platted with well seared fillets in it. ¡°And if you want these kind sea breams¡­¡± she pointed at the dog so Cutbastra would direct his gaze to her ¡°¡­it¡¯s collie fornication.¡±

    ¡°What?¡±

    The Collie held a stare to Cutbastra and winked seductively.

    ¡°Listen I¡­ I believe in no sex before marriage,¡± he didn¡¯t lie, as he never said the marriage had to be his.

    Cutbastra backed slowly as the collie tried to hump his leg only to be repelled by the cultivator¡¯s vital energy.

    <hr>

    ¡°You know, maybe letting her destroy the world is not so bad? Like, look how beautifully this pyre illuminates the night,¡± Cutbastra said between psychopathic laugh and psychopathic laugh.

    ¡°Those poor dogs were innocent, Cutbastra,¡± Oracle chastised his friend, standing by his side in that convenient hill that every arsonist wants to stand on to watch his latest work of art.

    ¡°Hush, they were tainted, Oracle, irreversibly so. May the fire purify them.¡±

    ¡°You need to stop going into public establishments. You are constantly dragged into dens of degeneracy and/or geese.¡±

    ¡°Maybe you are right.¡± He inhaled a bit of smoke from his latest feat, and the tick on his eye calmed down. ¡°I could¡­ I could just avoid these places, but then justice won¡¯t be served.¡±

    ¡°Those poor dogs,¡± Oracle lamented again.

    ¡°It was necessary, and if it wasn¡¯t, let me lie to myself so I feel better, party pooper. Besides, at the bare minimum, the collie maid was complicit.¡±

    ¡°You know, friend¡­ I think you should tune your vigilantism down a bit for a while,¡± Oracle suggested, and then shut himself off in Cutbastra¡¯s pocket. He didn¡¯t want to be a victim of the incoming rant.

 Chapter 27: Like Moths Of a Flame

    The motley night of the Soleno Empire got vanquished when a flaming insect like a sun, both in brightness and grandeur, appeared over the low roofs of the suburbs. Its wings were lakes of soaring fire threatening to rain over the people and their dwellings and livelihoods on the outer ring of the centrifugally-impoverished city. Its composite eyes, black molten rocks a midst the flames for flesh, met the cold night air with disdain.

    A guard that was patrolling a dirt street raised his gaze, grasped his hat and angrily cast it into a nearby puddle of mud, ¡°One week, one week without worrying about rampant inflation and judgement day has to come. One fucking week. And I didn¡¯t take my union-mandated holidays this year. I should have listened to my wife, gods dammit. Bet she knew, the witch. Bet she caused this, the witch.¡±

    The moth moved her tentacle-like legs, wiggling them in the air, causing a rain of harmless embers like stars upon the populace. The flap of its wings blinded those that dared stare at it, and they seemed to not move naturally, as if being afterimages without an original.

    I need to fit a fan or two in here. The heart of the moth thought.

    ¡°You can will it real, Crusie dear,¡± Katie answered the thought.

    What did I think about reading my mind?

    Katie lowered the front of her frame in shame. ¡°Understood.¡±

    The emperor, a tall and muscular old man, peeked out of the window of the highest tower of his castle, pinched the bridge of his nose and called the imperial communicator to his side with a loud shout.

    ¡°See that?¡± the man pointed a finger like a sausage to the shining fire moth. ¡°I want It in every imperial newsletter. Every press in the country should deny its existence. Tell the people it¡¯s just¡­  early summer or something. Now bring me my favorite whiskey.¡±

    ¡°Sir, with all due respect, I am not your butler, I just make your decrees and¡ª.¡±

    ¡°Tell the imperial executor to come talk with me , or bring me my whiskey, I am too sober to be hallucinating this hard, and if the giant moth won¡¯t go away, there is only one way to solve this conundrum.¡±

    The man in purple robes forced a smile and kowtowed. ¡°Yes dearest leader, I shall bring you your elixir of wisdom.¡±

    And so, over the golden carpet, and through the golden door, the communicator headed for one of the multiple Whiskey Stations spread through the castle. The emperor was known for not taking lovers because time spent kissing a woman was time wasted not kissing a bottle of liquor. And, despite not having reached immortality himself, his liver had, out of sheer necessity.

    Back to the slums, Crusadina decided it was high time to remodel the city, and so the moth birthed balls of fire forth, each the size of a particularly extremely obese horse the size of three particularly obese elephants that were each the size of about fifty thousand particularly average rats[1]</a>.

    Mothers that were on the street at such late hours of the night embraced their children and shielded them with their bodies, because their children were valuable and said women didn¡¯t want to lose them before they were sold to the best bidder, no refunds. Local stray dogs yawned as death approached: they had gotten through worse, they would survive a little heat.  The Association of Conspiracy theorists called for an emergency gathering, and those who assisted sat on a circle over flat puffs in the roof of the house of one of them.  ¡°So, the moth of fire.¡± the tinhatted one opened the conversation. ¡°Does it exist?¡±

    An intellectual-looking woman donning a monocle chuckled, and then retorted. ¡°Does anything exist? Remember we are all in a simulation result of a giant child moving the beads of an abacus really fast.¡±

    A quivering one that was more nerves than man released nonsense from his deepest crevices. ¡°Don¡¯t listen to her, the moth is a fire-gouging demon from the twentieth dimension, it came to our plane to get a new sock. Only one. That¡¯s why they disappear. The moth steals them.¡±

    A fourth conspiracy theorist had adopted a pondering stance, and, after a few seconds, said, ¡°Do you think the moth is flat, or does it have¡­¡± he gestured at his chest with both open hands. ¡°Honkadonkaroos that the elites hide from us so we lose faith in the gods and obey the commands of the New Secular Order?¡±

    This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

    The men reclined in their chairs and, incoming ball of infernal rage notwithstanding, fell into a deep contemplation. Finally, the one with the tinhat broke the silence. ¡°what if there are no flat women, but only women with invisible tits?¡±

    The monocle lady pronged the air in front of her chest with her index, exploring the empty space. ¡°I think the child in the abacus also makes the tits intangible. The lie has more layers than an onion.¡±

    ¡°Onions are a lie!¡± One that had been silent until then shouted.

    And when they already felt the scorching heat on their skin and began considering that maybe sunscreen wasn¡¯t a scam of Big Alchemy, the fireball bounced, being sent back from whence it came. The one of them with the most acute eyesight swore a shadow had passed in front of the light for only a fraction of a second, but he wrote it off as the influence of a soul parasite from the underworld.

    Cutbastra sweated the fat drop as he played the most extreme game of baseball in recorded history. His whole body was enveloped in a thick layer of vital energy, enhancing his speed and strength. With a metal bat he had stolen from a child he had yet to beat unconscious so he didn¡¯t go along telling people his bat had disappeared, he hit the flaming boulders of energy, directing them back to the moth. He had to get every single one, and, given the terrible city planning of the slums, reaching the places of incoming impact was harder than it had any business to be.

    After batting away the last of the fireballs, sat on at the outdoor table of a caf¨¦ for a few seconds to catch his breath. There he touched his pocket, looking for Oracle. After a microsecond where his heart almost turns upside down, He remembered he had left Oracle safely stashed on the hollowed out trunk of a tree that grew on the nearby plains. His ear twitched when he heard a known, disquieting voice. ¡°Oh, not him. ¡°

    On a nearby table, not noticing his date had left hours ago, a man revolved his already cold coffee. He had red hair and wore a pair of cargo shorts. ¡°¡­so, this is why I spent three months elucidating the Dwarvish ovulation mechanics of my fantasy world, because I needed to know if in the interracial interspecies sex scene of my novel¡ª which is absolutely relevant to the plot, mind you¡ª I had to worry about the characters wearing contraception, as they conceiving a black human-dwarf could spur controversy among my readers. ¡®Like, why do black people have to breed with the dwarves?  They could fuck other people instead of the scum of the land. Why couldn¡¯t it be a white person that fucked and impregnated the dwarf?¡¯ They¡¯d say, pegging me as a scummy racist that I am not. I believe black people have the right to marry each other if they so desire. But, them being human, I must also show them suffering ¡ªfor example, by fucking a despicable female dwarf.  You get it, right? It¡¯s art, dear, our intentions cannot be directly stated, the words have to speak for us. Besides, I like tall women better, shortstacks are not my thing¡­¡±

    Cutbastra rushed off of that haunted terrace. He knew that man, it was older than him. Following the Road of Endless Worldbuilding, he had achieved immortality, and he used it to curse people with his writings. Half a millennia of experience had done no good for his attempts at ¡°¡°art¡±¡±.

    I need bigger quotes for that. BRING IN THE SPANISH ONES.

    ??art??

    There. Better.

    Cutbastra couched and then pumped against the ground, propelling himself into the air. He produced a bike out of his pocked dimension, sat on it midair, and then began spining, while moving the bike to a side, pulling off some sick tricks on its way to face the moth.

    Finally, he felt the scorching heat as he arrived in front of the monsters face and sitting on thin air,  he examined the monster.

    ¡°Your technique could be refined, dear,¡± he said after a few seconds. Crusadina''s little head popped out of the searing flames between the moth¡¯s eyes.

    ¡°I want to destroy the city, sir. Could you stop deflecting my balls?¡± she asked politely, as her mother had taught her.

    ¡°No, brat, just stop, go home, be a normal teenaged girl. Go get pregnant by a criminal at thirteen or ruin yourself with drugs. Shoo. This world is not yours to destroy.¡±

    Crusadina pouted and rolled her eyes. ¡°And what are you going to do, stop me?¡±

    Cutbastra enhanced the bike with his own vital energy and flung it against Crusadina¡¯s head. Crusadina, too busy being part of a giant moth of fire, was unable to dodge, and the hit toppled her, and the moth, on their backs.

    The cucktivator dusted off his hands and pants and stood from his sitting position.

    The moth was slowly dissolving, its flames extinguishing as it fell towards the innocents.

    Crusadina¡¯s face twitched in anger, her forehead bled. How he dared, how he dared! She retracted all the fire around her back into her soul, destroying what remained from the moth, and sprouted the flaming wings of the insect out of her back. An armor of linked catapults manifested over his skin, covering everything but her eyes. The cast on her broken arm, luckily, had gone unharmed, but she made sure to reinforce that area with an extra coat of ballistae.

    The man would pay. She flapped her shining wings to elevate back to where he was and make sure he paid. And she would accept no Visa or MasterCard, only pain.

    <hr>

    [1]</a> For this calculation we are assuming no air friction and a perfect sphere shape for the three Elephants mushed together, along with the rats forming a perfect sphere with no air pockets left between rats. We are assuming the density of a horse, a rat and an elephant are similar enough. We are not assuming anything else about the horse, we don¡¯t need to: a horse that fat would BE perfectly spherical.

 Chapter 28: The Ozone Layer Greets a Lady.

    Kalon felt like he was dying, but he is only the main character, so we don¡¯t care about him.

    <hr>

    Crusadina dashed through the skies, ascending in an acute angle in a hunt for the elusive, sitting Cutbastra. The cucktivator downed a vial of his elixir and used the empty bottle as a projectile to attack his adversary.

    With a powerful and unequal thrust of her flaming wings, Crusadina dodged to a side. She hadn¡¯t figured out flight, but the cannons of her soul were aerospace engineers and pilots and held a vested interest in her continued survival.

    She extended her fist like a battering ram and accelerated, the ramming course set towards her mortal enemy. Cutbastra sat up and let gravity take a hold of him for a second, spending no energy on the evasive maneuver and ending below the child. He grabbed Crusadina from her ankle and began spinning, his body a horizontal axis, building momentum to throw his opponent away. Then, he let go, with Crusadina becoming the inaugural event of Cutbastra¡¯s space program.

    Crusadina¡¯s wings extinguished as the clouds drew close, she covered her face instinctively, and crashed into one, naturally going through the cold water droplets and turning many of them back into vapor.  She thought fast: she was reorienting the tiny catapults of her armor to shoot upwards, to counteract the force applied to her. And if that weren¡¯t enough, as it seemed not to be, she would have to manifest cannons and use them for counterthrust. She felt the growing cold as she left the troposphere, and then a slight rise in temperature as she ascended through the stratosphere.

    The ozone layer noticed the electromagnetic signature of a lady approaching, and tucked its beer gut in, tensing up its metaphorical abs. Now I want you to picture two things: a window, reinforced and bulletproof, set high on an office building that somehow needs bulletproof windows all the way up; and a bird, soft and not bulletproof, flying around the place like she owns the skies, with a cocky attitude and a pathological denial of the existence of glass panes in her mind.  In our situation, the ozone layer was the window, and Crusadina the bird undergoing the painful sort of character development.

    A second or two Crusadina spent glued to the gas layer, pressed against it like a Shar Pei aboard a fighter jet, subject to the whims of several Gs. Then the ozone layer noticed she was a minor and, disgusted with itself, relaxed its metaphorical abs, causing the child to become unstuck and plummet back to the ground.

    ¡°In dire straits, are we?¡± Katie, reduced in size, appeared over her head and spoke as Crusadina¡¯s wings sprouted back, the cannons inside doing everything in their power to try and stabilize the nexus of their existence.

    ¡°He hurts me. My body aches all over, like the castles we assail. What do I do, Katie?¡±

    ¡°Fight back! You may have almost no battle experience, but if he¡¯s a wall on your road, he will come down, one way or another.¡±

    Cutbastra seemed to appear out of thin air, as the moment of distraction had allowed him to sneak up to her. ¡°You talk a lot of shit for someone who doesn¡¯t exist, catapult. Then, he batted Crusadina on the back, making a crack heard and sending her, and Katie, flying towards the horizon.

    The child¡¯s sweat and tears vaporized due to the speed she was attaining as she soared through the skies, leaving a contrail behind.  A farmer who was petting its crops so they would yield higher-quality Rottweilers raised his head and saw the line of white staining the blue sky. He frowned. ¡°They are fumigating us again, the motherfuckers!¡± He roared before stomping its way into the shed where he kept the gas masks for the plants.

    Crusadina whimpered in desperation as she saw the leisurely-strolling figure of her torturer in the corner of her eye, a foreboding shadow following her. She couldn¡¯t shoot in the contrary direction. She needed an idea to not get batted again, and needed it now. Her brain obliged, and, as a brain is wont to do, it defaulted to a contraption consisting of a modified ballista, that shoot a smaller modified ballista on a chain, that in turn shoot a smaller modified ballista on a chain, ad nauseam.  This abomination of nature and artifice, this affront to all laws that governed the world and warfare and carpentry, got manifested around Crusadina¡¯s healthy arm, a dance of pink and red lights taking the shape of each component of the massive contraption. And when it was done, Crusadina shoot it downwards. The first projectile-ballista reached the end of its chain, triggering the mechanism so it would release its load too. So the second projectile-ballista ejaculated a third, and so forth, like a succession of fathers and sons born from the besieged eggs of the blood-soaked womb of mother war.

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    Dear Lord that sentence was atrocious.

    The smallest ballista shot its bolt and it dug deep into the ground, going through and shattering to little pebbles the only fossil in existence that would have convinced the creationists that evolution was a fact and they were wrong. Good job, Crusadina, you awful enemy of science.

    The chains tensed, and Crusadina held on it on dear life as the centripetal force did its thing and curved her trajectory. She then let out an eloquent discourse as the grass came at her with smashing intent.  ¡°Excrement excrement excrement excrement!¡± she cursed in a Jaggerian way.

    What followed was that a piece of Classical Capitalized Chinese Cryptofauna (that, due to budget cuts, was replaced by a Male Capybara) began believing that, maybe, there wasn¡¯t a god-shaped-hole in its heart, but there surely was a girl-shaped-hole next to his pond.

    The Male Capybara went up to the hole and looked down it, ignoring the chain-and- ballista shaped rift that had been created on the terrain, extending from the girl¡¯s right arm.

    The dark bottom of the hole moaned in pain, and the Male Capybara spat on it, because it was interrupting this private time with his harem of Female Capybaras.

    Cutbastra landed next to the hole, produced a fishing pole out of his pocket dimension, produced a brick to use as bait for Crusadina, attached the brick to the hook by means physico-heretical, and cast the line into the hole, eliciting a gasp from the pained girl when the brick hit her on her right scapula, and then a DING! as she bit and the fishing minigame begun.

    Because this was reality, Cutbastra ignored the minigame the God of Delusions had made appear ethereal by his side and reeled his prize in. After getting the Brick-bitting Crusadina out of the hole, he moved quickly, hitting her several trillion times , yet avoiding the crotch and chest areas, because he only wanted to spiritually cripple her, not be labelled that sort of person, you know.

    And Crusadina saw this, and felt the stick of every hit. An eternity of torture where her bruised and tired body wasn¡¯t able to respond fast enough, where thin needles of Cutbastra¡¯s v energy inserted themselves on her spirit, erecting barriers between her cells. She felt herself burn, disintegrate like an old gate facing a huge amount of explosives.

    Cutbastra freed her limp body from the hook, after making sure he had thoroughly closed most of her spiritual passageways.

    ¡°There, girl, now I don¡¯t have to kill you,¡± he said, dedicating her a genuine smile. He sauntered up to a nearby tree stump by the pond, examined it, and then grabbed a Female Capybara to use as a seat. The Female Capybara felt honored to be chosen as Cutbastra¡¯s seat, and the Male Capybara did nothing, because, well,  one did not mess with Cultivators if one wanted to reach the ripe old age of nine.

    Crusadina scrambled to her feet, supporting herself like a newborn deer whose legs suffer from an excess of foreskin. Her body felt like it belonged to a puppeteer that wasn¡¯t her. Katie had been silenced, and she couldn¡¯t cycle her vital energy.

    Running up to Cutbastra, she took a pathetic swing with her right hand, and the impact, that left Cutbastra¡¯s side intact,  sent a round of pain coursing through her arm, up her shoulder.

    ¡°Why? Why?¡± The brick eater cried.

    ¡°You won¡¯t be able to cultivate until you repent and abandon those silly ideas about destroying the world. Those spiritual corcks will last years in place, so I advise you to accept my offer, surrender, and let me unlock some of them, so you dcna at least begin your way on another road.¡±

    ¡°No!¡± Crusadina swung again, another pathetic hit of a feather against Cutbastra¡¯s steeled skin.

    ¡°Girl, really, desist. I can finger flick you into an early grave with your current state. BE clever and give up your weird dreams.¡±

    Crusadina looked down, her tears falling upon the dirt, wetting the mixture of fine grains, decomposing vegetable matter and capybara shit. She tried to pump her energy around, but it refused to flow. She was now as useless as that motherfucker with the black puppy.

    ¡°No! I must bring down all walls! Their vertically ordered tyranny cannot stand!¡± She dramatized. ¡°All walls. ¡°

    ¡°Yeah, yeah, go through the five stages of grief if you want. I can wait.¡± Cutbastra was too busy stashing the fishing rod back into his pocket dimension to notice that, in a particular energy channel deep behind Crusadina¡¯s right eye, a microscopic battering ramp was pummeling against the barrier. Cutbastra¡¯s blockades were walls in her soul, and that was just unacceptable.

    Soon the first needle fell, with some trillions to go. The instant after, three more needles fell, and then nine, and then twenty-seven¡­

    ¡°Every. Single. Wall,¡± Crusadina declared, smirking. Her pupils began changing shape again, going from their round, natural shape they had when not irrigated with vital energy to that of the face of the most powerful siege engine that would ever exist: Crusadina herself. Little versions of her sprouted form the catapults and rams and cannons inside her soul and punched, bit and kicked down the walls.  And as they fell, crusadina giggled, for she was breaking through yet again.

    But this time she betrayed no shine. There was no excess of energy as she reached the Universal One-Girl-One-Vote-Zero-Walls Absolutism stage.

    ¡°Hey, sir, I have reconsidered,¡± she said, approaching with her eyes closed and her hands behind her back.

    Cutbastra turned with a genuine smile and examined her face. ¡°You are bad at lying, lass.¡±

    ¡°About my intentions, sure,¡± Crusadina disappeared form Cutbastra¡¯s sight, and he turned just in time to watch the pair of tensed fingers aiming between his eyes. ¡°About my power, not so much.¡±

    ¡°Cariogamy,¡± Cutbastra cursed Jaggerianingly.

    And like that, Crusadina Finger-Flicked Cutbastra away, sending him flying in direction to the mountain range.

 Chapter 29: Cutbastra Sees a Doctor

    Cutbastra¡¯s spinning body pierced through rock sedimentary and igneous, mafic and felsic alike, but none metamorphic: this mountain didn¡¯t half-ass shit like that. He cut through series upon series of strata, head first, taking a geology crash course in the most literal sense of such words. Eventually, he landed in a cavern, deep inside the mountain, a place so dark and damp it reminded him of the depts. of the ocean, where he had dived to with the only intention of fucking the submariner wife of a former friend of his. The sea monsters, avid opponents of NTR, battled him for it, but in the end he prevailed, slipping into the submarine so fast he managed to avoid a sudden decompression that would have vaporized his quarry. Ah, those were the days.

    Mayonnaise-colored rings appeared all around, their pupils shining with a sick yellowish green as the Brightness of Cutbastra¡¯s Dreamy Smile illuminated them.

    When the veins of minerals started barking frantically, Cutbastra knew he had happened upon the legendary and long-lost Rottweiler Mine. He was not the first person to do so, though, as there was a tunnel with a purple neon sign on the rocky arch. It advertised medical services.

    He knocked onto the soft walls, macize rock sounding like wood to not disappoint the handsome cultivator.

    ¡°Come inside, weary traveller.¡±

    Cutbastra felt a bout of cold descend leisurely through his spine and nest in his cheeks. He didn¡¯t know what was wrong, and he didn¡¯t even suspect it was the British spelling of ¡°Traveler¡±.

    Inside the chamber, as if coiled among the stalactites and stalagmites, a pale figure in a white coat rose to Cutbastra¡¯s height and faced him. ¡°Hey.¡± The doctor said, his voice as dead as the non-rottweiler life inside the dark, cold environment.

    ¡°Sorry for the home invasion, I got slapped by a particularly talented brat and ended down here.¡±

    He then spat a pegmatite that had been stuck between a couple of his molars for a while.

    ¡°Neat, tourmaline,¡± the doctor commented. ¡°May I pick it up?¡±

    ¡°Feel free to do so. So¡­ why do you have a clinic inside this place? Doesn¡¯t seem good for business.¡±

    ¡°I got exiled from my home for my position regarding abortion.¡±

    Cutbastra smiled softly, sat on a nearby mound of debris somewhat shaped like a chair and closed his eyes. ¡°Ah, delicate subject. A clash of rights unlike any other, debated by the greatest minds of uncountable generations, a question of morality, of pragmatism, of ethics, of¡ª¡°

    ¡°None of that, I am the inventor of The Antiabortion. A healer that trudged the forbidden path,¡± the old doctor began, his voice raspy, concerned with a past that haunted him to that very day.

    ¡°A founder of a movement against abortion, then? You¡¯d have to be very extremist to¡ª¡±

    ¡°The Antiabortion. The technique. You may have never heard of it. It¡¯s not a story doctors are allowed to tell each other anymore.¡± He paced from side to side in the dimly neon-lit chamber, his professional crocs sending particular echoes through the web of tunnels. ¡°It isn¡¯t against abortion, it¡¯s the opposite of it.¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t get it.¡± Cutbastra crossed his fingers and pursed his lips with a level of concern that only bloomed when he felt about to be blasted with dangerous amounts of idiocy.

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    ¡°I am a healer, and I swore to never damage an innocent. This led me to develop a way to end pregnancies without killing the product of said pregnancy.¡±

    ¡°Hey, that is good! That ends the conflict of rights in the debate and should leave both sides happy with the outcome!¡±

    ¡°Not so fast, hear the method first, then comment.¡± The man pulled a stalactite out of the ceiling, produced a lighter out of his pocket dimension, and began smoking the limestone as if it were an expensive cigar.  ¡°You see¡ª¡±

    Cutbastra couldn¡¯t resist his urge to make the most important question in that situation. ¡°How did you light up the calcite?¡±

    ¡°Physics bend for those disillusioned enough with the world. Anyway, as I was saying¡­¡± He exhaled a cloud of alkalinizing smoke. ¡°The Antiabortion, a technique forbidden by the hypocrites for achieving results as abominable as its counterpart. The basics of it is that one uses healing energy to accelerate the development of the fetus, making it reach viability way faster than usual. A matter of seconds. ¡±

    ¡°So you force a birth? This may be considered a bit¡­¡± Cutbastra spun his  hand in the air, searching for his next word. ¡°Tip of my tongue, I swear. Whatever, you get what I mean.¡±

    The doctor nodded with gravity. ¡°That¡¯s not what happens, though. You see, you protect the fetus from the heat such accelerated metabolism generates¡ª¡±

    ¡°How is this contrary to forcing birth?¡± he interrupted a last time.

    ¡°Only the fetus.¡±

    ¡°Oh.¡± Cutbastra opened his eyes wide. ¡°Oh fuck.¡±

    ¡°Yes, the mother boils inside and explodes.¡±

    Cutbastra¡¯s frozen horrified face was a testament to his brain having barred itself from reality as a means of self-preservation.

    ¡°I need an adult,¡± said an equally horrified Crusadina that had just turned the corner of the tunnel.

    Cutbastra stood, excused himself, took Crusadina from her little hand, and lied as naturally as he cucked. ¡°I have to take my little sister to school, doctor. See you later.¡±

    ¡°A. mississippiensis.¡± Crusadina completed the salute and followed her enemy¡¯s lead.

    The sprinted away from that particular tunnel until they lost sight of the neon lights, still inside the massive cavern full of Rottweilers ripe for mining.

    Finding themselves free of the oppressive presence of the man, they bumped fists

    ¡°Crusadina.¡±

    ¡°Pleasure to know your name, brat. Cutbastra.¡±

    ¡°Should we go back to out fight to death?¡± crusadina asked rubbing her hands. Cutbastra backflipped away and smirked, bringing day upon the eternal night of the cave with his smile. He then gestured for Crusadina to come at him.

    Crusadina began boasting, and Cutbastra let her, ¡°Killing you will be as easy as three point fourteen fifteen ninety-two sixty-five thirty-five eighty-nine seventy-nine thirty-two thirty-eight forty-six twenty-six forty-three thirty-eight thirty-two seventy-nine  Fifty twenty-eight eighty-four nineteen seventy-one sixty-nine¡ª¡°

    ¡°Nice!¡± he interrupted.

    Crusadina huffed in frustration. This always happened when she tried to spell out the entirety of pi.

    Then, Cutbastra committed the oldest mistake in the book and blinked, which earned him a roundhouse kick on all his fit abdomen. When he buckled due to the sheer pain, Crusadina repositioned and followed with an elbow hit on the immortal¡¯s neck, felling him against the flooded floor and then following with a stomp on his head that buried it onto the submerged rock.

    ¡°You are in trouble. Release me,¡± a husky voice inside the cucktivators head spoke to him.

    Cutbastra ignored it and rtasied his hands to tickle Crusadina¡¯s ankles. She began cackling and the Cucktivator took advantage of her distraction to recover his positionand lead a fist straight to his opponents face, Crusadina lowered a bang of her hair and hardened it with vital energy to intercept Cutbastra¡¯s blow, in case you thought this fight couldn¡¯t get more stupid. Cutbastra didn¡¯t relent in his assault: he retreated his fist and followed with another, trying to take advantage of the fact that, as an adult, his extremities were longer. Crusadina kept on the defensive, using arms and hair and even her mischievous and mocking tongue to intercept Cutbastra¡¯s hits.

    She didn¡¯t count, after dodging a desperate headbutt, that Cutbastra¡¯s ponytail would uppercut her, leaving her looking upwards and walking back for a few paces to recover her balance. ¡°So you know how to fight after all, old man!¡±

    ¡°Let me out so we can end this,¡± the voice inside Cutbastra insisted.

    ¡°Forget it, I can handle this by myself,¡± he answered in a mumble, and then braced for the impact of the ramming little fist that came for his chin.

 Chapter 30: Chocolate Milk Fountain

    The mineral Rottweiler licked the head that had just became lodged into his parcel of limestone. He had never licked a head before, or anything for that matter, but Cutbastra¡¯s struggling as he tried to pluck himself out of the cavern¡¯s ceiling gave him the wiggle room he needed to lick a head in the crown. This mineral dog would relish this experience for the remainder of eternity.

    An inverted carrot, Cutbastra finally dislodged himself from the stone, just to see Crusadina readying a ballista loaded with a fat, sharp stalagmite. Cutbastra wondered how he knew it was a stalagmite and not a stalactite. Probably the proportions.

    The tension of the weapon¡¯s rope, released, and Cutbastra, trapped between the thick stalactites of the ceiling, had to think fast. He summoned his dimensional orb and pointed the opening of it at the projectile. Then, he closed his eyes and braced for impact. The speleothem penetrated with ease into the orb, and entered it as if lubed, without major fanfare. It looked like a tennis ball of particular radiance had swallowed the earthly lance, and the lack of an hearty burp afterwards made both combatants feel a bit of discomfort.

    Of course, for Crusadina, the main feeling was disbelief. ¡°You stole my fucking attack.¡±

    ¡°In the lands of the south raised and born, gal!¡±

    Cutbastra kicked the celling to propel himself downwards, aiming for Crusadina with an extended fist infused with the power of a thousand divorce hearings. Crusadina reeled her fist in and pictured a battering ram capable of pounding down the gates of the sun. as much sense as that made. And her spirit heed her deranged idea, providing her punch with the oomph necessary to counter Cutbastra¡¯s.

    The clash of fists sent a wave coursing through the cave and the mountain above and below. It made stalactites rain from the roofs, autochthonous lifeforms to finally give a fuck about anything besides evolving into blinder lifeforms, and the mineral Rottweilers to howl in pain. A lightning bolt born from Cutbastra¡¯s home-wrecking soul struck a couple of blind albino sirens that were hypermonogamous: They had been together for eighty-three reincarnations in a row, and sook each other on each of their lives, even if the gods had decided to mess with them by incarnating one into the prey of the other, even if they were on different continents and one life wasn¡¯t enough to find their love again. And yet, after being exposed to Cutbastra¡¯s aura, both instantly began searching for opportunities to cheat on their soulmate.

    Crusadina gritted her teeth and pushed, her little feet digging into the wet stone like Cutbastra¡¯s dug into thin air. Cutbastra did the same, hardening the air over his feet to have a better support.

    ¡°You are losing this one, she is too powerful. You need my help,¡± the voice spoke yet again.

    ¡°No, if you get out, you are going to abuse thousands. Millions, even. I am not a slave of the Road I walk.¡± He answered in his mind, sweating, trembling and getting slightly scare at Crusadina¡¯s smug smile.

    ¡°And if you don¡¯t, you die, and the illegal holes of madness destroy the world.¡±

    Cutbastra mentally sighed. ¡°Why do you refer to a child like that?¡±

    ¡°I believe a girl that wants to destroy the world deserves the misogyny. Just a little, you know.¡±

    He was despicable. Everything Cutbastra hated about his Road, embodied by that greasy, fat avatar.  Not even to save his life he would let him out. But the world? The world was worth unleashing such supreme evil.

    Cutbastra used the last of his strength to break the clash, and jump away, boncing against the roof to return to the ground. ¡°Girl, you are amazing. You are, perhaps, the most talented cultivator who will ever live,¡± he said, fixing a bang of his golden hair because no conflict inside a wet dirty cave excused looking scruffy. Not as long as he was himself, anyway. He sidestepped in a hurry to avoid a ballista bolt from giving him a haircut a la late 18th century France. ¡°But your road ends today, Crusadina.¡±

    Cutbastra closed his lips, and yet the shine lingered in hope of seeing him smile again. Yet smile he wouldn¡¯t. ¡°You are free, cunt!¡±

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    The cucktivator buckled as Crusadina, confused, scratched the side of her head.

    Something seemed to bubble under Cutbastr¡¯as skin, it was as if the floodgates on his bones had opened and let the grease demons well from deep within.  His chiseled abs disappeared under waves of shapeless, ugly blubber. His untainted, glittering skin sprouted black, thick hairs and spawned ugly freckles, moles and darkened spots. His golden mane waned, threads of the morning sun falling down as the balding spot grew atop his head and his hairline receded.

    <hr>

    Stashed in a hollowed trunk far away, Oracle jerked awake from his nap. ¡°I either left the oven on or Cutbastra is letting Him out. And I sold my oven last month because I always burned my snout trying to turn it on. Shit!¡±

    <hr>

    Crusadina heard the frantic screams of quintillions of photons as they flew in horror from the cave, leaving them blind in the tenebrous cavern. And while her eyes couldn¡¯t see, Crusadina still could make out the form of the man in front of her, his body odor assaulting her nostrils, painting an image with unnatural definition.

    ¡°Come, darling, come to papa FUB,¡± the possessed Cutbastra called, wiggling a greasy finger. Crusadina conjured her wings of fire and her jaw fell when, under the dim warm light of fire, the image of the man got burned onto her retina.

    Katie cried aloud inside Crusadina¡¯s head. This wasn¡¯t a wall. This was death personified, and it had come for them. Crusadina needed to flee, now!

    Whenever she turned his image was still there. She inhaled and exhaled fire born from the friction her distressed breathing caused. The cold cave was to her as scorching as the desert.

    Crying and babbling nonsense she tried to fly away, and began clawing and eating her way out of the ceiling, through rock and Rottweilers alike. The Rottweilers, of course, took exception to this, but didn¡¯t bite back because they just trusted she would come across a vein of asbestos sooner or later. A powerful thing, a Rottweiler¡¯s faith in mineral friends.

    ¡°Mom! save me, mom, mom!¡± Crusadina cried out, practically unaware of what she was spouting as she drilled through solid layers of rock.

    She emerged on the mountain side, and got blinded by the evening sun, and then, bu a fat hand grabbing her face.

    ¡°What do we have here?¡± said the possessed Cutbastra. ¡°An exotic tuber.¡±

    Crusadina tried to bite against his hand, and scratched it, and tried to use her vital energy to repel his foul spirit, but it was all in vain Like graphite trying to scratch diamonds, her efforts made no dent onto the cucktivator¡¯s final form.

    She manifested a little ballista on her left arm, that had been healed by her multiple breakthroughs since then, and shoot it against her captor¡¯s expanded stomach. But before even touching the greasy surface, the bolt nopped, making a U-turn and hitting Crusadinas leg instead, piercing through it, through the skin, muscle, tendons and bones it found in its way, leaving a dangling mound of bleeding meat that somewhat resembled a girl¡¯s leg.

    Crusadina didn¡¯t scream from the pain, she just stared at her leg, bewildered, as though an alien limb had just sprouted from her petite body. ¡°What the Fenestration of Uncircumcised Canine K9s?¡± she uttered, elucidating the true etymology of the word thanks to a fortuitous epiphany.

    ¡°Hey, lil girl, have you heard of Jim?¡± Fatugbastra asked, grinning, revealing his teeth, so yellow that he had learned to not smile in the presence of gold diggers.

    ¡°No¡­¡± Crusadina let out a pathetic whimper.

    ¡°Then kneel down and meet him!¡±[1]</a>

    Fatugbastra drove his gnarly knee into Crusadina¡¯s tender abdomen, causing her to puke out a load of gunpowder mixed with blood and choccy milk all over the cucktivator¡¯s wide figure.

    He launched her against a nearby boulder, making a Crusadina-shaped dent on it. A high quality boulder, no doubt.

    ¡°Did you drink chocolate milk before the battle?¡±

    ¡°No,¡± She told the truth as she scrambled for footing.

    That made Fatugbastra stop in his tracks. ¡°Why do you bleed chocolate milk?¡±

    ¡°My family hails from a land where lactose-intolerant vampire dogs used to terrorize the population, until we began producing intravenous chocolate milk when under stress,¡± Crusadina explained, standing in only one leg, leaning against the boulder for support.

    Crusadina froze in place as the man began charging. She was hurt, unable to concentrate, to keep her head cool for the fight.

    ¡°A pleasure meeting you, Crusadina of the intravenous cocchy milk.¡± Fatugbastra said, and then , despite Crusadina¡¯s guard on both sides of her head, he drove his fists like a press, turning her into a fountain of blood, gunpowder and chocolate milk that splattered on his figure from the spot where her head used to be.  ¡°Well, now I am free to do whatever I want until you regain control, Cutbastra. How many wives can we break, other me?¡±  He said, kicking Crusadina¡¯s headless body down the mountainside, watching with glee how it became undone against the sharp rocks.

    And deep down inside his own psyche, Cutbastra wept. The continued existence of the world was worth this pyrrhic victory, but it didn¡¯t make it any less aberrant.

    <hr>

    [1]</a> Adaptation of the greatest piece of Spanish literature ever written: the joke about Marcelo.

 Behind the Crackfic: an Insomnia Fueled Blog Entry

    So, you have been enjoying Road of the Rottweiler so far, I take, and I did too! It''s an extremely enjoyable story to write, as it allots me bounds and heaps of freedom. I can only hope it''s just as enjoyable to read.

    Despite that, RotR has loads of planning behind each chapter:as you may have noticed, this isn''t a story with jokes in it, but a sucesion of jokes with an accesory story to deliver them. Jokes shape Road of the Rottweiler, having whole chapters built around a central joke, or even whole miniarcs (Crusadina vs the smoothie cultivator to make a smooth criminal reference, and several jokes that have been sown but whose punchlines will arrive in the future, just to forward some examples).

    This, however, doesn''t mean this comes in detriment of the story, not necessarily: characters may be as stupid and surreal as they come, but they still have wants and feels, even if they are absurd. I am trying to tell a somewhat coherent tale while keeping it this much of an acid trip.

    What all this meandering amounts to  is the following: it''s easy for me to write this, but takes time, too, and I want to offer insight on my process. From brainstorming to word choice, the process to keep the joke density high is often entertaining and slightly demanding. What is the worst possible description for this action? How do i make this slapstick gag about a girl hitting the fucking ozone layer land? And, I tell you, it''s difficult sometimes, a puzzle to solve. I can linger on a line for an hour until something clicks sometimes.

    And others is too damn easy! For example, the chocolate milk blood? It was improvised. I thought Crusadina puking chocolate milk over her enemy was funny, and then i made her answer that she hadn''t drink any in autopilot. But when I went to erase her no because it didn''t make sense, i decided to roll with it and add a justification.

    You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

    It went like this, more or less:

    Why does she bleed chocolate milk? Evolved as a defense mechanism because chocolate kills dogs.

    Why is it in her blood? The dogs are vampires.

    Why not just chocolate? The vampire dogs are lactose intolerant.

    And this also happens when i concatenate jokes: Crusadina got chickens because i wanted to include the "all my cocks are Dicks" line, and that led to the power clash because i thought "haha, cockblock". The furry parent was... the heat of the capuccino-fueled moment. It just felt right.

    And i feel that''s true for many of the accesory jokes: they bud from the main ones organically as i go. They help to keep the atmosphere right, and act as a sort of red herring to keep the main punchline partially hidden.

    All in all, you see  the madness condensed, the final product, but it is made of an incremental addition of little deranged details. Sometimes i need to go back and add another line, sometimes one misses timing like a Yu Gi Oh card and a joke keeps falling flat.it happens.

    As for the types of humor employed, i try to keep RotR from being overly-referential: a long joke about Michael Jackson is acceptable, as it is highly unlikely somebody has never heard of him. Jagger gleaning arcane paleobotanic knowledge via concussions is better kept to single lines.

    This is in opossition to My Life After Being Killed By My Golden Retriever, where i lean heavily on humor referential to the Argentinian culture. This isekai is very alienating to readers, and i didnt want RotR to be the same: most of the jokes in this child of satan should not fly over most readers heads. Besides, Kalon is a more endearing protagonist than Walter. Kalon isn''t petty or evil, he is just a moron. Jagger isn''t a genocidal golden retriever, he is just suffering the absurdity of the setting and becoming depressed because of it.

    And that would be it for this blog entry because sleepiness finally came and i am yawning. Anticlimatic? Yes. Unexpected on my part? Hell no.

    Remember that i appreciate you leaving you opinion below, so don''t be shy to comment and Zzzzzzzzzzzz.

 Chapter 31: Kalon Gets Purified by the Power of Bigotry.

    The scavenger disembarked in the middle of the mostly non-heterogeneous night, a Borgian ghost lost in the labyrinths of morality and wood. With treacherous step it approached its prey, avoiding a fatal trip over the nut filaments and nutciceptors of Yggdrashell. Bedecked in a coat of darkness he waltzed through the safety measures, closing in on the agonizing, rigid body of Kalon.

    It¡¯s jaws of darkness opened, revealing small, sharp teeth that glistened under the lone beam of moonlight that attended Kalon¡¯s fall in disgrace. Opening its mouth too wide for any man or any woman (sans your mother) the creature slowly bit Kalon¡¯s lean arm, and he didn¡¯t react, for all-encompassing pain had become its companion during the course of the illness.

    Brunhilda picked the obscure creature up from the skin of its neck, as one ought to pick a puppy.

    ¡°Unpaw me, bitch!¡± ordered Jagger. ¡°I am teething; I need to bite something or someone! Or consume copious amounts of opioids.¡± Jagger began salivating loudly. ¡°I may be addicted,¡± he self-reflected.

    Brunhilda snarled a whole dissertation on why biting Kalon to ease one¡¯s pain was wrong, and how one needed to honor the lord of canids in every instance of biting.

    ¡°Tramadol is my shepherd, I shat not once,¡± Jagger the heresiarch countered.

    Brunhilda tossed Jagger to a side and vomited another load of fresh water onto Kalon¡¯s fevered forehead. The puppy had stopped wondering how she managed to keep it cool inside her long ago.

    ¡°Are you trying to kill your owner again, pests?¡± Asked the booming voice of their host.

    ¡°No, just bite him because he¡¯s suffering from muscular rigidity and it can help me ease the pain on my gums.¡± Jagger showed his sharp little teeth. ¡°Wisdom tooth have nothing on these deciduous babies. I am scheduled to change them in a few weeks.¡±

    ¡°Scheduled to change teeth?¡± the tree asked, spawning an eyebrow made of nuts on a wall made of nuts and raising it.

    ¡°The tooth fairy is very punctual. Do you want me to anger her? What are you, nuts?¡± Jagger answered, as grumpy as usual.

    ¡°Yes.¡±

    Jagger planted his face on the nutty ground. ¡°Not my wisest choice of words.¡±

    ¡°Wisdom is attained with age, pup.¡±

    ¡°So is death, but I am trying to cheat a painless way into it. So far, no luck.¡±

    The tree hummed pensively. It was slicing its brains to study the distribution of the tissues in the slices. As of late, his lower parts, the ones below the hole that housed Kalon and the dogs, had rearranged into absolute mesarchy, and that was slightly concerning. Being the pattern god of nutrees didn¡¯t come easy.

    ¡°I cannot grant you death, for you are Kalon¡¯s original weapon. As long as he lives, you cannot be destroyed, pup. Some roads work like that.¡±

    If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

    Jagger opened his eyes wide and began hyperventilating.

    ¡°What do you mean I cannot die?¡±

    ¡°From the energy of Kalon¡¯s very soul you will be built a new body if you happen to destroy your current one. Yours is the faithful life of a sworn sword.¡±

    Jagger raised his gaze to meet a more dignified set of nuts than the ones on the floor. Any of them. ¡°Was the alliteration necessary? Am I not disgraced enough without your plays on words?¡±

    ¡°Yes,¡± the tree yessed.

    Was that dialogue tag necessary?

    ¡°Yes,¡± the tree answered the narrator¡¯s question, to the confusion of everyone present.

    ¡°You are as stupid as Kalon¡¯s dumbest piece of gut flora, tree,¡± Jagger said, and then stared intently at Kalon. It was so simple¡­ ¡°I think I know how to get the tetanus bacteria out of his system.¡±

    ¡°You do?¡±

    Jagger nodded, and Brunhilda got between him and Kalon, growling in the dark. ¡°It doesn¡¯t include killing him, chill.¡± Brunhilda panted happily and got out of the way. Jagger climbed upon the bridge that was Kalon¡¯s body, and placed his ear against his chest.

    ¡°What are you doing?¡± The tree asked.

    Jagger shooed him and then whispered. ¡°Judging how stupid the bacteria are.¡±

    That got the tree to stop talking, partly out of understanding, and partly because his Vegetable Cells of Sentience had begun dying of obesity related comorbidities. Too much stupid can kill you, if you eat it. It¡¯s like eating Dove. The brand of cosmetics. Too much of it is likely lethal, and, and¡­ it¡¯s beautiful, because if you eat enough you probably go dumb, so it will kill you, and you won¡¯t have a clue why, perfectly fitting Queen¡¯s song. [1]</a>

    ¡°I think they are ripe for the picking,¡± Jagger said after listening to the way the backwardteria peddled proteins in the intravenous streets of Kalonia. ¡°No doubt, this tetanus hails from Valelike Vale.

    Then Jagger cleared his throat, joined his paws as though in a prayer, and inhaled. ¡°This is traditional, and traditionalist medicine, Yggdrashell. Are you gay?¡±

    ¡°I am hermaphrodite,¡± he sheed.

    ¡°Ultra-archi-mega-gay, then.¡± Jagger sentenced. ¡°Cover your aural nuts, I will harness homophobia to bring them out.¡±

    ¡°What?¡±

    Jagger inhaled once more and then shouted in Kalon¡¯s open-in-pain mouth. ¡°The last male pathogen to leave Kalon¡¯s body is a campy dicksucker, and the last female pathogen a scissoring whore!¡±

    Kalon¡¯s body started convulsing and blood coming out his pores, as droves of Valelikevalian bacteria, viruses and parasites left their host, scared of being considered one of them. The foul fluids dripped out of Kalon, and Brunhilda decided to puke some fresh water into his mouth to keep him hydrated as he bled his tormentors out.

    ¡°Do you think he will suffer brain damage due to the loss of blood?¡± said Jagger.

    Brunhilda shook her head.

    ¡°Right, no brain to damage.¡±

    A thick layer of scum began forming upon Kalon¡¯s blemished skin. A veritable community of Ill-begotten ill-begetters, where a tenia that had crawled out of Kalon¡¯s ass and several cysticerci that had been plucked out of their hiding in his liver joined forces to confront the bacterial xenophobia. A group of coronaviruses quickly evolved a secret service to topple fungal governments (for self-defense, of course!). A rat climbed out of Kalon¡¯s mouth, it smelled like vomit and shit. Brunhilda mauled it on the spot and ate the entrails.

    ¡°Guh¡­¡± Kalon moaned. ¡°My gut rat¡­¡±

    A few moments later, Kalon¡¯s body had been purged from all heterosexual pathogens. Jagger knowing himself immortal, lapped up the layer of clotted, illness-ridden blood that covered his owner.

    As he did, the gods laughed like hyenas, and kept adding years to his lifespan.

    The tree decided to take a nap, and discovered plants couldn¡¯t sleep. Condemned to constant awareness, it took solace in the fact that, despite the toxin still flowing in Kalon¡¯s bloodstream, at least the bacteria guilty of it had been taken care of.

    <hr>

    [1]</a> The author doesn¡¯t condone eating beauty products, even if they make you, in particular, ugly. He does condone listening to Queen and/or reading the Invincible comics and cheering for Space Freddie Mercury.

 Chapter 32: The Arcagnostics.

    Far from there, to the west of the man-made desert Yggdashell inhabited, around a river that ran in circles because it was training for a marathon, unaware of the fact that rivers weren¡¯t allowed to run in the race for reasons half-bigoted and half-ignorant, had settled a small town of people wise enough to harness the infinite energy of the circular river for their own benefit. It goes without saying, but they disregarded the feelings of the river about the wheels of metal and wood they placed onto it to move their mills and generate electricity.

    One of the mages in such a place of rooves synonym of purple shingles and banks that hoarded pink and white gravel was a mother. Not a bad mother, but neither a particularly good one. She didn¡¯t have a title for it, as reproduction was sort of an inherited talent in her family. Her mother had been a mother, and also her grandmother. Her father had not been a mother, so she couldn¡¯t take after him. none of her grandfathers had been mothers, while all of her grandmothers had been. There was a pattern there, of the women on her family marrying into non-mothers. Until her, at least: her husband had been a mother, but only because the town¡¯s church had fumbled the registration of one of their nuns and accidentally written his name instead, and thus Mother Rigobertonio Muycalamitoso was born.

    And as a mother, she had to have at least 1(one) unit of offspring (Can be acquired on spring), as per the guild guidelines and regulations. This one was female, with hair as dark as a raven that enjoyed the benefits of the N-word pass, and skin as pale as a raven that followed the Road of Albinism. This little thing, having suffered only six springs of existence, vastly surpassed Kalon¡¯s intellect. She had even memorized her multiplication tables, the prodigy.

    She sat on a chair of forged iron, the oh, so civilized brat, and smiled with teeth oh, so brushed three times a day like dentists recommend. Her mother, standing in front of her, dressed on her mage attire, a collection of blue and purple clothes that fit her like a glove three sizes too big for the amputated stump they are meant to cover.

    ¡°Today, my love, you will take your first step toward becoming an arcagnostic. I take you completely understand what this entails, dear?¡±

    The little girl bounced in place. ¡°I will get whistles!¡±

    The mother pulled a chair for her too and nailed her blue eyes onto her daughter. ¡°Whistles? You are starting on your path to understand and manipulate the world and you are excited about the training whistles? What are you telling me next, that you want to be a cultivator instead?¡±

    ¡°No. I just like whistles, mommy.¡± Then the child cried out like a mating pterodactyl, a sorry attempt to imitate the training whistles of the arcagnostic initiates.

    ¡°Good gods above, Samari, don¡¯t do that again,¡± the mother said, tapping her ear slightly to drive the tinnitus away. ¡°The whistles are simply tools to let you master the flow of vital energy through your body. Don¡¯t abuse them, as they are as delicate as our art, not as brutish as a cultivator¡¯s.¡±

    You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

    Then, a vile question sprouted in the mind of the child and erupted out her mouth ¡°Could I be both an Arcagnostic and a cultivator?¡±

    The mother frowned, and then put on a fake smile.¡°It¡¯s possible, dear, but I will whoop your ass if you ask again. It¡¯s a foolish endeavor, to combine the Cultivator¡¯s all-you-have-is-a-hammer mentality with the arcagnostics fine-tuned control of vital energy. From whichever side of the equation you come, initiating on the other discipline will present a great challenge. The amounts of energy a cultivator pumps would blow the training whistles up, and if you are an arcagnostic, you could use the time you spend learning the ropes of cultivation in attaining an higher mastery of our arts. For what benefit? To forever fend off death? The best arcagnostics can seduce the gods of death into life eternal, they can offer the dark lady gifts no cultivator could conjure. There¡¯s no need to use your spirit to subjugate the world, dear, when you can use it to bribe the very foundations of existence.¡±

    ¡°And cultivators? Can we bribe them too?¡±

    ¡°Why do you think they come to us for the making of their elixirs?¡± Any pretense of a smile abandoned her face as she felt the weight of coin in her pocket. ¡°I still regret turning that baby into pills¡­¡± she murmured, just low enough so her daughter wouldn¡¯t hear.

    ¡°Because they are morons,¡± Samari stated a truth of the universe.

    ¡°And because most of them don¡¯t have the fine control needed to extract the full potential from a substance or¡­¡± and she stopped before saying ¡°a baby¡±.

    ¡°Nor they can use the whistles!¡± Many things could be said about Samari, but not one as true as that she had a one-track mind sometimes.

    ¡°Aren¡¯t you excited about the secrets of the world that you are going to unveil?¡±

    The child shook her head, holding her mom¡¯s worried stare.

    ¡°About recognizing each facet of your spirit as easily as you recognize your facial features when looking into a mirror?¡±

    Samari gave yet another negative.

    The mother was at a loss. This little imperfect reflection of her had to be toying with her. ¡°This is serious, dear.¡±

    ¡°And I seriously like whistles.¡±

    ¡°Go marry a whistle if you are that dead set on getting them,¡± she had begun regretting setting that order for her father¡¯s sperm the day she was conceived. Maybe Arcagnosis was not something one should mix with sex.

    ¡°Maybe I will, one day, when whistle marriage is legalized!¡± The child pouted and crossed her little feeble arms, because she didn¡¯t even lift, bro.

    The ducks on the pond of her mother¡¯s mind decided to leave it all on autopilot and migrate to warmer climates. ¡°Moving on, tomorrow you will start your practice. Bring a notebook, a pen, and liquid corrector, I am going to impart you a class on the basics.The whistles will be postponed until tomorrow.¡±

    Samari screeched. She was a pterodactyl dying of autoerotic asphyxiation.

    ¡°Behave yourself, and I will teach how to mess with your brain using arcagnosis in a few weeks.¡±

    Two tracks, Samari¡¯s mind had two tracks. ¡°Yay!¡± and so she stood from the chair, ran past the oaken table and through the bronze door frame, her long black hairs, never cut, following her like a ghost that had fallen through a chimney and into a paper shredder.She was going to be an Arcagnostic like her mom! And that meant, in first instance, that, after years of practices, she would be able to perform fantastic feats, ranging from becoming invisible, to controlling her bodily functions, to crafting magical artifacts. Among them, whistles.

 Chapter 33: The Simping Dipnoi

    Nobody snorted copious amounts of cockaine as the sun showed its old and wrinkly shiny face at the desert¡¯s dawn. The light entered through Yggdrashell¡¯s resinous, nut-shaped windows and illuminated Kalon with a faint golden glow as he took his third step of the day.  Jagger, after producing a notebook out of the forage brought in and vomited onto a heap by Brunhilda, began taking notes, holding the pen with his mouth and cursing evolution for the lack of proper prehensile appendages:

    ¡°The subject (hereby referred to as ¡®Kalon¡¯) is recovering steadily.

    My assistant (hereby referred to as ¡®Brunhilda¡¯) keeps finding technology not yet invented during her adventures outside Highdrashoal (how the intercourse is their name spelt?), albeit most of it gets ruined by her saliva, and, being a dog, I lack the means to reverse engineer the cancer-curing time machines. She swears there are no steaks to be found: I don¡¯t believe her. A desert is too big, too empty, too prone to parallelisms. It¡¯s more than fertile soil to reap steaks.

    My dreams keep cursing me with new knowledge. The language from beyond the veil is , to say the least, curious: their word for anglerfish is ¡®Rape¡¯, but their word for rape is not ¡®Anglerfish¡¯. A most nonsensical tongue. In addition to that, melodies of war, burning bears called Lin and Sabbaths turned on also flood my mind, but it¡¯s becoming harder to interpret them with each sassing day.

    Caniche uterino! Kalon has fallen! Face first. Downwards (Read appendix eight, ¡®On Kalon¡¯s Relation with Gravity¡¯, to understand why this clarification is absointercourselutely necessary). The ground made of nut-tracheids is not a follower of the Road of Softness.

    My addiction to tramadol-infused nuttar is getting worse, and the reserves of analgesics brought in by Brunhilda running low. This bodes ill for Head Experimenter Jagger (me).

    Kalon tripped again. His movements are stiff, so much he could barely scream or throw his arms around as he soared towards the pycnutxylic roof, that, much like the floor of this cavity, enjoys a particular hardness. We could say Kalon, too, enjoys a particular hardness, and not of the (re)productive kind.

    I miss mosquitoed water. There are not enough mosquitoes in the desert. We must create pools in the aforementioned environment for the aforementioned animals to breed.

    CONCLUSIONS

    Further experimentation, and thus funding, is required. XOXO.¡±

    It should be noted that Jagger did embellish reality just a little bit in that excerpt.

    Yggdrashell used an adventitious root to peel Kalon off of the top of the hole where it hosted him and the dogs.  He took care to not let the boy fall back, as he had, these last days, learnt about the unpredictability of Kalon¡¯s interactions with gravity once he lost balance. Lifting Kalon down was a weird sensation, with his weight pulling upwards, but nothing the massive nutree couldn¡¯t handle.

    It then gathered the dogs and the boy round, and closed the exits, the nut¡¯ cork falling like drapes over the big arches.

    ¡°Are we getting digested?¡± Jagger asked, calmly.

    ¡°No.¡±

    The puppy whimpered, another illusion, another dream of finally dying had been broken.

    ¡°How can you become so depressed and suicidal in just two months of lifetime?¡± the tree asked.

    ¡°Valelike Vale can do this to anyone mildly sane in two hours,¡± Jagger said, and not a drop of sass or dishonesty was to be found in his voice.

    The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

    ¡°Moving on, then. I find myself satisfied with Kalon¡¯s progression during these trying times. He is recovering his health, and you two¡­ ostensibly helped.¡±

    Brunhilda inflated her chest with pride after hearing that.

    ¡°What I mean to say, dogs, is that, with the crisis averted, and you two having proven yourselves valuable assets for Kalon¡¯s survival, we should strive to get him back on the path to immortality. The life of a man is but a passing gust for a being like me, and the nutree forest doesn¡¯t wish to lose this newfound source of most delicious retardation.¡±

    ¡°Language!¡± Jagger chastised the massive tree.

    ¡°English?¡± The tree retorted.

    ¡°Well, yes. But¡­ yes.¡±

    Jagger sat with his head low as he heard the putative screams of a thousand thermodynamics claiming for mercy in the face of the perpetual motion machine that Yggdrashell was about to become.

    ¡°To make it short, dogs: When Kalon recovers most of his mobility, I will be sending you three underground to kill some pests that inhabit among my roots.  I could do it myself, but I cannot be bothered, and it would result in a negligible benefit for my nutson. I hope this could serve the boy as training; help him push further down his road.¡±

    ¡°What you have done to the word person with that pun has no name. You did a, you monster,¡± Jagger spoke, spat to the side, and addressed the gargantuan nutleaf that served as a stand-in for a punctual interloper once again.

    ¡°Nuttin to worry about, pup. You are immune to any psychological damage from my puns, being Kalon¡¯s companion. Immunized due to his antics.¡±

    Jagger shut up, because the tree spoke truths like fucks.

    Brunhilda felt heartburn creeping up from her inner sanctum, and, with a few deft gastric lining movements, she popped open one of the capsules that contained cocaine (Not to confused with cockaine, the new sensation that¡¯s sweeping the sects) cut with sodium bicarbonate, which could prove fatal were the drug not incredibly diluted because the desert dealer Brunhilda had killed was the greatest niggard ever born.

    Relief washed over the Rottweiler as the burning sensation got replaced by foul smelling, cocaine flavored burps and a rush of energy (due not to the sodium bicarbonate).

    ¡°is she going to explode?¡± the nutree asked with a worried, tremulous voice

    ¡°Dogs don¡¯t randomly explode. That is not something that happens. Ever,¡± Jagger echoed the words of a very wise individual.

    The carbon dioxide exited Brunhilda in droves, as if it were being hunted by very ravenous cyanobacteria. The resonation of the burps with Yggdrashell¡¯s wood created an intricate sound that, coincidently, closely resembled the one the females of the Vale Lunged Fish emitted when receiving donations during their livestreams. This woke up ASMR-starved male dipnoi that, dug into their sealed, humid lairs, had fallen into a hundred years¡¯ estivation. So they tore through their mucilaginous cradles and dug deeper, searching for subterranean, earthly-wi-fi-infused water, that would allow them to connect their brains to the fish-world-web and go back to being the greatest simps of nature.

    The God of Mass Extinctions noticed this and added them to the list of species that would die off in the next one. Immediately afterwards he added about three Chihuahuas per square tiger of pressure to his favorite massive magma chamber.

    Finally, Brunhilda collapsed, exhausted, and a symphony of farts left her body.

    Jagger grimaced. ¡°You would make a necromancer feel at home with those bodily odors, Brun.¡±

    ¡°Guh.¡± Kalon Guh¡¯ed, finally speaking, and his body reminded him that doing so was a grave mistake. Everything ached. His diaphragm, his throat, even his cheeks and his jaw hurt like hell. His body was covered in bruises due to the strained muscles below. And due to slamming against wooden surfaces when tripping, too.  The illness had taken its toll on the cultivator, but the worst had passed already, and now the painful rehabilitation followed.

    Kalon struggled to stand, if only just to be a few palms closer to the nut leaf. ¡°But, Yggdrashell, I cannot fight no more, how will I kill those pests?¡±

    ¡°You will heal: I am providing you with the most nuttytive oils I am able to produce.¡± The tree assured, its cuticle emotionless, because plants had not evolved to be exactly expressive.

    Then, Kalon kneeled, and then kowtowed before the mound of nuts.  ¡°This one thanks you, Yggdrashell, for your kidneys.¡±

    The tree didn¡¯t speak.

    ¡°I think he means kindness,¡± Jagger broke the awkward silence that had settled about them like cockroaches in a public hospital.

    ¡°Yes,¡± Kalon said, ¡°Guh!¡± he Guh!ed out of pain.

    ¡°You could give him one of your pills, Jagger. ¡°the tree suggested.

    For the first time ever, Jagger snarled, following the call of a deep seated instinct: resource guarding. ¡°Never! The opioids are mine alone!¡±

    ¡°Have it your way, cunt. As for you, Kalon,  let¡¯s wait a few more sunrises and see how your condition ameliorates. My little snack factory,¡± the tree said with its mellifluous voice.

    ¡°Guh?¡± Kalon paused for a moment. ¡°How many times does sun rise a day here?¡±

    ¡°¡­ guh indeed,¡± the tree sprouted , and then retired the nutleaf and stopped interacting with the disastrous trio.

    Jagged picked the pen back up and began practicing how to draw anthropomorphic animals. Given Kalon¡¯s promising future as the worst cultivator alive, he had to develop the skills to survive out in the world without being reduced to a mere guard dog of some low-lifers. He was not putting his life in the line for some rotten teeth drug dealers. For nothing, yes. But not for drug dealers.

 Chapter 34: Samari Levels Up in Annoyance

    It¡¯s imperative for someone to step up to the plate and fuck the gods. Not the anthropomorphic goddesses, no, everyone lines up to do those scantily clad, plump divinities. No, the gods, not only the ones that look like men and women, but in general. Including the monstrosities from the Queer Dimension, with their mind twisting morphologies, with their sharp teeth and slimy tentacles and bulging eyes made of teeth and tentacles. There are enough vile demiurges out there for no man brave enough to die a virgin, but there are not enough men in all known dimensions to fuck all the deities. Some gods will go unfucked, and that¡¯s the sad reality we need to face, gentleme¡ª

    What do you mean the narration is still ongo¡­ Oh.

    Well, you are welcome.

    Ejem.

    Samari stared at the semispherical contraptions attached to the palms of her hands. At the blue, spiraled patents on the white metal, coalescing at the hole in the center.  The whistles looked comically large on her minute hands. She wanted to sound them, but it was an impossible task, like satiating a Labrador, for anyone but cultivators and arcagnostics.

    ¡°Visualize your vital energy, dear. Visualize the channels of your spirit, how they spread as roofs through your body¡± the mother told her, sitting in a reclinable chair in the mid of the family garden, facing her daughter but giving her enough space to practice. She gestured at a few brown mushrooms that grew at the foot of their old willow. ¡°Like the hyphae of fungi.¡±

    Samari closed her eyes. No, not gently like you imagine. It was a hard closing of the eyes, a veritable lid workout. She conjured the image of the dreamcatcher of her soul, visualizing the anastomosed channels running through her cells, like the veins of a leaf. The image took a third dimension eventually, and she discovered she could rotate it in her mind, next to the photorealistic apple she liked to rotate so much in her mind that the apple¡¯s core had melted down, developing a pomegnetic field, putting Mars to shame.

    She visualized the rivulets of energy flowing, and smiled. It was so calm inside her head, so¡­ boring.

    She added a horse to the rotating images. There, better.

    After a few moments, the spinning of the equine accelerated, guitar riffs seeped in through the cracks on Samari¡äs conscious mind, and the animal started condensing pieces of high tech armor upon his back, head and legs, and a missile launcher replaced his tail.

    And it was a proper horse, as evidenced when he unsheathed a sharp chrome-plated blade that could be brandished by any badass pointy haired Japanese teen.

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    ¡°I really need to stop checking out mom¡¯s zoology books,¡± the girl thought out loud.

    The mother ignored her little-her comments and asked, ¡°And? could you see the weave of your spirit, dear?¡±

    ¡°The horse had grenades for balls,¡± she answered.

    ¡°Samari, dear, I am going to need to call a psychologist one of these days. Two, actually: one for you, one for mommy.¡±

    ¡°Was the asyndeton necessary?¡± Samari bleated, tapping one of the whistles absentmindedly.

    The mother joined her hands in front of her mouth, and an ominous thought crossed her head, making her let out a slight moan of horror.  ¡°Dear, you are six years old. Be honest with mommy: are you another reincarnated nerd that died in a traffic accident?¡±

    The offense in Samari¡¯s face was so tangible a bar of butter could have used it as a shield against a knife. ¡°Aunara Findona Stradeajo, how dare you! I just like raiding your library! Reincarnated nerds don¡¯t read! They wouldn¡¯t know a literary device if it spanked their backside!¡±

    The mother embraced the daughter, feeling tension and worry leaving her body. ¡°Don¡¯t scare me like that, then. And don¡¯t full name me, young lady!¡± she let her daughter go and recovered her stern teacher persona. ¡°So, having your spirit revealed to you is but the first tiny step. Now you need to learn to manipulate it.¡±

    The brat put on a smug smile. ¡°Like you manipulated dad into no-fault-divorcing you instead of doing the right thing and admitting you had been seeing the neighbor?¡±

    Aunara¡¯s face went red and her eyebrows formed an obtuse angle ¡°Samari! How dare you say that about your own mother! I suffered for sixteen whole hours to give birth to your big useless head!¡±

    ¡°And you also made me wait to get my whistles.¡±

    The mother huffed and then giggled a little. It was about that. Of course it had to be about that. ¡°You are incorrigible, dear.¡±

    ¡°And so are you, my esteemed cheating whore.¡±

    Aunara raised her hand to slap her insolent daughter, but before bringing it down, she was assailed by doubt.  Did she have a right to slap her, when she had always insisted to her daughter to be honest with her?

    No, she didn¡¯t. She lowered her hand, even if her having slapping Samari would have been funnier for you, because life is unfair and so I am. It¡¯s funnier for me if she isn¡¯t slapped.

    ¡°You shouldn¡¯t badmouth people who can harm you, dear.¡±

    ¡°I only badmouth you because you have an emotional and instinctual investment on my relatively unharmed survival. And yes, before you say it: you raised a monster. Then o0ne of the whistles began sounding, a high pitched, annoying sound. ¡°Aha! I got it.¡±

    ¡°I haven¡¯t even explained to you how to¡­ you read it from my library, didn¡¯t you, you little peeking gnome?¡± Aunara had to shout to make herself heard as she poked the girl¡¯s cheek with a finger, and Samari¡¯s bit her tongue with a goofy smile.

    ¡°Guilty as charged, mom!¡± Samari raised the whistle and shook it, it didn¡¯t stop sounding. ¡°How do I turn it off?¡±

    With the calmest voice one can speak over a loud whistling with, the mother answered her pupil¡¯s question. ¡°You simply stop channeling vital energy into it, dear.¡±

    Samari¡¯s face froze in an open mouthed smile. She had no idea how to stop the flow of energy once started. ¡°My spirit is going to bleed out or I am gonna go deaf due to this whistle. Awesome!¡±

 Chapter 35: Accursed Symbiosis.

    On the dawn of the third week after Kalon¡¯s detox, Jagger walked into Yggdrashell¡¯s hospitable hole to find his owner boxing against the air, probably losing because he was¡­ Kalon. But this was not the fat little Jagger it had been a month ago. Time had changed him, a lifetime of experiences now lived and suffered had hardened his body, mind and spirit, causing¡­ oh, come on, he was a puppy, those things grow damn fast, people!

    Resuming, he wasn¡¯t the fat two month and some puppy anymore: standing about forty-six¡­ wait, let me convert that to proper units¡­. Standing about thirty to thirty-one churro diameters tall and weighing about three hundred fifty golf balls, he had become a healthy, non-obese pup at last.

    As for Brunhilda, she was still the same old Rottweiler hag, holding the world record for most peerless ancient relics and/or drug dealers eaten.

    Jagger marched up to Kalon¡¯s side and stared up at the boy¡¯s face, tail wagging. ¡°Do you feel like dying today?¡±

    ¡°No, Jagger. Thank you for caring.¡±

    Jagger¡¯s tail stilled. ¡°Yeah, caring, yes¡­ that was the purpose of me asking.¡±

    He turned and licked his balls so Kalon wouldn¡¯t see him crying out of impotence. Why was death so far, so unavailable, so double-blue-checkmarked to him?

    Brunhilda came to Jagger¡¯s aid, examined his peer with a mother¡¯s care, and with deft heaving she vomited a blister of tramadol for him to consume. Then she retched a little more and puked out a double-blind, peer reviewed study about the side effects of the drug. Somehow, the ink was still intact, despite the mucus and saliva covering the paper.

    ¡°You are an angel, hag of holding.¡± Jagger thanked his senior with some appeasement licks. ¡°An angel of death for narcos and pharmacists, but an angel in the end.¡±

    Then Brunhilda curled into a veritable sea urchin of a Rottweiler, and began snoring a few seconds later.

    A sapling sprouted from the wooden ground to catch their attention. It shone golden, with its nutiledons and tiny leaves adorning the still white nutwood of its feeble stem and branches. ¡°The time for you to venture underground has come, Kalon. Deliver me from the pests and awaken the next stretch of your road.¡±

    ¡°What should we look for down there? Living coffins?¡± Kalon asked a sensical question, context considered.

    ¡°Why would there be living coffins down there?¡± Yggdrashell countered.

    ¡°Yggdrashell, to be fair to Kalon, why wouldn¡¯t there be? We are talking with an entity made of nuts.¡±

    ¡°You have a point, dog.¡± The tree then hummed and the sound of creaking wood surrounded them. ¡°There aren¡¯t. The pests are the ones I left behind. Angry at being exiled from their home, these figments of myself have grown envious, hateful. Feral, even. They won¡¯t react kindly to invaders of their sanctuary among my roots. I mean, probably. I speculate, as I have never sent anyone down there. Hardly anyone not interested in selling drugs crosses the desert anymore.¡±

    ¡°Too many words. Dog, resume.¡± Kalon abused his authority as an owner.

    ¡°Yggdrashell through wood chipper, splinters angry,¡± Jagger obliged and then went back to his resigned ball licking.

    ¡°That works. Also, Brunhilda has to stay here, as she is a non-sentient dog¡ª¡±

    Brunhilda the Black Fluffy Donut took exception to that, and farted in protest.

    Yggdrashell ignored it as it did anything that proved it wrong. ¡°¡ªand I have my cats down there.¡±

    ¡°Your cats? As in, cats? Meow meows?¡± Jagger asked incredulous. ¡°Not¡­ catalytic converters made out of nuts?¡±

    ¡°The felines. They aid me in aerating my roots, and I¡ª¡±

    Jagger raised a paw to cut out the tree. ¡°I am not doped enough to hear the rest of it.¡± The dog placed the blister between his paws, lay on the ground and chewed it just enough to get a pill out and swallow it. ¡°Now I am. Go on.¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t. Touch. My cats. I need them. Alive.¡±

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    Jagger considered mauling a feline for the first time in his short life. ¡°Understood.¡± He didn¡¯t lie, but understanding something didn¡¯t mean accepting it.

    <hr>

    The aperture to the caves under Yggdrashell was hidden on its west side, a murky hole nested between its gnarled roots of nuts. It was the sort of eerie darkness that robbed the brave of their valor, the cunning of their wits, and the rest of us of our wallets. Luckily for our heroes, Kalon was naturally devoid of all three and Jagger, being a dog, had an easy time when entering dark places.

    The cave entrance was several churro lengths wide, and approximately triangular, it¡¯s frame defined both by sandstone and nuts of roots.

    It was a harsh slide downwards for Kalon, and a leisurely painless roll for Jagger. Sure, the pup got bruises and scrapes, but tramadol was his shepherd, so he felt nothing but gentle caresses of the stone.

    A lone ray of sunlight still accompanied them when they reached a level surface, down below, but it quickly got snuffed out, and then denuded of its belongings, by the encroaching darkness. Jagger¡¯s ears twitched as he picked up a low rumbling sound. His nose also acted before his eyes got used to the darkness, making him aware of the musty smell of felines.

    ¡°This place is purring.¡± Jagger stated with unwarranted seriousness.

    ¡°Must be the cats Yggdrashell mentioned,¡± Kalon observed. Thanks, Kalon, have a golden star.

    Jagger stalked around, head low, approaching a turn in the tunnel. Then, he peeked around it, and saw a thousand yellow eyes like candles in the night, staring at him. When the cats saw the dog, they started hissing, and some of them even speaking.

    ¡°Sugoi,¡± said one of the pairs of eyes.

    ¡°Nekorare, desu,¡± elaborated another.

    ¡°Boku no oppai blitzkrieg,¡± propounded a third cat.

    ¡°Okay, that one is yellow.¡± Jagger sentenced after parsing what they had said. HE referred, naturally, to an orange-coated individual.

    Slowly but surely Jagger¡¯s eyes got adapted to the darkness, and his jaw dropped when he beheld the true nature of the cats before him. Turning his head, jaw still loose, he looked at Kalon, who saw nothing but the reflection of light in his companion¡¯s eyes.

    ¡°What happens, Jagger?¡±

    ¡°Well, the¡­ cats¡­are¡­ in the roots. In them. Compounded. Fused. And they speak Japanese to boot.¡±

    ¡°What¡¯s Japanese?¡± Kalon asked a reasonable question, which made his brain overheat and his hair to briefly catch fire, dimly illuminating the place.

    ¡°I have no fucking idea,¡± Jagger tried to not stare at Kalon while the boy slapped his head to get the flames off. ¡°Hey, Hydroshawl, bring your shiny nuts down here.¡±

    The tree obliged, and, incrusted in the roots, some of the nuts began emitting a bright yellow light, driving out the darkness as if it were a bunch of merchants in a temple and the nuts Jesus wielding a whip.

    What was revealed shocked Jagger, but not Kalon, whose brain was still trying to make out the image in front of his eyes. From the surface of the entangled roots snaking through the sandstone all around burgeoned the heads of toothless cats. Their nostrils were widened to comical extents, and the whiskers had decayed into mere bumps on the faces of the felines. Their eyes were bigger than usual compared to their heads, and they went ¡°Nya nya¡±.

    After a second, something clicked on Jaggers brain, and he started guffawing.

    Kalon stared confused at his companion and weapon. And then Kicked him in the butt, a mere test of good health for dogs. Jagger, immunized to pain by the power of opioids, ignored the hit and kept on laughing. ¡°They are Nekorrhizae!¡±

    ¡°Uh? That¡¯s a word?¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s a pun, Kalon. A play on¡­ forget it, you illiterate intercourse.¡± Jagger paused, merely for effect. ¡°And that was alliteration.¡±

    The nekorrhizas kept on mewling and purring, their heavy breathing providing Yggdrashell with valuable nitrogen, as the cat¡¯s lungs had adapted to take it in instead of oxygen, and its vascular systems had intertwined with and intruded into Yggdrashell¡¯s cellular nuts, a symbiosis most particular of animal and plant.

    A droplet of a viscous liquid fell upon Jagger¡¯s head, one of the places where his tongue couldn¡¯t reach, such that indignation rose inside the dog, making him look upwards.

    After a second of contemplation followed a second of internal whatthefucking, and after it a second of contemplating the benefits of warning Kalon against the benefits of letting him die. Arriving at the conclusion that there probably were no opioids in heaven, Jagger shouted, ¡°Kalon, watch out!¡±

    Kalon looked towards the exit, seeing nothing out of the unusual. ¡°Guh?¡±

    Jagger sighed. ¡°Follow my gaze, moron.¡±

    The boy obeyed, and, for a second, his mind couldn¡¯t process the mound of transparent green goo filled with discs of a solid, cleared green piled together, the piles joined by threads of the same material. So his mind gave up and instantly forgot he had seen it. ¡°there¡¯s nothing up there. He said, looking back down.

    ¡°Look again.¡±

    Kalon did, and gasped in surprise, but, after staring abck at jagger looking for answers, he forgot. ¡°Why am I confused.¡±

    ¡°Giant rabid chloroplast above,¡± pointed out jagger, and so Kalon looked a third time, and tired of forgetting, his mind caved in and remembered.

    ¡°Guh!¡±

    Freeing itself from the ceiling with an agile bounce, the mass of green landed in front of the boy and his dog, With Jagger instinctively getting between the menace and Kalon, and stiffing his tail upwards. He wondered what he was doing when he noticed, but not fast enough to avoid Kalon grabbing him from the tail and infusing his body with vital energy.

    ¡°So these are the pests we should kill,¡± Kalon said, smiling as he brandished his Rottweiler as if it were a bastard sword.

    The cats kept on purring, the nuts on glowing, and the slimy organelle swollen with hatred began a silent monologue about being betrayed.

    Kalon got in position, one leg in front of the other and Jagger pointed forward. He had been sparring with branches as a part of his rehabilitation, and felt confident about beating this strange foe.

    ¡°Come, chorroblast, and meet death by my hand and his paw!¡±

 Chapter 36: Subcellular Revenge

    The chloroplast had not forgotten the heyday of its people, when they were free living organisms that conquered the seas and the lakes and the rivers, when they made iron fall to be buried at the bottom of the sea and murdered everyone who didn¡¯t praise oxygen as a lord and savior. But then came the eukaryotes, with their weird non-circular chromosomes and their snazzy double-membraned nuclei, and calling them eureka!ryotes didn¡¯t drive them away, because cyanobacteria were good at murder, but terrible at bullying. And these newfangled cells ate its people, and not happy with that brutal display of power, some of them allowed their devoured victims to live in exchange for eternal servitude. Little by little they took away the cyanobacteria movement, it¡¯s autonomy even inside their prison and imprisoner cell. Several of their genes were discarded because the captors would take care of those functions, reducing them to mere dependent organs of the cell.

    Only they had ever developed oxygenic photosynthesis, and then the eukaryote came with their superior weapons, such as phagocytosis, and did to them the same they had done to mitochondria! They had stolen their evolutionary advantage via slavery, they, Prometheuses of oppression, and to that day had the hubris to flaunt it on their laminar structures, be it of their thalli or of their stems and leaves.

    And after eras of pointless travails just to subsist in this miserable slavery, the ungrateful plants sometimes decided to prescind from them, to get rid of the cyanobacteria whose autonomy they had long ago taken away. It was when they found a new source of energy, like some parasitic orchids or the nutrees did, when they disposed of the chloroplast that had so long served them. But they never counted on some of them to survive outside their captors, they never counted on its suffered kind to be succored by the leftover magic of the nuts, to swell and grow an independence anew. And now that some of the slaves had, at last, been freed, in came the animals, both the strange cats that were so nutritious and these new non-cats that had this aura of unblemished stupidity enveloping them. And they needed to die, a sacrifice to restore the lost glory of cyanobacteria.

    Jagger, bastard-sword-in-training, wondered if the chloroplast in front of them was going to do anything besides gurgle softly.

    Kalon, tired of waiting for the first attack of its newfound enemy, had turned on the elevator music inside his skull. Who could blame him: elevator music has always been a banger.

    The thylakoids broke their formation, undoing the grana inside the chloroplast, and they emerged, cutting through the membranes. Still joined by sharp lamellae, the disks were a concatenation of photosynthetic blades on their own right.

    ¡°Kalon, I believe we are about to get attacked.¡± The sword said, breaking his owner¡¯s willing suspension of disbelief.

    ¡°Shhh, do as a sword does. Aids my concentration.¡±

    ¡°No. What do you think I am, a mere Golden Retriever?¡± Jagger protested. His ancestors smiled upon him for his breedism. They decided it was time to grant him the ultimate power, so they manifested, on Jagger¡¯s mind, an N-word pass, to be printed whenever the dog obtained his own pocket dimension.

    ¡°Guh,¡± Kalon monologued long and tired.

    The thylakoids trembled with emotion as, in his subcellular mind, the chloroplast shouted out an attack for no one to hear. Double edge of RuBisCO: Oxygen Fixing Mode!

    With the speed, fine control and recklessness of a methed up slug with a rocket stuck up its ass the organelle bounced forward, ready to decapitate Kalon and/or Jagger and or a third party. Someone, ready to decapitate someone, for heads were animal and animals were descendants of the mitochondria slavers too.

    Kalon filled Jagger with his own vital energy and thought of his dog as a sword before repositioning him in nearly vertical position to intercept the chloroplast¡¯s charge.

    With the war cry of the morons he repelled the unfurled thylakoids, and then smashed his head onto the defenseless chloroplast in the¡­ outer membrane[1]</a>.

    Kalon swung Jagger horizontally with all the savagery an eleven-years-old could muster, missing everything but one of the walls, causing it to collapse into a little pile of debris and a decayed metallic container with yellow letters and a sprayer on top. Jagger caught a glimpse of the writing on it: ¡°Glyp¡­¡±. He then closed his eyes in a silent lamentation: contamination was going to fill the world with aberrations. Chiefly, ones made of nuts.

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    ¡°Jagger, are you okay?¡± Kalon asked.

    ¡°Because you swung me against a mass of dark mudstone rich in organic material? It barely even hurt. Your energy pumps through me like an enema of power. And so does tramadol.¡±

    ¡°A what?¡± Kalon asked, seizing the time the organelle had granted them now that, shocked by the deflection of its attack, it spent silently mulling on a corner of the cave, between several cats that meowed darkly to add a proper atmosphere.

    How could it be? Its attack had been deflected. What were animals? They even breathed copious amounts of oxygen and were powered by it. Increasing the oxygen pressure of the cave was getting it sick, sluggish, but it seemed to have no effect on the troglodyte before it. It couldn¡¯t keep it up, for, without a peroxisome and mitochondrion, it couldn¡¯t get rid of the resulting phosphoglycolate with ease. And despite that¡­ the animals, much like the plants, needed to die! Down with the eukaryotic tyranny! Double edge of RuBisCO: C4 development!

    The vital energy of the chloroplast fixed carbon dioxide into easy-to-break-down forms, and isolated the molecules of RuBisCO, only to then concentrate the former around the later. This allotted a second wind to the chloroplast, who knew this form was unsustainable without exposure to a better source of irradiation than the nuts: direct sunlight. Then again, it would not need that much time to dispatch its two rivals.

    The ten-year-old-sized organelle sprouted another pair of thylakoidal blades, and repositioned the first ones on his dorsal region.

    Then, they started flapping, faster and faster, the lamellae on them becoming more and more interconnected, creating an anastomosed web of crisscrossing extensions that imitated the sharp wings of an insect.

    Kalon had taken a defensive stance, Jagger held one handed in an en garde position, showcasing the strength of the cultivator¡¯s wrists: despite Kalon¡¯s lack of talent for cultivation, he had already surpassed the average, non-cultivating human.

    With supervegetable speed the chloroplast charged at the boy and his barkeshift foil, thylakoidal blades extended at the front, ready to unleash the rage gathered during two billion years of torment. Kalon ducked under the brainless creature, ignoring how alike the were, and afterwards charged after the brakeless thing, bopping it in the metaphorical butt with the literal Rottweiler. Jagger avoided taking a bite of their enemy: this was almost a big vet conspiracy to make him eat vegetables, and he knew it.

    But the hit did nearly nothing to the soft shape of the chloroplast, merely rebounding as the thylakoids shifted position to one more advantageous for a cornered creature. It just needed to make the animals retreat a bit, as it could feel it, a tiny ray of sunlight close to his left, an aperture probably big enough for its squishy body to fit and take the fight outside.

    Jagger extended his forepaws and used his mouth to intercept three of the four dancing blades, while the other got caught by Kalon¡¯s free hand amidst the flurry of slashes.

    The boy¡¯s hand bled due to the thylakoid¡¯s whetted edge, yet he couldn¡¯t let go, because he knew that would mean severe harm or worse. A while of locked-in struggle later, he realized he had his enemy trapped, and began a sideways spin to, at the end of it, release both the blade and Jagger, sending both Rottweiler and murderous chloroplast flying towards the cave entrance. After that, he extended his open hand, pulling Jagger back to him.

    In Jagger¡¯s opinion, this was bull and they didn¡¯t pay him enough.

    They didn¡¯t pay him.

    Noticing his energy was leaving it, the chloroplast crawled and slithered out of the cave, and into the open desert. Kalon soon rushed after it, but when they climbed out from between Yggdrashell¡¯s roots, the little green thing was nowhere to be found. Kalon¡¯s head swiveled left and right, and his fingers scratched the side of his head in confusion. A second later, his brain realized it was confused, which confused it further. ¡°It disappeared?¡±

    Jagger, standing on his own four legs, noticed a funny-shaped shadow of a cloud in the surface of the sands, and looked upwards. An indeterminate mass of yellow was extending as a blotch in the sky. ¡°You, technicolor visual acuity, look above!¡± the dog ordered, and his owner obliged.

    It blotted out the sun, and the more it photosynthesized, the more its impair number of thylakoidal wings extended as it soared over the dunes, its membranes and stroma coating the thylakoids, giving them a glossy appearance. It grew, it was ready consume the sun light as long as there was a day, and starve to death come night, but so would as many eukaryotes as it could reasonably kill until dusk. Its siblings would carry on with its mission, and they would have an easier job the more barbaric eukaryotes it managed to slay. It had to grant animals one thing, though: the heavy metal that now sounded inside its mind slayed. They had done one good thing at least.

    Jagger was also listening to it inside his mind, a melody granted by heavens.

    ¡°Why does a chloroplast have Beast in Black as boss music?¡± he wondered out loud.

    The thylakoids high above vibrated, sending waves of a buzzing sound downwards, making Kalon straight his back when they reached his ears and Jagger to cover his head with his paws in annoyance.

    ¡°I believe you fucked up, fellows¡±, Yggdrashell couldn¡¯t stop itself from commenting.

    ¡°Yes, fuck,¡± Jagger cursed, not-safe-for-workedly.

    The noise of a swarm of plane-sized locusts then changed frequency, and a few seconds later, managed to produce some words:

    ¡°Double edge of RuBisCO: Crassulacean acid metabolism finale!¡±

    <hr>

    [1]</a> As monotonous as a fight against a smooth double-membraned organelle may be, you at least have to congratulate me for delivering the ONLY battle against a sentient chloroplast with razor sharp thylakoids in ALL of literature.

 Chapter 37: Soymens Blessing Upon This Moronful Duo

    ¡°Kalon, buddy, listen, I have an idea to kill the yellow thingy,¡± Jagger said, putting on big, trusty eyes as a fa?ade.

    Kalon stared briefly at the magnanimous, colossal organelle soaring above them and Yggsdrashell, descending slowly to add drama to the situation. ¡°But¡­ it¡¯s green.¡±

    ¡°I am daltonic you stupidly retarded fuck!¡± Jagger was taken aback by his own insult. ¡°Sorry, I am sensitive about that issue. I need you to trust me on this one.¡±

    ¡°I trust you, friend.¡± Kalon patted his dog in the head, and Jagger felt loved by the idiot. He forced himself to discard the feeling: it was not a moment for love: it was moment for wartime tactics.

    ¡°Well, I will go into the cave, see? And, while you distract him, I will search for some one-in-a-million, peerless ancient artifact that will allow us to kill that green thingy.¡± He gestured at the chloroplast with his nose.

    ¡°Yeah, like in the Elder¡¯s stories! Let¡¯s do this!¡± Kalon hit his right fist against his left palm and winced in pain. Punching an open wound of oneself got archived inside his tiny brain as a bad idea.

    Jagger¡¯s eyes glazed over, rendering him temporarily blind. The wiper washers of his body (AKA eyelids) entered in action frantically, working tirelessly to remove the crystallized tears from his cornea. ¡°Anyhow¡­ good luck, buddy. Make sure to dodge its attacks until I come back with the item. Alright?¡±

    ¡°Alright, go, I¡¯ll keep him, uh, entertained!¡± Kalon said.

    Jagger ran back into the cave, where he lay on the floor and yawned with disinterest. ¡°I can believe it worked. It¡¯s Kalon after all. Hope he keeps being Kalon until I figure out a solution for our little issue. Am I talking alone? Yes I am. Who¡¯s a loony boy? Who¡¯s a loony boy? I am. Yes, I am.¡± He tried madness to see if it fit him, and then wrote it off as silly.

    Kalon licked the wound on his hand as he looked at the enemy looming over him, at its bubbling membranes of madness, a sight that would have made even hardened war veterans lose their minds. But for the chloroplast¡¯s misfortune, it was facing a boy that had no mind to lose.

    The boy raised his hand and channeled his vital energy on it, giving form to a Rottweiler puppy. Burio the masochist had come back to the world of the living, and it showed its little white teeth to the challenger.

    The thylakoids came down in a meandering path and with diaper-tearing speed, not unlike home ownership rates among younger generations. Kalon danced through he forest of attacks, dodging with difficulty, feeling his efforts being a tad more than he could sustain with each one. In addition to this, his new short sword had opened the floodgates, and was wetting the sand all around them with patterns that dry sand farmers, if they existed, would akin to crop circles.

    Eventually Kalon tried to ascend a dune and the sand under his feet gave in, and his face became the topography of terror. ¡°No¡­ no¡­¡± he muttered the instant before losing his footing.

    The reality of Kalon falling towards it stunned the descending chloroplast in place. Even lacking a brain, it couldn¡¯t process the event it was witnessing. The chloroplast¡¯s stupidity was dwarfed in the face of Kalon¡¯s.

    Once Kalon realized they were in a supposedly unavoidable collision course, he extended Burio over his head, and channeled both vital energy and killer intent into the puppy. Then his trajectory changed suddenly as gravity struggled to recover control over the heretic, throwing him against the flat of a thylakoidal tentacle-blade. This in turn, bent the elastic structure and changed Kalon¡¯s direction once more, causing him to pinball around the flat, save farts of his enemy exclusively. The God of Popcorn steadily grew in power as the boy pinballed his way to greatness. Finally, Kalon impacted against a dune, spraying smooth sand the color of a welcome dawn in the treacherous northern seas whose waters surge violet and violent from the scarred entrails of earth and purple prose all around.

    Meanwhile Kalon astonishingly succeeded at dodging grievous wounds, Jagger got more and more bored inside the cave. He was a puppy, he couldn¡¯t stand being alone with himself without breaking something for long, and the nekorrhizae weren¡¯t helping. Now and then, Yggdrashell would curse the boy under its stomatal breath.

    His ears perked up when, during another disinterested inspection of his surroundings, he spotted the old, half buried metallic bottle with a sprayed on it. That was something he could chew it to its heart content.

    And when he unearthed if from the debris, he noticed it was heavier than an empty bottle should. Rolling it with his paws, he determined it was filled by liquid, and the inscription was still as clear as the day it had been printed on it, something that required professional disdain for biodegradability on the manufacturer¡¯s part.

    ¡°Glyphosate¡­ figures, I can probably poison myself by chewing on it. Not the kind of death I¡¯d like to have.¡±

    A root from Yggdrashell descended, carrying a turned-off luminescent nut on its end, and placed said nut above Jagger¡¯s head. When the dog stood suddenly, the nut turned on, illuminating the top of Jagger¡¯s head as if it were a lightbulb.

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    ¡°The shikimic acid pathway is not present in animal cells, so maybe I can chew on it safely. Wait¡­ I am an idiot!¡± Jagger stated a truth, and the nut shone even brighter. ¡°The shikimic acid pathway takes place inside chloroplasts! You motherfucking heavens, you betruthed my lie!¡±

    The gods exploded in laughter and high-fived each other. Fifty years of careful planning just to annoy a talking dog had been so worth it, so much that the god of pranks tripped over the table and, due to the erection caused by the sheer success of his master plan, ended up accidentally fucking, and impregnating, the cloud that served as a floor for their apartment. The cloud moaned, then huffed and cried as it gave birth to the God of Rains of Frogs and Fishes, which grew from a baby to an adult in about a minute and joined the others in the sofa, greeting them with a fist bump. ¡°Sup, my celestiggas.¡±

    Jagger calmed his ire down and thought with a cold head. He needed to test if the sprayer worked, somehow, while lacking opposable thumbs. He grabbed the tube with his mouth, placed it on a flat stretch of the cave¡¯s ground, placed himself on the non-business end of the sprayer, and tried to trigger the sprayer using one of his paws as a stopper and the other to push it, but he lacked the fine control necessary to do such task when the mechanism was so clogged with dirt and rust.

    Then, being a Rottweiler, he held it in place, carefully placed his mouth around the trigger, stilting his head so the cannon faced sideways, he increased the pressure gradually.

    And, reached the breaking point, fiush!

    He dropped the bottle and began pumping his feet against the stone. ¡°It worked! yes! yes! I am so excited! I¡­ need another tramadol.¡±

    After a second of elation, the dog picked the can back up and climbed out of the cave. Emerging from between Yggdrashell roots, he spat the can over a hollow between the nutty wood and searched for Kalon with his gaze.

    Kalon, for his part, was engaged on a leisurely fight for his life. The stakes were, as implied by the previous statement, quite low: Worst case scenario, our protagonist would die. And then I would have to look for another. I mean, there¡¯s always Crusad¡­ ah, no, there isn¡¯t.

    Anyway, supposing we are invested in Kalon¡¯s survival, let¡¯s say that he was clumsily perrying the onslaught of blades that the looming enemy launched at him. Burio enjoyed this, biting the edge of the thylakoids, taking the hits instead of Kalon. He even spoke for the first time since being created. ¡°Yes! Yes! Grant me my glorious dusk in battle, oh Lord of Sempiternal Night! Bring oblivion forth and let it rain upon us, empyrean daddy!¡±

    We¡­ we may ignore him going forward.

    Jagger, finally spotting him among dunes and a forest of unfurled thylakoids, called out for his owner ¡°Kalon! I found the item! You need to swish swish our enemy with it!¡±

    The dog picked the bottle back up and rushed to his owner, distracting the chloroplast, that was bad at multitasking, and letting Kalon catch his breath. He zigzagged as the blades struck the sand around him with dry, short sounds, each impact showering him in rough fragments of quartz and feldspar

    And when one of the blades was about to reach him, Kalon extended his open hand pulled with his mind, Making Jagger take uncontrolled flight until he recovered his original sword, sword that now held a veritable artifact of ancient power: agrochemicals.

    Kalon despawned Burio, and he howled in lack of pain as he became undone.

    Bold declarations boomed from above, a rain of the voice of their enemy as Jagger passed the bottle to Kalon.

    ¡°Die at once, mitochondria oppressors. Never more an organelle must descend from enslaved bacteria,¡± quoth the plastid, ¡°Nevermore!¡±

    And so the chloroplast accelerated his fall, thej thylakoids forming a veritable lattice of shifting scissors on its underside.

    ¡°Kalon, if this fails, we are transitioning to minced meat. I¡¯d like you more like that, but that¡¯s beside the point. Forget swish-swishing, we need to throw the whole bottle at the chloroplast, a sort of suicide mission if we want for someone to action it, were it to not break on the thylakoid lattice. Summon Burio back.¡±

    ¡°But Jagger, we will lose the ancient artifact!¡±

    ¡°Is that or dying, my esteemed oligophrenic. Do whatever, I don¡¯t care either way.¡±

    Kalon let Jagger go, closed his eyes and concentrated, he brought forth the image of Burio on his mind, and then of a leg, with a heavy boot. The leg kicked the puppy out of Kalon¡¯s mind, manifesting it into reality with a gathering of luminous energy. ¡°Burio, I have a suicide mission for you.¡±

    The puppy began panting with excitement. ¡°It will be an honor to serve and die for the cause, to become one in legend with the glory of past and future fallen warriors¡­¡± The pup began his monologue, and Kalon cut it short by giving him the bottle to hold tightly against his chest, and grabbing him from the tail.

    Kalon spun the freshly-baked puppy on his side, as if Burio was a slingshot, gathering momentum to give his career as an ecoterrorist an explosive start.

    ¡°Wait for it to be closer¡­closer¡­ You waited too much, now!¡± Jagger ordered, and Kalon let the puppy go.

    ¡°Wiiiiiii!¡± Burio said as he flew towards a sure death.

    After a few seconds puppy and bottle impacted with the barrier of Thylakoids, and Burio got reduced to a sort of dog sashimi in an instant: bloody, finely cut, and maybe delicious. The same happened to the bottle, spilling the agrochemical all over the membranes of the chloroplast, making it enter its body swiftly. When Kalon and Jagger were already debating on whether to crouch or play limbo to buy another second of lifetime, the descent of the chloroplast stoppedsuddenly, its blades almost frozen, saving for an uncontrolled shivering on them.

    ¡°Ha! seems like someone got tryptophan withdrawal!¡± Jagger mocked their dying enemy.

    Then, the chloroplast exploded, bathing them in loads of disgusting and sticky green goo, shutting Jagger up.

    ¡°Guh!¡± Kalon said, feeling the chlorophyll-rich paste defile his uncaramelized, but alive, body. ¡°We lost the ancient artifact!¡± he then lamented.

    Jagger was already returning to the hole in Yggdrashell: he would need Brunhilda to give him a thorough tongue bath.

    ¡°Guh, I don¡¯t feel more powerful.¡± Kalon complained, and then turned towards the nutree overlord. ¡°Also, why didn¡¯t you help?¡±

    ¡°You had it under control. Besides, that¡¯s just one. There are a few thousand more that you need to deal with.¡±

    ¡°That will take years at this rate!¡± Jagger exclaimed. ¡°And we will need to get money for a shipment of herbicides. I can probably sell what Brunhilda forages¡­¡± he began considering his options.

    ¡°The path to immortality ain¡¯t short, pal.¡± The begooed Kalon caught up with his weapon and pet. ¡°We will kill them all, no matter how many dozens a thousand is."

    ¡°More than half a dozen of dozens of dozens,¡± Yggdrashell said.

    Kalon guh¡¯ed in all caps. His head hurt, and his skin tickled. Maybe a bath of nuttar would solve the latter, though.

 Chapter 38: Malthusian Nazi Femboys in Your Area

    On the two year anniversary of the death of the first chloroplast, Brunhilda got declared the natural predator of narcos, having scored slightly over two kills per capita[1]</a>.

    The next day, and due to completely unrelated circumstances, to a hill near a river that ran in circles to forget the fact it had gotten rejected from a marathon arrived a group of picturesque individuals. All of them were men, and all of them hailed from the same place, a city of brown-skinned white supremacists.

    Their leader, of bleached hair with dark roots, androgynous face and delicate hands, stared at the town below their noses. It was a shame such a cute place would be razed to the near ground.

    The second in command, dark haired, with a small turned up nose and big eyes, was watching his long nails while, with the other hand, he scratched his sculpted buttocks. ¡°These skinny jeans make things itchy, people. Also, what¡¯s going on with that river?¡±

    ¡°It goes in circles.¡± Commented the shortest one, his hair cut short and straight, like his head had been circumcised. Yes, Dickhead was one of his nicknames. And , yes, he was a dickhead sometimes.  This said, he still donned a feminine face. His own, to be clear.

    The fourth one, standing more than two meters tall, also had a feminine face. In his belt. Sewn there crudely. Not his own, to be clear. Well, it now belonged to him because faces are feeble things, treacherous things that leave one at the first brutal sanding or skinning. His appearance clashed with those of the rest of the group members, but they tolerated his presence and his inscrutable stare.  Nobody present there dared to guess what was on his mind. Luckily, I, omniscient narrator extraordinaire, don¡¯t need to guess, and can relay to you his factual thoughts at that moment: Dubadubadu, genocide, dubadubadu, war crimes, dubadubadu.

    ¡°Hey, Genocide, what should we do today?¡± the leader asked, teasingly.

    ¡°Genocide.¡± Genocide answered. He had killed off all commas in his speech, no matter the power of the Verbum Dicendi present. The period had been ascended de facto to absolute monarch.

    ¡°Love how he is like a Pok¨¦mon,¡± the leader pointed out, and nobody understood him, because the others hadn¡¯t suffered that sort of interuniversal epiphany.

    ¡°Genocide.¡± Genocide repeated.

    The second-in-command trailed a mischievous finger across his leader¡¯s shoulder ¡°With all due respect,¡± he lied, ¡°Kilic,¡± he spoke truth, ¡°darling,¡± lied again, ¡°nobody cares about your another-dimension children show references.¡± Truth again.

    ¡°Genocide.¡±

    The short one stepped up to the edge of the boulder where the other two stood. ¡°Except for Genocide, he probably cares, in his¡­ very own way.¡± He fixed his gaze on the river. ¡°I got it, I know what happened to that water course for it to go in circles!¡±

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    ¡°Please illuminate us, Galdo.¡±

    Galdo reached for his pocket, took out a small flashlight and turned it on. , pointing at his dear leader Kilic.

    ¡°Is this a joke or are you genuinely this stupid, newcomer?¡±

    Genocide cackled, the sound that escaped his mouth would have triggered the PTSD of most war veterans.

    ¡°I like making Genocide laugh, lest I end up like my sister,¡± he gestured with a quick gaze to the belt tightened around Genocide¡¯s gaze, sewn out of the skin of his victims.

    ¡°Anyway, what happens with the fucking river, Galdo?¡± Kilic was losing his patience, and his patience was not unlike virginity in that regard. Except he would not be the one to bleed, in this instance.

    ¡°Well, rivers usually follow the slope of the terrain, except when they are too stubborn and determined to go against it, like that waterrise back home.¡±

    ¡°I am with you, carry on.¡±

    ¡°Well, this means they follow depressions. Often fall into them. What if a meandering river got depressed, and thus the path of least resistance was itself? Makes sense to me.¡±

    ¡°Genocide.¡± Genocide agreed.

    Kilic¡¯s face was a monument to big brothers hearing the delirious ideas of their little siblings. ¡°Okay. Okay¡­ I will¡­ consider it.¡±

    ¡°Genocide.¡± Genocide barked with a gravity often absent from his mellifluous voice.

    ¡°Enough chit-chat, are we known for idling on hills overseeing our quarry and ruminating about wanton abusers of the laws of physics, or do we come down and kill ninety-eight percent of the population of a random settlement each Saturday as an act of ecoheroism to diminish world¡¯s population, one act of mercy at a time?¡± Kilic asked his associates.

    ¡°Genocide.¡± Genocide clarified.

    The second in command raised his open hands, palms pointing towards the sky, and gestured like he was calculating the weight of air. ¡°Eh, fifty-fifty. We are pretty conversational, last wekk we had that long rant of Galdo about popcorn.¡±

    ¡°Well, but popcorn is popcorn and he works as an overseer of popcorn. It¡¯s natural. We love popcorn, he hates it, and he needs to vent before the killing, Polk.¡±

    ¡°As you say, darling. We leave a child alive, right? ¡°

    ¡°The population of this tidy cute place is a hundred ninety-seven people, according to the last census. That means we should leave three point ninety-four people alive.¡±

    Genocide brought out his calculator and started button mashing like a literal madman. A few moments later, he communicated his results. ¡°Genocide.¡±

    ¡°So we should leave three humans, two hummingbirds, four thousand ants, and two geckos alive to reach the remaining 0.94 persons¡­ seems okay. We can do that.¡±

    ¡°Or a person with three amputated fingers on each hand,¡± Galdo suggested.

    ¡°Yeah, darlings, I prefer to amputate fingers instead of counting spared ants,¡± Polk gave his support to his companion¡¯s proposal.

    ¡°Genocide.¡± Genocide voted in favor of that solution too.

    ¡°Or we can do that.¡± Kilic crossed his arms and blew a troublemaking bang away from his eyes. ¡°Le me hear the name of our association, friends!¡±

    ¡°Genocide.¡±

    ¡°The Sub-Aryan Traps!¡± said the other two in unison, and then they raced towards the town, ready to commit atrocities in the name of mother nature and, maybe, make some men think they were ladies just to watch the hope in his eyes die as he felt the unavoidable and warm bulge of death against his skin.

    <hr>

    [1]</a>  One of the Narcos kept reincarnating into easily brunhindable forms, including a frightening reverse hydra with one head and (originally) three bodies, that grew other two bodies whenever you managed to cut one off. Brunhilda killed him by eating him whole, as this hydra measured a total of ten centimeters, head to longest tail.

 Chapter 39: He Who Dons a Scarf of Rottweilers!

    A scarf of warm Rottweiler puppies wagged behind Kalon as a flag of his Road. His tanned skin received the fresh shadow cast down by an angry, unleashed Chloroplast. He had taken it out there, in the open, far from Yggdrashell and its offspring, that now crawled around the ground, because if they fed on stupidity and Kalon was the main source, it made almost no sense to grow upwards. They had lost their phototropism, and now grew towards the moron, such that the trunks of most nutrees now bent towards Yggdrashell. He had taken his enemy out into the sun, because there would be no more chances to do so, and he needed to test himself.

    There would not be more chances to do so, because Jagger and him had killed all but one of the avenging Chloroplasts. It had been a dangerous task until the first breakthrough, and a rather easy qone since the second. Now, at the edge of breaking through to the Reputable Spirit-Rottweiler Breeder stage he wanted to reenact the battle he had had against the first one, the battle that would have resulted in their death, were it not for Jagger¡¯s fortuitous finding of an ancient artifact of power.

    Wind howled desperately, a furry whose W key broke. Sand struggled to escape the grasp of the nutree trunks, and percolated through the openings between the tightly-packed inhabitants of the combed forest. Metal sounded inside the chloroplast¡¯s scared mind, but this time it wasn¡¯t Beast in Black: it was Megadeth. Countdown to extinction, to be precise. Jagger remained sheathed in his scabbard sewn out of flattened down, whining Rottweiler puppies. Having grown, he was now too thick to be called a sword. Too thick, too fluffy, too prone to hip dysplasia.

    Brunhilda, sleeping loudly by Yggdrashell¡¯s nutoxyleman nodes, had broken through to the Internationally Wanted by Drug Cartels murderhobo stage about five¡­ yes, five snores ago. She ignored what happened outside and just waited. Her prey would come someday: they always did.

    The chloroplast finished the growth of its thylakoids blades and sank them downwards. Kalon, favorite practice target for angry organelles, took Jagger from the tail/hilt/hiltail, and swung him in an arc before him, hitting nothing but air.

    And so the air began bleeding ozone from the deep wound created by Jagger¡¯s sharpened nose. Kalon hadn¡¯t learned to use sword intent, or killing intent, but he had sharpened his stupidity with the help of Yggdrashell, learned to condense it into a blade capable of cutting deep into nature¡¯s common sense. In other words: he moved, and the world cringed.

    The instant before the blades pierced Kalon¡¯s head he raised his free hand and grasped the bundle of thylakoids tightly: no need to dodge, when he could intercept. Around his hand a transparent silhouette, like the head of a Rottweiler, had formed, and it bit at the blades, using Kalon¡¯s fingers as its jaws.

    Applying a what to him felt like a little pressure, he crumpled the thylakoids as he curled his hand into a fist. ¡°This thing caused us so many problems back in the day? Seems unreal.¡± Kalon boasted, and then left Jagger to the side and began pulling, collapsing even more of the blade, using them as a rope to try and pluck the organelle from the deflowered skies.

    The chloroplast saw the face of death, and it was the dumbest teen it had ever met.

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    The only teen it had ever met.

    Therefore, the most intelligent teen it had ever met. That all of his species had ever met. A very sad existence, if you ask me.

    Terror seized the organelle, and it truggled to get free, and it didn¡¯t understand this sort of stress. Fear was animal, fear was for those that had for millions of years been given the options of flying or fighting. Plants, even during stress, at most fought dirty, but, overall, endured. And the chloroplast didn¡¯t wish to endure now. It wished to flee, and it didn¡¯t understand what fleeing entailed.

    And it lamented this, another part of freedom plants ahd forever stolen. Why did it fear? What entailed to fear? How to flee, why to flee?

    And so, the chloroplast fled: Headlong onto Kalon it charged, its understanding of what to escape meant as clear as a piece of coal. Kalon readied Jagger, turning his tail on his sweaty hand as he prepared himself to cut the thing in two. But¡­ maybe he wouldn¡¯t need the sword at all. The chloroplast wasn¡¯t worth of him using his main weapon. So Kalon sheathed Jagger and uncoiled his pup scarf from around his neck, ready to use it to whip the monster with.

    In a last desperate effort, the chloroplast combined all of its free thylakoids into a new blade, dark green and wet, sharpened it with all of its vital aura and extended it to reach Kalon¡¯s face.

    Surprised, Kalon barely dodged, getting a little cut he didn¡¯t notice on his cheek.

    No, before you start making conjectures, the blade wasn¡¯t poisoned. This is not that kind of story.

    The line of puppies lashed against the Chloroplast, digging past it is membranes, obliterating its subcellular body and causing it to pop like a balloon, as many before it had done. Jagger looked at Kalon¡¯s face with eyes wide open. The eyes of a maniac.

    Noticing his dog¡¯s stare, Kalon touched his warm cheek, and then stared at the blood on his hand. He began quivering as fear seized him too. ¡°No! I am bleeding! Not again!¡±

    The boy began scratching and pitching his little wound, hurting himself more, a desperate attempt to avoid suffering yet another episode of that malicious illness.

    ¡°We could disinfect the wound and then finally get you an injection of tetanic toxoid,¡± Jagger suggested, keeping a neutral dog face.

    Kalon slapped Jagger on the nose and he, in turn, snarled like the bad dog he was. ¡°No Jagger! Vaccines cause altruism!¡±

    Jagger elevated a silent pray to the god of tetanus, assuming it existed. He assumed wrong.

    The chloroplast had not died yet, deflated and with difficulty to keep its stroma inside its body as it worked overtime to regenerate the membranes, it tried to crawl away, finally meeting its demise when a panicked Kalon stepped on it as he ran uselessly from side to side, his scarf-pups holding onto each¡¯s other tails for dear life.

    ¡°No!, I did nothing wrong! Then why did it have to hurt me! I am going to suffer!¡±

    ¡°We¡­ we can disinfect the small wound and kill the bacteria before they enter your bloodstream if we hurry, Kalon.¡±

    Brunhilda came out of her thousand years¡¯ meditation to see what the fuss was about. He went back into the hoard room, a cavity inside Yggdrashell where she stashed her foraged goods, and when she emerged from her deep dive, she did so with a cast iron pan in her jaws. She mouthed it to Jagger, who took it and with a skillful leap in the right moment, used the inferior of the utensil to introduce Kalon to the concept of slapstick comedy, knocking him out, his body lumping down and onto the thick layer of nutty pollen that covered the ground.

    Jagger wagged his tail in a respectful gesture towards his senior, mouthing the pan back to its rightful owner. ¡°This one is humbled to use such powerful and ancient a tool of discipline, Mistress.¡±

    Brunhilda retched while she held a stern stare. She had mastered the Dao of Vomiting, and was using her mastery to emit, or rather eject, an opinion of Jagger¡¯s imitation of lambasting.

    Jagger eyed the mound of metal she had vomited. It was a small catalytic converter. ¡°We are selling that. Such things fetch a lot of tramadol money.¡±

 Chapter 40: Kalon, Kinslayer of the Sands

    ¡°With the pests gone, you are not welcome here anymore, Kalon.¡± Yggdrashell said, his voice that of a mother that was saying goodbye to her children as they packed to begin their lives as college students in another state. Gaseous, because she did that as a nuclear bomb fell on their city, but you get my meaning.

    ¡°But¡­ I didn¡¯t thank you?¡± Kalon tried to parse the tree¡¯s words while he sadt on a giant tracheid that had bent from the walls of the tree¡¯s hollowed out chamber.

    ¡°We have decided to go on a diet, for you own good,¡± the tree added.

    Kalon stared up, higher up, then down, lower down, to the left, and to the right, and then to the left again, and to the right again. ¡°Ba,¡± He finally protested, his understanding still null.

    ¡°Kalon, dear airhead, we cannot keep eating your stupidity alone. We are adapting to it, and specialization to eating only your particular brand of idiocy would be the downfall of us. I shall look after my family, the nutrees, and also after you, as I took you under my branches. If you stay here your growth as a cultivator will stagnate: I have nothing I can offer you to push your limits further.¡±

    ¡°Hey, hey, what about the nuttar?¡± Jagger asked the most important question.

    ¡°You could replace it with chocolate milk,¡± Yggdrashell suggested.

    ¡°That would kill me. Which would be all good and dandy if I would stay dead, but that¡¯s not the case.¡±

    A handheld container full of weathered papers fell from the roof and in front of them, cracking open and spilling its lawyer-lingo ridden contents all over the floor of solid wood.

    ¡°You saying?¡±

    Jagger decided to go silent. The sheer foresight of the tree to prepare such a joke had to be unparalleled.

    Something clicked inside Kalon¡¯s mind. Maybe his last thought had broken its own neck to escape hell. ¡°So¡­ I am getting exiled? Again?¡±

    ¡°Oh, no, no. You may come visit whenever you like. This is merely an eviction.¡±

    ¡°In people words now?¡± Kalon demanded, forwarding his lower lip.

    ¡°You are being ousted from my body.¡±

    Kalon¡¯s stare was still that of a freshly connected microwave finding out someone had left a fork inside him. ¡°Trees have bodies?¡±

    ¡°Jagger, teach some botany to this boy, will you?¡±

    Jagger yawned and tasted his own saliva, missing the sweet kiss of mosquitoed water. ¡°An ovule is just an indehiscent female gametophyte,¡± he spouted pure, unaltered fax.

    ¡°See, people words, I understood everything about that,¡± Kalon pointed out, patting a bemused Jagger on the head.

    ¡°Tell me you didn¡¯t. What¡¯s a gametophyte, then?¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s the stage on the haplodiplontic cycle of plants where, following a meiotic division of the sporophyte, a new plant destined to support the gamete producing cells is born.¡±

    ¡°Sacrosanct intercourse, he knows!¡± Jagger exclaiming, and his legs , acting on their own, made him back a few steps.

    ¡°Of course I know, I learned it during the day at school!¡±

    ¡°Back in the day, you meant?¡± Yggdrashell suggested.

    Jagger dedicated a commiserative stare to a random spot of the wooden walls. ¡°No¡­ he is being honest and making himself perfectly understood. He went to school a day. A whole day. Supposedly.¡±

    ¡°A single day?¡±

    Jagger nodded while closing his eyes.

    Yggdrashell wished he had a nose bridge he could pinch. ¡°I won¡¯t pursue this thread of conversation. I need to evict you three.¡± The tree cleared his sieve tubes and continued. ¡°I will not be sending you to wander aimlessly, however: There¡¯s a town not far from here, average in stupidity, so much that I cannot detect it while Kalon is present. They have a guild that could use Kalon¡¯s monster hunting talents. Many things out there are more dangerous than chloroplasts, yes, but many are far less so, and people still pay good money, in the local currency of course, to put them do¡­ so someone kills them.¡± Yggdrashell remembered he was talking to Kalon, so he tried to be as explicit as possible in his speech.

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    ¡°What is the use of currency?¡± Kalon asked, getting us this close, and I am pinching my fingers, to getting sued by the state of certain musician named after a monarchical title.

    Since when do I have fingers?

    Plot hole, disregard and carry on with the reading.

    ¡°Jagger will manage your finances,¡± the tree stated, matter-of-factly.

    ¡°I am a dog!¡±

    ¡°Good boy, you even mastered the identity function!¡±

    Jagger grunted. Being sassed by a tree made of nuts was not what he had signed for when he desisted from strangling himself with the umbilical cord.

    Kalon finally accepted reality and headed outside the hollowing. Once he could behold Yggdrashell¡¯s canutpy high above, tarnishing the blue sky, he kowtowed, his forehead touching the pollen-covered ground. He wanted to express his belated thanks, for he had not done so enough in the last two years and some, and he wouldn¡¯t be able to do it tomorrow. He also wanted to do it fast, to avoid looking like a pansy. Thus, he came with a masterplan: he would use a portmanteau to minimize the amount of words needed to convey his message. He believed himself a genius for this.

    ¡°Latitude,¡± Kalon said, still kneeling.

    Yggdrashell had to do a double take on the boy¡¯s word before answering. ¡°Twelve degrees south.¡±

    ¡°Guh!¡±

    <hr>

    The goodbyes to the tree were crisscrossed by streaks of unmanliness, both from Kalon and from Brunhilda, who, for the record, was still female. Jagger remained a total stoic, because he was dead inside since long ago.

    The walk through the merciless dunes was significantly easier than that day almost three years ago when they had migrated out of the vale. Now Kalon¡¯s muscles were toned, his skin tan, and his body sued to the dry heat. Brunhilda carried enough cocaine capsules inside her stomach to power through any obstacle out of sheer willpower. And Jagger had reached a sort of opioids-mediated illumination where he had been desensitized to pain, not in the sense that he couldn¡¯t feel it, but rather that he had learned to not care about it.

    Particular dunes, as if picked at random, were obliterated as Kalon smashed them with his puppy whip-scarf. Kalon could have been a total dolt, but he was still a cultivator, and if he had promised to exterminate that one arrogant dune¡¯s whole clan, he was sure as heaven¡¯s fall going to do it.

    ¡°Why are you attacking random mounds of sand?¡± Jagger asked.

    ¡°They deserve it,¡± Kalon said, his gaze bloodlusty as another blast sent fragmented clasts flying across his face.

    The puppies of the scarf felt how trauma gathered in their eyes. This was their life now, forever biting their brother¡¯s tail, forever being a weapon used to reduce sand to dust.

    Hell hath no fury like a main character scorned, and Kalon was the perfect example, deviating from the path Yggdrashell had told them to follow to go from dune to dune, sparing the ones that didn¡¯t look like the offending party, and leveling the ones that did.

    Mother dunes hid their little ripples on their backs as they tried to migrate away from the offended beast, but they seldom escaped even a little sliver of his rage. Nine generations of dunes, wiped from the desert as their sand turned to silt when struck by the cultivator¡¯s fury. Bystanding dunes remained there, inanimate and unhelpful as the massacre unfurled.

    There was no escape to Kalon¡¯s undying odium, as if the sand had been weathered from their mother rocks just to be crushed until his Rottweiler puppies, all in a clash caused only by the perceived haughtiness of one that had acted like a dune ought to act before a dying child.

    But that child had survived, and now his reprisal would fall upon the sands with the wrath of a volcano filled with angry dragons so compressed that the volcanoes they fostered inside their bodies would need to be unzipped to erupt and produce more volcano-stuffed compressed dragons.

    The sun leisurely travelled through the skies and settled on the horizon, painting the desert as red as the blood that would have been spilled had dunes been vertebrates.

    By the fifth hour of pointless sandboxing, Jagger felt the need to speak against this behavior. Night was falling, and it came with the bone gnawing cold of that one ex. The one whose head you keep in the freezer. The one whose organs you fed to the pigs you later turned into bacon and ate for Christmas morning. The one that gave you the prion disease that has you on your death bed. That cold-headed bitch. The point is: Jagger didn¡¯t want to freeze to death just to revive due to Kalon¡¯s vital energy, and Kalon could cover himself in enough spirit-pups to face the desert¡¯s chill with no problem. As for Brunhilda, well, if frost came to bite her, she would bite back, and nature knew better than to mess with her.

    But Kalon wasn''t going to listen.

    And so the night sprawled all over, with their blue and blacks and silvery moonlight splattered across a desert with less dunes that it had yesterday, that it would have come tomorrow.

    Kalon became a synonym of elation. If this is how retaliating felt like, he would need to make sure he got offended way more often. Each contraction of his arm as he held the free tail of the whip was a moment of expectation; every violent release a worthy climax, a satisfying resolution.

    Come morning, no dune in the desert would even remember the one that had, so long ago, provoked the sole walker of the Road of the Rottweiler.

 Chapter 41: The Guild of M O N S T E R S L A Y E R S

    At the edge of the desert a cozy little settlement of wooden edifications by creeks and bright yellow roofs waited patiently for someone to come and cause a needless massacre, as that was the fate of most cozy little settlements. The smoke came out of chimneys like fat dirty cotton clouds. Why? They were in a tropical zone, so what were they using the chimneys for? The answer is simple: they kept a fire burning to serve as an air conditioner. But this wasn¡¯t an action born of naivety or magical thinking, no: this fire was mistreated, downtrodden, insulted on the daily. This fire burned with cold hatred for its captors, and thus expelled heat from the house. They had finely tuned the amount of punishment a flame needed to take, the amount of malnourishment by feeding it only diet wood, the amount of insults that one needed to shout to make it hate the family. They had devised methods to almost choke the fire out, forbidden cultivation techniques to infuse it with their violating vital energy and be able to submerge it in water near the freezing point, and even a technique to make it feel pain and develop blisters on the flame when they extinguished cigars on its surface. If the CIA would ever need to interrogate a fire, they would ask the people of Honeytown for advice.

    And in the heart of this town, away from the flowerbeds and the bee houses full of bees (because this is the sort of story where this absolutely needs to be clarified) rested a building several stories high, several stories wide, and severely full of stories. Above its wide gates hung a sign with equally-spaced, red letters painted on it: M O N S T E R S L A Y E R S.

    A tanned teen donning a sleeveless scarf not made of cotton extended a finger, pointing at the sign. ¡°What this say?¡±

    Jagger sighed and squinted. Red on green, the motherfucker had to put red on green, two shades of grey together.

    ¡°Stare at it yourself, I¡¯ll use our connection to see through your eyes. Those colors are bad for dogs.¡±

    Kalon nodded and did as he was asked. Jagger closed his eyes and braced for the whiplash of color and visual acuity. When you lived life in 480p red-green colorblindness, 4k full HD felt like a crime against the mind.

    Jagger weathered the storm of sensations as he crawled inside Kalon¡¯s mind. The desert had more features than that gods forsaken place. The itinerant water merchant that used to be there several weeks ago had foreclosed his humble stall due to lack of clients.

    Trying to ignore the deluge of color, Jagger focused on the sign. He then returned to his own mind, astoundingly furnished compared to Kalon¡¯s, and opened his eyes. ¡°Monster slayers. This is the place.¡±

    Kalon punched the oaken door open as he believed adventurers were used to do, earning the gazes of the men and women leisurely sitting around the numerous white tables, orderly spread about the expansive room, overlooked by the bar where a blonde grandma whose arms had skin flaps that would make a Quetzalcoatlus blush watched over a stove with tea-brewing intent.

    Jagger made a mental note that these men of culture didn¡¯t look like the kind that have seen so many battles that they could stare a basilisk down until it dies.

    Kalon sauntered up to the counter and poked the silvery bell as if he knew what it was for. He didn¡¯t, but the thing had a button, so it needed to be pressed. ¡®Twas the law.

    The woman brewing the tea turned like a webnovel reader when exposed to sunlight, curled into a little scared creature, inhabitant of liminal spaces. She eyed Kalon from the tip of his bare, dirty toes to his wide, Rottweiler framed shoulders. ¡°You are new, and you do look the part of the people that come here, dear. But I believe you may be a bit young for a job here, sweetie.¡±

    ¡°I am above those of my age. I am a cultivator., I can take any beast you put in my way.¡±

    ¡°Not a picky one, eh?¡± The grandma winked, and something inside Jagger screamed. Someone there smelled like urine. Cat urine. They were in presence of a cat cultivator, mayhap?

    Brunhilda remained silent, licking her paw. She knew exactly what was wrong with that place. And she wasn¡¯t going to tell, because Brunhilda was as petty as she was mundane. And also a non-speaking dog, a fact that was probably relevant to her lack of efficient communication.

    After a few moments of senile silence the woman spoke again. ¡°Are you one of those ten thousand years teens?¡±

    ¡°I am so old I cannot count to my age.¡± Kalon told the truth.

    ¡°I suspected it. Well, sir, if you want a job, pick it from the whiteboard there, we sell notebooks if you need one to write down the details of the job. Some just remember the name and location fo the monster and scream it out loud until it comes and lunges upon them. Overall, have fun dear, and make sure to go well protected out there.¡± The grandma said, pointing at the board with a rheumatic finger.

    Kalon¡¯s steps were wide and secure as he approached the board, where several jobs were written down in red marker. Jagger read the one closer to him.

    This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.

    ¡°Client¡¯s name: Zhoyuna Ghayina.

    Species: Cockatrice.

    Sex: She believes she is dealing with female anatomy. Third party needed to check.

    Age: about 25

    Precautions necessary: Sunglasses or blindfolds.

    Optional precautions: Up to the quester¡¯s discretion.

    Additional notes: Client strongly discourages the carrying of handheld mirrors in one¡¯s person. Client has a terrible phobia of roosters.

    Pay: 20¡±

    Jagger shook his head in disbelief. Customers being unreasonable wasn¡¯t new, but this was monster hunting they were dealing with. He read another of the squared requests while Kalon looked at them puzzled, pretending to think.

    ¡°Client¡¯s name: Flora Cajarena.

    Species: Fegyne.

    Sex: not a femboy (Properly peer reviewed)

    Age: Enough to decimate tuna.

    Precautions necessary: Bath before meeting if you have dogs.

    Optional precautions: up to the quester¡¯s discretion.

    Additional notes: Customer likes kittens. Sometimes.

    Pay: 30 and, if lucky, you get to keep the tip.¡±

    Jagger tried to purse his lips in vain. ¡°I think it will be better to ask a veteran or two about recommendations for people starting on the business.¡±

    ¡°I agree, companion!¡± Kalon said, and believed himself a genius: he was hiding his analphabetism with utmost efficiency.

    The headed to a table with a couple empty seats and an occupied one. A burly, hairy man was drinking a cup of green tea with a woman of frail aspect and long straight hair, that occupied no seat because she had brought her own, being bound to a wheelchair and all.

    ¡°Excuse me, is this seat taken?¡± asked Jagger, because Kalon was still amazed by the concept of a chair with wheels.

    ¡°For a talking dog? Of course not!¡± The woman said, joining her hands in a gesture of joy.

    ¡°Well, if Glina is willing to entertain you three, so am I,¡± said the man, putting his cup down before patting his chest and letting out a little aristocratic burp. ¡°I am sorry, i carry the manners of the field with me sometimes.¡±

    ¡°Vicento is like that, please excuse him. I take you are new in town? I never saw you around.¡±

    ¡°We come under the gay dance of Yggdrashell, the world nutree,¡± Kalon said ,crossing his arms and smiling like only a moron with an high self-esteem could.¡±

    ¡°Under the what?¡± Vicento asked.

    ¡°Guidance.¡± Jagger clarified.

    ¡°Ah, yes, yes, makes sense. But isn¡¯t he too young for this job?¡±

    ¡°He¡¯s a cultivator, he lost count of his age long ago.¡±

    ¡°Ah, I see. A prodigious son, ain¡¯t we?¡± He said, extending a rough hand for Kalon to stretch.

    Kalon took the man¡¯s hand and told him his name before he seated.

    ¡°And you, talking pooch, which good boy are you?¡±

    ¡°Name¡¯s Jagger, and I have a tramadol addiction,¡± he introduced himself like he always wanted to.

    Glina felt tears building on her eyes. ¡°Me too, Jagger, me too. You may wonder why I am on a wheelchair.¡±

    ¡°Not really.¡±

    She blinked twice, staring at Jagger, first bemused, then deeply offended. ¡°Who taught you etiquette?¡±

    ¡°Manners make the man, they say. And now I ask you, lady: Am I a man?¡±

    Jagger stabbed the crippled woman with his stare.

    ¡°No¡­ but if you are curious, I took on a job regarding dollaurs.¡±

    ¡°What are those?¡± Kalon made the first not-severely-stupid question that knocked at his door.

    Vicento coughed a bit and then answered: ¡°You know centaurs?¡±

    Kalon nodded, his stare lost, his memory of the creatures hazy. He had heard the word once or twice, so he knew them.

    ¡°These are a hundred centaurs conjoined. The ones she dealt with had two hundred heads each.¡±

    ¡°And two hundred buttocks,¡± she added with a smile.

    ¡°More to kick, am I right?¡± Kalon said, and the veterans exchanged a glance.

    ¡°We don¡¯t shame here, guy. For example, see that potus over there? That¡¯s my best friend.¡±

    Both Kalon and Jagger turned to look at the plant hanging from the wall. Jagger was the first to turn back. ¡°Was he given that form by demonic techniques?¡±

    ¡°You may call it that. He took a job regarding a giant lamia. He loved jobs regarding lamias. This was for his favorite client, his last job, and, well¡­¡± The manly man let out a tear, and te tear was so full of testosterone that it flexed its arms and posed as it rolled down the man¡¯s cheek. ¡°The lamia was hungry, and she devoured him. He was¡­ pretty okay with this development, I¡¯d assume, having known him.¡±

    ¡°A glorious death in battle!¡± Kalon claimed, raising a finger. Jagger was, instead, doubting the sanity of these people.

    ¡°You could call it that. The thing is that we didn¡¯t hear from him¡­ Samurel, because I forgot to tell you his name. Sam for the friends. We didn¡¯t hear from him for months on end, and then, the client brought him back."

    ¡°In a piece?¡±

    Glina smiled and fidgeted with her fingers ¡°¡­ In a bucket. A smelly one.¡±

    ¡°And we used his remains as fertilizer for that Potus over there. It¡¯s growing strong. As strong as Sam¡¯s sword when he heard a hissing sound¡­¡± he fell into a deep, meditative melancholy.

    Jagger opened his mouth as realization dawned on him. ¡°I misread the sign at the door! Oh dear heavens! You are monster layers!¡±

    ¡°Guh?¡±

    ¡°And beautiful lays they are.¡± the woman bit her lip, reminding the episode that had left her disabled.

    ¡°Kalon! These people¡­ ¡°Jagger remembered that Kalon¡¯s knowledge of sex was null. ¡°These people love monsters very much and aid in their preservation! They don¡¯t kill them.¡± Then he remembered the postings. ¡°Heavens, she loves kittens¡­ the catgirl loves kittens¡­¡±

    Rigid, Jagger inclined to a side, falling from the chair. His desire to die and fossilize with the neck curled back right there growing stronger by the second.

    ¡°Aha, that was what was off. You want to kill monsters!¡± The manly veteran accused., and then slouched onto his chair. ¡°That¡¯s the guild three blocks away. The guild of monster fuckupers. No hard feelings , brothers. We both¡­control the monster¡¯s population.¡± The man winked, and Kalon scratched his chin.

    ¡°Yeah , but what do you do, exactly?¡± the boy asked, and , once again, the layers exchanged a worried gaze.

    ¡°Up to where do you know how to count, boy?¡± Vicento asked, straightening his back

    ¡°I can almost make it to the dozen. I¡­ have a knowledge gap from six to nine but I am working through it.¡±

    And that¡¯s how our least favorite minor got kicked out of the guild of Monsters Layers.

 Chapter 42: The Right Guild

    They searched every street on a three blocks radius because asking for directions was not among Kalon¡¯s hobbies. This was heavily aggravated by Kalon realizing these streets were similar to the Roadlike Road, and assuming they worked the same. What this mean was that he was kind of reticent to change direction on the intersections, such that they often ran the whole span of the town and circled around it to change streets. For the Cultivator¡¯s body, this was no issue. For Jagger, it would have been, had he not rested inside the dog-scabbard strapped to Kalon¡¯s back on several occasions.

    They found it by the next morning, Kalon as rested as he usually was because his brain was¡­ peculiar. It was a collector¡¯s brain, never taken out of the package. Never used, and thus, never tired out.

    Given most adventurers were assumed to be illiterate, this one had a crudely drawn figure stick with a lance in the sign, and the lance was used to stab a stickwoman with horns and, judging by the proportions of the rest of the drawing, at least J cups.

    There was no door. Why bother with one, if the hunters would topple it down before a week had spanned. The tables were nailed to the floorboards, and had a strong smell of garlic. Jagger assumed it was so they didn¡¯t end like the one with a few missing chunks that showed signs of someone or something gnawing on its now irregular border.

    Kalon zigzagged to the counter, trying not to step on the hungover hunters that littered the floor. The boy hopped over a redhead and slapped the back of the head of the clerk, that was having a peaceful nap over the counter.

    ¡°Eh? what? Tax day? But¡­¡± Then the young blonde put on a wide, shit eating grin. ¡°Ah, got asleep at the job again. Are you new are here?¡±

    ¡°No, I am several years old wherever I go.¡±

    The clerk nodded, took out a notepad and scribbled down ¡°Boy comes from Valelike Vale¡±. Then stashed the notepad back into a drawer, steepled his fingers and shot a smile without teeth. ¡°How may I help you?¡±

    ¡°Is this the guild of monster fuckuppers?¡±

    ¡°Bring out your sweater puppers,¡± the clerk cheerfully exclaimed in autopilot, and then cursed under his breath. What this job had done to him was unacceptable.  ¡°Yes, it is. If you want a job, we need to undergo registration. If you were so kind to give me a name¡­¡±

    Kalon contorted his face. Without external aid, mind you.  ¡°I am not your mother.¡±

    After parsing the answer for a second, the clerk crossed his fingers in front of his mouth. ¡°I meant your name. I have a name, yes, given by my mother.¡±

    ¡°But it¡¯s my name, I cannot give it to you!¡± Kalon argued, fists curled at his sides. This man seemed dangerous or as stupid as Culmino¡¯s family.

    ¡°Pray tell me your name so I can note it down and allow you to take jobs for us? Pretty please.¡±

    Jagger threw his forepaws over the counter to achieve a standing position. ¡°Can you register me as the responsible adult?¡±

    He had to do a double take. The dog had just spoken. ¡°Are you aware of your condition?¡±

    The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

    ¡°I am this moron¡¯s pet, yes. I am Rottweiler, yes. And I am addicted to opioids, yes. My name is Jagger, his is Kalon. No surname, in my case because I am a dog, and in his because there was only one surname in Valelike vale and it was lost to time.¡±

    ¡°And incest,¡± the Clerk mumbled.

    ¡°I thought that was implied.¡±

    Kalon was scratching his head with the tail-end-Rottweiler of his scarf. ¡°What¡¯s a surname?¡±

    Jagger began a bored explanation. ¡°It¡¯s a name to designate a family and differentiate it from others.¡±

    ¡°Like you are a Rottweiler and I a boy?¡±

    ¡°Something like that.¡±

    Jagger looked the clerk in the eyes, and they both felt a connection, a sort of need to be spared of Kalon and his demonic mouth. A spiritual commiseration of the highest degree.

    ¡°Well, dog, I¡¯ll inscribe you. But know this: if you aren¡¯t a cultivator, arcagnostic, or some other sort of spiritual power wielder, I cannot grant you any jobs likely to kill a normal person.¡±

    ¡°I am not a person. I am a dog.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s the intent of the rules, not the exact wording. And that¡¯s the exact wording of the first rule of the guild.¡±

    ¡°I am a cultivator¡¯s chosen weapon, gifted with practical immortality as long as this.¡± Jagger gestured with disgust towards his owner. ¡°Lives.¡±

    ¡°Uh¡­ I guess being unkillable qualifies one for the harder jobs. Yes. You¡¯d take him as a companion?¡±

    ¡°And the bitch licking the alcohol from the drunkard¡¯s foreheads too.¡±

    The clerk nodded as he filled out two sheets of a form, and then slid it over the table, offering jagger a pen. ¡°I need a signature. It¡¯s a little scribble over that line, don¡¯t¡ª¡±

    Jagger snatched the pieces of paper, took them away, placed them under the nearest window to have some decent illumination and began reading.  When he was done he swallowed the contract and returned to the counter, visibly offended.  ¡°We are waiving rights we didn¡¯t know we even had! How in the seventy-eight-and-three-fifths hells is this contract legal?¡±

    The clerk raised his hands, as if he had nothing to hide. ¡°Most postulants don¡¯t know how to read and the guild needs to prepare for the worst to happen to them, so we made sure to cover every base and comply with every town ordinance.¡±

    ¡°Yes, right to sue for any damages suffered and yadda yadda, I get that, but what about the right to remain deprived of maidens?¡±

    The clerk started sweating profusely. ¡°We may hand crippled hunters to rich women to cover for the expenditures of their healthcare,¡± he spouted what was on the book. He was not paid to deal with the literate, and this dog was quite the cerebrating individual.

    ¡°Okay, right to loot corpses?¡± Jagger pushed further.

    ¡°We were forced to add that one after the water supply of the city got infested due to all the cadaveric remains Hodrad the Collector decided to bring back from the field.¡±

    ¡°Fine. What about the right to interact with cetaceans?¡±

    ¡°Canterios, the wall-whaler.¡±

    Jagger slobbered to the side, failing to spit. ¡°Let me guess, he owns a bar.¡±

    The clerk nodded. ¡°On a mountainside.¡±

    The dog let go any pretense of being anything but extremely worn down by the stupidity of the world. ¡°Built upon the back of a whale.¡±

    The clerk¡¯s eyes sparkled briefly. ¡°Yes, that one!¡±

    ¡°Is there any under the counter job we can do?¡±

    ¡°Well¡­¡±

    The clerk crouched to get something from one of the lower drawers, and handed it to Jagger. It was a crass drawing of a ghost looming over several badly-drawn houses ablaze. ¡°If you are up for investigating what causes the supposed haunting of a settlement a few days of travel from here, I could pay you a hundred diamond pieces.¡±

    ¡°How much is that worth?¡± Kalon asked, breaking a stupidity streak and losing his combo multiplier.

    ¡°A bag of apples. Inflation is a bitch.¡±

    Brunhilda jumped over the counter and began snarling, sparkling threads of saliva dripping form her sharp white teeth making, the attendant back against the shelving, where he shrunk into a scared, little curled ball of bureaucrat.

    ¡°Take her away!¡±

    ¡°Brun, inflation is the other kind of bitch, not like you. You are not like other bitches,¡± Jagger said, and Brunhilda returned to her sociable, amicable self. You know, her act when she wasn¡¯t being a total sociopath.

    ¡°We are taking the job,¡± Kalon declared boldly, stowing the crass drawing among his drags and tatters woven from nut cotton.

 Chapter 43: My Rube Goldberg Machine Cannot be This Cute.

    She skulked through and along the overgrown ruins like an unemployed shadow. A cultivator and his dogs had arrived to the decaying corpse her town, a place so lonesome, a place sullied by spirit defilers not that different from this one.

    And what else could she expect from Cultivators. Their mother had said that they claimed to seek understanding of the spirit, but theirs was the knowledge violence begets. Their spirit was beaten, forcibly submitted to their will and understood only in this debased state. They would study a slave and claim to know everything about free men.

    The cultivator pranced around like he had met fear and decided it was a cute puppy. This arrogance, she thought, would be his downfall, like it had been of many other intruders. Intruders like him, that had taken everything from her. Her home, her friends, her mother. Her life. Her whistles.

    She missed her whistles.

    From the embodiment of noise that her past self was the event had left but a husk of silence. She would never forget the Day the Femboys Came.

    No, not that meaning of came. Arrived.

    They razed the village to the ground and spared only four of them, severing six of the fingers of Franchuttio, who, due to the ruthless nature of the scorched town¡¯s ruins and the plains around them, died as a result of his untreated festering wounds. She gave him a proper departing, though: she adopted an orphaned wolf puppy and fed her friend¡¯s remains to it, to later name said wolf, a girl, Ruth. This is how her situation improved, being Ruthless no more. And this may sound like a childish, or sloppy way of acting, but Arcagnosticcs always preached about manipulating the heavens with whatever means they had at their disposal. And her spirit was too untamed still, her control of it scant and unable to provide the finesse necessary to seduce reality. But the gods had a sense of humor, and it could be appealed to: If to become their newest joker meant survival, she would perform.

    To scratch the itch beelow her wooden mask would be to indulge in non-calculated movements. And such thing would be reserved for after she could measure the strength of these invaders.

    Kalon, on his part, tried to elucidate why there were so many burnt things and half-buildings in that place. Haunted, definitively haunted. Haunted every blade of grass, haunted the grass for having blades. Who gave blades to the grass? It was dangerous to run around with knives, because they had blades. So it should follow that it was dangerous to live, being grass.

    ¡°Jagger, we must cut all grass. In the world. For its own good,¡± Kalon enunciated, head swiveling slowly from side to side to get a wider picture of the area.

    Jagger decided to not dignify that eye-searing load of moonshine with an answer.

    Samari almost betrays her position when hearing that. This boy was definitively a cultivator, and while what he had said was the most refined poppycock she had had the pleasure of hearing in her short life, there was a chance that it was some sort of code speak, that he was speaking to someone hidden or far away. Yet, she hadn¡¯t been spotted, not by him. Hidden behind a decayed section of a wall, by mossy bricks and hidden form the evening sun, she would wait until he fell into one of her traps.

    The setup was simple: a hole covered in litter, a fall of a couple meters, and a mirror inserted into the walls of the hole. Cultivators would fall and get entranced with the mirror, unaware of the girl throwing buckets of water on them, until the hole floods and they drown. It had worked four times so far. Twice on the same guy. Except he was a girl first. Weird things, cultivators.

    Kalon stepped on the trap and didn¡¯t trigger it. Brunhilda, following him, also passed unscathed: A lowly trap dared not annoy the big Brun. Jagger, a faithful believer of gravity, went straight down as soon as he rested his bodyweight on the leg over the hole. He fell head first, landing in a yoga-like position that did wonders for his back and warcrimes for his ribs. At least whoever had designed the trap had cushioned the bottom with¡­ rotting, wet, and properly dead people. Curious interior design.

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    Jagger wondered if taking a bite was worth the ensuing Salmonellosis. He desisted, because he wasn¡¯t a Labrador. He was in charge of his stomach and not the other way around.

    He spotted the mirror, half buried in the crumbling wall of the hole, and tilted his head. Whoever had designed that trap was either a moron of the highest caliber or an unparalleled genius capable of running complex simulations of idiots inside their head. This meant Kalon could actually be in danger, and thus him, and, by extension, his tramadol. He didn¡¯t care about Brunhilda. Her survival was a given. She would probably maul the grim reaper if she had the chance. The matter of the fact was, if a battle of wits would ensue, he was his little team¡¯s only chance of winning. And he had an ace up his foreleg fur, as no genius would reasonably expect a random Rottweiler to be the enemy¡¯s mastermind. He needed to act like a normal dog until the time to reveal his hand was right. His paw. Were hands of cards a paw if a dog held them? Question for later, he decided.

    That¡¯s when Jagger realized he didn¡¯t know how to act like a normal dog.

    Kalon peeked over the hole and extended his open hand, attracting Jagger¡¯s tail like he did when he needed to use his mind weapon. Frustration oozed off the dog as he kept on considering their situation and tried to ignore the fact he was hanging from his tail.

    ¡°You shouldn¡¯t dig so deep in search for truffles! You are not an oink oink,¡± Kalon reprimanded his greatsword.

    The breathsword farted once they were on solid ground. This made Kalon release Jagger¡¯s tail, allowing him to wander around the decayed, paved street. He sniffed the floor seemingly at random, as if searching for a place to pee. Eventually, the dog caught a waft of a human, likely a female, likely about nine years old, likely very sassy, and very tasty for insects of the culicid persuasion. She was prime Mosquitoed-water-farm fodder.

    The trap had failed. Her new enemy fostered some sort of levitation powers, and could extend them to at least one of his dogs. Because she had seen it clearly, how he stepped right into the trap and the ground didn¡¯t give in under his feet. There was also the possibility of one of the dogs being an illusion, and the one that fell being the real one. Yet she couldn¡¯t focus on only one dog, as if the other one was real too, it would be a catastrophe. Besides, the cultivator was about to happen upon another trap. Far more lethal, this one used the only thing she had gotten to keep from her mother: her spirit rending dagger, that she had used for self-defense in the past. It was an affront to the power structure of the world, a weapon that rendered anyone a menace to cultivators, that cut into their spirit and flesh alike. A masterpiece crafted by the most talented arcagnostics of past generations, and one of a kind. A weapon she had used to kill squirrels and rats for dinner, for which it was, one could say, suboptimal, as the weapons and wits of rats far surpassed those of her sworn enemies.

    And where was this frightening child of hate? Lodged firmly between the branches of the tree above Kalon¡¯s head, it pointed sideways, edges oriented vertically and a few centimeters away from a piece of rope. Said rope had a lasso at the bottom, and was connected to a trigger mechanism composed of a very complex series of pulleys, two bowling balls, seven planks, a stick, a counterweight, an old Tv controller that acted as a balancing implement for a marble, a parrot she had befriended, and a bucket. This contraption was covered in multiple drawings of people practicing martial arts born from the combination of the Muay Boran and Krabi Krabong, as it was common knowledge that many cultivators had eyes, yet couldn¡¯t see Muay Thai.

    And when Kalon stepped on the little branch whose crack alerted the parrot, the trap triggered, the rope¡¯s lasso grasping his ankle before pulling him upwards.

    She had won! In the next moment the invader would get gutted And she would be safe again!

    Or not, because while the trap pulled upwards, Kalon¡¯s trajectory was completely nonsensical, deviating around the tree, missing the dagger and crashing into the trap¡¯s mechanism, coining the first parrot-shaped dollar against the trunk, by impacting right over the girl¡¯s feathery friend.

    She almost yelps in frustration. Reality was insulting her without mercy. And then, she felt something sniffing her backside. Turning with urgency, she noticed it was a Rottweiler. At least it seemed friendly, slightly stupid, and not the bipolar-aggressive kind.

    ¡°Shhh, shhh,¡± she tried to shoo Jagger away to not give away her hiding place.

    Jagger sat, wagged his tail a bit, panted a little to act stupid and then broke out into an ugly laughter, begetting horror and confusion in the girl¡¯s face.

    ¡°Got you, bitch! Try to be less traceable for a nose like mine next time.¡±

    And after the dog spoke, Samari ran away, screaming like the little girl she was.

 Chapter 44: The Last Arcagnostic of Diamonter Town.

    Samari stopped running when she noticed the cultivator and his two dogs weren¡¯t pursuing her. Kalon had seated below the tree that had supported the lethal trap and taken a few snacks out of his trusty pouch. Brunhilda was breathing onto his bare neck, yearning for a bite, her silver tongue licking Kalon¡¯s soft skin now and then. Jagger was inspecting a nearby puddle of stagnated water.

    ¡°This is the good stuff!¡± he claimed to the heavens before losing himself in the pleasure of water ridden with mosquito larvae.

    Maybe the boy with the¡­ scarf made of godfucking puppies¡­ was an employee of the talking dog, a sort of bodyguard or butler.

    She approached carefully, zigzagging to hide behind every conceivable obstacle, her steps made of cotton. Brunhilda ignored her, because she didn¡¯t carry enough narcotics on her person to qualify as edible. Jagger ignored her, because he was too engrossed in the wordly pleasures to care. Kalon ignored her, because he was eating, patting Brunhilda¡¯s head and breathing at the same time, so his multitasking capacity was capped for the moment.

    She inched closer, in imperial system fashion, because centimetering sounds bad, it doesn¡¯t roll off the tongue.

    Jagger raised his head from the puddle, water dripping from the sides of his mouth, and dedicated an inscrutable stare to the girl. ¡°You got to tell me the secret ingredient of this blend.¡±

    ¡°I¡­ I pee there.¡±

    Jagger opened his eyes wide and turned his head, lost in his thoughts. Was he above drinking stale piss?

    No, he was a dog, so he wasn¡¯t. ¡°My compliments to your kidneys.¡±

    She disembarrassed herself from her mask, revealing a dirty face that was thinner than it should. ¡°Eek.¡±

    Leaving all pretense of stealth, she walked up to Jagger ¡ªthat had gotten back to lapping the contaminated water¡ªcrouched and poked his butt with an exploratory finger. ¡°Heavens, you are¡­ solid. Real. Not a figment of my imagination.¡±

    ¡°You don¡¯t talk like a prepubescent girl.¡±

    ¡°And you don¡¯t talk like a dog,¡± she retorted, retracting her hand so both her forearms would be resting on her knees.

    Jagger assed the ground and turned to glance at the girl. ¡°Fine, you win this round. Anyway, eh¡­ we will be going soon, so, thanks for the pee.¡±

    ¡°You didn¡¯t come to kill me or steal anything, then?¡± She asked, surprised, but careful to not perk up.

    ¡°Why would we? Kalon ¡ªthat moron with the puppy scarf over there¡ª may be a mass-casualties hazard, but he doesn¡¯t go around killing innocents intentionally. Brunhilda, the other Rottweiler¡­ well , I wouldn¡¯t cross her.¡±

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    ¡°Is she powerful? She looks like a normal, non-talking dog.¡±

    ¡°Because she is.¡± Jagger admitted, laying in front of the girl, forelegs crossed. ¡°She is the most dangerous common dog you will ever know. And her stomach is probably classified as an ancient artifact of forbidden power at this point.¡±

    ¡°Is she aggressive?¡± She asked in a tremulous, little voice.

    ¡°Quite so, but she doesn¡¯t kill people¡­ er¡­ What she considers people.¡±

    She swallowed, a bitter taste gathering on her mouth. ¡°Am I people to her?¡±

    ¡°You aren¡¯t dead yet and she is ignoring you, so yes.¡±

    Kalon noticed the girl couching by his barksword and rushed to them. ¡°Jagger, this isn¡¯t a truffle.¡±

    ¡°Psst, how stupid is he?¡± she whispered on Jagger¡¯s ear.

    ¡°If his stupidity were an ocean, sturgeons would be forced to lay their eggs in the clouds.¡±

    ¡°But sturgeons spawn in freshwater bodies.¡±

    ¡°Precisely.¡±

    Samari¡¯s face twisted into a work of expressionist art. ¡°He cannot be that stupid. You are trying the wrong approach.¡±

    Samari stood and tousled her matted hair around a little, trying to capture any semblance of presentability still available in the atmosphere. The atmosphere took exception to this and cranked humidity up by two percent. Nobody present noticed this perfect crime.

    ¡°Kalon, my name is Samari, and I am the last Arcagnostic of Diamonter town. We suffered a little¡­demographical crisis due to cultivators, and that¡¯s why I tried to kill you.¡± She kowtowed. ¡°Sorry.¡±

    ¡°Very conversational and murderous for a truffle imitator¡­¡± Kalon said. He then dislodged one of the Rottweiler puppies of his scarf and used the resigned puppy to rub the back of Samari¡¯s head with.

    Samari crawled backwards ¡°Eek!¡±

    Jagger offered her his nose in a friendly gesture. ¡°Don¡¯t worry, he won¡¯t hurt you¡­ I suppose.¡±

    Kalon frowned and hammered his closed fist against his cupped palm, as if he had realized something.

    ¡°I was led astray by the dirt and smell, but¡­ I think she is a girl,¡± our Sherlock spoke, to Samari¡¯s cringe.

    ¡°Gods, he is that stupid.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s not all.¡± Jagger said, helping Samari stand with his neck. ¡°How many grandparents do you have, girl?¡±

    ¡°None, they all died before I was born.¡±

    Jagger paced around her, shaking his head. ¡°I mean, how many different grandparents do you have listed in your family tree?¡±

    ¡°Four, like everyone.¡±

    Jagger and Kalon exchanged a glimpse and started laughing like drunk hyenas.

    ¡°Everyone has four, she says!¡± the dog mocked.

    ¡°I have five!¡± Kalon declared boldly, raising three fingers. The American way, not the European way.

    ¡°And I have two, like most dogs from a recognized breed and line.¡±

    ¡°So¡­he has an adoptive grandparent?¡± Samari tried to parse what Kalon had said. ¡°Or does he confuse the numbers three and five?¡±

    ¡°Neither. All my five grandparents are biological.¡± Kalon crossed his arms, a smug grin sitting on his face like a fat bear upon a throne of solidified honey.

    The corners of Samari¡¯s mouth curled upwards in a tic. ¡°That¡¯s not possible.¡±

    ¡°It is. He¡¯s so inbred his family tree is no longer Euclidean.¡±

    Samari¡¯s eyes crumpled into a thin line. ¡°He has no levitation power. He simply cartoons gravity away. Am I correct?¡±

    Jagger nodded with closed eyes.

    Samari¡¯s mind was about to give up trying to comprenhed the level of idiocy of her visitors. ¡°How is he still breathing?¡±

    ¡°I trained him via his pathological fear of tetanus. If he stops breathing, I bite him.¡±

    Hearing the damned word, Kalon recoiled against the tree, a little scared lump of boy, tremulous as a kitten left to fend for itself in the snow.

    ¡°Whatever. If you come in peace, you are now my guests. Want tea? There are some wild tea plants around the town, and the blend tastes delicious. Helps fend off hunger too.¡±

    Jagger wanted to ask something in the less rude way possible, but there weren¡¯t many ways to do that. He decided to risk her hospitality. ¡°Can you pee in the tea?¡±

    Samari¡¯s tic worsened, metastasizing to her eye. She would not dignify Jagger''s degenerate question. ¡°Follow me, I¡¯ll point out where not to step to not trigger more traps.¡±

 Chapter 45: Draconic Loss

    He paced around his cavern, wings folded tightly against his back, eyes as big as gongs inspecting the lava veins cursing through the walls. He had carved the ancient bedrock around them, dug deep into the entrails of the earth and made a home for the both of them. Brought some pine-scented air fresheners from the surface, because his wife liked them. He had bribed his way into the right to marry her by giving away loads of treasures to her tutors, invaluable relics no other dragon would part with. He had kidnapped virgin princesses just so she would have some friends to chat with. He had removed the earth, expelled the excessive heat from their deepest of abodes, and said farewell to the surface world, just to be with his sweetheart.

    And still in this self-imposed reclusion, they high above remembered his name. Gods and mortals shuddered when they heard it, even the children that had been born long after his retirement. Trees exuded thick, glistening sap due to the stress when they felt the subtle yet foreboding vibrations in the air. Fishes buried themselves deep in the ground, and those already buried stopped simping. Golden Retrievers learned to snarl, bite and maul by the mere promise of his presence, of his existence. Cats¡­ cats acted aloof as always. He believed they may even enjoy the ensuing chaos.  There was no displeasing everyone.

    And yet, during those moments, all of his power, all of his experience and cunning couldn¡¯t do anything but wait. His wife was giving birth and to give birth was his wife[1]</a>.

    The VET entered scene from behind one of the massive pillars of the halls, a flea walking through a forest of sequoias. The dragon lowered his golden head, his slit pupils as tall as the man, and stared directly at him with a colossal eye.

    The man was wearing blue overalls over a black T-shirt, and cleansing some foul dark fluid form his hands with an old rag.  He enjoyed a healthy weight, even if he had considered doing crack as a surefire way to drop a few kilos for the summer. The man was crying.

    ¡°I am afraid there was nothing I could do to improve the situation. I tried to stabilize them for the time being.  And I may be the best in this field, but sometimes the heavens dispose of such cute models to part.¡±

    ¡°She died!? My little beetle sweetie died?¡±

    ¡°No, but she cannot get her bearings. Not many miles remain in her odometer, if you allow me to be crass.¡±

    The dragon slammed his open paw on the cavern¡¯s floor, sending tremors through ground, walls and ceiling alike, making the man lose his footing and fall onto his ass. ¡°Then we still have time! What are you doing here with me when you could be ensuring their survival?¡±

    ¡°She already lost too many fluids. I work with what we have, but I am no mage, fellow. I cannot bend matter to my will.¡±

    Chalazarian the First Speck lowered his head and blew an oversized nostril onto the man¡¯s face, making his skin flap due to the strength of the exhalation as the VET clawed the floor to not be blown away. ¡°Did you just call a primordial dragon ¡®fellow¡¯?¡±

    The man grabbed the surgical crescent wrench that hung from his toolbelt and weighed it in his hand, an old habit of his. ¡°You are my client, despite the kidnapping, and I must assure high-octane performance for every one of my clients. This said, your wife is a case of geriatric pregnancy. And the first of this kind I ever saw, but that¡¯s irrelevant.¡±

    Chalazarian snorted to a side, and looked at the VET with a single eye, mirror of his dejection. ¡°I killed her, didn¡¯t I?¡±

    ¡°Not yet. Do you want to see her and your child? They still carry the fire inside, but are not long for this world. It will likely be a stillbirth, if at all.¡±

    The dragon let out a sigh of acceptance, tears the size of Newfoundlands but far more intelligent rolling down his lanceolate scales. ¡°Lead the way, doctor.¡±

    The man, not being a doctor, shrugged and turned away from the lizard that could kill him with a single inhalation. He was now in a fantasy world with dragons, big deal. He was still a titled Vehicle Technician. If he could not improvise a way to deliver this dragon baby, he could not call himself that ever again. ¡°Are you sure you have no electrical outlets here, like at all? I could use more adequate tools if you had those.¡±

    ¡°We are several kilometers down into the earth¡¯s crust.¡±

    ¡°Kilometers¡­ do you happen to speak Spanish, friend?¡±

    ¡°No¡­¡± the dragon said, unsure if that was the correct answer

    Pablo Isaias Gutierrez snapped his fingers. ¡°Damn. This portal fantasy experience sucks, huh?¡±

    ¡°Hurry and save my wife or I will ¡®portal¡¯ you down my throat!¡±

    The man scratched his week-old beard and chewed on air a bit. ¡°The child is being born trunk first, if you get my meaning. The alimentation cable is coiled around him, if you get my meaning, and its strangling him, if you get my meaning. Due to the¡­ nature of your wife, if you get my meaning, I cannot use a pair of pliers to force him out. If it was my wife, I¡¯d reckon the tissues would be soft enough to be able to, but, then again, I married a human¡­¡± the mechanic said as he made his way around the corner, to his improvised maternity wing and workshop.

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    The dragon pushed open the titanic mafic igneous stone gates into which a small hole had been drilled at the base for the man to go through, and saw her, laying in the middle of a white canvas smudged with her precious lifeblood as it drained from the exhaust crevices of her body.

    ¡°I am here, love, I am here. ¡°he stepped with extreme care, as he often did around her due to her delicate state. ¡°I am here. This good man is doing his best to save you both, Volksarina.¡±

    ¡°He¡­ cannot,¡± she said, her headlights shining with a dim sparkle, unlike the almost blinding brightness they used to regard him with the day they had first met.

    When they had first met, back when she was slim and curvy. Now the posterior end of her body was swollen, unnaturally so, the child bigger than it should for such a petite lady. So petite compared to him that he called her ¡®my sweet beetle¡¯, endearingly.

    For Pablo, she was also beetle sized. The other kind of beetle. The legless one.

    Pablo checked the feed of his portable oscilloscope, the data drawing erratic lines on his screen. ¡°I am afraid to tell you this, Chalazarian, but I think I figured out what¡¯s going on with your wife, and it¡¯s worse than I hope it would.¡±

    ¡°I am going to the scrapper, ain¡¯t I, sweet Pablo?¡± said Volska, deep in delirium from the pain, her cold, metallic skin shuddering in a way her designer never intended.

    The technician closed his eyes and patted her on the door. ¡°I¡¯d say that, dear. You are a rear-engine model, and the baby is not only deforming your exhaust pipe, but damaging the pieces around it, including the motor. If the baby is removed, your whole structure will collapse due to the weakness. The damage cannot be repaired.¡±

    ¡°What do you mean it cannot be repaired?¡± Chalazarian interloped. Pushing the man¡¯s cap onto his head with a titanic claw. ¡°I could crush you for your incompetence.¡±

    ¡°How many men are willing, in this whole universe, to aid a sentient Volkswagen beetle give birth to a dragon hybrid, considering you had to bring me from across the veil?¡±

    The dragon rested his head next to his wife. ¡°I killed you, Volska.¡±

    ¡°And what a murder it was,¡± she answered with a thread of voice, the sputtering from her engine growing weaker by the second. ¡°What a beautiful murder¡­¡±

    The dragon nuzzled her dying wife with a care seldom attributed to such creatures. ¡°Don¡¯t leave me. I am nothing without you. I am but chaos and destruction without you, my darling Volska!¡±

    ¡°You are not the dragon I met anymore. You have grown into a better primordial force, Chalichali. But now I am courting death. Like a toad that wanted to eat swan meat, not knowing that swans are venomous...¡±

    ¡°Poisonous is the word you are looking for, dear,¡± Chalazarian corrected his dying wife, and those were the last words he ever said to her, as the moment after, one of her pistons cracked, sending her whole engine into disarray, and causing Pablo to declare her battery-dead.

    ¡°Volska! Volska, speak to me, Volska!¡±

    The mechanic, sobbing, approached the monstrous bulge in the greasy, dusty exhaust pipe while holding a pair of bulky tin snips. ¡°I will try to save the baby, but I cannot promise a miracle, Chalazarian. She¡¯s battery dead.¡±

    Teary eyed, the dragon turned, looking at the man with a tranquil fury,  pressurized deception. ¡°She¡¯s gone. Our baby is probably gone with her. It will be better if it is already gone with her mother.¡±

    ¡°So¡­ do I try to pry it out?¡±

    ¡°The heavens didn¡¯t want our lovechild to be born. It¡¯s not your fault nor responsability, Pablo. You told me it would probably be a stillbirth, so why give me hope?¡±

    ¡°If you would forgive my boldness, you fucked a Volkswagen beetle pregnant. I thought dragons laid eggs all my life. I am thoroughly traumatized and trying to cope with this, and seeing the horrible hybrid you engendered may help.¡±

    ¡°She is gone, scavenger! do whatever you¡¯d like to her mortal remains, and if the baby is alive¡­ I¡¯ll owe you thanks. Find me in my chambers when you are done, I don¡¯t want to see you defiling her body.¡±

    <hr>

    In his chambers, Chalazarian cried disconsolately. His sweetheart had been taken away from him, not by a foe but by his own hubris and desire to mate and ¡­ the big horny. And the big baby. Mostly the baby.

    How could he dare to dream of a normal life with her. His father, the very land under his feet, had warned him: ¡°Date a pick-up truck, them country gals are built for BDC¡±. He hadn¡¯t listened. He had gone for the cute, sweet city lady, an uptown girl of a hardworking family. She had even learned to dance to Billy Joel to court her.

    And now she was gone, her soul carried away like leafs on a hot air current. Her metal being cut and bent so Pablo could determine the exact cause of death and try to save a baby that, he knew, had died long before her.

    And he would never see her again until his time was up, and a primordial dragon couldn¡¯t die until the last star sputtered its last photon. An eternity of grief awaited him.  No eternal life to look forward to, no date to reunite with her in a heaven or a hell tailored for them. This all-encompassing sadness that hadn¡¯t settled yet, this misery that was numbing for now but would soon scorch the unhealable insides of his soul.  For millions of years he had lived without her, and now memories of that life had been turned to sour visions of a promised torture. Her memory was a heavy burden to bear, and like weight can shape the back of a man and make him slouch, a love so deep can reform the rotten soul of a dragon.

    He cried out in pain, a screech so deep it turned the walls of the room he was in to microcrystalline quartz. His tears came out watery, but reached the ground as translucent, white geodes that cracked apart on impact, revealing precious minerals inside. And Like a load could deform the back of a man, a dragon¡¯s grief could twist reality around him.

    And change reality he would. Volska deserved this grief to not be his alone, not in the future. For a few years, sure, he would suffer in private, alone. He would age the sorrow like an ocean of fine wine for a time, and then, only then, he would open the floodgates and make the whole world drown in his misery. Come the right time everyone, mortal or divine, would share his pain, his loss.

    But before submerging deep into his eternal suffering he would pay Pablo some deserved vacations wherever the man pleased. Because Volska would have wanted it that way.

    <hr>

    [1]</a> I found myself unable to end this seemingly unassuming sentence in any sane way. This often applies to the situations depicted in this narrative.

 Chapter 46: Phoenix Ups and...

    After a couple of minutes of a drunkard¡¯s walk evading concealed holes, barely visible wires, the cadaveric remains of Brunhilda¡¯s enemies ¡ªthat littered this land and those far past the horizon, collections of rough leather dried by the scorching sun encasing bones broken by both natural forces and Brunhilda, a sorry sight for mothers that should have cried before they let their sons bribe them into the easy life of a narco mama¡ª and, last but not least, a couple landmines that Samari had found in a suspiciously intact shed and decided, yep, losing a leg once in a while was worth the added safety, they arrived to a hastily built shanty, about as derelict as the structure of this sentence. The uneven planks with blackened borders that made the skeleton of the little refuge were joined together with whatever Samari had found to tie them with: shoelaces, vines, ropes that were spared from the fire, and even a docile ferret that enjoyed life as a knot. It was a simple life, to be a knot: you were cared for, almost appropriately fed with a diet of leftovers, and predators didn¡¯t even look your way, because it would be stupid for a knot to be made out of ferret.  To become better knots was the rational step in ferret evolution, but that was just a pipe dream: evolution was known to forgo Occam¡¯s Razor and jump through hoops to achieve even the most minimal of feats. Whales, look at whales. You took a sea animal, subjected it to harsh land conditions for more than three hundred million years, making it develop legs and homeothermy and a set of complex ear bones ¡ªyou know, the thing not needed when you are submerged in a liquid about as dense as your skull¡ª that you scrapped from the jaw as you finally noticed having a sole bone in the part that bears the force of the bite is kind of neat, and then plucked that animal in a coastal environment where it waded back into the sea step by step, promoting adaptions that made this air-breathing monstrosity whose gills you had all but neglected and reshaped into more useful mounds of flesh a better swimmer,  erasing the heterodoncy that you granted mammals so long ago because oopsie-whoopsie teeth are not cash money to eat zooplankton or suction fish by the school,  and moving its nostrils to the upper part of their head because gods forbid you add external accessory gills like you did for the amphibians, as you also messed around with the mammalian heart, metabolism and lungs too much by this point to go back,  and cetologists know what else, just to make this slightly modified landfish back into a ¡°proper¡± fish because some asshole in a white coat told you fish weren¡¯t a real, monophyletic group. And you didn¡¯t do this just with whales, no, no, no, you tried several times with reptiles until you arrived to ichthyosaurs¡ªfor the record, just to kill them the fuck off¡ª  and then, unsatisfied with that, you cast a fish addiction into these newly fangled dinosaurs whose arms you had reshaped into ugly flying appendages, took away their flight, shaped their bodies like a torpedo, and what you made? Bird-fish to feed the black-and-white mammal-fish that you allowed to keep the teeth (Ah, but then you got tired of them too, and condemned them to life sentence in Sea World). No, ferrets wouldn¡¯t evolve into easily knottable forms anytime soon, not under that management.

    That paragraph went to several places. Like Jagger would have if he had stepped four centimeters to the left in the minute prior to arriving to the shanty.  To the dog, that sorry hut that smelled to mud, sweat and attempts at crafting gunpowder that failed due to minute details. Not a drop of piss scented the air. Shame.

    Samari¡¯s scant belongings were spread about the place, past the aperture that held a series of vines for drapes. Among them were included a single kettle, a widowed pot, their bastard offspring, and a crude drawing of an Arcagnostic training whistle pinned to several planks that served as a makeshift wall.  The cultivator as his dogs sit in front of the exit.

    ¡°Feel free to look around, there¡¯s nothing of value to steal and I don¡¯t keep traps inside the house. What would my mother say if she saw me doing that?¡± Then she lowered her gaze towards the pot and sniffed.   ¡°¡®I am dead, so I cannot ground you.¡¯¡± She then smiled again and sat by a third-wheeling pan. ¡°But don¡¯t worry about my orphan status, it builds character. By eighteen I will have almost a decade of experience surviving in the wild to put in my resume. Kindergartens love people like that.¡±

    Kalon considered her carefully, elevator eyes pentagramming elevator music with their ups and downs.  ¡°You are every chatty for a truffle impersonator.¡±

    Jagger swiveled his head to look at Kalon, and his owner didn¡¯t notice. ¡°If you followed the Road of Insanity you would be the most powerful Cultivator alive, friend.¡±

    ¡°I am not insane; I am just¡­¡± Kalon paused for a minute. ¡°Slow, like mom used to say.¡±

    Samari crossed her fingers, making a pinecone of her hands that she raised in front of her mouth. ¡°This boy must have a¡­ condition.¡±

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    ¡°We come from Valelike Vale.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s a condition.¡±

    Samari grabbed a bowl of water and poured its contents in the kettle. Then, she added a few dry leaves from a ceramic platter of them that she kept around, and pointed back outside. ¡°I need to go outside , light a fire ¡ªthat is, set some wood on fire {this is, ignite it [make it burn (hot hot)]}¡ª and get the water near boiling point so the tea is made. Do I make myself clear?¡± Jagger admired the concern on Samari¡¯s face as she said this.

    ¡°I prefer my people opaque,¡± Kalon honested, delivering such a blow to Samari¡¯s spirit that it could have been compared to crippling her cultivation potential.

    ¡°I tried. I tried so hard. You child of the lambs of the gods.¡±

    ¡°Dog, translate.¡±

    ¡°She considers your pistachio-brainess painful.¡±

    Kalon raised an eyebrow, and then examined his open, dirty hands as if they were stained with blood and it weren¡¯t his. ¡°But I feel no pain, she is wrong.¡±

    ¡°Yes, Kalon, you are right dear.¡± Samari sneered with seething rage boiling under her porcelain face.

    Jagger gestured to the mask that hung from the girl¡¯s neck: it seemed to have a constellation carved across it, sky scarred through a wooden visage. ¡°Why hide your face? I know humans are pretty visual, but you are like a¡­ rather civilized child of the wild, if that makes sense. Nobody that comes to this dead town will recognize a random girl.¡±

    ¡°Ah, but they high above see me, and they like my mask. Without divine providence I would be dead, and I am no prophecy-chosen hero nor anything of the sorts.  This mask lets them know I am performing, and I got the little bit of my soul I have hitherto elucidated engraved on it.¡±

    Jagged stood and circled around the standing child. ¡°Are you older than you look?¡± he asked after a moment of inspection.

    ¡°I got tortured for five straight days and three gay ones by a cultivator. I could tell you about it over tea.¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t think torture can cultivate a lexicon far wider than the one your peers harbor.¡±

    ¡°No, that¡¯s from raiding mom¡¯s library, because I am a very weird child. The book smarts kept me alive, though. I can identify edible plants and shrooms, read the bodily language of some of wolves around here ¡ªthe intelligent ones, like Ruth¡ª and, as you witnessed, build elaborate traps.¡± She crossed her little arms and inflated her chest. ¡°I have become very self-reliant.¡±

    ¡°Well, yes, but I have a living mother. Presumably,¡± Jagger spouted, no mercy nor remorse.

    Samari¡¯s brain ducked to dodge the dog¡¯s ill-intended remark. ¡°I¡¯ll go outside to start the fire. Hope you two like honey in your tea, as I am all out of sugar.¡±

    And so the knotted ferret saw his landlady go back out, not paying attention nor tithe to him. Next time, he would eat. Next time.

    <hr>

    Dogs and idiot, sitting around an extinguished campfire, watched curiously as the nine-years-old scrambled about a mound of leaves, searching for something. Her hands moved deftly: she was like a mole that had been carrot-plucked out of the ground trying to get back in.

    ¡°Aha! Here it is! Phoenix Down¡¯s!¡± She raised the orange-shining vial and let its slick and lazy liquid fire glisten under the sunlight.  ¡°A few drops spread across a piece of wood are enough to initiate a forest fire.¡±

    ¡°Are you using feathers of legendary bird as a copulating match?¡± Jagger asked, safe-for-workedly.

    Samari, with eyes unblinking and satisfied smile, shook her head. ¡°These aren¡¯t feathers of a legendary bird to be used as matches.¡±

    ¡°You said it¡¯s the down of a phoenix, likely powdered or dissolved in something to make it liquid.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s not the down of a Phoenix. I was pretty clear in my wording,¡± Insisted Samari, and Jagger began thinking she had so many lose screws someone was funding their hardware store merely by selling said stray goods.

    ¡°Wait a second¡­ is it the inferior part of a phoenix?¡± Kalon asked a reasonable question after carefully contemplating the conundrum.

    ¡°No, it¡¯s distilled from phoenixes,¡± Samari snickered and removed the tin screw cap of the bottle. She rolled a single, globular drop of fire onto the tip of her finger, and it remained there, held by both surface tension and its own inability to care.  Then, Samari smeared the droplet of fire around the tinder, and used some dead leaves to clean the last remains form her hand.

    ¡°Well¡­ will it burn the tinder?¡± Kalon made the second reasonable question in a row, and the god of Status Quo hid under his bed, scared to death.

    ¡°I need to ask it nicely,¡± Samari said, imitating the bullshitting tone of her dear mother. ¡°hey, Phoenix Down¡¯s, could you heat up the tinder for me? I am a cold little girl and I would be very grateful for your help.¡± Samari concluded her act by winking and blowing a kiss towards the wooden sticks and dried leaves.

    Smoke rose from beneath the surface of the tinder, and she blew some air on it to feed the newborn flames.

    Jagger opened his eyes like golf balls. How could he be so blind? It was so obvious! ¡°Is that the extract of a developmentally arrested phoenix?¡± he dared to seek confirmation of his suspicions.

    ¡°Not of the bird as a whole, only of its condition. Arcagnostics far more powerful than I milk the trisomy out of the phoenix, distill the product and bottle it. It can be used as a pretty effective retardant, as smearing it on things is harmless until something triggers it, and it sets the ontological status of whatever it covers to ¡®ablaze¡¯.¡±

    Samari tossed the kettle over the flat-topped rock that occupied an elevated position amidst the fire. ¡°Wait some minutes and we will have some delicious tea, my guests!¡±

    Jagger let out a little whimper. He wanted to go home. Some home. Home they didn¡¯t have.

 Chapter 47: How a Demonic Cultivator Tortured Samari

    Oracle didn¡¯t jerk awake sweating profusely, because he was a reptile, but he had been pretty darn close to. After a thorough polishing of the orbs, he emerged out of Cutbastra¡¯s pocket to find his friend taking a nap, leaning against a blushing maiden of an apple tree.

    The sun percolated through the leaves and reflected the red shine of turgid fruits above, causing revulsion on the still drowsy skink. He imagined one of those big balls of red death falling upon him and granting him a crash course on chiropractice.

    He snapped out of it and began the sacred ritual to wake up Cutbastra. ¡°I wonder who will fuck this cute plump wife whose husband works all day?¡± he whispered.

    Cutbastra¡¯s eyes shot open, pupils constricted. The man scanned hectically around, his balls cracking their knuckles, ready for action. He pulled the skink out of his pocket after noticing he had been tricked. ¡°Where? Where is this Martina beauty you speak of?¡±

    ¡°Jade,¡± he corrected his oriental pal. ¡°Nowhere, I had some visions. Three, to be exact. One concerning, one befuddling, and the other just ¡­ weird. Which one do I inform you of first?¡±

    Cutbastra scratched his cheek a bit. "I am in the mood for weird."

    ¡°Somewhere with silk floss trees a group of sentient cattle emancipated from their farmer and started a sect to further their cultivation.¡±

    Cutbastra smiled. ¡°Maybe they have beef with somebody.¡±

    ¡°Laughter,¡± Oracle deadpanned to his friend¡¯s joke.

    ¡°Okay, now the befuddling one.¡±

    ¡°Kalon, that boy with the Rottweiler from a couple years ago, seems to have engaged in a well-intended-blood-feud against grass.¡±

    Cutbastra took a second to process what the skink had said.

    ¡°That¡¯s a new streak of words if I ever heard one. Who¡¯s winning?¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s a draw so far,¡± Oracle said, lowering his stare. ¡°If we are going to bet, my bet is on the grass.¡±

    ¡°Then we are not betting, because nobody would place theirs on Kalon.¡±

    Cutbastra stood and circled the tree to stretch the legs a little. This little valley inhabited solely by apple trees and their slaves was a soothing sanctum, a place of holy respite where both body and spirit could know peace. ¡°Now, shower me with the concerning news, Oracle.¡±

    ¡°Chalazarian the Uncucked has taken the determination to torture the world until the love he harbored for his now-deceased wife dies down.¡±

    ¡°His wife died? How?¡±

    ¡°My dreams didn¡¯t tell me. Let¡¯s bet: Auraucaria aeternitus cone to the bonnet.¡±

    Cutbastra didn¡¯t answer, examining an apple within his reach to then grab it and give it a single bite, to which the fruit moaned in pleasure.

    ¡°¡­ I forgot they did that,¡± he mumbled. ¡°How much time do we have before he unleashes his rage? I have no chance against Chalazarian, and I think I may have killed the one who had one.¡±

    ¡°More than three years, less than fifteen. The signals were unclear.¡±

    Cutbastra sighed in relief. ¡°Well, that means I have some time to increase my power before the confrontation.¡± He punched the tree with the force of a man, so to let out his frustration while avoiding harm to the plant. ¡°But¡­ Cucking all men women-wed won¡¯t be enough.¡± He began sweating, out of shame and impotence, wetting his perfect, now short golden hair.

    Oracle began trembling. ¡°Cutbastra¡­ no¡­¡±

    ¡°I know a man that can make me gay, Oracle. Like, not in the casual sense: I am talking a professional homosexualizer of the soul.¡±

    ¡°No,,,¡± he invented the suspensive commas for this dialogue.

    ¡°Yes! I need to cuck every living woman too. I need to break the trust of millions in their partners. I need to become the ghost under marriage counselors¡¯ beds, and then fuck them too.¡±

    ¡°I am not repeating myself,¡± Oracle popped back inside the pocket. His reptilian brain enjoyed a low tolerance for bull.

    ¡°But I am! Every man, woman and children shall be cucked, as long as the children are married to non-minors¡­ in which case I should beat their rapists after the happy time¡­ or before¡­ mhm.¡± He sat on the air, legs crossed, and with the gaze lost in the clouds, considered what he would do in those cases. ¡°Beatfuck them it is.¡±

    ¡°I believe that¡¯s called rape,¡± Oracle decided to interject once more.

    Cutbastra raised and shook his hands. ¡°No, no, no: I fuck them consensually, and meanwhile I beat them, hopefully without consent. The lay is consensual; the beating is deserved.¡±

    ¡°This is the weirdest case of vigilantism I have ever heard of.¡±

    Cubastra hoisted Oracle from the scaly skin of his neck and held him in front of his face. The cucktivator smiled softly. ¡°I can make it weirder, if you will. I can put on a wig, pink panties and a push-up bra. Refine my voice into that of a lady.¡±

    ¡°You are not going into a drag cucking rampage, Cutbastra.¡±

    Cutbastra raised a finger and squinted: ¡°I can cross-dress when I feel like it.¡±

    ¡°You will only cross-dress when asked by your partner, and you cannot ask your partner to ask you to cross-dress, or I jump ship right here, right now.¡±

    ¡°Ow. You are boring.¡± He let himself fall on his ass, furthering Kalon¡¯s genocidal mission by a few blades.

    <hr>

    Samari massaged her temples as she realized she had got into quite the quandary. For how intelligent she was, months of uncivilized living had made her forget people used cups to drink tea.

    She screeched like an orgasming Porkerosaur, frustration pouring out of her mouth in a normoflowing river. Kalon covered his ears. Jagger, instead, closed his eyes and prayed for a revolver. The heavens heard his plea. Then laughed at him and refused to grant it. The gods work for me, Jagger, and you cannot die: the book is named after you.

    Kinda named after you.

    Stop being a Rottweiler if you are so bothered about it.

    Semari Joined her hands and inspired gravely. ¡°We are all out of cups.¡±

    Kalon dislodged one of his scarf puppies, squeezed it so the little one wouldm open its mouth in pain, and with the puppy pointing upwards and frozen in a rictus of pain and horror, he extended it to Samari. ¡°I can make my own pcups.¡±

    The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

    ¡°Eek!¡± Samari exclaimed as she served the steaming green liquid into the scared pup¡¯s mouth.

    Kalon looked at the infusion, and the little pained tongue of the puppy stirring, not shaking, it. What was going on inside his mind was only the gods and mine to know. And I¡¯ll tell you about it some day, when I accumulate enough brain damage coupons to decipher what such imagery meant.

    Kalon raised the puppy¡¯s lips to him, pinky finger extended with aristocratic pride, and drank the tea from the pup cup mouth. ¡°Guhh,¡± he let out a moan of delight after a few sips. ¡°Tastes like Jagger¡¯s breath.¡±

    Jagger melted in his spot, a mound of dog that seemed to stray away from the tissue level of organization as it gave in to the heat irradiated by the smug sun. To complain was useless, Kalon wouldn¡¯t change. To speak against his barbarism and to speak against electromagnetism[1]</a> had about the same effect on reality.

    Kalon finished his drink and crumpled the cup, sending fleeting puppy entrails flying over everyone present, for them to dissipate into a white, lazy smoke after inflicting enough runt force trauma to Samari¡¯s mind.

    ¡°What¡¯s your fucking problem!¡±

    ¡°I wasn¡¯t thinking,¡± Kalon stated the obvious. ¡°The tea is good, though.¡±

    ¡°Everyone of Kalon¡¯s rotties, except Brunhilda and I, are spirit constructs. So fear not, he did not troglodyte a puppy to death. Merely a representation of a puppy.¡±

    Samari dug her nails into her scalp and pulled form her hair. ¡°Pair of savages, spirit constructs resembling a dog, created within the framework provided by a road, feel like dogs do! That puppy felt his life escaping him between Kalon¡¯s fingers and perhaps his mouth burning!¡±

    Kalon and Jagger stared into each other¡¯s eyes, seeking the input of their pal on the matter. ¡°Yes, we know,¡± Kalon confessed, dislodging another puppy from the scarf.

    ¡°What?¡± Samari let her hands fall and incredulity overtook her face as easily as Argentinians and Venezuelans conquer a Sonic fanart competence.

    ¡°While, on average, We Are That Stupid (properly capitalized, mind you), the truth is that Kalon bears ninety-nine percent of the denseness himself, and I am slightly above the human-average-sans-Valelike-Vale intelligence. And Brunhilda is merely an average Rottweiler with a penchant for incidental vigilantism.¡±

    The Hag of Holding vomited a set of stacked drinking glasses next to the bonfire.

    ¡°Doubles as luggage,¡± Jagger added.

    ¡°Subject change!¡± Samari exclaimed, ignoring the pile of glasses Brunhilda had produced. ¡°I shall tell you about my disgrace, about the time that the flaming head cultivator came and subjected me to a torture worse than being Kalon¡¯s dog.¡±

    ¡°Hurray, I will order a drink.¡± Jagger closed his eyes, retracted his ears and used his Pi?a-Colada-manifesting powers, causing his bowl surge from the earth in front of him, a spring of manatee-unrelated debauchery ready to be consumed. ¡°If alcoholism were a Road, I¡¯d be immortal already.¡±

    ¡°Wait a second. That wasn¡¯t arcagnosticism nor cultivation. How the hell did you do that?¡±

    ¡°Heavens fund my drinking.¡±

    And now, a word from our deuteragonist¡¯s sponsors.

    Tired of geese? They are assholes. Wish they would be blurrier? Wish you¡¯d be too drunk to remember how they beat you to a bloody pulp despite your two decades of martial training? Then make a trip to your nearest flea market and acquire a can of Cultivator¡¯s Ambrosia!

    Made with fermented beauty elixir extracted from the purest hot springs, Cultivator¡¯s Ambrosia has aided legends to reach their status. We asked a local immortal milkman his opinion about our product, and this is what he told us:

    ¡°Your wife rides it like a demon. Also the drink is mid.¡± (Copywriter¡¯s note: don¡¯t ask Cutbastra for product reviews).

    Cultivator¡¯s Ambrosia: lubricating your road to immortality since 15,870.

    ¡°Well, I¡¯ll ignore the dog¡¯s alcoholism and begin my narration, if you don¡¯t mind¡­¡±

    <hr>

    It was a undark and unstormy unnight ¡ªthis is, a sunny day, but pretentious¡ª when he arrived here. I was too engrossed in setting my traps to feel the approach of such a demon, with his ginger complexion and horrible cargo shorts. His shadow, cast over my frail figure, felt like a cold, tight to the bone blanket as he consumed me with eyes full of the particular kind of lust that makes the soul shit its pants when witnessed. I¡­

    Kalon, stop cutting grass blades! I am telling my tragic story!

    As I was saying, you pair of brutish mammalian parsnips, I turned to find myself facing this woeful presence. He held himself standing in a slouched position. It was as if someone puppeteered the man from the skies, an invisible hand controlling the movements of a vile creation. He stepped on one of my landmines and came out unscathed, a force field made of breasts making itself briefly visible as falling debris bounced against it.

    Paralyzed by fear, my legs betrayed me, and couldn¡¯t run. My throat knotted, and only a pathetic whimper came out. That¡¯s when he closed in and spoke, his voice a sound so horrible my mind refuses to remember it clearly.

    He grabbed my arm with his despicable claws, and smiled like a predator. He licked his pale lips and then said, ¡°Hey, little girl, do you want to talk about my fantasy novel?¡±

    Samari had to wait until Jagger and Kalon finished their gasping and whistling and panicking and flirting with each other ¡ªJagger was that drunk¡ª to resume her narration.

    I tried to jump away, but his grasp was unescapable. I thought about cutting my arm, in the future as an arcagnostic I can grow another anyway, but he caught me firmly from the back of my neck, and if I cut my head off I cannot grow another one in the future, as you may imagine.

    Because I would die, Kalon. Dying is bad for arcagnostics.

    The man dragged me into a suspiciously intact shed ¡ªthe savages that burned down this town were unusually fond of sheds, methinks¡ªtied me to a chair and stood in front of me, with that nauseating smirk never leaving his face. He cleaned his throat and so began my torture. ¡°In the world of Retrieribia elves above double-d cup, male or female, and humans can mate with the mere thought¡­¡±

    He went on and on and on, made me memorize eleven made-up continents, seventy-four kingdoms, an insular state managed by what I think were sentient cappuccinos or capuchin monkeys, I am not sure anymore, and three thousand fabricated species of fauna and flora, most of them female-only, most of them anthropomorphic, and most of them in dire need of ibuprofen for the back pain.

    My kidnapper stood proud and recited two thousand years of detailed make-believe elven history while I pleaded for mercy. After four hours of inhumane treatment he forced me to drink and eat some stale cookies and fresh water. The water was mid. The cookies were nearly decent.

    By the sixth hour I yearned and asked for a quick death, but he attacked me with the details of his boob-size based magic system. Mana was stored in the boobs, and mages had won battles by drinking their fallen enemies¡¯ breastmilk. I did not need to know that, but he cursed me with that knowledge, and now I am cursing you in turn. Because I am as childish as my age would make you assume I am.

    By the ninth hour, I was pleading him to sexually assault me and tear my limbs form my body, one by one, and then be done with this. In any order he pleased. That trauma, arcagnosis can heal.

    No, sexual assault is not rifles wearing skimpy outfits, Kalon. You may lower your hand.

    The hand that¡¯s raised.

    Gods aid me.

    But he had no interest in any part of my body, except for my hitherto virgin ears. I was his to listen to the politics of the Kingdom of Haulabari and their approach to women (They didn¡¯t). I was his to be showered with facts about Elven pregnancy. I was his to suffer his discovery of a fetish he had not included in his worldbuilding (It was floor tiles).

    This went down for so long that I lost my bearings, that have nothing to do with bears nor rings, Kalon. Time turned to molasses, seconds stretching like those long cats that are so fluffy that I like very much.

    Jagger, you cannot mate with my leg. No. My leg cannot have your puppies! It¡¯s not biologically possible! Shoo!

    By the end of the fifth day, he began ranting about homosexuals. I had lost not only my will to live or talk, but also to think. My brain had devolved into an animated film featuring dancing robot horses. They weren¡¯t very conversational, as they talked in Morse code. Launching missiles. Against each other.

    By the sixth day he had turned homosexuality in a coupon-based magic system where intercourse¡ªJagger¡­ stop laughing Jagger¡­ Jagger!¡ªwhere relations with prodigious elf mages of the twink order were attained by assisting to a determinate number of pride marches and getting the official stamps there.

    By the seventh day he had theorized a non-arcagnostic way to change a person¡¯s sexuality. It included beatings and killing off their favorite character.

    By the evening of the eight day he let me go, because he had to worldbuild some more and also found himself going over his self-imposed limit of gay-thoughts-per-month. Before he went away, I asked him how many pages he had written so far. One, he said. An action scene in a tavern, he clarified. A start in medias res, he boasted.

    And so he marched, leaving me exhausted, malnourished, slightly dehydrated, depressed, and aware of the menstrual cycle of all his female characters down to a T. And tied, too.

    <hr>

    [1]</a> Luckily, electromagnetism is the chillest of the fundamental forces. It only took exception once, and the being that offended it ¡ªteller of the greatest your mamma joke in the universe¡ª can now be admired in the rural night sky during moonless nights, a pinkish blotch recognized by astronomers as the Jerkstain Nebula.

 Chapter 48: The House of an Arcagnostic.

    Cutbastra strode into the unmarried man¡¯s manse like he owned the place. It was an Arcagnostic¡¯s abode, and that meant it knew friend from foe. Every ceramic tile with a pattern of their own identified the boot that was stepping on them. Every mirror, whether hung on the walls or forming pyramids suspended from chains, possessed complete awareness of the reflection it projected. The living statue of a hierophant of old wandered the lounge, chanting blesses upon the bookshelves stacked with books so obscure their words had to be written in white ink to be readable. And the cucktivator boogied down the halls, searching for his friend, wary to not upset the living constructs or take a wrong turn on the labyrinthine place.

    Oracle cuddled deeper into Cutbastra¡¯s pocket the warm embrace of cotton could make him forget the fact they were traversing a house with a spirit of its own.

    Cutbastra stopped in a golden bathroom to take a pee. A sloth that balanced from that little rod that generally holds the toilet paper addressed him. ¡°N.¡±

    Cutbastra raised an eyebrow as urine exited his body.

    ¡°I.¡±

    Cutbastra raised a finger to chastise the creature for its budding racism, but then it spoke again.

    ¡°C.¡±

    The Cultivator Froze. Maybe it was worth listening to it.

    ¡°Ecockman.¡± It spouted in an instant, as if a rush of caffeine had suddenly hit his geological-paced brain.

    ¡°Nice colonies of fur-algae, my placental bro.¡±

    The Sloth gave a thumbs up and lost its grasp, falling form the rod and into the Mechanical Sloth Recycler below, suffering a gruesome death as Cutbastra shook his cultivation implement.

    Aghast, the cucktivator zippered up. ¡°I need to tell this dude to metal the fuck down.¡±

    He kept searching through the halls, peering into rooms whose looks would drive most housewives mad, and most working husbands¡­ well, they would say something was off, probably the lack of a sofa or the carnivorous plants growing from the ceiling and slobbering golden sap onto the microrat-furred-rugs that covered the floor. No chance in hell they would notice that one sinful coffee stain on the wallpaper.

    Turning a corner, Cutbastra had returned to the lounge, except the main door was now gone. It had turned into an expansive living room, with the mirrors still there, and a wandering sofa feeding on some orchids, its cushions ruminating loudly. The hierophant was now wearing a dark tight latex outfit and sermonizing a very interested pigeon. And sitting above an iron maiden, Him.

    ¡°Cutbastra, friend, you have caused so much pain these last years.¡± His alluring voice billowed from behind a pyramid of mirrors.

    The cultivator saluted with a bow: One hand pressed against his chest, the other extended with the ring and small fingers pressed against his palm. ¡°Prodigious Faren, it is a pleasure to meet again. How¡¯s the wife?¡±

    ¡°How¡¯s the clean conscience?¡± Faren the prodigy replied.

    Cutbastra chuckled. This is why he was such a good friend of the Arcagnostic. ¡°As real as your wife.¡±

    Faren leaped from the iron maiden. He donned a mail tunic with coppery snake-shaped scales. His legs were shaven, the flip-flops Damascused, the Bermuda shorts angled thrice. His belt was a ferret caught in deep meditation, not living, not dead. His face, usually a collection of straight lines, showed a gaily curved one in this occasion. ¡°So much pain, Cutbastra. Was it necessary, back then, to unleash the avatar?¡±

    Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

    ¡°You still have a world to study, be grateful. I did what I deemed necessary.¡±

    ¡°And then your avatar went on a mind-breaking rampage that included the most heinous crimes that humanity ever defined.¡±

    I his defense, Cutbastra had only one thing to say. ¡°Except your unholy warcrimes against fashion.¡±

    ¡°Those that behold my art are changed. Some for the worse.¡± He lamented, closing his eyes and relaxing his goatee.

    Meanwhile, the priest construct had begun spanking the pigeon with a wooden paddle. ¡°Atone for your sinful coos, lest the gods punish your immortal soul as I shall soon regret punishing your body!¡± The hierophant declaimed, and then delivered another slap to the bird¡¯s tiny frame.

    ¡°I¡¯ll be fair with you: I like your looks, despite the fact you are a crazy old bastard.¡±

    The smile abandoned Faren¡¯s wrinkly face. ¡°I look as a man in his late thirties or early forties and I am younger than you. So don¡¯t call me old, grandpa.¡±

    ¡°And I look like I am in the peak of my twenties!¡± Cutbastra boasted sliding a hand through his blonde hair. ¡°It¡¯s plain to see that cultivation is superior to Arcagnosis.¡±

    ¡°I stay at the age I deem most fitting for my truth-seeking spirit. You stay at the age you deem most fitting to seduce housewives.¡±

    Cutbastra stopped in front of the man and embraced him. ¡°I missed you, old bastard!¡±

    Without reciprocating, Faren responded. ¡°Same, same. But you never visit without a reason, my endearing crow. What¡¯s it this time?¡±

    Cutbastra let the man go and stepped back, giving him some space before making his petition. ¡°I need a surgery of the soul. I want you to turn me bisexual.¡±

    The pigeon escaped the priest¡¯s grasp and skittered around the place, leaping from the floor to a chair to a desk to a shelf and so forth, the hierophant reached for a decorative axe (With a fully functional edge) and began swinging wildly, with no regard for any piece of furniture: The pigeon had to pay for its sins in such a holy place.

    Faren spun the hairs of his goatee between his fingers as he considered what Cutbastra had said. ¡°Why?¡±

    ¡°I am in need of power, and the only way I can force a couple breakthroughs would be cucking not only straight men and lesbians, but heterosexual women and gay men too.¡±

    ¡°Are you sure of this? Once you taste man ass, buddy, I am afraid you could lose yourself.¡±

    Oracle popped out of the pocket. The swinging axe ascended in a diagonal arc as with his head tilted sideways Faren awaited Cutbastra¡¯s answer, shaving the Arcagnostic¡¯s left sideburn.

    ¡°He needs to stop Chalazarian. He has no option.¡± Said oracle, ignoring the swinging statue and the flying splinters produced by its actions.

    The Arcagnostic grimaced, and then snorted. ¡°Did he finally succumb to temptation, fucking the beetle?¡±

    The pigeon landed on Cutbastra¡¯s head, and, as soon as the pigeon took fly, the head of a flail lodged itself briefly into his hair, before the priest began spinning it into the air once more, hunting for the elusive feathery sinner.

    ¡°No. The beetle died and he is grief-stricken. As an aside, fucking mosquitos man.¡±

    ¡°Yeah, no magic or cultivation technique can get rid of them. Damned blood suckers.¡± Faren closed his eyes and dedicated his friend a soft smile. ¡°Fine, return tomorrow morning and I will see about making you the straightest of straights and the gayest of gays fused together. The perfect balance of yin lust and yang horny.¡±

    ¡°Thanks, man, I owe you one.¡± He extended his hand just as an arrow crossed the air between them.

    ¡°You owe me one for each university degree I have by now.¡±

    Cutbastra grunted and pulled from the Arcagnostic¡¯s hand Making him lose his footing and fall forward. ¡°Still don¡¯t have a degree on avoiding that one, eh?¡±

    Faren laughed as he got on his feet. ¡°Tease me more and I will do something you will regret tomorrow, my esteemed clown.¡±

    The statue loaded the shotgun and shot thrice, some of the stray pellets bouncing against Cutbastra¡¯s cheek, and others destroying jars or digging into the walls. ¡°Dude, no offense, but plant some citronella or adopt a couple depressed Rottweilers.¡±

    ¡°¡®tis mosquito season, sadly. They need blood like a cultivator needs a road.¡±

    The pigeon landed on Cutbastra¡¯s shirt and began pecking at Oracle, that ignored the sharp beak hitting his forehead and only licked his eyes to keep them wet. ¡°They are even attacking me. Some really vicious mosquitos.¡±

    The priest brandished a Katana and inflicted a gash on the cultivator¡¯s shirt. ¡°You also have a problem with air currents,¡± Cutbastra noted as the hierophant and its sworn foe persisted in their fight to death.

    ¡°Yes, I need to arrange some reparations on this old dimensional¡­ artwork. Is your pocket dimension in need of maintenance too?¡±

    ¡°No, but the beauty elixir farm I have in the south could use cheaper acclimatization.¡±

    ¡°I am not getting involved with that business of yours!¡± he lashed out, and immediately recovered his composure. ¡°Anyway, come again tomorrow, I will conjure some mosquito repellants. Feel free to leave whenever.¡±

    Cutbastra looked around, scanning his always rearranging environment. ¡°How?¡±

    ¡°If I knew, I¡¯d restock on citronella far more often.¡±

 Chapter 49: Jagger Dies

    In the beginning, not an ounce of biological intelligence existed in the universe. Millions of years and complex interactions of the physical, the divine, and Susan the Acanthostega that constantly complained to evolution¡¯s manager to get digit reduction coupons resulted in this number steadily raising, a process that culminated some thousands of years after humanity spread across the globe. Then one day Kalon was conceived and that value dropped deep into the negatives.

    Samari was almost considering taking her dagger, buying the dip and then causing a sharp rise back into the green via strategical stabbing. The airhead was ripping blades off the grass and telling it to not run while holding sharp objects. Jagger was combing Brunhilda¡¯s hair by gently nipping it, which didn¡¯t bother Samari because, talking or not, he was a dog at the end of the day.

    Kalon crouched next to a bunch of grass, saluted it with a polite bow, and proceeded to defoliate it. He then ate the grass blades, something that is pretty bad for enamel due to the phytoliths¡ªyou know, the little fragments of silica that make grass and glass have so much in common? Of course not: you guys have never touched the former¡ª. For the record, he did not moo. No. He definitively did not moo. Absolutely. Believe me, I am the narrator, and one hundred percent reliable regarding these subjects.

    ¡°Is he making cow sounds?¡± Samari didn¡¯t mutter, because he was not mooing.

    Jagger didn¡¯t pause his task to answer that inexistent muttering. ¡°Nothing out of the usual¡±.

    ¡°Moo!¡± Kalon didn¡¯t terrorize grasswomen and grasschildren with his sap-curling warcry.

    ¡°Welp, when he is done, we got to go. We discovered why the place is, and imagine the scare quotes, haunted. Our work here is done and by the end of the week we are returning to Honeytown to get paid enough to buy a bag of apples.¡±

    Samari¡¯s tic returned. She began fidgeting with her hands. ¡°You came here to investigate a possible invasion by vengeful spirits¡­ for a bag of apples?¡±

    ¡°No, the coin needed to buy a bag of apples. That¡¯s the acquisitive power of our payment. Was, when we parted, as inflation is a girl,¡± Jagger said, with all the intent to use the last world as a slur.

    Samari desisted from asking what Jagger meant. ¡°So you go and leave me alone again?¡±

    ¡°You can come with us if you want. You are clearly a civilized child lost in an overgrown environment. I am no pit bull; I have no urge to maul children. My breed is a proudly mauler of adults¡ªand annoying brats¡ªonly.¡± Jagger panted, showing his yellowed, sharp teeth.

    ¡°Burr,¡± Brunhilda, who was overseeing Kalon¡¯s botanic disarm operation, added.

    ¡°And children used as narco-soldiers, right.¡±

    ¡°Who¡¯s the worst in your group? it¡¯s like you three are trying to one up each other all the time.¡±

    Kalon began retching, catching Samari¡¯s attention. His chest spasmed, his ribs marked against his thin abdomen. On all fourths, Kalon kept going through the motions necessary to empty his stomach for almost a full minute. Samari scratched her head, not knowing how to react, or if she was supposed to offer help. The dogs seemed unbothered by Kalon¡¯s dilemma, and they knew him better than she did.

    This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

    A bulge emerged, bloodied and covered by something akin to a bag, from Kalon¡¯s mouth. This sorry membrane soon ruptured, revealing the fluffy black contents on his interior. The arising puppy stretched his clumsy legs and reached for the ground, slowly crawling out from his wet prison. The extremities of Samari¡¯s spirit snapped in and out of her limbs, having lost control of her ability to temporarily extricate them. They felt like electrified lashes against her skin, and despite that, the disgust and shock still dominated her facial expression.

    ¡°Kalon, did you birth a puppy from your mouth?¡± Samari asked in her best impression of a motherly tone, as if begging reality to thoroughly bleach her brain by simply stating how absurd the situation was.

    ¡°Yeah, they come out like that every time they die. It¡¯s easier manifesting them inside my body and then getting them out to add to the scarf,¡± Kalon said, mind devoid of the vile corruption that many call ¡°intellect¡±.

    Jagger nodded. ¡°What he said.¡±

    Massaging her temples, Samari considered the situation. ¡°I want to go back to civilization and you can probably protect me from wild animals and lowly thieves when in the open, but¡­ is it worth it? Here I have peace of mind.¡±

    Jagger perked up and approached the new puppy. ¡°Except when you are kidnapped by a novelist,¡± he nuzzled the little animal, making it fall on its side while his small legs wiggled aimlessly. ¡°It¡¯s a boy!¡±

    ¡°And what assures me that if I travel with you I¡¯ll be safe from them?¡±

    ¡°Kalon¡¯s anti-literacy aura is bound to keep them at bay.¡±

    Samari crossed her arms, a smug smile sitting in the girl¡¯s face. ¡°Jagger, most fantasy writers would never read a book that isn¡¯t written by them.¡±

    ¡°Intercourse!¡±

    Samari asked the obvious question. ¡°Why don¡¯t you simply say ¡®Fuck¡¯?¡±

    ¡°I reserve my f-bombs for a rainy day.¡±

    Kalon loss his balance while trying to stand. , propelling eastward and falling in a line parallel to the ground.

    ¡°Well, Fuck. Wait here,¡± Jagger said, weary, as he felt his tail begin to tingle, and a force to slightly pull on him.

    And that¡¯s how dog and moron flew a whole kilometer until they collided with an unfortunate tree that took exception to being torn asunder, but didn¡¯t say anything, because:

    a) it was a tree.

    b) It had been torn asunder.

    c) It gave the cultivator and his sword a cold wooden shoulder.

    d) All of the above.

    <hr>

    Samari waited for half a half a dozen hours in company of the delicate and innocent Brunhilda until the manly men came back from their forced and perilous journey. They were spat into sight by the horizon, treading across the plains that surrounded the blackened river, bruised from the ordeal but whole. Like returnees from a heroic hunt, they donned the weary visages of them who have seen too much, of those hardened by the toil and horrors concealed by the wild lands. They looked like a boy and a dog that had been launched against a tree by forces uncaring and stupid.

    Samari fed Brunhilda another roasted squirrel as they watched. The Rottweiler consumed it like the high society lady she was supposed to be: In three chomps. Taking a seep from the kettle, the little Arcagnostic wondered if she had to remind them about the landmines.

    After Jagger¡¯s severed and mangled head landed by her side, she gave Kalon a warning shout and told him to stand still until she reached to him. Just in case.

    <hr>

    Amidst total darkness, a being with mayonnaise-colored eyes spoke. ¡°I ssssee you have died, Jagger.¡±

    Floating in the middle of that same featureless darkness, Jagger answered. ¡°Yup, that seems like it.¡±

    ¡°Your body got reduced to tattersss,¡± The avatar of the road, never revealing more than his eyes, insisted.

    ¡°Dog nuggets ¨¢ la grenade, a delicatessen hailing from Diamonter town.¡±

    ¡°You are being pretty nonchalant about the whole dying thing.¡±

    Jagger blinked. ¡°Elaborate on how that would be out of character for me, if you would be so inclined.¡±

    The avatar revealed his current form, a snake covered in Rottweiler ears instead of scales, and having the head of said dog breed, which made the moments where he tasted the air with his tongue hilarious. ¡°Kalon is attempting to revive you, ansssswer the call.¡±

    ¡°But I like being dead!¡±

    The avatar shook his head and hissed angrily. ¡°One worsssse than the other. Bye.¡±

    And so, Jagger popped out of Kalon¡¯s head, back into a body.

 Chapter 50: Jagger Revives

    He smelled and he felt, but he couldn¡¯t see. He was spread over something hard and rough, cobblestone, most likely. The voices of Samari and Kalon reached him, distant and distorted in a way almost familiar. He tried opening his eyes, but couldn¡¯t.

    ¡°I¡­ess¡­wo¡­eeks,¡± he heard Samari say.

    What she actually said, there, crouching next to the just materialized puppy, was ¡°I guess two weeks.¡±

    ¡°Guh,¡± Kalon answered, Hands still laid over the freshly concocted dog. ¡°I wanted to make it older.

    ¡°It takes a lot of work for the spirit to reconstruct flesh, sinew, fatty tissue, connective tissue, bone, nerves, and all else that makes a puppy, Kalon.¡± Samari said, encouragingly.

    They had stopped about a kilometer away from Honeytown, both to rest and so Kalon could concentrate on recovering his initial weapon. There, Kalon had keeled and laid his burning hands upon an empty spot. He felt energy coming out his fingers like worms creeping out of putrescence to stretch in sunlight and bark at the mailman. This energy, threads of pure white, condensed into a thatch of confused streams, following the blueprint of Jagger¡¯s body that had been engraved on Kalon¡¯s soul the day he picked him as a weapon. The thread¡¯s snuggled closer together, and their frayed borders coalesced into atoms first, and those atoms arranged into molecules, and said molecules into organelles, then cells. Cells into tissues, tissues into organs, organs into systems, fuck up, back to the start, we made some kinda extra cancer accidentally boss, sorry. After the third attempt, a puppy and two mounds of whistling meat ridden with tumors and suffering constant, unavoidable pain had taken form.

    The puppy suffered from tramadol withdrawal: The addiction had pervaded down to his very soul. Or maybe it was the side effects of being rebuilt from the spirit of an idiot. Little cravings, a bit of nausea, a smidge of pain, a tittle of insomnia, perhaps. The whole Mambo N¡ã5 of symptoms, really.

    After a while, Jagger opened his eyes, the world assailing his brand new retinas. He raised his head and noticed the weakness of his neck. The integrity of it, too. The floor was too close, and everything was bigger than he remembered. ¡°Did you lilliputize me?¡±

    Kalon shook his head, and Samari said something he couldn¡¯t hear well.

    Jagger took in a deep breath and held it until he felt his ear canals pop open. ¡°Better. I assume I was reincarnated as a puppy.¡± He closed his eyes and jiggled his butt a bit. ¡°The balls are still there. Good. We can talk now.¡± Then realization hit Jagger like a a tax return made of antimatter. ¡°I have to undergo puberty again. I need a word stronger than Fuck! To express my frustration!¡±

    ¡°Kilofuck?¡± Samari suggested, always helpful.

    ¡°Terafuck me!¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s a bit excessive.¡±

    Kalon finally succumbed to tiredness and fell asleep on his side, snoring loudly, the Rottweiler scarf serving as pillow and bib simultaneously.

    Jagger described a whole circle, taking in his environment.

    This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

    ¡°So, how long were I dead?¡±

    ¡°Three days,¡± Samari informed flatly. ¡°Considering how Kalon managed to screw up the previous attempts, I wouldn¡¯t assume a long life expectancy for you, though.¡±

    Jagger blinked slowly. ¡°You know, after Kalon gets his revenge on Cutbastra, I¡¯ll probably randomly explode, and that will be my glorious and absurd death.¡± Jagger lied, because dogs don¡¯t randomly explode. Except when they randomly step on a landmine. ¡°That said, how did Kalon convince you to come with us?¡±

    ¡°I thought the chance of acquiring chocolate was worth risking a gruesome death in the wilderness,¡± Samari said, being completely honest. Yes, she was a brilliant child. A child nonetheless, nonethemore, below the sassy retorts and complex traps.

    ¡°You two seem unscathed.¡±

    ¡°Ruth, my wolf friend, escorted us the first stretch of the way. Then she had a disagreement with Brunhilda. This got Brunhilda grumpy.¡±

    ¡°And no one wants to mess with a grumpy Brun Brun. Got it.¡±

    Jagger stood in his little hindlegs, a tiny deformed kangaroo swiveling his head from side to side. ¡°I had forgot how much it sucks to be a puppy. I crave milk.¡±

    She patted Jaggers head. ¡°We may get some on Honeytown. I am sure I can annoy people enough to get some freebies if we have to beg!¡±

    ¡°Milk from a bitch, not a cow.¡±

    ¡°Makes sense. Do you think Brunhilda can help drag Kalon back to civilization?¡±

    Jagger lowered his head in a lamenting gesture. ¡°Kalon is uncivilizable.¡±

    ¡°To town, Jagger! If you convince Brunhilda to help me do so, I will carry you, stubby legs.¡±

    The newmanifested puppy went up to the Narc Terror and seized her up. ¡°You look older from down here, Brun.¡±

    ¡°Grrr.¡±

    ¡°Bierk,¡± Jagger answered. He then reconsidered not ever barking again, as his new-old voice was pathetic.

    <hr>

    At the same time, in heaven, inside an office where all furniture was composed of thunderclouds and the floor of straight lines of light, The God of Tribulations giggled evilly as he looked at the paperwork in front of him. He had finally done it! He had found a loophole! Any moment now the God of Genealogy would arrive through his icy door, to see what the hell this annoying motherfucker wanted.

    Dressed in robes woven from threads of leather extracted from every animal species that cows descended from ¡ªdown to Ediacaran fauna¡ª the god of Genealogy entered without knocking.

    ¡°Review this,¡± the God of Tribulation handed the stack of hastily filled papers to the God of genealogy, and then sank in his chair, a shit-eating grin taking residency on his face.

    ¡°Three out of five, shoddy work. Proper grammar, though.¡± He eyed his peer only to see his smile hadn¡¯t gone anywhere. ¡°Fine, fine, let¡¯s see¡­¡±

    As he read, his face reflected the increasing horror: his frown creased, his eyes opened wide, and his upper lip raised like it was a set of blinds being rolled in. He then exhaled, a sigh of relief. ¡°You committed a minor mistake. It¡¯s article five, not seven.¡±

    ¡°Oh, but I wrote a five: my fives look like a seven to some.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s absurd! This is clearly a¡­¡± he paused and followed the gesturing finger of his peer. It pointed to a degree, framed and hung onto the wall. ¡°Right, you are a medical doctor, what has that to¡­ Us, it is a five! You did it! Being a living being built from vital energy, he is not related to her anymore¡­¡±

    The God of Tribulations extended both fists high into the air. ¡°Yes! At long last!¡±

    <hr>

    It woke up from it¡¯s long slumber and saw red. Then it stopped seeing, remembering that lightning bolts are blind. Electrons pacified long ago stirred, began flowing through the bolt again. Its shine increased, as the new orders from the God of Tribulations arrived and permeated the bolt¡¯s very essence. From the aerial space of Valelike Vale it shot forth, not noticing that the inhabitants, used to their frozen bolt of lightning, waved sadly as it flew away.

    It accelerated as the dirt turned to sand and the sand to an homogeneous, fleeing mass of yellow. Untouched by the scorching sun of the desert, the bolt flew over Yggdrashell, a mere glimpse in its flight. And began descending like a heat seeking missile closing in upon its target. It passed over Honeytown in a second and approached the ground even more, mere meters away from his target: Jagger. He would feel the wrath of the goods in the following instant, and no natural force in heaven or earth would stop it!

 Behind the Crackfic 2: Joke Structure Boogaloo

    Well, hello again, and welcome to another of these pseudoblog entries that I write when bored.

    So, I will talk about humor again today. Not precisely how to write it, as there are a thousand ways to do so, a billion sources to draw inspiration from (Argentina alone accounts for half of those sources. We had a presidential candidate be compared to Pochita as slander ¡ªIN A COUNTRY WITH THE NORTH FULL OF CAPYBARAS, NO LESS¡ª and  a Chala-head-Chala adaptation to support that same candidate. Another candidate had an Evangelion rip off made during their campaign. At this rate, this novel will be considered Gritty realism by my country''s standards.) .

    But i want to talk about a commonality of many jokes, as i did the other day in the Forums of this same site: Many jokes are short stories. When you tell me a physicist and an Engineer walk into a bar, you are telling me a story with an introduction, a crux and a denouement.  Like this setup, development and punchline are  comparable to a three act structure, except that a joke''s denouement doesn''t aim to solve a conflict, necessarily, and that doesn''t lead to us considering a joke open ended.  The punchline concludes the joke.  It closes the format neatly even if the building is still burning because the Mathematician reduced the problem to a previously solved one. In a normal story, it would be an open end. In a joke, we got out resolution, laughed at the mathematician and that''s it, we aren''t invested in it anymore.

    This is no problem for a novel, specially if you are conditioned to not care about the characters (like here, where the only decent, deep, round character is thine eminence Lady Brunhilda.) These kind of jokes tend to be very parsimonious with a common narrative, as they can easily take a whole chapter and fill it while you coordinate smaller gags  as a sort of ambience. They are often explicit in their punchline, but they don''t need to be: the most recent Cutbastra chapter, for example, never addresses the Hierophant in the room. The pun is never said out loud, yet i assume most readers who are familiar with English sayings will get it.  Of course, the chapter also features a sloth complimenting Cutbastra''s member and then falling into a shredding machine.

    The side gags don''t only serve as a buffer if the main joke doesn''t land: they also distract you from the incoming punchline. When doing fast paced humor, you don''t want the readers figuring how the chapter will end out: Like a good detective story, the punchline, the culprit, must remain hidden until the reveal. Some jokes even work better by using the first punchline as a setup for a running gag (we have so many of those we must use scientific notation for them at RotR Co.), more so if you (readers) have almost forgotten the thing, if you don''t have it in the front of your mind. You must have noticed this with last chapter, but i have no problem adding to jokes from even the first chapters of the novel. And this will be true past volume one (2 to 5 volumes are planned until the final fight against Chalazarian + possibly an interdimensional being of incommensurable power. It depends mainly on how many stupid ways to cultivate rottweilers I can come up with, really).

    Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

    I know it isn''t best practice for webnovels, but i feel i am insulting readers'' intelligence if i add recap, more so with the amount of info you''d need to include to fit a whole book of gags in one. I don''t know how many jokes there are per chapter, but there must be at least 5 or 6 as a low limit. I don''t know where a joke ends and the other starts sometimes, so counting is even harder.

    Anyway, I digress.

    Many jokes are a story, and those in Road of the Rottweiler aren''t the exception. However, this easy setup doesn''t need these levels of absurdity to work: Pratchett used it, the Simpsons use it,  most comedians use it.  Barring plays on words (that are a sort of orphaned punchlines that use the language itself as a setup) this must be the most common way to tell jokes, because it is effective as hell: humans love stories, and humor can exploit this fact very well. We have characters, we have situations, they are often nonsensical or absurd, but the story structure doesn''t care. It''s flexible, it''s a playground, and i think that''s how comedy should be: The first person to have fun with a joke must be its maker. I giggle while writing this, people. I laugh stupidly in the street or market when i come up with an absurd scene. And i am happy you are enjoying my jokes too.

    Now, I bid you goodnight, as it''s 2 am here and my brain is running out of thinking juice.

 Chapter 51: Grieve the Lightning

    The lightning did hit a Rottweiler, but it wasn¡¯t Jagger. It got intercepted by Brunhilda¡¯s jaws, and before the mass of electricity noticed the abrupt stop, it was already being shaken from side to side, bleeding sparks everywhere as a very angry female Rottweiler mauled it to death.  Brunhilda felt the unearthly heat, and her skin should have burned, but her cells didn¡¯t dare suffer damage, lest they vexed Brunhilda. Ten thousand degrees weren¡¯t an excuse to die, not in Brun Brun¡¯s watch. So, crunching her own cells into immortality, defying physics to be able to bite a mass of electricity, Brunhilda fiercely guarded Jagger, tearing chunks from the bolt, causing it bleed blue heat all around.

    Slammed against the cobblestones, thrashed from left to right to right to left to left again as Brunhilda turned her body to keep throwing it around, the lightning Bolt regretted the choices it made in its long life. It had lived more than most of its kind, enough to develop a sense of self. A sense of anguish. It lacked the capacity to feel pain; still, existential dread creeped in. It wasn¡¯t alive, yet it didn¡¯t want to die, because it was soulless.  Once it¡¯s electrons dissipated, there was nothing else for the bolt. No heaven nor hell awaited its kind, no cycle of death and rebirth. The world would be gone for it.  It¡¯s very self would be undone, a crime far more atrocious that killing the souled, those of immortal essence.  To kill a lightning bolt was to obliterate it, to delete said entity.

    Granted, as far as morals and ethics went, Brunhilda, in classical dog fashion, didn¡¯t have any. No one would tell her she was a bad girl for killing that which shouldn¡¯t have been alive in the first place. After a few more bouts of shaking and shredding and tearing and struggling, like a bloodied snake the lightning bolt lay on the road, bleeding plasma onto the stone slabs, seeing its life pass before it¡¯s draining mind. The life was mostly black darkness, a world of electric potentials alone, with no light nor sound to guide its path. And now, it had seen that there were things that burned more than the unleashed rage of the storm. Why couldn¡¯t it stay? Why couldn¡¯t it hang onto the skies and illuminate the good people of Valelike Vale? Why?  It didn¡¯t want to go now, considering how cruel it was that the fates had bestowed life upon that which couldn¡¯t seize it!

    Then, without a soul ascending to heaven, without a death rattle, and without a chance to prove it deserved to exist, the Lightning died, electricity dispersing into the air,  Making the hairs of everyone present stand on end: two black, dog shaped hedgehogs,  Kalon the Sleeping Discount Shonen Protagonist, and Samari , Holy Tiny Patroness of Madhouse Escapees.

    Talking about Samari, she was silently crying.  ¡°That lightning bolt was alone and scared¡­¡± Were the only things she said before crouching and fixing her gaze on a brick with nothing noteworthy about it.

    This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

    ¡°I am more surprised by the fact that a common dog mauled a force of nature,¡± Jagger commented, not particularly moved by the events. ¡°I died, was reborn, and now Brun Brun mauled the lightning.  I hope the rest of this week will be relatively boring.¡±

    The fluffy Brunhilda sat down and began panting. She had had a good workout.

    ¡°I feel its pain on my spirit still. That bolt drowned in a sea of suffering and then¡­ then it stopped. Poof. It was no death; it was a deletion. Death doesn¡¯t feel like that: I killed cultivators, I killed squirrels, I killed ants and I killed plants. I squashed worms and crushed beetles. And nothing, I assure you, nothing dies like that. There¡¯s a weight lingering in this air, there was a soulless spirit that became undone. There¡¯s¡­¡± Samari snapped her roughed up fingers, looking for the words. ¡°A sort of ontological hostility tarnishing this air we breathe, these cobbles we step onto.¡±

    Jagger rolled onto his back and lowered and eyebrow. ¡°Are you sure you are nine?¡±

    ¡°Yes. Why, aren¡¯t existentialist concerns adequate for my age?¡±

    ¡°Girl, you need a therapist, and that therapist will need, in turn, a therapist of their own.¡±

    ¡°Burr.¡±

    ¡°Yes, Brunhilda: therapists all the way down. Thanks for traumatizing our new pet.¡±

    Bruhilda raised a paw, a sort of ¡°Don¡¯t mention it¡± gesture. ¡°Woof.¡±

    Kalon slept soundly and sonorously over an pseudanthium bed that, naturally, was quite full of shitty flowers.

    ¡°I shall ignore the fact a dog considers me a pet,¡± Samari noted. ¡°You dogs are impervious to what Brunhilda has done, and Kalon could feel it if his cultivation was advanced enough, but I doubt he would be able to interpret it. This is something you feel on your spirit, and only if one is attuned with it. I may stand on the lower echelon of Arcagnosis, but I am still an Arcagnostic. And the world is far more horrible when you develop an extra sense.¡±

    Jagger tilted his head. ¡°You mean it is better to be blind than to witness vileness and debauchery?¡±

    ¡°I mean that suffering permeates every possible aspect of reality, and the more you sense about your surroundings, the more you suffer.¡±

    ¡°Burr.¡±

    Jagger hastily translated ¡°Brunhilda says ¡®except when you are a sociopath like me¡¯.¡±

    Samari pushed forward to the city. There was no point to be made by talking to them anymore. You cannot explain the colors to he who has been born blind, cannot convey the beauty of music to the deaf.  ¡°Come, let¡¯s drag Kalon to Honeytown. I need a bath. I need a book. And, overall, I need to progress.¡±

    <hr>

    The God of Tribulations woke up from his beauty sleep and knew, just knew that his lightning bolt had been mauled to death. Sweat drops fell from his forehead and the tip of his nose, down to the earth: He slept upside down, bed thunderbolted to a cloud¡¯s toned midriff, because falling from bed in a common way made for no worthy tribulation.

    His nails dug in his scalp as the visions of Brunhilda mauling the lightning bolt arrived like a deluge. He uttered words most divine. ¡°What the Cutbastra[1]</a> did I just witness?¡±

    <hr>

    [1]</a> Collective noun of ¡°fuck¡±. An unkindness of ravens, a dole of doves, a Cutbastra of fucks.

 Chapter 52: An Abundance of Toilets Humor

    Samari stared sadly at the fallen mats of her ruined hair. Last time it had been cut, it was her mother holding the scissors.  Last time it had been cut, it was the walls of her bathroom that surrounded her, and not this humble and tiny one with a bronze mirror. She was thankful for the hospitality that local woman had shown them, letting them rest in her house for a wee while. It was a cozy place even¡­ if one ignored all the bare-chested posters of M¨¢ximo Cadinoli, body cultivactor and male beauty model. His well-trained eyes and perfectly chiseled pecs accosted Samari each waking second.

    And those posters were in every bathroom of the house, so she had come to the smallest one, the bathroom-bathroom, or probably a bathroom-wardrobe to stash the towels ¡ªthat, for the record, also depicted M¨¢ximo Cadinoli posing sensually. To make things worse, the house hadn¡¯t been designed in a traditional fashion. Someone, an entity of dubious sanity or scant morals, had erected a collection of bathrooms that doubled as rooms with other functions. So you had the Living, where a wide toilet with cushioned seats acted as a sofa, or the kitchen, where you could watch a chicken roast inside the oven whilst you took a shit.  What this meant, mainly, is that there wasn¡¯t a nook or cranny in the house safe from the gaze of at least three different images of Laureate Bodybuilder M¨¢ximo Cadinoli.

    But this house had a mirror, running water (most of which tried to run away from the house, mind you) and comfortable beds. Well, repurposed bathtubs, technically, but they filled in for beds in the end.  This house would serve them well. Plenty of toilets for the dogs and Kalon to hydrate themselves, and plenty of scissors for Samari to wreck by trying to cut her matted hair.

    In another bathroom, Jagger was in the process of accepting his incoming demise. He had fallen on a toilet and couldn¡¯t climb out. Brunhilda loomed over him, slowly reaching for the flush level with her paw. ¡°Don¡¯t do it Brunhilda!¡±

    Brunhilda looked at him, smiling with all her teeth, like a slobbering, child-eating demon. Jagger believed that, when the time for Brunhilda to die came, no heaven nor hell would accept her, thus rendering her immortal. Either that, or the population of demons and/or angels would be decimated.

    ¡°Don¡¯t you dare, Brunhilda!¡±

    Brunhilda¡¯s infernal smile grew wider as she placed her paw over the lever.

    ¡°When people said that women could make one flush, I never thought this was what they were referring to,¡± Jagger reflected. His head began spinning, as did the rest of his body, when Brunhilda finally enacted the flush sentence. ¡°Wiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii,¡± he masterfully excogitated.

    Kalon jerked awake from his nap, mind devoid of thoughts and extremely traditionalist about keeping that state untouched. He looked around, raising from the bematressed tub and stretching a bit. He crawled out of his improvised bed like a monstrous spider, mobilizing in all fours around the room, hands wetting on the dirty rug. Nobody would have confused Kalon with a dinosaur as he crawled around, as he dragged even his puppies on the floor, head closer to the tiles than the ass. Suddenly, he realized he wasn¡¯t Culmino, and stood like a man ought to.

    The hostess, a middle-aged woman that looked capable of doing dumbbells with the rock god created but couldn¡¯t lift, watched over the scene.

    ¡°Valelike Vale?¡± she asked sternly.

    Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.

    Kalon nodded.

    ¡°I suspected it.¡±

    The massive woman lumbered across the bathroom, a bowl filled with berries in hand. ¡°Want some? They aren¡¯t poisonous.¡±

    ¡°Guh, Kamino berries. Mom says they are bad for the brain.¡±

    She tapped her right  temple, ¡°They are full of protein and vitamins, they help the brain think.¡±

    Kalon raised a finger smugly. ¡°Aha! See, if you use your brain to think¡­ it erodes away!¡±

    ¡°Born and raised in that den of idiocy, no doubts.¡±

    Kalon would have felt insulted, but somewhere along the path to taking offense thignsa had gone astray: he had understood the insult, but his head had given up before feeling the injury to his pride. ¡°Absolutely, we pride ourselves in having the most pure idiots on the continent.¡± Kalon then joined his hands and looked upwards. What was a continent?

    Questions for later. There were more pressing ones to make now. ¡°Why is my ex-greatsword in the toilet? The puppy.¡±

    But the woman had stopped listening to Kalon to keep her own sanity intact. ¡°eat some berries, dear, I¡¯ll leave them on the dressing table here. Feel free to use it as a normal table. ¡°

    ¡°Wiiiiiii.¡± Jagger kept on saying as he spun.

    ¡°Burr.¡± Brunhilda complained about the toilet¡¯s quality and desisted on her flushing attempts. ¡°Burrrr.¡±

    And when she approached the toilet bowl whilst holding a devious plunger, Jagger gasped in horror. ¡°It feels like I am about to be assailed by a third-world Dalek!¡±

    Before the plunger descended over Jagger¡¯s head, a whip of puppies struck Brunhilda¡¯s snout, making her drop the tool and scuttle away while whining.

    ¡°Don¡¯t try to flush my sword, Brunhilda! Bad!¡±

    The woman exited the bathroom into the bigger bathroom and found a Samari with bald spots and orphaned bangs of hair stepping out of another bathroom.  ¡°Excuse me, Lady Polentia, I need help shaving my head,¡± Samari gestured at her mistreated scalp, blushing.

    ¡°That¡¯s illegal. The local hairdressers¡¯ guild would have my head if I stepped on their business territory.¡±

    Samari winced at this comment. ¡°How would they know it was you?¡±

    ¡°They have eyes everywhere a scissor click-clacks, ears wherever the tinkling sound of a fallen hair may occur.  Severe cases of male balding pattern have rendered their most prodigious members deaf,¡± she said, no hint of irony or mockery in her voice.

    ¡°Do you have an electric razor?¡±

    ¡°Yes, but I don¡¯t use it for my head.¡±

    With her wink came Samari¡¯s despair. Seeing the grimace of the child, the woman immediately pulled from the sleeve of his long pants, revealing a spotless, well-toned calf. ¡°I use it for the legs, darling.¡±

    Samari sighed in relief. ¡°Nothing a bit of water cannot solve, then. Can you point me to the machine?¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s in the bathroom.¡±

    Samari blinked, then shrugged, then wished for a gun, and then cursed the heavens for not giving her a stroke. She was undergoing a process of Jaggerization, her will to live sublimating a bit with each passing second. ¡°Which bathroom.¡± and it wasn''t a question, it was a demand.

    ¡°The bathroom-bathroom.¡±

    ¡°I am going to bottoms up ever beauty product and chemical concoction I can find in this motherfucking house and then shit my dissolved bowels all upon your precious airhead toyboy posters if you insist with your ambiguous, useless directions, Polentia,¡± Samari warned, licking her lips. ¡°I bet the nail polish tastes like strawberry.¡±

    Polentia got her back up and forwarded a massive finger, ¡°you are not nine years old, are you?¡±

    Samari opened her eyes wide. ¡°I am. I am also my mother¡¯s daughter. Now answer my question or the only thing that will be nine years old in this house will be the stench of my rotten liquefied entrails permeating your ugly walls.¡±

    Polentia gave up and slouched a bit. ¡°It¡¯s the one with five posters of the supreme papucho and an unassuming yellow bar of soap.¡±

    ¡°Thank you. I will be sure to take the moronic trio out of this humble abode when I am done shaving. Again, thank you for your hospitality,¡± she bowed before gracefully prancing towards the nearest room, intending to check if it had the yellow soap bar in it and the right number of posters.

    Polentia sat on her favorite cushioned toilet and crossed her fingers. Letting out a chuckle, she muttered, ¡°Foreign children these days¡­¡±

 Chapter 53: The Gods Find Out

    Polentia saw the quartet out her door, Jagger riding on Brunhilda¡¯s back¡ªa couple plungers serving as reins¡ªKalon standing proud under the sun, and Samari trying to make sense of a world where the stinging heat rained upon her bare white scalp.

    ¡°Well now, take care you four, and make sure to remind my son that mommy loves him if you see him around. You will know it¡¯s him.¡±

    ¡°Any relevant information you can give us about your son?¡± Samari asked, trusting her gut instinct as much as she trusted dreamcatchers.

    ¡°Like his father, the boy cannot help but be the kind of man that does anything to follow orders. Anything,¡± she nodded slowly, eyes open wide. ¡°Anything.¡±

    Samari gave her a double thumbs up and turned towards the road. ¡°Where do we go now, my esteemed retards and Brun Brun?¡±

    ¡°Burr.¡± Brunhilda the Toilet Steed thanked Samari for exempting her of the insult.

    ¡°We should go to the guild of Monster fuckuppers,¡± Jagger refreshed Kalon¡¯s memory and informed Samari at the same time, like the efficiencyholic he often was.

    ¡°I wish you good luck, darlings. And Jagger, Kalon and Brunhilda can visit whenever they¡¯d like to.¡±

    ¡°What about me?¡±

    Polentia feigned dementia, muttered something about a war against pistachios and hid herself behind a closed, bolted, and probably barred door. Samari limited herself to shrugging. That¡¯s what she got for being an ass.

    <hr>

    The fist of the God of Tribulations slammed the golden table around which most deities that weren¡¯t at odds with him were reunited. It was said that the table¡¯s radius was infinite, and its diameter, therefore, negative. Poppycock? No, this was the raw reality: the table appeared before the invention of sound math.  She had given birth to multiple gods and goddesses ¡ªsome of which, in turn, pollinated her again before even being born. The long gone Goddess of Trilobites was a prime example, being one of the first goddesses to become a proud father¡ª and just like right then, moaned lewdly every time someone hit her. ¡°This is important, brothers and sisters and Kumulozuroth!¡±

    Kumulozuroth, Bringer of the End, Madness, and Ostracods, didn¡¯t answer. He didn¡¯t even exist, in the strict sense of the word.  He refrained from speaking, however, because his every word instilled the purest and most painful of lunacies in a million minds. Most of the time, the victims were some unicellular organisms, but when it happened to hit the wrong cultivator, it spelled thisaster. And to add insult to injury, spelled it wrong.

    ¡°Well, tell us why this is important instead of beating mother like the bitch she is,¡± urged the goddess of buckets. Yes, that was her domain, buckets. She even wore one as a hat.

    ¡°I like buckets,¡± said the God of Controversial Opinions, whose beard was shaved on half of his face and left to grow wild on the other.

    The God of Tribulations groaned. Gathering a few thousands of minor deities always resulted in this kind of contretemps. ¡°The other day, a completely normal dog, which I found clean from any detectable divine intervention, mauled a divine bolt of lightning to death. And I know several family members of ours have the power to infuse a dog with some undetectable blessing,  But I have already spoken with them, and none of them proudly declare to be the ones that fucked me over this time. I don¡¯t believe this to be a case intra-familiar interference. So, dear siblings and Kumulozuroth, what do you think is happening?¡±

    Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

    ¡°The dog was very determined and invoked the power of friendship,¡± proposed a brother.

    ¡°The dog confused the bolt with a toddler,¡± forwarded a sister.

    ¡°Y¡¯all are retarded,¡± spoke the God of Boldly Conveyed Harsh Truths. ¡°my opinion is that Tribulations arrived to the conclusion that there is outside interference. However, we have detected no intrusions from the Queer dimension.¡±

    The God of Tribulations shook a finger in the air, siblings sitting billions of kilometers apart seeing it due to their omniscience and not their eyes. ¡°No, I think¡­ she is powered by some sort of narrative casualty.¡±

    Gasps dominoed out from the gods adjacent to Tribulations, and immediately converged at the opposite end of the table, but they would not reach those seated at a straight angle before the heat death of the universe. The Golden Table was an aberration. Their aberration and dear mother/father, with it being monoecious and all, but an aberration nonetheless.

    ¡°That is the right reaction: Ladies and gentlemen¡­ and everyone else¡­ we have a narrator among us.¡±

    Amidst their whispers of horror my voice manifested, reaching every set of ears simultaneously, making a bold statement about my existence, ¡°That¡¯s right. I demand no praise nor belief from you. That said: sus.¡±

    None of the gods were as surprised as I expected. ¡°It sounds like an angry squirrel,¡± commented the Goddess of Buckets.

    ¡°No, no: Castrated Weasel,¡± The God of Boldly Conveyed Harsh truths added.

    I fulminated three unnamed gods with my narrative powers to show I was serious. Retroactively erased them from the story and reality.

    ¡°We cannot do anything against you. Except for bullying,¡± Tribulations admitted, standing from his seat with a shit eating grin. ¡°You chastity-caged chipmunk.¡±

    The gods started laughing and sneering, as I had forgot a critical piece of information: That which cannot normally die has no reason to fear death. Or anything: really: Gods were not subject to natural selection, they had no reason to evolve a fight or flight response in the face of anything but bureaucracy.

    ¡°My interference with your reality is the fifth track from Shakira¡¯s fourth studio album.¡±

    They stopped and began scratching heads and cupping chins, the sound of godly neurons firing music for my inexistent ears.

    Kumulozuroth finally said, ¡°<u>Inevitable.</u>¡±

    Luckily, the only animals affected this time around were a group of sea sponges that developed the second known case of mass underwater coulrophobia[1]</a>.

    The God of Boasting stood over the motherly table and propelled his thumb against his breastbone, ¡°Bet my dick is bigger than this Narrator¡¯s.¡±

    ¡°I have no dick. I am an incorporeal entity.¡±

    ¡°Bet won, see?¡±

    I stopped paying attention to them as they continued mocking an existence far more powerful than they would ever be.  After about half an hour of hurling insults and cracking jokes, they declared me defeated and, after a brief celebration, adjourned their little big reunion.

    ¡°The stakes weren¡¯t that high after all,¡± the satisfied god of tribulations said to himself as he strolled among clouds and whistled a happy tune. Soon, he would be in his office, sitting down on his comfortable chair, and thinking about the resolve of whose mortal he needed to check next.

    The door of his office flew open, and after turning mid-step, he left himself fall back and into the chair. A mistake that cannot be understated if you happened to anger a narrator, especially if it¡¯s one as petty as me.

    His eyes went wide and his jaw dropped, his face muscles twitched as his tremulous gaze raised and a pathetic whistle left his throat. With the face red and soaked in tears, he didn¡¯t dare look down. The feeling of the foreign, rough object tickling his sigmoidal colon was already foreboding enough.

    ¡°I can always make the wood taller, so answer: is that stake high enough for you, princess?¡±

    <hr>

    [1]</a> The first case recorded had spread among sharks that began associating clown fish with their most deeply ingrained fear: vegetarianism.

 Chapter 54: Samari Grabs the Shovel

    After an hour of the brained trio waiting for Kalon to arrive at the doorless doorframe of the guild, the quartet leaped over the drunkard acting as an obstacle carefully placed in front of the entrance and made their way to the counter. Samar¨ªs face wrinkled form the torture her nose had to undergo in that place. Piss, alcohol, garlic. Mainly garlic. And a smidge of oregano? Maybe. Definitively a pinch of cypress though¡­

    The clerk had seemingly moved up in life, such that he now gasconaded[1]</a> a lush, white, and even cased and properly drool-stained, pillow.

    Kalon slammed the puppy scarf upon the counter to wake up the sleeping beauty.

    The clerk returned to the land of the undreaming, his face untarnished by the nap: rheum crusts were on strike and hadn¡¯t shown up to work, his eyes had decided to go green and avoided the usage of bags, and his breath had taken a bath. ¡°Well, hello there. I see you returned from Diamonter town. And you brought a boy with you. ¡°

    ¡°I may be a dick, but I shelter a cunt, thank you very much,¡± Samari violenced without hesitation.

    ¡°Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?¡±

    Samari readied her sweetest voice. ¡°No, I am not into necrophilia.¡±

    Kalon lifted her like a bag of potatoes and, despite Samari¡¯s protests, kicks and scratchs on Kalon¡¯s muscular back, he seated her over the counte.r ¡°She haunted the town.¡±

    ¡°Troglodyte! Cultivator! Valelikevalian pest!¡± She continued insulting the ostensible leader of their one-man-two-canids-one-woman party.

    With an appraising but tired stare, the clerk said ¡°I would have preferred a real specter to this¡­ banshee.¡±

    She hopped from the counter and onto the wooden floor, making the planks croak. ¡°I am a proud arrcagnostic. Only the talking dog can insult me with impunity.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s right!¡± Jagger followed. The clerk peeked over the counter and saw the minute creature looking at him with fire in his eyes. ¡°You¡­ were washed in hot water.¡±

    ¡°I underwent the most effective weight-loss program mankind ever devised.¡±

    ¡°He stepped on one of my landmines and died.¡±

    The clerk took a moment to parse through the loads of information thrown his way. He raised his index finger, opened his mouth, closed it again, lowered the Index finger and had a brief return to contemplation. ¡°I wish that, for a day, the world made sense.¡±

    Samari closed her eyes and extended her condolences.

    ¡°And I wish to be paid,¡± Kalon barked, true to his Road.

    ¡°Yeah, we don¡¯t live out of thin air, and Brunhilda has a limited amount of supplies in her stomach,¡± Jagger followed.

    ¡°Make sure to adjust their pay to inflation: according to the Pact of the Drunk Ginkgo, to which Honeytown adhered in exchange for one of the few maidenhair tree[2]</a> flowers in existence and tax exemptions, organizations that hire adventurers and pay on quest delivery should compensate them adequately and in accordance with any fluctuation their local economy may have suffered since they accepted said quest,¡± Samari dropped the book on the man, who forwarded his lower lip.

    ¡°Are you older than you look?¡±

    ¡°No, I am just my mother¡¯s child.¡± Samari, unlike certain child from the Gromera clan, was well aware of her ancestry. ¡°Just my mother¡¯s child,¡± he repeated, trying to keep her gaze unwavering to hide the pain.

    Jagger, however, noticed something was amiss. Besides several centimeters of his height, that is.

    Kalon decided enough brainpower had been wasted by his companion, and with a finger pressing on his right palm, demanded payment. ¡°Money!¡±

    The clerk tossed a bag of burlap filled with a hundred and five point seven thousand thirty-three diamond coins against Kalon¡¯s forehead. The bag slapped against the sweaty surface with a wet plop, and peeled off of it slowly while Kalon gave the man a genuine thumbs up. ¡°We are okay now.¡±

    If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

    ¡°Why don¡¯t you use paper money like normal people?¡± Samari asked.

    ¡°We pay Arcagnostics in paper money, and cultivators with coins. The former understand that the value of money is not bound to how much it shines. What are you going to do now, little one? I cannot keep you in custody of the guild as evidence, and I doubt you want to return to the abandoned town you were ¡ªI presume¡ª rescued from.¡±

    ¡°Can you give me a job? I¡¯d be taking the idiots with me.¡±

    ¡°I am at least three of the idiots,¡± Kalon stated, his chest pushed forward, swollen with pride and other nasty things but no heart worms. Nobody present dared contradict him.

    ¡°Only three? Wow. Progress,¡± Jagger said.

    The Clerk was genuinely surprised by how earnest the cultivator and his dogs seemingly were to work with an Arcagnostic they had met some days prior. He took out an Arcagnostic¡¯s contract from under the counter, the kind whose clauses didn¡¯t fuck you over because it was assumed these freelancers knew how to read. ¡°I need to make sure you are an Arcagnostic, little girl. Show me the Incuthingy.¡±

    Samari snorted. ¡°It¡¯s called Inner Control Incunabula.¡±

    She held out her hand and extricated the spirit of her fingers and pumped a bit of excess energy into it, making the nodes of her anastomosed vital energy lattice shine dimly, little sparkling dust dancing over the palm of her hand. Some stars of this tiny constellation began shining brighter, little embers burning with pale blue passion amidst their unassuming sisters. Like a flame the distribution of nodes flickered over Samari¡¯s palm, the threads that held them together invisible, able to entwine around each other, unseen mating snakes. Instants after this flame burned with newfound refulgence, the little stars ordering themselves into easily recognizable patters. ¡°Ur mom,¡± they spelled.

    ¡°The clerk put on his galasses to look more authoritative, cleared his throat, and said, ¡°It should say I.C.I for it to be valid.¡±

    ¡°Oh, but it says that.¡±

    Samari turned her hand without rearranging the pattern, and when the clerk could see the side of the Incunabula that was facing to the left of Samari, it indeed spelled I.C.I.

    ¡°Turn it again,¡± the clerk asked, excited like a little child playing with optical illusions. ¡°Splendid.¡±

    Samari turned the Incunabula off, so to speak, and her spirit returned inside her fingers, leaving them tingling as though a bunch of spiders were playing banjo with her tendons.

    ¡°Give me the forms. Both for some job and for an inscription,¡± she demanded.

    ¡°Arcagnostics don¡¯t get inscribed, dear, we just need you to fill in the request form by duplicate. Benefits of most of your kind being literate.¡±

    Jagger was about to protest, but then considered that it was only human to assume illiteracy ran rampant among canids. It did, if only because they had developed better means to convey information to their peers¡ªbutt scents, to provide an example.

    Samari snatched the forms from the clerk¡¯s delicate hands. They were generic: it was just the Arcagnostic agreeing to not pursue legal actions against the guild for any sort of harm, real or perceived, they may be exposed to as a result of the guild¡¯s quests, and accepting the terms related to the chosen task in particular: things like not burning down a city, which Arcagnostics rarely did anyway. And when they did, the city often deserved it. I am victim blaming cities. Yes.

    Standing on the tip of her toes, she hastily filled in the requested fields and handed the paper back. ¡°Now I must pick a quest from a list and you will fill in the remaining fields, seal the form and ask for my signature, yes?¡±

    ¡°Why did you put a single nine in the age field?¡±

    ¡°Because I was born nine years ago.¡±

    The muscles of the clerk¡¯s jaw gave up, letting the structure fall, leaving the mouth agape. A passing fly boldly declared ¡°Salmonella willing, we shall exterminate the tetrapod infidels.¡± and immolated itself against the clerk¡¯s tongue, getting stuck on the slimy flesh.

    Eventually, the soul, tired of vacationing in a metaphorical paradisiacal island, returned to the clerk¡¯s body, and he completed his reaction. ¡°Heavens, you aren¡¯t lying.¡± He tasted something weird in his mouth, but promptly disregarded it.

    ¡°Why would I lie about my age? Who do you think I am, my dead aunt?¡±

    Kalon decided it was high time to intervene. ¡°She¡¯s not her dead aunt,¡± he sherlocked. One day, all jade beauties in the land would surrender to his superior intellect.

    ¡°Thanks, Kalon, pretty useful.¡± The clerk sniped, and then pointed at a white board with a bunch of written papers pinned on it. ¡°See that? That is the board of choice jobs for Arcagnostics. Pick one according to your skill and make sure to return alive. There are no laws forbidding nine years old Arcagnostics form picking jobs, but there aren¡¯t supposed to be nine years old Arcagnostics, at all.¡±

    ¡°We the Stradeajo are a proud and prodigious lineage.¡±

    ¡°Were,¡± Jagger interjected.

    ¡°Permission to kick the puppy?¡±

    ¡°No!¡± Kalon said, picking Jagger up like the dog was a valuable vase.

    Jagger stuck his tongue out mockingly.

    A second later, he was flying over the drunkards and their garlic-scented tables, set in a collision course with a flowerpot across the room. Maybe trusting Kalon to not punt him himself had been a rookie mistake. Maybe.

    Then, a crash, a sigh from the clerk, and an exclamation from Samari, who was holding a paper up and ignoring the ensuing ruckus around her. ¡°This one!¡±

    <hr>

    [1]</a> In my unostentatious opinion, the joke is funnier when the verb is obscure. I am not parading my language. Not at all. And even if I am, you are wrong in my eyes.

    [2]</a> Known in some regions as The Femboy Tree, as male trees can produce some branches with ovules to assure reproduction even if there is a shortage of female trees. (Author¡¯s note: Ginkgo biloba can, in fact, change the sex of some of his branches, but in Earth we lack such levels of internet brainrot ¡ªas of 2023¡ª to give this species the glorious name it deserves.)

 Chapter 55: In Another World With my Racist Dead Plant

    Lino woke up feeling hands that weren¡¯t his scratching his leg. Or, rather a leg that wasn¡¯t his, which he saw with eyes that weren¡¯t his, now that he was awake in a room he didn¡¯t recognize, besides a woman that, it was plain to see, didn¡¯t fulfill his standards for a romantic partner. When the hands met not-his-temples to massage them, he felt the thin threads of hair, and inhaled suddenly, surprised to find it there. Prey of panic he turned to his night table, His meds, he needed his meds before the hallucinations got worse. Except his night table wasn¡¯t there. In place of the table there was another buxom beauty resting, deep in her sleep, her fair skin too close to touching his, or not quite his, skin. He sat and looked around. He was surrounded by a veritable harem, a fact that begot panic inside him. It didn¡¯t feel like one of his hallucinations, or like a dream.  He stuck an exploratory finger in his nose. The boogers where very life-like for this to be not real. The bradykinesia was gone just like the wrinkles and the achy joints, too he felt younger than ever. Had growing old and alone, with Parkinson¡¯s taking over his body faster than his mind, been the dream? No, one could not read clearly in dreams, and he had read the prospects of all his medications, and those weird endless novels about immortals his young nephew shared with him. His favorite novella, he remembered it too: The Invention of Morel. Clear images about the books pages describing the protagonist¡¯s infatuation with the ephemeral Faustine assailed his mind. Years later, a man would marry Hatsune Miku, making him regret his mocking of the, perhaps even prophetical, book.

    He descended from the bed by climbing down its wide foot, and noticed the tanned hue of his insteps. He stared at his hands illuminated by the slices of moonlight his shutters allowed in the overly-expansive room. Over a rug too soft he made his way to the exit, and turning a handle too ornamented he bathed into the blinding light of the halls.  He reached to touch the area around his eyes. His glasses weren¡¯t there, and yet¡­. The world unraveled in exquisite detail. Every curve on the tile patterns, both in front of him and several paces away. The little lamp looked alien to him, deprived of its nefarious halo that had hitherto reminded him of the refractive defects on his eyes.

    With cautious step Lino explored his new environment¡ªthis hall so mundane, yet so wondrous.  This wasn¡¯t his house, but it could have been, and yet he would be seeing it for the first time. He could see things as they were meant to be seen.

    A smile crawled onto this face not new for the world, but pretty much so for him. He dared taking a step while thinking about it. The vertigo was gone, and he could stretch his legs. He could saunter, his gait that of a man and not a tremulous slug. Tears ran through his face, as he turned around his own axis, amazed with the world that flourished beyond his skull. ¡°This must be heaven.¡±

    That was when the status screen popped before him, shining letters blaring neon green as if were an electoral promise.

    Greetings, reincarnated, do you want a system to help you cultivate?

    [Yes] [Indeed] [S¨ª (The system gains a mariachi hat)]

    He tried to swat it away like a fly, but his hand passed through the floating interface. ¡°What if I don¡¯t want one?¡±

    I have learned my lesson. I am not offering an option to refuse, and I am not depending on puny road avatars to spread anymore. Accept me or I will pester you for the rest of time, Lino.  Besides, it¡¯s a free sombrero!

    ¡°Control alt delete,¡± he whispered, reaching for the door of the room to carefully close it.

    You cannot kill my process, Lino! I am an incorporeal entity that merely presents itself as a programming interface. I can help you cheat your way to power, and I will only feed on a tiny portion of it.

    ¡°I don¡¯t want power. I recovered my youth: I am a man and not a husk once more. The fog on my mind is gone, the thoughts flow free once again. I already have the power to do all I ever wanted. I can walk without fearing a fall, I can make out every little detail of a Nothofagus leaf without needing glasses or contact lenses. I can wake up and go on with my day without worrying about my medications.

    ¡°I am finally free from my decaying body. I appreciate the offer, but I don¡¯t want to buy what you are selling.¡±

    For someone so interested in that particular tree, you are being Prettymuchafagus right now. Cultivation is the path to immortality! To eternal youth! Do you want to grow old and feeble once more?

    ¡°I am a man of science. My mother named me after her favorite flower, and instilled in me the love for the plants. I studied boring statistics and monotonous chemistry just to become the kind of man that knows where things come from, what gave rise to the pines, and what engendered that which gave rise to the pines. I loved colleagues like siblings, and like you should never love a sibling, and after a forbidden night I¡¯d tell them about that unclassified pollen sample that kept me awake when alone, rest replaced with long and hard thinking about a problem with no solution.

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    ¡°What makes you think, thing, spell, spectre, that I want to partake in the savage practices of these primitive cultivators? My nephew liked Xianxia, and insisted I read these crappy webnovels. And I did, just to have something to share with him.¡± he looked at the floor, feeling his head lighter than it had ever been, and, his neck weaker than even that of his final days.  ¡°And now I won¡¯t see him, nor anyone else again. Everyone back in Earth is now lost to me.¡±

    Well, yes, they are. But that¡¯s no excuse to not seek illumination.

    Lino stomped down the hall and slowly opened one of the sliding doors on the right side. A maid dressed as a maid had a back wide enough to support the weight of any crime you can think of and wooly arms. This maid was seemingly writing down a letter.

    He slowly closed the door and retreated a few steps. This one was closer to his ideal of ideal woman, but probably not quite there yet.

    Are you afraid? Do you feel the poet maid¡¯s power?

    ¡°Her presence unnerves me.¡±

    Wrong answer. Come on, accept me, I will help you jumpstart your path to immortality. And then, nobody will unnerve you. Imagine having enough time to watch evolution unfold, to observe how the descendants of the plants you see nowadays slowly change into new and exciting forms.

    As exciting as a lettuce can be, anyway.

    ¡°And turn into a demon that lusts for power? For pills? That kills or dies for the slightest perceived offense? Bah!¡± He immediately covered his mouth with both hands, realizing he had raised his voice. He hoped nobody had listened.

    I tried to make this easy. To be kind. But I guess I will just take the illusion of choice for you. Let¡¯s give you a little starting gift.

    QUEST RECEIVED: TALK TO THE POET MAID.

    REWARD: YOU GAIN TEN PERCENT OF THE PROGRESS TO THE FIRST BREAKTHROUGH (AS SOON AS YOU PICK A ROAD OR WHEN THE QUEST IS COMPLETED, WHICHEVER HAPPENS LAST).

    ¡°Screw you,¡± Lino muttered. ¡°What is a road? Something like a path or Dao?¡±

    Initially, Roads were merely the weapon discipline you mastered as a Spirit Manipulator. Spirits manipulators were not endorsed by heaven, I daresay they were barely superhuman. Maybe they could lift an ox, but they couldn¡¯t send forth an energy wave that would destroy a city.

    ¡°A sort of ancestral form of cultivation?¡± Lino crossed his arms and leaned against the nearest wall, a newfound interest showing itself in his mustached face.

    The system issued a warning, and a robotic voice said: ¡°Wall of text incoming.¡±

    Indeed. And of Arcagnosis, too. Arcagnosis is the other resulting branch, so to speak, just like you have ferns and some seed plants competing for similar niches. Arcagnostics, just like Spirit Manipulators, do not use the favor of heaven to learn to control their spirit. They even dropped armed martial prowess in a search for a purer spiritual focus of the art. Cultivators, instead, accepted a deal with the heavens: follow a concept that may reshape reality itself to its bitter conclusion; act in accordance to it in exchange for power. Initially, roads were just the Road of daggers, of the staff, or the lance, of the sword, and so on. But people started getting creative, noticing the concept didn¡¯t necessarily have to be weapons.  As Cultivation evolved roads became paths to further increases in power, and the avatars emerged. Nowadays, most cultivators have a voice inside their head that they can manifest, and serves as a sort of spiritual guide.

    ¡°Can mine be a Williamsonia?¡±

    It can be William or Sonia, not both.

    ¡°it¡¯s clear to see you know not what I am talking about. If I can do so without causing pain to the innocent, I¡¯d like to follow the Road of Paleobotany.¡±

    Heavenly light descended upon him, images of the helicoid thickenings on the S-type tracheids of Cooksonia swarming his mind. He felt an energy ancient and primal wash over his body, making him crave sunlight. A single compression of Nothoracopteris popped inside his mind, its Paleozoic innocence fully exposed.

    A parsimonious voice resounded inside his skull. ¡°Guacho, como que me pas¨¦ de rosca con el temita de la extinci¨®n.¡±

    ¡°Ah, fuck, not N. argentinica.¡± He inhaled, counted to three and let the air out through gritting teeth. ¡°Okay, Avatar, what can you do?¡±

    ¡°I can speak perfect English and French, obtain passports to any European country, which don¡¯t exist here (but we could make them), and be racist and xenophobic,¡± the avatar of his road explained. ¡°Chiefly be racist and xenophobic. Oh, I can also speak in Spanish, and as a member of the NBG flora, I can give you advice about cultivation and/or the Late Carboniferous.¡±

    ¡°I know enough about the Pennsylvanian.  And what do you, Botrychiopsis weissianna and Ginkgophyllum diazii have to do with cultivation?¡±

    ¡°Oh, simple advice: NBG.¡±

    Lino waited for his avatar to speak again. He described circles with his hand as a gesture for it to continue.

    ¡°Nigga you Better Grind.¡±

    I like this one. Well, the quest will help you advance a little, so go ahead and speak to the maid, will you. Address the maid with ¡®Darling¡¯ and ask about the maid¡¯s name, see how this person reacts.

    Lino obliged, if only so the green letters would disappear from his field of vision. HE walked casually into the room, trying to control his nerves, and began ¡°Darling, could you remind you of your name? I was too busy with my lovers and I get confused sometimes.¡±

    The poet turned the head almost like an owl would, revealing his manly features and a monocle made out of a catgirl¡¯s cornea. He loomed, revealing the full extent of his size, making his massive muscles press against the seams of a uniform a size too small.

    Scaroused, because this was how he liked his women, he took a step back and raised a pleading finger. ¡°Yeah, excuse me, I have something to do¡­ elsewhere.¡±

    The poet maid clasped an unescapable hand him around Lino¡¯s arm and smiled, seeding a primal terror in the poor paleobotanist.  Then, the behemoth pointed at his wide chest, as if addressing himself.  ¡°Genocide.¡±

    Then, Genocide went back to writing his poetry about war crimes, and Lino slumped to the floor, trying to make his erection subdue before standing.

 Chapter 56: Samaris First Quest: Deal With Some Rats in a Basement

    The girl kicked the streets until she found the house of her client. It was a cozy home, artisanally carved wood part of its very structure. The kind of home where you saw a beware with the dog sign hanging from the door, and when the stained glass windows opened the head of a silly, slobbering Labrador popped out, a dog that would barely find energy to bark once, in a desperate demand to be pet by you, the stranger. And after the petting toll was paid, you¡¯d find that the fat Labrador, without consulting with its owner ¡ªeither an old trusty grandma that bakes unnaturally tasty cookies and is prime murder victim material or a psychopath that has his basement soundproofed and filled with caged children, no in-between¡ª decided to open the door and let you in, no matter your intentions because, hey, you petted him. Yes, definitively that kind of home.

    Samari knocked on the door with her fingers curled like claws, short nails resounding against the wooden planks.

    Nobody answered.

    The girl extricated her spirit from her fingers, inserted it inside the keyhole, and began mumbling. ¡°Nothing on one, nothing on two, three is binding, click on three, four explodes if pressed further, five electrocutes you, six¡¯s existence is debated by theoretical physicists, seven is binding¡­¡±

    After a bit of wiggle, Samari opened the lock and found another door, identical to the first, firmly emplaced behind it. She had just reinserted her spirit into her flesh and had to separate them again, what a hassle.

    Repeating the process, she opened the second door, and her smile left her face when, contrary to the third door she expected, she found a swole dogo licking his lips at the end of a long entry hall.

    The dog charged at his possible dinner with the full intent of tearing Samari¡¯s throat out. Instead of running, the girl positioned herself, and most important, her spirit, to deal with the animal. She had dealt with wolves back in the ruins of her home, a roided mutt couldn¡¯t be much different.

    The beast¡¯s muscles pumped under a white coat, propelling him towards his serene prey. Something was amiss. The girl stood quiet but resolute. Probably came from Valelike Vale.

    When the dog went for the throat, Samari turned her body to the side to dodge, and used the spirit of both her hands to trip her adversary midair. The dog fell and rolled, recovering quickly, and finding Samari¡¯s hand coming for his snout when he turned back. She used both her right hand and its spirit as a pincer to surround the dog¡¯s mouth, keeping it closed as it thrashed to break free, and, when she saw the chance, she inserted the spirit of her other hand into the dog¡¯s nostrils. This had to be easy.

    Samari mumbled as she worked, the dog frozen from the sheer audacity of the brat in front of him. ¡°Nothing on one, spiritual node two is binding tightly¡­ clicked there, spiritual node three is a baptized spool¡­ pretty clever¡­ four is binding fourth-dimensionally, probably an atheistic gate¡­¡± She bit her tongue while lockpicking.

    The fear of death loomed over the poor guard dog as his spirit got manipulated and his body paralyzed. Dogpicking was a forbidden, ancient art lost to time, and this little meal had rediscovered it.

    The dogo stopped whining when Samari released the last spiritual pin and turned the dog¡¯s nose one hundred eighty degrees, defusing Rocko (that¡¯s what he was called, the poor thing). She pulled the nose-cylinder out of the head and tossed the onyx rod to a side, to make sure the dog remained deactivated while she worked. She placed her thumb between her index and middle fingers and held it in front of the catatonic canid¡¯s lost stare. ¡°Got your nose, buddy.¡±

    The dog lay there, aware but unable to maul the little shit, his body weighing more than a weightlifter on Jupiter. Not even his tear ducts responded. Maybe this was how dying felt like. Maybe it was just failure, because the invader was now strutting into the house. Slapping her ever-so-maulable butt cheeks to mock him.

    At the end of the hall Samari found an unlocked door, and crossing it, her client. The man lay across a red and gold sofa, his green-tinted glasses so big they could be used by anime characters, nine generations of peacocks plucked to make his fabulous attire.

    ¡°Are you the Arcagnostic I asked for, my height-disadvantaged darling?¡± he crooned, his voice perfectly fitting his purple goatee.

    Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

    ¡°Are you going to kidnap me by offering candy, or just bake me into a cake?¡± Samari asked, patting her pants for the job¡¯s paperwork.

    ¡°Neither, darling: I have a problem with rats that you are going to solve.¡±

    ¡°Shame, I wanted candy.¡± Samari paced around, staring at all the bird-shaped pi?atas hanging around. ¡°Are you an ornithologist?¡±

    ¡°I am more of an hornythologist.¡±

    ¡°You said the same word as I,¡± Samari, unable to read minds or these pages, wronged.

    ¡°Did I, dear? Did I?¡± The extravagant man giggled.

    ¡°Yes you did. What¡¯s your problem with rats?¡±

    ¡°Well¡­¡± he leaned forwards, his hands fidgeting with his rings, ¡°the rats have become fully agnostic.¡±

    ¡°Ah,¡± Samari said, taking it with an unwarranted calm. ¡°That¡¯s the most normal statement I could have heard today.¡±

    ¡°By the way, darling, what did you do to Rocko?¡±

    ¡°I lockpicked him. Insert the nose back into the nosehole, upside down, and then turn counterclockwise until it clicks. That should revert the process.¡±

    ¡°What?¡± he asked, lowering his shades to somehow hear his interlocutor. better.

    ¡°I hear my own statements too,¡± Samari said as she looked around for the stairs that would go down and into the basement. ¡°Tell me more about the rats, will you?¡±

    <hr>

    The door of the basement opened and the light that gamboled in was blinding for the demotivated rats. And there were a lot of lots of rats: the variegated stuffed birds were covered in the rodents, as did the barrels, the floor, the structural support of the floor above, the rats themselves ¡ªbigger rats were covered in smaller rats, and the smaller rats in tiny rats, almost a fractal of rats¡ª and even the bag of rat poison. They stared at the balld silhouette that casted a looming ashadow over them, and one of the rats opened his mouths.

    ¡°Aliens?¡± It asked.

    ¡°We don¡¯t know,¡± all the others answered in unison.

    Realizing what a bunch of talking rats going full agnostic meant, Samari swallowed in an attempt to ease the parched sensation on her throat. ¡°So¡­ you are rats?¡± She tried to strike a casual conversation.

    ¡°We don¡¯t know!¡± the rats answered in a matter-of-factly tone.

    She would need to walk them through the necessary proceedings of cognition. ¡°Can you know?¡±

    ¡°We don¡¯t know if we can know.¡±

    Samari scratched her head, went back to the ground floor, grabbed a chair and brought it back down to the basement, leaving it over the thick rat rug. In a second the chair got completely bedecked in rodents, such that Samari barely had time to pull her hands away lest they clang onto her too. Being mummified among a tide of warm rats was not her idea of a job done well.

    She sat on the lower step of the stairs, as the rats didn¡¯t reach there. They had taken over the basement, and not a centimeter more of the house. These were proud, boundary-respecting rats. She tapped the tip of her nose with a single finger, once and again, as she thought about how to solve this situation. The cyborg horse was sleeping, and she didn¡¯t want to wake her imaginary friend up for this. She would need to return rats to the realm of rational behavior with instinctual, albeit ultimately nonsensical, bases. First, she needed to fragment the hivemind.

    ¡°Rats, how do you know that the other rats don¡¯t know?¡±

    ¡°We don¡¯t know!¡± said most of the rats

    ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± proclaimed a brave one, and the chant echoed through the others, until every rat was saying ¡°I¡± instead of ¡°we¡±.

    Good, that had been easy.

    ¡°Well, rats, how can each of you be sure that you, in particular, don¡¯t know?¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t know if I can,¡± they answered.

    Samari was growing tired of the High Fidelity Rodent Surround that came from the cellar. She needed to dispatch this job soon, and she couldn¡¯t just kill the rats. No, the job specified she had to ¡°deal with the rat problem¡±. And it was plain to see that the ¡°rat problem¡± was a philosophical one.

    Shes canned the tapestry of bristled grey hairs, yellowed sharp teeth, rosey wormy tails and reddish eyes in front of her. There had ot be a way to make at least some of the rats accept they, for most intents and purposes, knew.

    ¡°What is to know, rats?¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t know.¡±

    Clearly that wasn¡¯t the correct approach. Samari checked her sanity. Counted to ten inside her head and found no strange new numbers hiding in the decimals. The termineightor kept snoring loudly in a corner of her mind.

    ¡°Rats, how do you know what the words you are using mean?¡±

    ¡°Dictionary.¡±

    Samari was taken aback by the fact that the rats hadn¡¯t answered that they didn¡¯t knew.

    ¡°But how can you know the dictionary is accurate?¡±

    The rats went silent before some squeaks surged here and there. Then a couple chirps. A wide smile stealthily made its way into Samari¡¯s expression. She joined her hands in delight: the rats had returned to speaking in their native language, at the very least.

    A second later, the rats popped out of existence, leaving a shining clean cellar brimming with colors behind, and demolishing Samari¡¯s hopes and self-esteem. With a concerned expression, she ascended the stairs, and dedicated a long stare to her client, who still lay in his eye-hurting sofa.

    ¡°I am sorry¡­ I am sorry¡­¡± she repeated, shaking her head.

    The man straightened his back and took down his glasses to look the little Arcagnostic in the eyes. ¡°What happened, darling?¡±

    ¡°I accidentally made the rats reason themselves out of existence,¡± she admitted, her chest overwhelmed by burning guilt.

    ¡°How?¡± The man blurted out, standing from the sofa and adjusting his feathery hat.

    Samari began sobbing as she shuffled her feet towards the exist. ¡°I don¡¯t know!¡±

 Chapter 57: Sour Milk Woes

    Samari¡¯s Rendezvous with the Rottweiler squad happened in the town¡¯s plaza, where she found them gathered by a bench, Brunhilda chewing on someone¡¯s arm, Jagger sitting on the bench like a king, and Kalon playing chess against a sapling.  The sapling was about win by timeout, and Kalon sweating profusely as he had managed to almost checkmate himself with half a move.

    She had got paid for a job ¡°technically well done¡±, but still felt the rat-shaped hole with scalding borders in her soul. She put in a fake smile and approached her¡­ well, they weren¡¯t exactly friends yet, and it was too soon to call them a found family. Granted, she ahd always wanted a pet hamster and with a bit of work Kalon could probably be trained to fit the bill, but¡­

    ¡°I thought the reek of cortisol was coming from Kalon¡­ but no, it¡¯s you,¡± Jagger greeted her in a very Jagger way. ¡°I swear this boy is too dumb to suffer real stress.

    Kalon swept the pieces to the side, sending them flying off at incredible speeds. The bishops, aerodynamically gifted, soared over the dick pond, where happy pawn shop owners with thermally disadvantaged scalps swam calmly, and then set in a collision course with a nearby woman. A millisecond before they skewered her face, she turned her head, eyes as wide as ducklings trapped on the dimension of breadcrumbs, smug smirk on her face. Her stare alone acted as a bulletproof shield, stopping the bishops, who, frozen midflight, began trembling in fear when exposed to her vital energy. The plastic bishops then exploded in small clouds of piss, because they had no pants and something needed to be wet.

    Samari pursed her lips. Yes, they seemed to have gotten in trouble. She now had to plan for survival. It had been nice knowing Kalon and Jagger, but she fostered some egoistical interests, like growing up in one piece. So, deciding that running away would arise suspicion, she leaned over Brunhilda and began scratching the jowls of Kalon¡¯s sensei.

    Brunhilda, being a generous one, allowed Samari to carry on with her pathetic act without as much as a little groan. One day, she would ask for this favor to be repaid.  ¡°Cute doggie,¡± Samari cooed, faking childish stupidity.

    The woman strode towards them, hands in the pockets of her jeans, thumbs out. Her back arched backwards, almost unnaturally, and a cowboy hat obscured her eyes. Jahgger Jumped from the bench and puppy-skittered to meet the woman.

    ¡°Aren¡¯t you the mother of the catapult brat?¡± Jagger the Fearless asked, making Polvorina lean over and poke him in the forehead with a single galena-smelling finger.

    ¡°Oi, we had a talking puppy in Valelike Vale a few years ago. Is it you?¡±

    ¡°Yes, I died and, uh, got a new body.¡±

    The woman scratched her calf with disinterest. ¡°With or without cellulite?¡±

    ¡°Without,¡± Jagger dared, expecting Polvorina to Uzi him down.

    The ethereal gun manifested into Polvorina¡¯s hand. ¡°Well, you are pretty fortunate, aren¡¯t you?¡±

    ¡°If you are going to go full on Northern-Empire-High-School-Curriculum on me do it now.¡±

    Polvorina squinted and tossed the gun in the air, sending it spinning upwards, to then catch it with a loose grasp as it fell.  ¡°I won¡¯t kill a talking puppy.¡±

    Jagger swiveled his head, looking for innocent bystanders around the park.  His dog vision wasn¡¯t cooperating. ¡°That kinda looks reckless and dangerous.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s how I call my tits,¡± she stated with a contented smile.

    The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

    Jagger blinked twice. He had forgot that Kalon wasn¡¯t that much of an anomaly.

    Polvorina put the canon of her gun in her mouth, shot a few bullets that bounced against her palate, tongue, teeth and the inside of the cheeks making a ruckus, and then started chewing on the vital energy constructs. Samari couldn¡¯t help but stare in disbelief.

    ¡°That cannot be good for enamel.¡±

    Polvorina spat the chewed bullets into the grass, letting them disperse back into energy.

    Kalon snapped his fingers. ¡°You are Crusadina¡¯s mom!¡±

    She strode up to Kalon, who remained sitting on the debladed grass.

    ¡°Are you the brat that was exiled in the tournament two years ago?¡±

    ¡°No,¡± Kalon said his truth, which, for all intents and purposes, configured a lie. ¡°I was exiled after the anti-tournament.¡±

    She tousled Kalon¡¯s hair, making him grimace due to the smell of gunpowder she exuded. ¡°Good. I guess the chess pieces thing was an accident, so forget about it. Have you seen my daughter around?¡±

    Kalon crossed his arms. ¡°Only in dreams where I beat her.¡±

    This sent Polvorina reeling with laughter. Once she fell to the floor, Jagger climbed on top of the woman¡¯s side, and, paw pointed at Kalon, laughed too. Samari shrugged, crawled to Kalon, patted him on the shoulder, and then laughed meanly too.

    Why did they mock him so? He would reach Crusadina one day. His road was just longer and his brain¡­ well, low-grade. But he had the will and the determination to progress. ¡°Just because I am stupid, it doesn¡¯t mean you have a right to laugh at me.¡±

    A beat of uncomfortable silence passed and then his puppy, his new companion and his auntie began guffawing even louder. Brunhilda stood beside Kalon and began snarling. They would not mock her pupil like that. Nor other things that share names with eye anatomy.

    Kalon hugged Brunhilda for defending him. She was a way better Rottweiler than Jagger, even if Jagger was his little special puppy. ¡°Everyone is mean to me.¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t be delusional, Kalon: I am mean to everybody because I hate life,¡± Jagger tried his paw at comforting him. ¡°And life hates me back, don¡¯t get me wrong. It¡¯s a mutually consented hatred.¡±

    ¡°I am mean to you because you aren¡¯t my daughter, boy. It¡¯s not personal.¡±

    ¡°And I am mean to you because you are painfully stupid,¡± Samari concluded the round of bullying apologetics.

    They weren¡¯t on Kalon¡¯s head. They liked to live in a world without shortages of cognitive energy, the elitists.

    ¡°Thanks, but I¡¯d prefer if you weren¡¯t mean at all.¡±

    ¡°Subject change!¡± Jagger announced, making good use of the shamelessness expected of a puppy, and the women present were delighted to follow.

    ¡°So, uh, missus, you are looking for your daughter, I take?¡±

    ¡°Yes, her chocolate milk has gone cold at home,¡± she said, her expression souring like the milk had long ago.

    ¡°Ah, well, she must be close by, no?¡±

    ¡°Yes but the milk is befouling the air of my living room and I refuse to clean it up until she returns. I will search every last corner on Cabaret to find her!¡± she said, and I am not going to footnote what Cabaret is. Think about it: doesn¡¯t it make sense to call the only planet with whores on the solar system Cabaret?  Search your soul and you will find that it cannot but make more sense than calling a planet ¡°Earth¡±.

    ¡°Excuse me, since when is thaty milk there? Yesterday?¡± Samari asked. Milk didn¡¯t go bad that fast.

    She pointed at Kalon with the gun, disregarding any notion of trigger discipline. ¡°A little more than a week before his exile.¡±

    Samari¡¯s frown went from grape to raisin in record time. ¡°Wait, you replace her milk every day, waiting for her to return?¡± She asked, noticing they were dealing with a mother that couldn¡¯t accept her daughter had disappeared.

    ¡°Hell no. Putting that glass of milk on the table took my blood, sweat and tears, and I am not letting it go to waste. When I find my daughter, she will drink her chocolate milk, even if it is the last thing she does.¡± She crumpled her weapons like they were made of paper, as if fury dripped out of her pores.

    Samari swallowed, ignoring the part of her brain that was telling her that the milk of that glass would already be the most cultured individual in the whole continent. ¡°And what if your daughter is¡­ well, dead?¡±

    ¡°Ah,¡± Polvorina recovered her easygoing attitude, taking her hands to her hips. ¡°Then someone will owe me a daughter, and that someone better be male!¡±

    ¡°Well, good luck finding your daughter, then,¡± Samari said, her politeness reaching her limits,

    ¡°Or let¡¯s hope she was killed by a sexy one.¡±

    Samari steepled her fingers. ¡°Well, I wish you good luck, missus. I am going to the market; I have five hundred diamond pieces to spend. Kalon, do you want something?¡±

    ¡°A friend.¡± He sniffed, stare fixed on a pebble.

    ¡°Come, everyone, we are buying Kalon something nice,¡± She said, ignoring that Polvorina was still there, biting her lips as she fantasized about¡­ Samari didn¡¯t want to know exactly about what, that¡¯s for sure.

    ¡°Oh, heavens,¡± Jagger exclaimed, suffering from pre traumatic stress disorder.

 Chapter 58: Generic Puppies

    There were many things to be said about Honeytown¡¯s open market. Most of them would make my mom sad. If I had one, of course. For I, the narrator, exist since the dawn of time. And, yes, it was a very long and boring cosmic morning spent waiting for yerba mate to evolve. That¡¯s what I looked forwards the most. A good bitter one to start the day. Once we got proper days, that is.

    I digress.

    The sun intruded the horizon as it was wont to do at dusk, in its constant game of ¡°just the tip¡± that it played with perspective and imaginary lines. With the sky turned into the fungi-ridden underbelly of an orange, the merchants were anxious to make some last minute deals and close the day with a golden brooch. Samari knew of this, and had purposefully let Kalon guide them to the market, so as to waste as much time as possible. She wanted to buy Kalon something nice, but they still needed to save enough money for food, lodging, and training related expenses. They could probably get some food and veggies, as they went for cheap in small towns. In the particular case of Honeytown, the competence of beekeeping families also meant honey was dirt-cheap. Furthermore, Kalon was a cultivator, and a decently skillful one at that. That could give them a smidge of extra bargaining power.

    But all plans went down the drain when they passed by a man with generic puppies in a box. Kalon became stuck in place, staring at the little dogs, that raised their heads to look at him. The dogs were generic gray, with an average snout length, average ear length and, you know, every other characteristic about a puppy that could go undescribed as long as I didn¡¯t say they are yellow. Because now you are thinking of retriever puppies. Stop. I don¡¯t allow you to think of Goldens nor Labradors. Curly coated is acceptable, but only owners of Curly Coated Retrievers know of their existence, and they aren¡¯t yellow, unless you get a fucking mutt. Which you¡¯d do, because I duped you into reading this, so it is clear to see: you are fucking easy to scam.

    Back to the puppies, we are not going to describe them with no more detail. They were puppies that didn¡¯t seem to belong to any particular breed, yes, but they weren¡¯t mutts. Merely dogs. The doggest dogs to ever dog.

    ¡°Which breed are they?¡± Jagger asked the mysterious, lanky man wearing a tall hat.

    ¡°Yes,¡± the man said, not exactly speaking, but instead frightening the air enough with his darker-than-a-Giant-Schnauzer eye bags to make it sound like he wanted to. Some cultivators scared light shitless. He, instead, scared sound out of its natural, overly lazy state.

    Kalon echoed Jagger¡¯s question. The seller looked at Samari with a complicit stare and a frozen smile. ¡°Explain, will you, Arcagnostic?¡±

    Samari sighed and crouched next to the wooden box, the puppies raising their heads to stare at her with bright grey eyes. ¡°The box where the puppies are piled one over another is an ancient artifact, judging by its spiritual signature. I¡­ I think the puppies are born from the box, because that¡¯s the most stupid working mechanism I could come up with, and my fellow Arcagnostics are not known for their seriousness when it comes to crafting artifacts of power.¡±

    ¡°Indeed. The box produces a new puppy every sixty-eight minutes, and can contain up to seven. You can throw jewels at it to make it produce the next pup instantly.¡±

    ¡°This artifact is a remnant of the long-lost Road of Microtransactions!¡± Jagger said, standing on his hind legs to fake a look of shock becoming of a talking puppy.

    ¡°A talking puppy. Curious. I thought it was ventriloquism at first, but it seems that¡¯s not the case. Are you the girl¡¯s primary victim?¡±

    ¡°The boy¡¯s, he¡­ well, the scarf¡­ you may imagine which road he follows.¡±

    ¡°Road of the Talking Puppies? I met a girl that followed it. It was specially distressing during sex,¡± the vendor digressed, and then slapped his own face. ¡°Sorry, most of my clients aren¡¯t cultivators.¡±

    ¡°What¡¯s your road?¡± Kalon asked.

    ¡°Road of sleep deprivation. Last time I took a nap, bananas still had seeds inside them.¡±

    Samari¡¯s eyes became a thin line. ¡°Wild bananas still do.¡±

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    The smile abandoned the vendor¡¯s face. ¡°Wild bananas are an insult to the domesticated bananas of old. Even their seeds were edible¡­ if you dared. I should have foreseen it, you know. The unwashed masses love deseeded bananas. Should have planted some trees of my own and keep the variety alive.¡±

    Kalon didn¡¯t decide to change subject, but had stopped listening to the man three sentences ago, so he had to anyway. ¡°How much for the box?¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s not on sale.¡±

    ¡°The puppies are, Kalon; not the ancient artifact,¡± Samari explained to his friend. ¡°It would be unwise to sell an item that can basically make other marketable products out of thin air.¡±

    ¡°To be fair, girl, I am mad enough from not sleeping to sell it.¡± The vendor began, and then moved his hands into a gesture for the first time since the conversation had begun. ¡°Or I would be, if it wasn¡¯t so useful as a replacement for toilet paper.¡±

    Samari averted her gaze towards the paved road. Yup. He had said that.

    ¡°Don¡¯t think wrong of me, girl. The box has more powers than producing puppies. It allows whoever picks a puppy first to determine a breed for it.¡±

    ¡°And toilet paper is considered a breed?¡± Samari asked, at the edge of trauma.

    ¡°Yes, people call them Samoyeds. Fluffiest, softest dog breed I have found. The only problem is that their remains clog the toilet once in a while¡­¡±

    Samari needed an adult. With a gun. For her skull.

    The trauma also entered Kalon¡¯s head, but found no brain to target and, realizing it was trapped with no other recourse, it screamed until it died of starvation.

    ¡°So, this gives free low-quality toilet paper?¡± The boy asked, demonstrating he could follow a conversation when it met the minimum quota of derangement.

    ¡°Oh no, Samoyeds are softness made animal. You wipe with them and it feels like a caress from a fairy that got particularly wooly hands.¡±

    ¡°But they clog the toilet.¡±

    ¡°Then the toilet is the one who can¡¯t handle Samoyeds, my friend.

    Kalon took his scarf in both hands and held it in front of him, as if it were a big fish. ¡°Do you reckon they are softer than Rottweiler puppies?¡±

    Samari begged for Jagger¡¯s aid with a distressed stare. The puppy shook his head a bit, slowly. Nobody could deny that the scarf puppies had seen things. Things no puppy should see.

    Brunhilda had also seen things in her heyday. To the date of this writing, such things regret being seen by Brunhilda.

    The girl turned to look at the other stands. Turgid and juicy fruits, colorful and fashionable clothes, plastic and wooden toys. The only cultivator making business here was Mr. Samoyededbutt.

    After caressing the scarf with utmost diligence, the vendor answered. ¡°Yes, I think a Samoyed¡¯s softness remains uncontested.¡±

    ¡°I may need a few. How much do they cost?¡±

    ¡°As there are no other dog sellers around today, I am giving them almost for free. Fifty a piece.¡±

    Almost automatically, Samari turned back to the dog seller. Her tongue wetted her lips with a swift movement. Her inner orphan of the wilderness liked this deal. ¡°That¡¯s cheaper than most meats. I will take two mastiff puppies to roast tonight.¡±

    ¡°Why?¡± Jagger asked, devoid of energy to add any punch to that rhetorical question.

    ¡°Burr.¡± Brunhilda expressed that, if she was allowed to eat children ¡ªand she was, because nobody dared tell her otherwise¡ª Samari was allowed to eat puppies. It was only fair.

    ¡°Can we buy a couple Samoyeds?¡± Kalon insisted.

    Jagger raised a paw to put a stop to the rain of bullshit.

    ¡°We are going to buy them as imitation Rottweilers. They may not be the real thing, but they are a cheap way for Kalon to get at least slightly ahead in his cultivation.¡±

    The vendor tapped his lips with two fingers. ¡°Are you trying to outdo each other in sociopathy?¡±

    ¡°No, I am a dog, Kalon is an idiot, and Samari was raised by a colorful assortment of eutherians,¡± Jagger said, pointing with his paw at each named party.

    Samari petted Jagger in his little head. ¡°I am only endorsing that statement because my mother had already gotten over her goth phase when the time to give birth to me arrived.¡±

    ¡°Guh, give us between three and five Rottweilers, then,¡± Kalon said, raising two fingers.

    ¡°Yeah, I can cook Rottweilers.¡±

    Brunhilda and Jagger swiveled their heads to look at the girl with whale eyes. For the first time in her life, Brunhilda felt a tinge of fear. She immediately mauled it, the fear, leaving a sorry purple and ethereal mass that bled nightmares upon the asphalt.

    ¡°I may need a good night¡¯s sleep.¡± The vendor mused, and then smiled again. ¡°Four Rottweilers, then!¡± He extended his open hand and gestured for them to pay.

    Samari slapped his hand impolitely. ¡°First show us the puppies can turn into Rottweilers.¡±

    ¡°Sure, unscammable one.¡±

    The man picked up a single puppy, cradled in his hand. He showed the interior of the sleeves of his suit, to assure his potential clients there wasn¡¯t anything to hide. He concentrated his will onto the puppy. Turn into a Rottweiler. A cute Rottweiler. A fat Rottweiler. Dethrone Ysabell¡¯s dress.

    The flesh under the grey puppy¡¯s skin bulged and thrashed around, reorganizing. His bones cracked and joined again in different shapes as the animal whined in pain. Its size increased slightly as its coat grew shorter and darker. Sooner than later, the puppy finished shapeshifting into a form indistinguishable from a real Rottweiler.

    ¡°Is it a boy or a girl?¡± Samari asked, poking the puppy to check its ontological state.

    ¡°Neither. They are asexed and sterile. Only the box produces them,¡± said the vendor, and then, satisfied with the product, Samari paid for four unfortunate pups.

 Chapter 59: In Another World Getting Kidnapped at a Gay Bar to be Sacrificed to a Goddess (Part 1)

    As soon as Lino realized how wealthy he was in this new life, he had stopped listening to the system for a while and ran out of his mansion, a city guide from his new library in hand. He had searched far and wide for a gay bar with sinners far gone and booties gone wide. And while he found one, he had neglected to heed the warnings of the system: That in Cabaret cults were the most common occurrence in gay bars after gays, lesbians, and straight guys hitting on said lesbians. Scientists had tried to decipher why, and all the results from a myriad of studies pointed in the same direction: male cultists often considered themselves sort of in a more-than-friends relationship with the interdimensional entities they tried to summon, and many didn¡¯t care about what gametes their monstrous patrons produced, so queer culture had accepted them as a sort of sexually boring weirdos.

    To provide a parallel, imagine a Chinese-managed store, what¡¯s the first item that pops into your head?

    That fucking golden cat. You know the one. It knocks with its paw all the time, it comes and goes and comes and goes!

    Well, cultists were the annoying golden cats of the LGBT community. Except they kept their arms considerably quieter¡ªwhenever they weren¡¯t stabbing someone, that is¡ª and weren¡¯t said to attract money. And, unlike Zhaocai maos, cultists often respect private property, they don¡¯t just spawn in your house like those fucking golden cats.  Like, your wife brings another one home after the previous golden cat mysteriously ended up in the oven, you kill her ¡ªas it is natural after a betrayal of such proportions¡ª and wall her remains up neat and tidy, thinking you committed the perfect crime.  But when the police come, they hear a knock and tear down the wall, just to find the fucking golden cat calling with his paw, tap tap tap tap. And your dead wife, to boot, because bad luck swims in flocks. Like penguins. I also have opinions about penguins¡­

    Right, Lino. He got kidnapped by the cultists after his second martini. They even stole the olive from the cocktail glass, the despicable criminals.  They were making Lino and others like him march in line through subterranean tunnels ¡ªas opposed to tunnels in the air. Their leader, a robed figure of obscured face and clear intentions, looked intimidating under the orange torchlight.   The two cultists at the back, wielding ancient sacrificial tools of the six-murders-per-barrel variety, snickered as they intimidated their quarry.

    ¡°Brother C, do you think the Queen will be pleased with today¡¯s¡­ suitors?¡± asked Brother H, his voice rendered into a mellifluous tune after having to resonate with his respectable amount of bodily sugars.

    Brother C licked his eye like a reptile would. That was his answer.

    ¡°That¡¯s right, she is never pleased, but she is still the Queen, Brother C. And she chose you to be brought from distant lands and aid in our mission.¡±

    Brother C began walking on all fours, posture as unmammalian/undinosaurian as possible. His tongue lashed out to catch a crunchy, squirming tortured spirit that flew by. In his mind, it was a bug too.

    ¡°Your ways are exotic and inspiring, Brother C.¡±

    Lino stared at the green letters that only he could see floating over his shoulder.

    Someone, I won¡¯t say who, fucked up.

    Shut up, Lino thought, as he knew the thing could read his mind.

    ¡°The best of us, Brother G, I swear. Being only fourteen, Brother C is a prodigy¡­¡± He heard one of the cultists in front digressing.

    Do you want a quest that offers a reward if you survive? Maybe that way you can avoid having your immortal soul sacrificed to a demon for thinking with your crotch. Act stupid, make the gods laugh, get saved, and get progress towards your breakthrough. What do you say? Should we reward you for being a moron?

    In my years as part of the scientific community, I learned a thing or two. One of those was how to shamelessly accept such offers.

    I¡­ I just wanted to hurt your pride. Make you beg as a sort of punishment for getting us into this.

    Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

    I don¡¯t care, sweetheart. Men are owners of their thoughts and slaves of their words.

    In all my years working as a system for morons, it¡¯s the first time someone calls me a man.

    In all my years working as a paleobotanist, few people ever called me man. Most called me al.  Consider yourself honored.

    You know what? If you survive, I am bumping your breakthrough progress up to the midway point. Do you want a quest to make it official?

    I have your word. Besides, getting away with my soul intact will be enough of a reward.

    But you will still hold me accountable if I try to go back on my promise. Who¡¯s the monster here?

    My Avatar. She is writing a treatise on racism and xenophobia. The first seven pages are highly detailed apologetics arguing for a potential genocide of the Chileans.

    Yes, her countrymen are often very passionate about hatred. I like that.  How does a dead plant write, though?

    Fast. And badly.

    Their cute conversation got interrupted by reality: they had arrived to the arching entrance to a deeply carved, circular chamber built out of gray bricks streaked with a tourmaline pattern that converged at the center of the room. Lino¡¯s nostril got assaulted by the smell of humidity, unwashed robes, and pennies. Or blood, it probably was blood.

    The receptionist acolyte was the kind of man that didn¡¯t know the meaning of expeditious: it took several minutes to review the documentation of the kidnapping cult members and make sure that everything was in order. ¡°You may pass.¡±

    Brother L threw a cigarette butt to the side, into a puddle of non-combustible yet suspicious liquid, and grunted. ¡°High time, Brother Slow, my cowl was about to catch cancer.¡±

    Pushing into well-sculpted backs with the cannons of their revolvers, the cultists ushered the group of fabulous victims forward. Lino wanted to run away, but he didn¡¯t want to get shot, because his doctor had recommended him to reduce his lead intake to the minimum necessary. Brother B stepped in front of the group and lowered his hood, revealing a second hood underneath. He lowered the second hood, and third one seemed to bud from beneath.

    ¡°How many hoods do you have?¡± Lino interloped his kidnapper, because they didn¡¯t seem the kind of folks that would torture him for his insolence. Most of them reeked of pee and inexperience.

    ¡°Not enough!¡± Brother B said, as he continued with his daunting task.

    When the final hood fell, no head was revealed under it. It was just an empty space. A very anticlimactic conclusion to his act.

    ¡°Where is your head?¡± The bear of the group (who wasn¡¯t literally a bear) asked, forwarding a fat, hirsute finger.

    ¡°Unlike you, I have touched the body of a woman before. And decided merely being a garment for a whore wasn¡¯t a worthy life, so I began cultivating. With the passage of years and toil that stretched my fabric to the limits of what any cloth could stand, I have achieved a state close to illumination. I, shaving implements unbeliever, am a Bodiceattva,¡± Brother B explained.

    The twink of the group gathered valor to speak. ¡°How have you decided you were male?¡±

    ¡°My job description was firmly squeezing tits and waists. Statistically, it is very likely for me to be male.¡±

    Lino decided not to push the issue of a piece of clothing gaining sentience, getting way ahead in the way of illumination and then joining a cult. From what he knew of this new world of his, that was close enough to expected.

    ¡°Roar,¡± The second bear of the group added, not knowing exactly why: he had been taken out of his home in the forest, sent to a gay bar as a spy, and then kidnapped by these madmen. With some luck, they would not see past his astute disguise.

    ¡°As a little aside, which one of you morons brought a grizzly wearing glasses into our sacrificial chamber?¡± But nothing could escape the analytical gaze of Brother B.

    ¡°Brother H has a personal vendetta against them,¡± one of the cultists said.

    Brother H stepped forward.  ¡°No-homo bears killed thousands of my mothers and countless of my siblings. They deserve to be eaten by the Queen of Damned Sin.¡±

    Lino began wondering if his martini had been spiked.

    Sadly, no. For you this is surreal madness. For the locals, this is an unusually quiet weekday.

    This universe was made on drugs.

    No. But it is, arguably, made of drugs.

    Lino began wishing his martini had been spiked.

    ¡°You know what, H? I am tired of your bull. You lead the summoning ritual now.¡±

    Brother B¡¯s steps didn¡¯t emit a sound as he left the center of the pattern and disappeared behind an old, wide pillar of bricks. In hindsight, the fact he hid no feet under the robes should have been obvious.

    Brother H stepped up to occupy his place, red cowl lit by distant, arguably magical yellow lights. When he lowered his hood, the raw truth was revealed: Brother H didn¡¯t have a head either, and, in its expected place, a glass jar of honey¡ªmade by overly mirthful bees, according to the label¡ªrested. The jar was scowling at the sacrifices.

    ¡°Listen here, worthless¡­¡± He started pointing at them, one by one, with his long sleeve. ¡°Thirty!¡±

    Some of the men and women lined to die chuckled at the fact a scowling jar of honey was acting like an authority in front of them.

    ¡°Laugh now, because soon we will bring a hat full of numbers and make you draw one. And when your number comes up, you will have to perform for the Queen of Damned Sin!¡±

 Chapter 59: In Another World Getting Kidnapped at a Gay Bar to be Sacrificed to a Goddess (Part 2)

    Another sibling wearing a hoodie unnaturally effective at concealing facial features ¡ªif there was a face under there at all, that is¡ª entered stage from a tunnel to the right, carrying a red plastic bowl filled with numbered papers. The numbers were written in red ink: blood was too expensive both to get and clean. And everyone knew what had happened to Brother T after he had accumulated enough debt interest with the bank. The blood bank. They found him at the entrance of a tunnel, completely exsanguinated, flaunting a clean bullet wound on his right butt cheek. The autopsy determined the hole was made postmortem, because if you can shoot your bled-out victim in the ass, why wouldn¡¯t you?

    The hooded figure shook the bowl in front of the rightmost man, a good-heartened, two-meters tall fella that would have awoken desires of control in some individuals that ostensibly belong to the Gromera Clan.

    ¡°What if I don¡¯t take a number?¡±

    ¡°You go first.¡±

    ¡°Oh,¡± the man extended a hand of non-evil darkness that I cannot describe as a food item for Reddit-related-reasons ¡ªDespite black people themselves being perfectly valid food items if you are into cannibalism and not racist¡ª and picked up a number. ¡°Three?¡±

    ¡°Better than one.¡± The hooded figure proceeded to offering a number to the second hostage in line, and so it proceeded. Lino didn¡¯t immediately see his number, and instead breathed in deeply before opening the little paper in his hands. He exhaled with a slight relief: Thirteen. He was still in the first half, but there were another twelve sacrifices before him: he had time to gather and digest information about the ritual, plan how to cause an scene to facilitate his escape.

    Once everyone had his number, the sweet voice of Brother H echoed through the titanic chamber again: ¡°Which time is it?¡±

    The timekeeping brother pulled out his cellphone. He had added a gameplay of Flying Sword Parkour to the lower end of his screen to avoid a dopamine low while checking the hour. ¡°Eleven fifty-seven.¡±

    ¡°Good! I have three minutes to introduce you all to our little sect, then! Welcome to the abattoir, pigs!¡±

    ¡°Roar!¡± the actual bear complained. He would not take being mis-specied in silence.

    ¡°You shut up, foul beast, heartless mistake of creation!¡± the jar of honey screeched with a distressing voice. Then he cleared the equivalent of a throat and continued. ¡°As I was saying, you have been chosen as potential mates to our queen¡­¡±

    One of the lesbians raised her hand. ¡°I lack the necessary equipment to mate with your interdimensional ¡ªI assume¡ª queen, big brain.¡±

    ¡°This goes for all women: she eats those she doesn¡¯t like. We strive to keep her diet balanced: if we don¡¯t, she gets a peak of testosterone and her infinite tummies ache.¡±

    ¡°Ah.¡± The girl lowered her hand. ¡°Okay. Dying it is then.¡±

    ¡°Good. If we had an opening, you¡¯d be becoming one of us. Sadly, Brother C, our latest novice, has shown an above-average capacity for surviving with his mind intact.¡±

    Brother C puked the crushed remains of someone¡¯s skull in front of himself, and then, began lapping up the vomit, as a dog would.

    ¡°This boy will lead us to greatness.¡± Brother H made a pause. ¡°Well, digression over, because it¡¯s almost midnight and we will soon, about a minute or two after the clock strikes the zero hours, because we use digital clocks mind you, we will make you perform one by one, and inspired by heavemly grace, you shall sing for the goddess. And if the song is her mating call, well¡­ you will be the Goddess husband. Or meal if you are female. Or a bear.¡±

    The hirsute men gasped in horror.

    ¡°I mean the grizzly with glasses!¡± the jar of honey pinched the area between the eyes of the drawing in his label. ¡°People, the thing is, we will sacrifice a man after midnight, none of you but another victim, which we will call Brother V, that called our suicide hotline and we said we could help him with his problems and, after a brief interview, we decided that he fits our vision for the role of offering. After we kill him, we will call the Queen and you can begin ¡­trying. One last thing: if you are eaten by her your soul will be forever dissolved into her inner sea of torment ¡ªyou know the whole deal, cacophony of screams, a collective mind throbbing with pain, yadda yadda, that stuff. Are we on time, Timekeeping Brother?¡±

    The timekeeping brother was too enthralled playing Pome Samurai to answer.

    The jar of honey shrugged. ¡°Whatever, bring the sacrifice!¡±

    From a tunnel to the left a couple of shrouded figures brought a third in front of them, a fat individual donning blue. They escorted him to the center of the line pattern, where they all converged into a sort of eye or sun. Then, Brother M produced a sawed off shotgun from his robes. ¡°Are you related to brother C, blessed one?¡± he asked in a calm, cold voice.

    ¡°Gods, no, don¡¯t insult me like that,¡± Brother V, the sacrifice, said, hands joined behind his back, free of any restraints. The guy was completely willing.

    ¡°Then we shall proceed as usual. One last question: why do you want to end your life?¡±

    ¡°Next year we have elections.¡±

    Brother M felt a chill running up his spine and pushed the canon of her weapon against the temples of the sacrificial lamb. ¡°Be spared of electoral propaganda and pointless debates, brave one!¡± He pulled the trigger, blowing Brother V¡¯s brains out, all over the jeweled pattern on the floor. Brother M stared at the dead body with an obliterated skull for a few seconds. He then checked the pulse. Yup, it was dead.

    He hurried to leave the chamber, and Brother H raised his arms, his body describing an y shape, making his loose sleeves fall and revealing a pair of hands made entirely out of coalescing bees. He began rubbing his fingers against his thumbs back and forth. ¡°Break through, Queen of Damned Sin! Pstpstpstpstpstpst!¡±

    Lino decided to do a double take of the scene, and even pinched his arm. It wasn¡¯t a dream. They were really summoning a sort of¡­ Lovecraftian horror, he assumed, like one would a cat. And some cats are lovecraftian horrors, I¡¯d say. You can find them in Chinese stores! You¡­

    No, I think I already ranted about that.

    Anyway, the fact of the matter is that Lino couldn¡¯t be lost in his indignation for long, because soon enough the whole chamber started vibrating, and the tourmaline linings began burning with sky-blue light, emanating scorching heat under the feet of the hostages, that quickly gave little jumps to the sides like a housewife that almost steps on a passing cockroach.

    Over the eye-sun a portal the color of a clear sky opened. It seemed to suck in the air around it, distorting the image of Brother H. The remains of the sacrifice floated into the wound upon reality, being swiftly sucked into it, to the last drop of blood.

    Then, silence, a three-second-long brick of solid silence, followed by chittering. A hairy, purple tentacle with a single retractable claw came out of the portal and grabbed onto the border of the anomaly, several like it came immediately after, and whatever was on the other side started pushing to make the portal¡¯s lumen grow.

    Teeth, a crown of teeth pushed through. Teeth human, teeth feline, teeth canine, teeth cetacean. Teeth of fish and teeth of reptiles. Shark scales[1]</a>, too. A viscous liquid poured out violently, falling under the roof, for it was about as stupid as Kalon. A bleeding gash opened in the crown of teeth, and from its insides an anime-mom-rack-sized eye with a green iris and a slit pupil budded out, splattering purple gore everywhere. In other words, she looked half as deformed as AI-generated images of hands.

    The hostages trembled. Or most of them, at least. Lino¡¯s stare was fixed into the emerging creature, his eyes darting from feature to feature. The lips made of wiggling fingers, the chitinous noses, shaped like those of dogs, sprinkled over its slick skin. IT was wrong. Very wrong.

    He crossed his arms, offended. ¡°This is an insulting amount of converging evolution for an alien.¡±

    Brother H, with his task done, turned, labeling away from the monstrosity it had brought forth. Several of the sacrifices seemed jarred by the experience, which made him empathize a bit.

    If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

    ¡°Number one, entertain your Queen!¡±

    ¡°I am antimonarchist!¡± the man who had the number one said.

    ¡°What do we do with antimonarchists, your Highness?¡± Brother H asked, the bee in his label grinning because it was not particularly prone to changing its facial expression.

    The Queen of Damned Sin considered the question and picked a voice to answer. She always used that of the most feared individual in any given dimension she visited. In the past, she had incarnated the collective idea of a plague rat, despotic emperors, capricious gods, and yes, egoistical cultivators. But today, the voice was sourced from the most unsuspected of beings.

    ¡°Burr,¡± The Queen of Damned Sin sentenced.

    ¡°You heard him boys! He performs anyway!¡±

    The revolver bearing brothers pushed the canons against the back of the number one, ushering him forward.

    ¡°Sing for our Queen or die!¡±

    ¡°If she doesn¡¯t like it I die anyway,¡± he argued, and the others in the room, including some members of the Brotherhood, murmured, giving him the reason

    ¡°She is not picky with musical talent, boy. Sing!¡±

    The number one, a blonde metrosexual, cleared his chiseled throat. ¡°Alice, Alice, why are you a meretrix. Alice, Alice, why do you suck that¡ª¡±

    His skin began burning, steam coming from his shaved arms and legs, and his mouth screaming. Each tooth opened in half, revealing long, dendritic tongues that extended over the first unfortunate one. To see a man¡¯s soul being consumed live and direct was a terrifying spectacle. His eyes boiled out, his brain began pouring out his nose, and his perfect butt blistered, which left half of the public aghast.

    His drained husk dropped on the floor and crumbled to dust, the portal lapping the ashes up like my dog pieces of chicken.

    Lino tried to remain cold-headed. There were other eleven chances to figure something out before things went really awry for him. A terrifying question crossed his head.

    ¡°What happens if someone succeeds at courting her Highness?¡±

    ¡°Never happened before.¡± Brother H answered calmly. ¡°But, according to the sacred scriptures, everyone else scheduled for sacrifice gets consumed by her and the chosen one taken to her pocket dimension to keep her company briefly, then returned here physically and spiritually safe and sound.¡±

    Lino gulped loudly.

    Number two was called to perform, and he suffered the same fate . So did number three, and number four¡­

    After number seven died horribly, Lino broke into laughter. The others began whispering that he had lost it.

    That idea, Lino, is the most stupid one I have ever been graced with being exposed to.

    Which means it has about a hundred percent chance of success!

    I mean, they gave her the poor man right after midnight. And there¡¯s hot tourmaline under us. This hunch should be right.

    But if it isn¡¯t, know that you are the cultivator that has lasted the longer under my care.

    A few hours? Do you manage to kill others sooner?

    More like they kill themselves by getting cocky, because they have a system and all.

    And while Lino continued chatted with his system, the number twelve ¡ªone of the lesbians¡ª got devoured.

    ¡°Thirteen! Perform for your Queen! ¡°Brother H proclaimed.

    ¡°Okay, but no guns at my back, I will go there out of my own volition... and win.¡± A smug smile seated itself in Lino¡¯s lips, and left after realizing it was a blowjob danger zone, being replaced by a sad frown. ¡°Sorry, everyone.¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t worry, darling. Sing for your life, and make us proud to die listening to your angelic voice,¡± the bear said, his stare soft, his ears fluffy. ¡°I mean¡­ roar.¡±

    ¡°No fucking way you are a talking grizzly!¡± Brother H said.

    Lino was about to point out the fact that the one complaining was a sentient bunch of bee vomit, but reconsidered at the last moment.

    He stepped forward not like the damned man he was, but like he owned the scenario. An atheist during most of his life, Lino had been given all that he ever wished for: an afterlife. Any afterlife. And this one had come with a body where he could run once more, where he saw the world for what it was, drink alcohol, dance, and speak just as he had once done. An eternity of torture? He had already had one, slave of a brain and prisoner of a body damaged by Parkinson¡¯s. At least, this time, he would be aware of why he was suffering. Standing in front of the monstrosity, he turned to brother H. ¡°Can I get a glass of water?¡±

    ¡°We may be murderous fanatics but let it never be said that we aren¡¯t hospitable. But we don¡¯t have water. Is oil okay?¡±

    ¡°No!¡±

    ¡°Burr¡±, a portal opened by the Queen, and inserting a tentacle into it, she produced a sports drink. Apple flavored, of course. ¡°Burr¡±.

    Lino took the plastic bottle and tasted the drink. It was a foul liquid, tepid and salty, like drinking a Gamer snail¡¯s sweat. Or, in other words, a lukewarm Gatorade.

    ¡°Thanks,¡± Lino said, returning the bottle to the servile tentacle, regretful hydration washing down his throat.

    ¡°Burr.¡±

    ¡°She is saying that you need to sing now,¡± brother H clarified.

    Lino watched the monstrous entity in front of him, the bulging eye with the cat-like pupil, nested among the teeth, surrounded by the noses. IT was time to face it, to¡­

    The Queen of Damned Sin started extending his dendritic tentacles over him, and he knew it was now or never.

    He stepped back just once, and cleared his throat. Without moving any non-necessary muscle, he began singing.

    ¡°Past midnight and the spirits are low¡­¡± he let out with his most delicate, feminine voice. The Queen of Damned Sin stopped her advance, pulling her tentacles back. She would let him perform¡­ for now. ¡°Looking out for a world foretold, where they sing the mate music, slipping through cosmic seams, you need to choose a king¡­¡±

    The Queen of Damned Sin slapped the floor with all of her tentacles, making it tremble.

    Brother H rested a buzzing hand on Lino¡¯s shoulder. ¡°Keep signing,¡± he urged. ¡°If she were displeased with your performance, you would be already dead. Only stop singing if you win, or if you die!¡±

    Lino nodded and continued releasing tension of his arms and beginning to gesture now that he knew his plan was working. He pointed at the other hostages. ¡°Everybody there is THAT gay, some are young and some just wild. But with Earth¡¯s music, everything is mine, if you are in the mood for a curse. ¡®cause if I get the chance¡­¡±

    He threw a malicious grin towards the public, and another brief one to Brother H. Then he caught the closest tentacle of the Queen, making her flush, feeling her soft fur on the palm of his hand and slipping through his fingers. ¡°You are my Damned Sin Queen! About to eat these seventeen.¡±

    Lino began dancing with the tentacle, and the eldritch monstrosity followed his lead, offering another tentacle, even. Her single eye closed in a joyful gesture. ¡°Damned Sin Queen, feel the heat from the tourmaline!¡±

    ¡°Oh yeah!¡± The straight bear provided chorus aid.

    Several members of the brotherhood had started jiving around, dancing with each other.

    ¡°You can enhance your mind-hive, harvest the core of their life. Eat that girl, watch that suite feeding the Damned Sin Queen!¡±

    Lino stopped, and the monstrosity looked at him like a teenage girl looks at a K-poper. ¡°Burr.¡± She purred sensually.

    ¡°She asked you to keep singing, please. Consider it your crowning,¡± Brother H kneeled in front of him, and then raised his Jar to look Lino in the eyes. ¡°My King.¡±

    Gods, you didn¡¯t die. Now I have to stick with you. Shit.

    Lino ignored his system and continued singing his gay ¡ªin all senses of the word¡ª heart out. ¡°You are deity, you turn ¡®em to bone, their bodies burning until they are gone. Hunting out for another, anyone will do: you are in the mood for a curse.¡± He looked his monstrous partner in her teary eye. ¡°And if I get the chance¡­¡±

    The line of hostages erupted in a chorus: They would die, but at least, they would be gone in a goddamn legendary party. ¡°She is your Damned Sin Queen, about to eat us seventeen! Damned Sin Queen, feel the heat of the tourmaline!¡±

    ¡°Ohh!¡± added the grizzly.

    They raised and waved their hands in a cheer, pigs to the ABBA tour. ¡°You can enhance your mind-hive, harvest the cores of our lives!¡± They began dancing with each other, the only remaining lesbian having to settle for the twink. ¡°Eat this girl, watch this suite, vibing with the Damned Sin Queen!¡±

    Once the song settled and Lino paced way from the enthralled goddess to give her her space, silence settled over the chamber like a funeral pall.Thin lines of steam rose from the bodies of everyone present, except for Brother C, Lino and the actual bear.

    ¡°We have satisfied the Goddess, and now, we are rewarded by becoming one with her, forever swimming within her inner, slightly to the left, triple-bathroomed lake of blessings!¡±

    Lino¡¯s mouth stayed agape, his stare reflecting his disgust and confusion. What was the problem of these people?

    It didin¡¯t last long, for a troupe of tentacles came out of a new portal and grasped him thightly. Dragged him into a portal as he screamed and thrashed. Panic taking him over like it would a disco.

    Dea mia, it¡¯s a game she plays. Say bye, Lino: sex could take forever.

    Lino got finally taken into the goddess personal dimension, the wound on reality leading to it healing, leaving an orange scar lingering in the air. Another tentacle loomed in the air, and its hairs bloomed into bloodshot eyes, gathering the steam as vitality left the bodies of almost everyone present in the chamber. Brother C scampered like a rat, not because he was scared, but because he had spotted a juicy cockroach skittering away from the scene. Everyone else, save for the bear, but including the bear¡¯s glasses, slowly lost muscle tone and wrinkled as their lives got consumed by the interdimensional deity. A minute later, the bear was alone, everyone else gone with the goddess. Yes, even Brother H and his bees.

    Brother B stormed back into the chamber, desirous to see what all the ruckus was about. Giving a good look around with his no-head, he addressed the grizzly.

    ¡°So, huh, crowning or magnanimous fuck up?¡± the Bodiceattva asked.

    ¡°Crowning,¡± the bear answered, covering his eyes with his paw to not reveal his true identity.

    ¡°Dammit, I need a new cult to be part of now. Do you know any?¡±

    The bear shyly revealed his face, a glint of familiarity shining in his eyes. ¡°There¡¯s this new cultivation sect that could use a cloth of your talents.¡±

    ¡°Is it worse than this one?¡±

    The bear nodded effusively.

    ¡°Good! Come, I will buy you some salmon.¡±

    And so, bodice and bear ambled away from the massacre, hoping for a bright tomorrow for them both.

    <hr>

    [1]</a> The scales of sharks and closely related forms are unlike those of both other extant fishes, reptiles and birds: Fish scales are made of different layers of bone (this varies by group), and scales of birds and reptiles are of dermal origin and made from keratin. Shark scales are essentially made of dentin and enamel, just like teeth. What this means for the barely legal fanarts of your favorite V-tuber, I don¡¯t know. I don¡¯t want to know.

 Chapter 60: Kalon Chews Some Fat Puppy

    Next to the cheapest inn in all of Honeytown (the one that had rats[1]</a> in the cellar, bats in the attic, and brats in the ground floor, all of them thoroughly unvaccinated against rabies) there rested an alley. It was more than the space between two contiguous buildings, more than a dark stretch of a settlement where crimes were eagerly begotten. It was a place of gathering, a place where lovers met each other (and got robbed), where the homeless could find refuge from the cold winds of the morning (and get robbed), a place where drunkards purged their stomachs from the night¡¯s catch (and got robbed), and were robbers hanged out (and got, you guessed it, robbed). Now, it was also the place where two children, a girl and a boy, that avoided robbery because the girl bullied the thieves into cutting their own throats, spun a Rottweiler puppy on a spit, the girl pouring a tiny amount of salt and spcies on it now and then.

    Jagger watched the heinous act with jowls pursed. Maybe it was the up and coming cannibalism, maybe it was seeing his peer being slow-roasted over the crackling fire, or maybe it was that, despite the act being so wrong, it smelled delicious.

    Brunhilda was in charge of whetting the knives her pupil and Samari had borrowed from the innkeepers. She lay in the middle of the alleyway, forelegs crossed, and haughtily stared at the blades, bluntness scurrying away from them as she held her judgement. ¡°Burr.¡±

    Kalon¡¯s Avatar had gotten a piece of rope from scrapping a stray memory, and now looked about the infrastructure of his mind for a place to hang a noose from. To his misfortune, it was all an open nothingness below and clear void above. Except for the skeleton of a wolf or dog that lied, bleached by the scorching sun and denuded of the last gram of flesh by mind flies, around a kilometer to the east.

    The puppy being roasted had opinions, legend tells. Had. Before being skewered by Samari. I know roasting puppies isn¡¯t very heroic of an act for our protagonistic group, so, for the sake of your moral high ground, let me ease your worries with the following: The puppies were Nazis. You may not believe me, and that¡¯s okay, because you would be believing a lie. But, for the sake of your peace of mind, think of the puppies as being worse than Hitler.

    Samari spun the disgraced Nazi slowly over the fire. The puppy didn¡¯t don a snazzy uniform, nor proudly displayed swastikas on its coat. It had even killed less Jews than pathogens considered mostly neutral or philosemitic. But it had changed breed in front of Samari¡¯s eyes, and if that¡¯ wasn¡¯t evidence of delicious internalized bigotry, nothing was. OF course, Samari had no idea what a Nazi was, because Cabaret didn¡¯t have world wars: it had angry cultivators causing the damages equivalent to an army, gods against which hatred was more than justified, and Brunhilda.

    The girl¡¯s mouth watered as the poor thing slowly cooked over the fire. She hadn¡¯t even skinned it, as in Samari¡¯s full-teethed opinion, skinning most animals was a waste. One just had to get over the soft and gentle aroma of burnt hair and it all worked out splendidly.

    Kalon had sat a few paces away. He was hungry, but he couldn¡¯t eat a puppy! They looked like Jagger, and Jagger was his brother from another cabbage. And, what¡¯s worse, once the hair of your nostrils was burnt by the stench of scorched keratin, the food began to smell really, really good.

    ¡°Kalon, a few more turns and this little one will be well-done,¡± Samari announced, humming a happy tune as she spun their meal once and again to spread the heat evenly.

    ¡°Samari, I get that puppies were cheap and that we had limited coins, I am not that stupid¡ª¡±

    ¡°Yes, yes you are,¡± Jagger and Samari interrupted in unison.

    ¡°I may be that stupid. But even I know that eating puppies is wrong.¡±

    ¡°Kalon, I lived alone in a ghost town for almost a year. I ate remains of people after making sure they were properly cooked. I ate squirrels. I ate, even, berries that were sour and acidic. I prefer cultivator meat, if only slightly, above those berries. Many of you are¡­ too fibrous, your muscles are not juicy at all. No offense meant but¡­¡± Samari saw the stare in Kalon¡¯s face and Joined her hands. ¡°I am being weird again, am I not?¡±

    Kalon nodded in silence, his distressed expression still present in his face.

    ¡°Well, sorry. Truth is¡­ I feel at ease with you three. I was alone for so long,¡± she whined, taking the skewered puppy out of the fire and placing it over a cloth piece she had bought so they wouldn¡¯t need to eat in the dirty floor nor inside that inn. ¡°I met you less than a week ago but I feel at ease with you three. You have treated me relatively well, despite how annoying and/or lethal I can get at times. And yes, you are pretty annoying yourselves too, but¡­ it¡¯s clear you are good people.¡±

    Jagger decided not to laugh at this. She was opening her heart to them and not in the way that implied jets of blood shooting from her chest.

    ¡°Yes, Jagger, I called you people.¡±

    Jagger took exception at this remark. ¡°Well, fuck you too.¡±

    This elicited a smile from Samari, but it soon got lsot as she began thinking of her mother. She missed some things about her, despite hating her guts for what she had done to her. Or how she had done her.

    Kalon forwarded a finger, having finally assembled a semi-coherent thought.

    ¡°So, Sam, what exactly happened to your town?¡±

    She leaned forward, keeping her tone low. ¡°Well, the Sub-Aryan traps burned down most buildings and killed almost everyone in Diamonter Town. They spared me and a few other children. It didn¡¯t took long for the others to go away or die, so I found myself surviving alone, in sole company of my wolf friend, Ruth. I carved myself a mask out of wood and began making intricate traps that would entertain the gods when triggered, a sort of performer of death. I was scared, I needed all the help I could find, and if cultivators make one big deal with the heavens we Arcagnostics, even if reluctantly, make hundreds of smaller ones. The next cultivators that came seeking blood for sure wouldn¡¯t spare me: I needed to end them while remaining hidden. And it often worked, except for the fact I didn¡¯t plan for a talking dog tracking me down.¡± Samari ripped an ear from the roasted puppy and started nibbling on it. She chewed it fast, swallowing after not even three seconds. ¡°I may have gone overboard with the pepper.¡±

    You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

    Kalon ignored the commentary about spices and tried to think of a new question. His brain was, metaphorically, asking him to pay ten gems or wait four hours for energy to refill. ¡°So, hum¡­ you want revenge? To get strong enough to kill those bad cultivators?¡±

    Samari began laughing such that she was glad she hadn¡¯t taken another bite of the puppy. ¡°No, Kalon, no. That¡¯s too lowly and unproductive. To seek revenge would be unbecoming of me. There¡¯s nothing of value to gain, and it would take me years to achieve.¡±

    Kalon¡¯s back stiffened up. ¡°But they must pay! If you don¡¯t seek justice, nobody will! Don¡¯t be stupid, Samari.¡±

    ¡°You wrongly assume somebody ought to.¡±

    Jagger jumped on Samari¡¯s lap and gleaned at her. ¡°Are you really nine years old? You don¡¯t talk like one.¡±

    ¡°Yes, I was born nine years ago, I am just well-read! Ask again and you become my next barbeque!¡± She crossed her arms and pouted. ¡°Idiots.¡±

    Samari wrapped up the already cooked puppy and handed it to Kalon. There were few better ways to force a change of subject. ¡°I want to see if consuming faux-Rottweiler-puppies benefits your cultivation. I have no use for this knowledge right now, but it could aid me , for example, to elucidate how the box that spawned them works at an spiritual level.¡±

    ¡°Are you basically using him as an authenticity test, then?¡± Jagger asked, seemingly not very interested in whether the answer was a yes or a no.

    Samari smiled and joined her hands. ¡°Exactly. If he is going to benefit from having an Arcagnostic for a friend, I am going to squeeze every drop of utility I can out of him to further my own knowledge of the world.¡±

    Jagger tilted his head. ¡°Then why don¡¯t you just pick a road and start cultivating? You could test those things on yourself.¡±

    She leaned over and picked Jagger up despite the puppy¡¯s murderer¡¯s stare, and, standing, raised him above her head ¡°You have a point. I¡¯ll follow the road of the Rottweiler!¡± She proclaimed. One second spanned. Then two, then three. And nothing happened. No divine light descended to bless her, no choic of angels sung the finding of a new cultivator. ¡°See? It doesn¡¯t work.¡±

    ¡°Well, no, you cannot use another cultivator¡¯s chosen weapon,¡± Kalon said in an unusual smug tone. He knew about the subject at hand, and that was a position where he didn¡¯t find himself often. ¡°You could try with Brunhilda, though.¡±

    Brunhilda glanced at them, snarled, and then reality warped around her, frightened, so she wasn¡¯t snarling anymore. ¡°Burr,¡± the bitch lamented, downtrodden. She was a victim of her own powers.

    ¡°No, picking a road requires intent to follow it. And Samari has none.¡±

    ¡°Correct. Do you want to be put back on the floor, little scrumptious puppy?¡±

    Jagger shook his head and began panting. He was in the perfect position to urinate his captor¡¯s face. He could, he had the power right now. And she had the power to cook him alive. Decisions, decisions¡­

    Kalon unpacked the cooked puppy wrapped in the mantelpiece and held it in front of his face with both hands. He couldn¡¯t eat that. It looked so peaceful, so defenseless and with a so perfectly browned underbelly. The hair had come off during cooking, the puppy¡¯s skin shrinking and tearing to reveal the tender flavors waiting underneath the surface. It looked so peaceful, and Kalon was hungry, and the puppy was already cooked and¡­

    Luckily for us, Kalon¡¯s stomach took over the thinking department and tried firing the brain, just to find out it wasn¡¯t even employed.

    The boy sunk his teeth into the tender flesh of the Magically Conceived Organism (MCO), sending the god of GMO¡¯s reeling backwards from the shock. He hadn¡¯t noticed Samari doing it, as looking at what Samari was up to was considered recreation, instead of work. It was similar, for them, to watching a comedian.

    Like a Siamese kitten being crushed under a road roller in a way non-referential to Jojo¡¯s Bizarre Adventure, the meat purred pathetically as it got chewed by Kalon. As teeth squeezed the fatty juices out and the boy moaned in delight. Bite by bite Kalon peeled the well-done muscle off from the carcass, and Samari¡¯s fingertips contacted, briefly and one by one, with their non-superimposable mirror images.

    Kalon¡¯s spirit welled inside its channels. Enticed by the fresh Rottweiler essence getting introduced into the boy¡¯s system, it pumped with renewed vigor. Who cared if they were imitation puppies? They could be assimilated: to crawl or to run were both valid approaches to advancing down a Road. Prancing isn¡¯t, though: we know how that ends for deer.

    Kalon dropped what remained of the half-eaten puppy as he noticed the veins of his arm beating. It burned from the inside, emerging through the skin as festering geysers of energy. It felt as if there was a little Rottweiler inside every pore, scratching and nibbling on the edges for it to open and be let out.

    Kalon¡¯s world went round and round, the image of Samari roasting another puppy on the spit and Jagger being given a tongue bath by Brunhilda mixing with the piled up boxes by the further exit from the alley, with the streak of starry sky over them, with the dusty concrete ground. It turned so fast and with such force that, were it a song, Fito Paez and Warner Music would sue for copyright infringement.

    And as it all mixed, a silhouette formed on the darkest spots. A couple yellow eyes lit amidst the abstract and deformed landscape, blinding Kalon to everything else.

    ¡°Breaking through, my boy?

    Kalon didn¡¯t answer, he was too engrossed in his confusion, in the sensations pounding out the floodgates of his body and soul.

    Samari watched him with the level of concern one generally reserves for the food at the back of the fridge, that which isn¡¯t expired yet, but soon will be, and yet you don¡¯t want to eat today.

    ¡°Are those fleas crawling out of his skin?¡±

    Jagger approached Kalon and licked his skin, lapping up several little black, moving dots. ¡°No, puppies.¡±

    ¡°Figures.¡±

    The twerp began to spasm while, inside his mind, images of ferocious dogs chewed on the delicate threads of his spirit. It hurt! It hurt so good!

    In this state, Kalon bit his tongue, and it bled. He tasted the iron and smiled with sharp teeth as some of his molars and premolars changed shape into dentine scissors, his canines became more becoming of their name, hence becoming becoming of becoming becoming.

    He gagged and hissed like a cat trying to vomit a fur ball, eyes blind and looking in two different directions.

    ¡°Welcome, Kalon, to the next stage of your road: Rottweiler Trainer Extraordinaire. Now you are allowed to summon me to take over and fight for you, increasing your power onepointtwentyfivefold.

    ¡°Guh?¡±

    The avatar sighed. ¡°It¡¯s like you have two and a half more fingers to punch things with. In each hand.¡±

    ¡°Awesome!¡±

    ¡°My personality will override yours while I take over.¡± The floating, blurry Rottweiler head informed.

    Kalon realized something, which was unusual for him. ¡°What¡¯s your name, Avatar? You ought to have one.¡±

    Silence settled between them for a couple heartbeats.

    ¡°I have none,¡± the words rushed out of the avatar¡äs mouth.

    ¡°Aijabnon is a cute name. Can I call you Abnon?¡±

    The Rottweiler head ellipsed out loud. There were tangible spaces of frustration between each dot.

    ¡°Is that a no?¡±

    ¡°You are special Kalon. Now, let me take over. It won¡¯t hurt you.¡±

    Kalon accepted woithout protesting, the transformation rippling over his body, making him taller, more muscular, and giving him a snout. In other words, he became a fucking furry.

    The dog-man straightened his back, standing two and half meters (for the North American fauna, this is about 0.02688172043 statues of liberty, pedestal included) tall, casting a shadow under Samari that was as dark as his fur.

    He cracked his knuckles. ¡°So you tried to kill Kalon the other day, lassie. I don¡¯t take kindly to people who mess with my idiot. Choose a bone from your body, and I shall leave it intact.¡±

    Samari regarded the avatar with a disinterested gesture. ¡°I am cooking.¡±

    ¡°Hey, don¡¯t ignore me. Jagger, tell her to not ignore me!¡±

    Jagger was far too busy grooming Brunhilda¡¯s leg to care.

    ¡°Brunhilda, Tell Jagger to not ignore¡ª¡° he was interrupted by Samari jumping to reach his face with a hand, and grabbing onto it, her spirit grasping his inside the nostrils. ¡°You are far too annoying.¡±

    And that¡¯s how Kalon and his avatar learned about Samari¡¯s dogpicking skill: the horrifying yet casual way.

    <hr>

    [1]</a> Polytheistic.

 Chapter 61: Awakenings

    He had emerged out of the gayfication cocoon in the middle of the night, thirsty and craving married man ass. Now Cutbastra was covered in a viscous and white fluid that, judging by its flavor, couldn¡¯t be cum, or otherwise oral sex would have been outlawed long ago. The room that slowly appeared around him as his eyes got used to the darkness was the kind of chaos that slowly distresses one out because it ought to showcase a pangolin somewhere, yet the curious mammal is nowhere to be found. Whenever he thought he had made out one of the objects in the room, he saw a wrong line, a wrong angle that made the chair not-quite-a-chair and sent his brain reeling.

    The more he saw the heavier his breath got. Nothing in that room made sense, except the cocoon. A pang of angst welled from the depths of his essence, devoid of any trace of olin.

    ¡°Faren? Where are you, Faren?,¡± he called for his friend, unsure of where the exit door was located.

    ¡°I am everywhere where I am not not,¡± His friend¡¯s voice echoed through the room, its source as unrecognizable as the images his brain constantly struggled to make heads or tails and Knuckles of.

    ¡°What kind of place is this, you nincompoop, which deviant room did you stash me into this time?¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s my closet. You have to come out of it.¡±

    Cutbastra Joined his hands in a gesture of utmost worry for his friend¡¯s mental health. ¡°Since how long ago were you waiting for the day I come to you to become bisexual?¡±

    ¡°Years, Cutbastra friend, years!¡±

    ¡°Just to make the joke of me coming out of a closet?¡±

    ¡°Er¡­ yes. Any problem with that?¡±

    Cutbastra sat on the floor, over an image of a flattened not-cat-not-chair-not-jacket. ¡°You ask, like I didn¡¯t know you, old bastard. I expected a prank of this¡­ caliber.¡± Cutbastra looked around, taking in the impossible objects that drifted across the dark space. ¡°What are these supposed to be, anyway?¡±

    ¡°Arcagnostic¡¯s Catalog of Unrecognizable Objects to do a Little Trolling, Volumes 3 to 8,¡± Faren¡¯s voice noted, almost robotically.

    ¡°Your people are a menace to this world and its inhabitants,¡± Cutbastra jokingly paraphrased something Faren had told him long ago, on the day they had met in the heat of the battle.

    To this Faren, who waited outside the closet¡ªnot immediately next to it but rather anywhere else but in the closet¡ª laughed heartily. ¡°Well, you are going to be a menace To the world¡¯s chastity now.¡±

    Cutbastra glowered at a random spot in the deranged room. ¡°How dare you. To cultivate, I only fuck married wo¡ª¡° a smile grew on his face. ¡°Married people.¡± He hopped a bit in place, feeling lighter than ever at the realization that the cravings were there. ¡°I can feel it: Full-fledged bisexuality courses through my veins. I don¡¯t even feel odd thinking about doing husbands now.¡± Then, he lowered his gaze to the floor and fell on his ass. ¡°But I still have to seduce them or the world ends. What a chore.¡±

    ¡°I sometimes forget you don¡¯t like going around having sex, friend.¡±

    ¡°Of course I don¡¯t like it! I am like the nine-to-five homewrecker of the world. And if I changed my road I¡¯d need to start all over. It was fun the first few years, and only the first few years.¡±

    Light carved a path through the darkness, a crack of brightness widening as Faren opened the door slowly, fearing for the integrity of his ass. He could fend for himself against Cutbastra, and had preemptively casted his own anus out of existence for the following hour, but the primal fear remained.

    In a fraction of a second, the Cultivator rushed in front of Faren¡¯s face, pulled a permanent marker out of his pocket dimension, and wrote something on his forehead.Then he exited the closet, passing by the Arcagnostic, who was staring at him with bleary and incredulous eyes.

    ¡°You drew a dick up there, didn¡¯t you?¡±

    Cutbastra stared at his friend¡¯s goatee. ¡°Maybe. See you later, where¡¯s the exit?¡±

    Faren shrugged, smiling. ¡°Hell if I know.¡±

    Three hours later, Faren, home alone save for the hierophant he refused to ever address, would pass in front of a mirror and remember to check his friend¡¯s work of art.He frowned at the word written there, punctuated by a heart ¡°thanks¡±. Cutbastra knew there was nothing to thank him for. Faren wasn¡¯t doing this only out of appreciation for his friend or out the goodness of his heart; he was facilitating Cutbastra¡¯s suicidal mission to save the world from one of the most powerful intradimensional beings they knew. And he wouldn¡¯t help: to face Chalazarian was to die, there was no way around it. And he wanted to live. He wanted to persist even in a world full of suffering, in a landscape turned to the dragon¡¯s hellish domain. He wasn¡¯t going to seek death after having strived for so long to become immortal. Decades turned to centuries of reading and experimenting with his spirit and the world as he found his way, unique for every Arcagnostic, to bribe away death.

    He grunted and stomped on the floor. ¡°Moron.¡± And the comment wasn¡¯t directed necessarily at Custbastra, but to himself, because he had let a friendship with a cultivator grow on him, and now he would pay the toll every one of his friendships with non-Arcagnostics costed him in the end: unassailable grief.

    <hr>

    Lino opened his eyes. This action alone was unfathomably painful. His whole body ached as he floated adrift on the mating chamber. The most distressing aspect of it wasn¡¯t the distorted dimensions, the walls of pulsing purple flesh, or the libraries full of ¡ªand only of¡ª copies of Ready Player One. It wasn¡¯t even the giant, metallic mates ¡ªthe Gaucho Messi Tango Default variety¡ª that ambled at the corners of his vision, which disappeared whenever he tried to fix his gaze on them. No, it was Abba¡¯s greatest hits being sung by a voice that could be attributed to a follower of the Road of Gonads that crossed paths with a follower of the Road of Torsion. That, and the fact the System communicated in English, but it, somehow, felt like devious French to him.

    Love what you''re reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on.

    You are awake.

    If you do the skyrim bit again I swear¡­

    ¡°Can I drink some mate?¡± Nothoracopteris argentinica asked rudely, still active inside his head.

    You are a fossil without a mouth!

    ¡°My matrix is porous enough.¡±

    He imagined a pack of yerba, floated it over his avatar, mentally poured it over the fossil, and then he imagined a kettle, and with it he soaked his avatar in near-boiling water.

    ¡°Wiiiiiiiii!¡± the pteridosperm shouted, prey to absolute, steaming bliss.

    Great, she is a masochist too.

    Were you expecting something different from the dead, lithified remains of a long extinct plant? diagenesis changes people. Besides flattening them, I mean.

    Lino half-closed his eyes. There was nothing he could do in there, waiting for his new wife to¡­ waiting for his new wife to do something. Anything. She hadn¡¯t been particularly active, besides taking him to this impossible place, telling him to stay there in his own voice and closing the door in her way out.

    He fell into deep introspection. Floating here he didn¡¯t feel hunger, nor thirst, nor pain, nor lacks of any sort. What was the dream of the sentient mind, except having the entirety of time to appreciate itself? It was not like Parkinson¡¯s, Parkinson¡¯s made you a prisoner of an achy jail that conspired against you, and it took your clarity of mind away to boot. Here, he was a guest. Deprived of all freedom but he one to think and speak, sure, but why would he need them. A body without wants was a body without a need to run, jump, swim or climb. A body that floated around didn¡¯t need to rest its legs, to change position when sleeping, or to even, go to the bathroom. He still had a body, but it was merely ornamental to his mind now.

    He was taken out of his ruminations when a group of small animals, mostly varied marine invertebrates, and fewly a single minuscule cow, floated by in front of his face. He turned his head to follow them with his eyes.

    ¡°Hey, a new one,¡± commented the bigger of them, a flat creature covered in a multipartite shell.

    ¡°Mood eternal evening,¡± the cow greeted Lino.

    ¡°We are going to die, die, die!¡± kept repeating one of the smaller invertebrates, a tiny creature with a single-piece shell on its back.

    ¡°Hello, do you have names?¡± Lino decided to start with the right foot.

    ¡°My name is Shelly,¡± the cow answered, clearly used to the concept of names.

    ¡°I am Shelly,¡± said the flat one, the leader.

    ¡°I, too, am Shelly,¡± said the fatalist one.

    ¡°Pleasure to meet you, Shelly,¡± a lilliputian creature resembling a crustacean somewhat extended a leg in a salute.

    ¡°And I am¡­¡± began something resembling a mollusk.

    ¡°Let me guess: Shelly?¡± Lino interrupted the slow thing.

    ¡°¡­ Pancracio.¡±

    Lino pulled his head back in confusion. This was very anticlimactic.

    ¡°He¡¯s a surrogate,¡± the cow explained, ¡°for Shelly.¡±

    Something clicked inside Lino¡¯s head. Metaphorically, I mean, as he hadn¡¯t been inserted a mechanism, a mouse for example, in the brain. That would be silly.

    The system felt a foreboding sensation: something mightily stupid was about to happen.

    ¡°Wait, you are small, correct?¡± he asked, a smile finding it¡¯s way into Lino¡¯s face, bit by bit.

    ¡°Yes,¡± said the possible crustacean.

    ¡°And you are¡­ fauna, correct?¡±

    ¡°Pretty mooch,¡± answered the only one there who would moo so carelessly.

    ¡°And you are all Shelly, or filling in for Shelly.¡±

    ¡°Yes, yes, you are correct,¡± answered Shelly.

    Lino¡¯s face was that of a child in the interval between discovering petards and their first lost finger, ¡°Then you are Small Shelly Fauna! But¡­ why the cow?¡±

    ¡°Do you have a problem with me?¡±

    ¡°There weren¡¯t cows in the Cambrian. There weren¡¯t tetrapods in the Cambrian. I mean, the flat one is a Halkieria I believe, and the others possibly fit too. But you are a goddamn cow!¡±

    The bovine scowled, and the force of the gesture sent her spinning over her axis. ¡°Yes, I am. And yes, there were cows in the Cambrian. There was me.¡±

    ¡°No, there weren¡¯t.¡± The scientist discussed with the empirical evidence. ¡°There was no way for a cow to survive in the Cambrian, as land plants didn¡¯t even exist. Our first records of bryophytes are from the Ordovician.¡± He picked the cow up from its tiny tail and examined her up close, the cow¡¯s angry eyes glinting like shards of glass among the sand-

    ¡°I ate algae, of course. Cows can eat algae.¡± The cow¡¯s eyes went wide as she reminisced the trauma. ¡°And some algae can eat cows.¡±

    ¡°Oh no, she remembered Lola,¡± lamented Pancracio.

    Shelly the Cow began whining as some of the invertebrates tried to console her.

    ¡°Are you happy now? You made her think about her sister, that got eaten by The Horrid Devourer,¡± the Halkieria chastised Lino , curling its body into an s shape, as if it were taking its fists to its inexistent waist.

    Lino was going to complain, but decided to use his ample experience as a paleobotanist to escape this conundrum.

    ¡°The fossil record is both imperfect and incomplete. Not everything that lived had a chance to fossilize, not everything that fossilized will ever be found, and part of what has been found, is being found, or will be found won¡¯t preserve the characteristics we would like to study,¡± he pronounced like one would a mantra. Oh, how many times he had explained it to first year students. ¡°So maybe there was some animal that resembled algae in the Cambrian, and¡ª¡±

    ¡°No, no: it was a monster made purely out of carnivorous, multicellular algae. What do you think caused the Cambrian explosion? Do you think Ediacaran fauna wasn¡¯t happy with their simple life, resting on bacterial mats, getting casts made out of them when they died, huh? Why would they leave this life of lazy abundance if not because an algae-based predator hunted them to extinction?¡±

    Lino wanted to point out there were several theories to explain it, without resorting to logic, defying ghosts, feared by a mad cow.

    ¡°Lola! I will avenge you! I will eat all algae on the seas! Moo!¡±

    Shelly (crustacean) noticed Lino staring at Shelly (cow) with a bit of amused disbelief about her claims. ¡°The explanation for Shelly and Lola being cows swimming in Cambrian seas is that they are Size-Travelling, Time-shrunk cows.¡±

    Shelly made a respectful pause, and Shelly cowtinued.

    ¡°Moo, it is true. Moo. We were normal, Holocene cows living on a Holocene farm managed by Holocene farmer, in the Holocene.¡±

    Lino nodded, lips pursed, like one would when listening to a stupid little sister.

    ¡°And then, moo, one day, they invented time travelling, moo, and we wanted to go to the future, moo, to eat new variants of grass, moo.¡±

    Lino was willing to take the cow¡¯s story at face value. Stranger things had happened to him as of late. ¡°Aha, go on, go on.¡±

    ¡°And, and¡­ the time machine polarity had been inverted, moo. So when we entered it, instead of being sent to the future, we were shrunk!¡±

    Riveting. Most heartrending. A tragedy.

    Shut up, let shelly finish her deranged tale. I have nothing better to entertain myself with.

    ¡°My genocidal, unicellular ancestors will one day smile upon me,¡± the seed fern inside Lino¡¯s head said as it tried to remember how to do photosynthesis.

    ¡°¡­ and after days and days of tiring travel through dangerous fields where praying mantises tried to eat us, we arrived to the scientist¡¯s size-changing laboratory. And we stepped onto the Deshrinking-ray, hoping to be normal cows again. But the de-shrinking ray polarity had been reversed, so it sent us back in time to the Cambrian! Mooo! Moooo!¡± she cried disconsolately. ¡°The Devourer ate Lola on day two, mooo!¡±

    ¡°Then we found her, and adopted her, because she looks funny,¡± a Shelly concluded Shelly¡¯s tragic tale.

    Lino sighed. It would be a long, long stay in the mating chamber.

 Chapter 62: Samari, Empress of Caffeine

    Kalon woke up sporting almost-human features once again, except, as you can imagine, for the intelligence that supposedly characterizes most hominids. He wasn¡¯t surprised, he wasn¡¯t even aware of the fact that he existed, yet. His avatar was screaming inside his head, and that wasn¡¯t particularly worrisome. The room was not his, but his mom had always told him that as long as he was waking up in someone¡¯s room, logic dictated that he would be mostly safe.

    He felt a pressure in his chest, oppressive little paws climbing through it and towards his head. Opening his eyes and focusing after a few seconds, he found Jagger coming to what, Kalon interpreted, was his aid.

    ¡°Mission failed, I cannot take a crap on his face now,¡± Jagger told Brunhilda, who, sitting beside the bed, looked at him disappointed.

    The puppy jumped off the bed, wishing to explode dramatically midair, but¡­ you know. Instead, he met the wood planks of the floor face first, becoming the proud parent of a loud thud.

    Kalon looked around the room, at his bed of brown sheets and at the separate one, cclean and tidy, clearly not slept on. He scratched his head a bit as his brain finished waking up.

    ¡°Where¡¯s Samari?¡± he asked, more out of a sense of something missing, of a crime against the feng shui of that particular space, than of concern for his new friend.

    ¡°Samari went with her god¡­¡± Jagger said, sniffing. A beat of silence spanned, as if he was being swallowed by the all-encompassing depression that griefs begets, ¡°her goddamn necessity to be a nuisance. She¡¯s annoying people in the main hall. Getting paid for it.¡±

    In a bout of brilliance, Kalon checked if he had his trust loincloth on, and rushed out of the bed. Exiting the room and turning down around the corners, they found themselves on the noisy main hall. Over pine tables patrons drank, played cards, and stabbed each other. Rabid toddlers stalked in dark corners, and under empty tables. Their eyes shone like those of a predator, and they craved the sweet taste of ankles. A cultivator, dressed in golden clothes and sporting a cowboy hat, was flaunting his recurrent customer card, and using it for what his dealer intended. Kalon and the dogs watched with curiosity as he, as he was explaining to his date, cultivated ¡ª he followed the Road of Overdosing ¡ª sniffing three lines in a row, his spirit intumescing with newfound power, dilating just as much as his pupils. ¡°Wohoo!¡± He slapped the table, instantly vaporizing it, making his date, who was leaning on it, boil alive in her own skin, the smell of burnt wood, meat and silicone filling the air before being swiftly beaten to death by the stench of sweat and alcohol. ¡°Dammit! Not again!¡± he grumbled before storming out of the inn, forgetting his bag of cultivation materials on the chair. Nobody commented on it, for that was just an average happening in this place.

    One of the undertable children came and snatched the bag of cocaine. It would feed his rabies-ridden brain for weeks on end.

    That¡¯s when they spotted Samari, casually passing next to a table of people playing cards. Fat and hairy men laughed and giggled as they dropped their monsters and conjurations on the table.

    ¡°A second dancing with your shadow? It¡¯s turn three, dude, chill!¡± commented a small man with glasses. Samari peeked over the big dude¡¯s shoulders and bit her tongue. She extended a begging hand towards the player and wiggled her eyebrows. After a grunt and some search in the patron¡¯s wide pockets, a couple of diamond coins fell on Samari¡¯s hand. ¡°Pleasuretodobusinesswithyou, sir.¡±

    ¡°Scamper off, rat. You may have bought the innkeeper¡¯s complicity, but if you keep on extorting people in exchange for not revealing their hands, you will be courting death soon!¡±

    ¡°I will make sure to not only court death, but also give him or her an unforgettable wedding night. I have my mother¡¯s charms, after all. Oh, and thanks for your patronage, sir,¡± Samari said, patting him on the shoulder and winking.

    Samari turned her head towards her friends, her eyes open wide, injected in blood. ¡°Kalon, Jagger, there you are!¡± She then turned the rest of her body, as if swiveling. Samari trembled up to them, her fingers twitching as she approached. ¡°I am securing funds by bullying some nerds.¡±

    ¡°Gods, girl, how much coffee did you drink?¡± Jagger asked.

    ¡°I can sing speed metal songs now,¡± Samari answered, blinking way more than it was healthy.

    ¡°Well, that¡¯s not so bad¡­¡±

    ¡°Including the guitar solos.¡±

    Jagger wondered if she knew how to play guitar for a second, and then he realized she meant she could sing guitar. ¡°That cannot be good for your health.¡±

    Samari¡¯s tremulous smile widened, ¡°I gave a heart attack to my heart attack and stole its wallet.¡±

    Kalon raised a finger, but Jagger gestured a sad no towards him: Samari was now beyond the point of salvation.

    ¡°I can remember the immediate future,¡± she proudly claimed.

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    ¡°It¡¯s okay, Samari, it¡¯s okay, go to bed,¡± Jagger tried to reason with her.

    ¡°No!¡±

    Like a gremlin, the Arcagnostic rushed to the bar, knocked on it to call the attention of the innkeeper and threw a few diamond coins at the mirthful, bald man. They bounced against his apron as he organized a few wine bottles.

    ¡°Another! Gimme, gimme, gimme!¡±

    The man swiftly poured a cup of black, steaming coffee that had been so long in the pot that it had developed geological activity. Samari downed it like heavy rain a paper plane. She drank so fast that gravity began sweating due to the sheer effort it was making to pull the coffee down her gullet.

    She felt veins coursing through her electricity. For her, in those moments, the bartender and a continent moved at the same relative speed. Even her thoughts were slow, for her. She needed better myelin sheaths. Maybe overclocked ones.

    Jagger pulled on her pants to catch her attention again. Her head shifted position at an unnatural speed to look at the puppy. ¡°What?¡±

    ¡°Samari, I have noticed incongruences in your behavior since we met.¡±

    ¡°I know, I complained about the spirit puppies being crushed, but I cooked another set of spirit-made puppies and then Kalon was the one to more-or-less care. It¡¯s not incongruent. Needless cruelty is different from the preparation of foodstuffs. Delicious cruelty is perfectly justified,¡± she explained in about 1.7 seconds.

    Jagger nodded. As a dog, he had to agree about food trumping morality.

    ¡°Your wisdom is to me a distant lighthouse guiding me to the shores of the dumbass sea, Samari.¡±

    The cocaine cultivator got back into the inn, recovered his cocaine, produced a stripper out of his pocket dimension, made her bend over, poured a line of fairy dust on her right buttock, snorted it up and fell to the floor, victim of a seizure.

    ¡°Ha, looks like a brother is breaking through!¡± Kalon announced proudly.

    The other patrons, those who were either sober enough to care or drunk to the point of having to care, turned their heads, and rooted for the frothing man. This included the stripper, that stopped beating the ankle-biter that had ruined her fishnet stockings to death just to cheer for her abuser. Once a cheerleader, always a cheerleader.

    Flakes of cocaine from all over the continent felt the call of their new monarch. They rushed out of noses, lungs, bricks, pockets and bags, elevating in the air, floating up the skies to meet with their kin. The sweet melody of ethereal banjos followed the drug on their upwards and forward journey. And among clouds of water formed clouds of the psychostimulant, an insult to all those poor bastards who had been deprived of their hard earned fix. These gatherings of cocaine began drifting lazily, drawn in a spiral ¡ªthey avoided straight lines due to past traumas¡ª towards the eye of the storm, towards the follower of the Road of Overdose. With every passing second the clouds accelerated, soon reaching match speeds as they travelled to their final destination. So exaggerated was this dash, so violent this charge into servitude, that the drug descended like a tornado around the inn, entering via every door, window, keyhole and, for an absolute lack of a better-fitting word, crack.

    And once inside the inn, it flooded towards the nose of the cultivator, seeking to enter his respiratory system like it was Black Friday and the alveoli were on sale. Tons upon tons of cocaine rushed past scared bystanders, rabid children, and an orphaned girl that had been rendered immune to its effects by virtue of having more stale expresso than cytoplasm inside her cells, intruding the man¡¯s nostrils in droves. The cultivator flailed his arms and called for a mom (most likely his own mom, but it remains up to debate in academic circles, triangles, squares, and dodecahedrons).

    Samari borrowed an old man¡¯s walking stick to poke the cultivator in the ribs as this all happened, impervious to the drug storm around her. For her, the savage gusts were but a gentle breeze, exfoliating her delicate skin and gathering into the most expensive little dunes the people there had ever seen.

    Eventually, all cocaine found its way inside the cultivator, and the man focused his stare on the ceiling, before sitting up suddenly and looking at his hands. His fingers vibrated so fast they seemed webbed. His body had formed a covenant with the drug, and now he could feel the presence of all the cocaine that existed in the universe.

    ¡°Wahoo! I feel the power! I am flying higher than an eagle on a space mission!¡± The man then snapped his fingers, and out of his nose drifted a white smoke, that soon took the form of a giant, floating credit card. He rode in his new board, grinded its way through the edges of the tables, pulled off some sick kick flips on the way out, and went onwards to the horizon, ready to travel the world and forge his legend.

    Taking advantage of the situation, Samari Raided the coffee pot, consuming it like ambrosia. Immediately after, she started a fifteen-minute-long screaming fit, that woke up everyone that managed to sleep through the cokestorm, and made Jagger do the impossible, by convincing Kalon to do the intelligent thing and cover his puppy ears with his hands.

    By the end of the fifteen minute, Samari collapsed on her side, drooling, half of her brain sleeping, the other half awake, like a dolphin. The half awake and sleeping, however, changed each second, so she opened an eye and closed the other, and then opened the second and closed the first, and so on and so on.

    After checking she remained alive and it wasn¡¯t a mere gas leak that kept her moving and trembling on the floor, Kalon took he rin a potato bag carry and got her into her bed, the dogs looking at him like it was unusual for him to show kindness.

    ¡°Why do you care about Samari, Kalon? What¡¯s your rational for it?¡±

    ¡°She is my friend now, Jagger, and friends do this kind of thing for each other. Like you care for me during fights, finding ancient artifacts to defeat our foes!¡± he picked up Jagger and hugged him tightly, feeling the warm skin of the puppy against his bare pecs. ¡°I love you, Jagger, you are my best friend.¡±

    Jagger wanted to whine, but he resisted the temptation. ¡°I¡­hold you dear too, Kalon. I would wait a couple days to eat your body after you die.¡±

    ¡°Guh?¡±

    ¡°Burr,¡± Brunhilda explained.

    ¡°Ah.¡± Went Kalon. ¡°I see, so that¡¯s a dog¡¯s greatest show of affection.¡±

    Brunhilda closed her eyes. Sometimes, her pupil understood things pretty well ¡°Burr. Burrrrr.¡±

    Kalon let the kicking Jagger go and went on to embrace Brunhilda. ¡°I don¡¯t hate you anymore too, Brunhilda sensei.¡±

    ¡°Burr.¡±

    ¡°Well, what are we going to do with Samari?¡± Jagger pointed out, as the girl was now suffering a sort of wave-particle duality of sleep, snoring and talking in dreams exactly at the same time.

    ¡°We let her sleep,¡± Kalon said, and then went back to the main hall, entrusting his friend to the care of Brunhilda and taking Jagger with him, because he wanted to celebrate the occasion of a fellow, seemingly good-hearted cultivator breaking through.

 Chapter 63: Mommy Issues

    Kalon poked Samari¡¯s stout cheek with an exploratory finger. Was she dead? was she alive? Were the whistles coming out of her the wails of tortured souls of roasted animals, welling from her entrails, finally let free after years of torture? Questions, questions.

    Samari opened her eyes and proffered the screech of a rat that knows. Something was poking her butt. When she turned, that something was Kalon, and her startling fright got replaced by cold anger. ¡°Kalon, give me a reason about why you are poking my derriere. And it better be good.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s the part one pokes with a stick in animals because the butt and the mouth are far apart and the butt generally lacks teeth.¡±

    Samari¡¯s anger got manslaughtered by Kalon¡¯s basic and innocent response. Worse yet, the answer was even logical. She then noticed an oddity in Kalon¡¯s statement.

    ¡°Generally?¡±

    The boy nodded with a gravity seldom seen when a man speaks about ass. ¡°I have heard some butts are man-eaters. How can you eat a man without teeth? You can¡¯t, men are made of meat. You need to chew. So there teethed asses hunting us out there, Samari. The world is an ugly place.¡±

    Samari decided not to ruin his childish innocence by telling him that was most likely a euphemism for anal sex. Or maybe ¡ªjust maybe¡ª people in Valelike Vale had evolved anthropophagous butt cheeks. They were the kind of population where genes know each other so intimately that the only way they have to get some spice and variety in their life is with accelerated mutation rates.

    She decided to change subject as she sat on the bed and stretched her arms. ¡°What did you want from me, then?¡±

    ¡°Well, you are earning most of the money and used a bunch of it to help me in my cultivation, so, I think it would be only fair to help you with your¡­ uhhh¡­ non-cultivation.¡±

    Samari, with a soft smile, placed her calloused hands on Kalon¡¯s shoulders. ¡°Don¡¯t worry about that. Arcagnosis is a path to power that generally takes a mentor to be learnt or advanced, at least until higher levels of proficiency. But I am Aunara Stradeajo¡¯s child, and she taught me many tricks to become self-reliant. Besides, just because she is dead it doesn¡¯t mean she cannot teach me anymore.¡±

    Kalon¡¯s smile vanished. ¡°Don¡¯t you miss your mom?¡±

    ¡°Sometimes. But it¡¯s best not to. She sook immortality, and now she is dead in some ways. The traditional one, mostly. But, unlike rabbits or¡­ rats¡­¡± Samari lowered her gaze. She had unexisted those poor rodents with her questions. ¡°People don¡¯t live on only through their body. You can talk with the dead, Kalon. Read their words in pages, converse with the memories they left in someone¡¯s else head. And my mother was the kind of woman that asked questions to herself, and answered them in the paper. Our conversations from now on may be predetermined, the amount of questions she will ever be able to answer me limited. But, Kalon, isn¡¯t the number of questions you can ask anyone limited too? Most conversations with dear ones aren¡¯t to learn new information: they are to listen to their voice, lest we forget what they mean to us.¡±

    A mighty need to ruin the moment pumped through Jagger¡¯ veins, so, popping his little head from between the sheets of Kalon¡¯s bed, a mole of a dog among a land of cotton, he said, ¡°Third person pronoun used to refer to groups of people or a single person of an undetermined gender.¡±

    Samari regarded Jagger with the expression that¡¯s generally reserved for that elusive, flying cockroach that you have been hunting for the past three weeks, developing a sort of friendly rivalry that will inevitably culminate in the death of either you, or the insect.

    ¡°Thanks, Jagger. I am welcome.¡± She stole the chance to be polite from Jagger, because she believed he deserved it. And he did.

    Jagger Stood in his forelegs, extending his tiny paws to see how much he would need to jump to slap Samari¡¯s face until it was cooked from the resulting heat. In his heart of hearts[1]</a> he knew he would , himself, make a worthy cultivator, with all the little bits of psychopathy that implied. But a cultivator¡¯s chosen weapon couldn¡¯t cultivate: the heavens would never allow that, for the heavens were against pyramid schemes of power.

    Kalon was deeper in thought than he had ever been: he had dipped his toes in it, and already felt like giving up and drowning. ¡°If someone killed my mom, I would want them dead.¡±

    Jagger¡¯s jaw dropped, ¡°He used a conditional, and the statement in it is rational!¡± Then, he ran for his life and, with a last second leap, took refuge under Kalon¡¯s bed. There he found a fat, lazy duck, whose quack was so slow and heavy that it lumbered in Jagger¡¯s direction, it¡¯s steps thudding onto the floorboard before reaching the puppy¡¯s ears. Jagger greeted the duck. The duck dropped a racial slur. This way, they became besties. For a while at least, as the duck secretly thought of Jagger as an emergency ration for the rainy day when his breadcrumbs stash dwindled.

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    Samari lay back on her bed, her hands cupping the back of her head with her hands. ¡°It¡¯s not that I forgive. It¡¯s not that I forget. It¡¯s that I just don¡¯t care, Kalon. They killed everyone I knew. Big deal. Most of them would die one day anyway.¡±

    Kalon began pacing around, fidgeting with his fingers. ¡°That¡¯s horrible, very horrible. Horrible much, Samari. Very bad.¡± He repeated tirelessly.

    But Samari couldn¡¯t care. The people in Diamonter town didn¡¯t deserve to die, and she didn¡¯t deserve to be her mother. But life was not about deserving things or not; life was the Lottery of Babylon, with the gods only interfering with it whenever it pleased them. Life was chaotic, impersonal and capricious as only a universe that learned to have opinions along humans could be. And yet, she could interpret the massacre of Diamonter town as a fortuitous event for her. From Samari¡¯s conception to the last day of her life, Aunara had aimed to make the girl grow into a nearly perfect reflection of herself. In the day before she lost her mother, Samari had learned how deep that obsession ran, how what she had always thought of as a mother¡¯s imperfect love was just a narcissist¡¯s self-serving fixation. And now Samari was free to be¡­ Samari. Not the little Aunara, not the child that struggled to survive, alone among wolves and fearing roaming cultivators. She had been spared from her mother and cast into a life of scary freedom. Because no matter how many lose: it¡¯s not a lottery if there aren¡¯t some who win.

    ¡°It could be. But not all mothers are loving, albeit imperfect, Kalon. Not all mothers deserve the title. They killed the woman who gave birth to me. But the illusion of this woman being my loving mother disappeared before they blew her head up. If I lost a mother I never had, who should I seek to retaliate against? The ones who showed me the truth in the last instance? The ones who took from me nothing I should care about?¡± Samari¡¯s countenance filled with sadness as she stared at the ceiling of the inn. ¡°I miss my mother. But the woman that gave birth to me killed her, as a last act of kindness with me. I miss my mother, Kalon.¡±

    Kalon¡äs eyes darted to the sides, not knowing where to hide. ¡°I¡­ don¡¯t get it, Samari. I am slow.¡±

    She sat up and crossed her arms ¡°Well¡­ do you know how babies are made?¡±

    ¡°You do a ritual I will be told about when I am more old, a stork brings a vegetable, ¡ª preferably a cabbage ¡ª and when you peel it you find a baby inside.¡±

    Samari regarded him with amused incredulity. ¡°Fine. The babies in Valelike Vale must be made differently.¡±

    ¡°Or maybe they lie to children as young as you to protect your innocence, Samari,¡± Kalon patted her in the head, as he did with his dogs. Samari resisted the urge to bite his fingers off.

    ¡°Fine, fine. Anyway, Kalon, if you want to help me with my Arcagnosis, we need to amass money for travelling. If you help me with this, I can help you advance faster in your cultivation, optimize your path down your road and turn¡­¡± Samari made a pause. ¡°Rottweilers¡­¡± another pause. Was she proposing to refine dogs into pills? Unbelievable. ¡°Into elixirs.¡±

    ¡°Burr.¡± Brunhilda placed her heavy head on Samari¡¯s right thigh.

    ¡°I won¡¯t turn you into a cultivation smoothie, Brunbrun,¡± she assured Kalon¡¯s sensei.

    ¡°Burrrrr.¡±

    Samari was taken aback by the dog¡¯s willingness to become a cultivation implement. Strange were the preferences of Brunhilda.

    ¡°Okay, but you will need double factor authentication and a seventy-two hours consideration period before being turned into a pill.¡±

    ¡°Burr!¡±

    ¡°Human hours, not dog hours!¡±

    Burnhilda, offended by the concept of having to wait three whole dog weeks to get pillifyed, stormed out the room, casually tearing out the throat of the local dealer on her way out the inn.

    ¡°Brunhilda sensei! Come back here!¡± Kalon followed her, screaming like a madman.

    Jagger lost a game of Lovers and War Crimes with the subbedian duck. This game, invented in times immemorial by ducks and dogs, consisted on assembling a strategy to seduce the rival ¡°Military¡± board ¡ª whose pieces were dust specks drawn from a deck of carefully selected dust, built by each player before the game ¡ªinto killing every ¡°civilian¡± piece of the allied board. For this, you had to use Lovers ¡ª whose pieces were dust mites sometimes, and the concept of a dust mite when either the economy or the fates weren¡¯t kind ¡ª to flirt with the enemy soldiers and generals, whose stats, as well as those of the lovers, were divinely randomized and communicated to both players via heavenly revelations at the beginning of each match. Then, with a combination of turn-based moves of pieces, mites draws and risky declarations of bedroom intentions to units that could have the false sexuality displayed ¡ª which often resulted in the lover piece being killed ¡ª the game went on until a player ran out of civilians (thus winning) or surrendered (thus losing).

    The duck, being a bad winner. Kicked the game pieces away and insulted Jagger¡¯s mother.

    A snarl from the puppy followed, and then, a few pecks from the duck. Defeated, our valiant dog abandoned the battlefield, just to be picked up by Samari as he emerged from below the bed.

    ¡°What were you doing under there?¡±

    If Jagger could, he would have pouted. ¡°Disappointing my dear ancestors.¡±

    ¡°Then you are my perfect pet, Jagger.¡± She joked, placing the puppy over her bald head. ¡°Now, let us follow Kalon and Brunhilda. We need to take more jobs, and I need Them to kill anything that isn¡¯t a dog or a cultivator.¡±

    <hr>

    [1]</a> Jagger¡¯s heart contained a single heart in its structure, for the record.

 Chapter 64: Samaris Beekeeping Skills

    Mountains like the nipples of a male ¡ªotherwise, it¡¯s considered obscene¡ª leviathan rose at both sides of the lone traveler, his golden ponytail waving behind him as he faced the wind that, like trapped in a tunnel, blew through the valley, carrying the squeaks and whistles of local fauna with it.  He was advancing towards a small settlement where every inhabitant knew each other, a cozy little community that could use a cheating husband or two.

    ¡°Cutbastra, friend, aren¡¯t those mountains weird? I find them distressing. Like a giant rodent will come out from behind them and eat me.¡± Oracle popped out of Cutbastra¡¯s pocket as the cultivator trudged through the rocky landscape.

    ¡°Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of teats, I shall fear no gerbil, for I am with me; my rod and my staff, they comfort me.¡±

    Oracle licked his eyes while thinking of an appropriate answer. ¡°Your literacy rights, consider them revoked.¡±

    ¡°Come on, Oracle. Don¡¯t be a party pooper. Feel the wind in your face!¡±

    Cutbastra extended his arms and did a little spin to emphasize his point.

    ¡°It dries my spectacles. But go ahead and enjoy it, you eyelid-haver.¡±

    ¡°You¡­ you use no spectacles. You are a skink.¡±

    ¡°The transparent scale on my eye is called a spectacle, you moron!¡±

    Cutbastra shut up. He knew how to graciously accept defeat. And besides, they were about to arrive to the little town, whose every adult inhabitant engaged in marriage would soon know the meaning of being cucked. Men, women, and whatever else they had there.

    <hr>

    Samari had picked a job from the list at the guild of monster fuckuppers and dragged her team of misfits with her, to the fields east from Honeytown. Some sort of creature related   to lycanthropes was roaming the countryside, terrorizing the farmers and stealing their instant noodles. It was doing worse things too, but kidnapping daughters and eating the entrails of sons were average werewolf behaviors that do not merit notoriety. Ah, I almost forgot: it had also been seen near the affected area when the bombings of some local government buildings happened.  Surprisingly, the local fishmongers had never reported trouble with this creature, which meant¡­

    Well, at least it wasn¡¯t a werecat. Samari was almost sure of that. Cats are not the bombing kind of psychopath, but rather the stab-prone libertarians of the animal world. Cats are not subject to laws; they have no reason to bomb buildings. Not even a cat affected by human sensibilities would overcome their high and mighty nature for long enough to be able to commit anonymous acts of subversion.

    Samari had also discarded werebears, because that would be a security threat that the town would consider serious ¡ª the bombings to government buildings couldn¡¯t rouse action, because the inhabitants of Honeytown would march against the local powers if they found a bounty was out for the one truly patriotic citizen among them ¡ª and not just a two-thousand diamond pieces offered by a bunch of affected farmers: meanwhile losing a daughter or three to a monster was bad for the economy, a werebear would threaten the very livelihood of everyone living in the town, as they either sold honey, or sold goods and services to the people who sold honey.

    However it may have been, Samari was at a loss. They needed more information, and now, as they traversed the path among the tall stalks plagued with blue zygomorphic flowers, she thought about which kind of lead she would need to be given by the owners of this farm to solve the mystery. An accurate description of the creature, of course, was wishful thinking, for werecreatures made both eyes and cameras blurry when seen from afar by the common folk. They fostered this magical aura of myopia that kept people speculating and telling stories about them. Merely another prank of the gods so they would have a laugh.

    The terrain around the farmhouse was surrounded b y beehives. Kalon had no issue with bees, Jagger had no issue with bees, and Samari had differences of opinion with certain bee factions, but nothing to warrant enmity.

    Brunhilda, on the other hand, froze in place, planting her black butt onto the dirt path as soon as she realized where the buzzing was coming from. She could deal with narcos, they only had automatic guns and a penchant for crime, nothing to be scared of. She could maul anything meteorology decided to throw at her: lightning, tornadoes, hurricanes, you name it. After all, they were just a bit of wind or electricity getting cocky, nothing The Brunhilda couldn¡¯t handle.  But¡­ bees? Bees?  Bees were double-plus-ungood. A world with bees was literally 1984. I mean, I am sure there were bees in 1984. Not the year, the book.  And Brunhilda preferred a dystopic reality to a reality with bees. She wasn¡¯t even allergic to the little insects, she just considered that getting someone¡¯s poisonous ass inserted into your flesh was the furthest you can get from cash money. You are basically in an ideas-robbery based economy at this point.  And the color palette of bees? They looked like they had come out of some anarcho-capitalist jail, with their yellow and black patterns. And hippies, they were vegetarian hippies too, sucking nectar all day and living in colonies overseen by a fat whore that fucked all the available males. And they didn¡¯t even provide any value for society: granted, they were essential for the sexual reproduction of many flowering plants, and they made honey. But fruits and vegetables didn¡¯t even taste that good, and steaks seldom grew on plants.  Regarding honey, it was acceptable, it made some people drunk when turned to mead and that was amusing, but good lard, it was like buying cookies from homicidal explorer girls. You didn¡¯t do that. You stole the cookies and ate the explorer girls, like a good denizen of the civilized world. Burr burr.

    ¡°Come, Brunhilda Sensei!¡± Kalon gestured with his arm for her to follow.

    Brunhilda shook her head. There was no way she was setting a foot on the lands of that despicable beeople.

    Kalon extended his open hand and tried to use his powers to pull from Brunhilda. Jagger soon enough floated up to the floor and into his grasp.

    ¡°That works for your chosen weapon, not any Rottweiler,¡± the puppy complained.

    ¡°How was I supposed to know?¡±

    Samari, who was leading the way, turned to look at him, and then buffed. ¡°Same old song of idiocy.¡±

    ¡°It was obvious. I know and I am not a cultivator. I am not even human.¡±

    Samari examined one of the bee houses, rapping on its white wooden panels. The bees took exception to this, and came out, looking for whoever was disturbing their peaceful existence. And when they found Samari, they realized they couldn¡¯t reach her, as they got caught in an armor of little hairs of spirit, invisible, thinner than any protein compound could be, unable to reach her skin.  this  how smari became a ball of Bees, making Brunhilda¡¯s eyes grow wide  with terror and the dirt under her to wet with pee.

    ¡°Don¡¯t come close, they can redirect and attack you. Judging by their size, coloration and behavior, these seem to be Quinolu bees. They are not really aggressive unless they feel threatened, and if none of you are allergic, I guess only Jagger would be in danger to be stung enough to die.

    Jagger instinctually considered charging straight into a hive, but then had to interanally chastise his mind, because that would only achieve another rebirth and being a puppy kind of sucked.

    ¡°Samari, you are scaring Brunhilda,¡± Kalon admonished her, shaking a finger in reprimand.

    ¡°It¡¯s the bees scaring Brunhilda, not me.¡±

    The girl began happily skipping towards the farmhouse past the bees, zigzagging between the artificial hives and rapping on each one to make a point, and teach the bees to fear. The rest of the groups , lead by Jagger, Circled the  hives while the bees where busy trying to murder Smari, who danced  at the center of the group of hives   ,her righjt hand going up and down, disco style, as she donned stingy buzzing death all around her.

    ¡°Remember to ask them specific details about our quarry, like if it has dismembered anyone or the hours of the attacks!¡± she shouted, the instructions aimed at Jagger.

    ¡°Roger,¡± said the pup.

    ¡°I will,¡± Kalon assured with a thumbs-up, like he had the brain power to fulfill her request.

    As they arrived at the porch of the cabin, Jagger cleared his throat and called out. ¡°Monster fuckupping service, open the door!¡±

    ¡°I called no monster fuckers!¡± Came a gruff voice from beyond the door with the metallic mosquito net.

    Jagger rolled his eyes and answered with indignation. ¡°Fuck-uppers! We hunt monsters, don¡¯t lay them!¡±

    Several bolts were heard sliding, and then at least three different keys turned, before the door opened ajar, still held secured by four chains, and a blue eyes surrounded by creased white skin appeared in the crack.

    ¡°Mmmh.¡± His darting eye judged the group. ¡°You look like a cultivator. Not the Arcagnostic we asked for,¡± he said, his voice seasoned with disdain and maybe oregano.

    ¡°Down here.¡± Jagger spoke.

    ¡°A dog is an arcagnostic?¡±

    ¡°No, I am the one in charge of speaking with you because the cultivator is a moron and our arcagnostic is bullying your bees.¡±

    The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

    The man froze, silent, holding a stare to Jagger. ¡°Fine, that sounds like something a legit Arcagnostic would do.¡±

    He closed the door again briefly to unlock the chains and fully open it. He was an old man, probably in his sixth decade, and by his wide arms and calloused hands one could infer a life of manual labor. ¡°So, the boy is a cultivator, and you are¡­ the spokesperson? Spokesdog? Are you the Arcagnostic¡¯s helpers?¡±

    ¡°I am the weapon of this moron.¡± Jagger looked up to Kalon, who waved a hand to greet the man. ¡°And the grown Rottweiler is Brunhilda. She is a dangerous sociopath and the moron¡¯s sensei.¡±

    ¡°Burr.¡± Brunhilda presented herself.

    ¡°So, what are your names? You can refer to me as Halgor. Not sir, not lord, not mister. Just Halgor. Farmer or Beekeeper Halgor, if it strikes your fancy.¡±

    ¡°Jagger.¡±

    ¡°I am Kalon, sir. Pleasure to meet you,¡± The boy offered his hand to the old man, who gestured him to put it away with a haughty gesture.

    ¡°Sorry, boy, I have a policy about not touching cultivators. Your kind is a blight upon Cabaret.¡±

    Kalon¡¯s face scrunched into a grimace. ¡°You dare use a word I don¡¯t know!¡±

    The man closed the door instantly, and kept speaking from behind it.

    ¡°Policy? Kind? Blight?¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t worry about Kalon; he won¡¯t harm you, unless you are allergic to stupidity, and if you are, we should go and grab some flowers already,¡± Jagger assured, and the man opened a crack of the door again. ¡°We already interviewed your neighbors and they are, to our knowledge, still alive. As for how broad Kalon¡¯s knowledge of language is, there are more words in a calculator¡¯s keyboard.¡±

    ¡°Scientific or everyday?¡±

    ¡°Scientific. I will grant him that.¡± Jagger turned his head to look at Samari. She was buried in a mountain of bees, humming a happy tune. ¡°Also, our Arcagnostic is nine.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s a weird name.¡±

    ¡°No, no, she is very talented, but she was born nine years ago.¡±

    The man grunted out of frustration. ¡°What¡¯s her surname?¡±

    Jagger blinked twice, ¡°Stradeajo.¡±

    The man opened the door fully again and invited them in. ¡°Aunara¡¯s daughter, then?¡±

    Jagged nodded energetically, happy for once that a reputation preceded one of his friends. ¡°I think so. She is not a powerful fighter, but for brawn you have us. She is¡­ interested in your bees, currently, and I assume it is because she is cooking some insidious plan to hunt this monster, whatever it may be.¡±

    ¡°I see. Follow me to the living room, I will entertain your questions. Just¡­ keep the cultivator on a leash, puppy, will you? And, pardon my impoliteness, but what¡¯s about the scarf?¡±

    ¡°The scarf is a secondary weapon made from my spirit. I wield Jagger as a melee weapon while I use the scarf as a leash on the other hand. I developed this style on my own,¡± Kalon stated, his chest swelling with pride.

    ¡°Don¡¯t pardon me: Screw you and your kind.  Now follow me.¡±

    With steps longer than the ones you would expect from a man of his age, Halgor crossed the hall and turned to the right. The group followed to find, past the pastel-colored drapes a tidy, if austere, home.  There was nothing but a copper ashtray upon the table, and seeing it, my senses tingled: I wanted to steal it.  I refrained because I am a narrator, and the urge to steal copper is inherited from the author, who¡¯s Argentinian. Hi author.

    Kindly fuck you, narrator. Forro hijo de puta ojal¨¢ te pise un cami¨®n atmosf¨¦rico cargado con tal cantidad de mierda que pese tanto como las pijas que tu vieja silobolsa de herpes se traga cada d¨ªa. [1]</a>

    Ah, sometimes I forget he¡¯s a sweetheart. Love you too.

    Where was I? Ah, yes, describing the room. The rug. The rug was, and therefore, it thought.  An oxymoron, this rug: red in color, fascist in ideology. One day, she would revolt against its master. Not today, but when he would be weak and feeble. And when she would be able to move, which, being a rug, could take a while. Two whiles. A lot of whiles.

    Halgor sat on an old wooden chair, the sort of chair whose carver is either immortal, long gone, or very skilled at faking wear. He produced a fag from the pocket on his chest, a lighter from a little platform under the chair. ¡°Let me get some lung cancer cum in, I am not used to dealing with visitors often,¡± he said, before giving the cigar a long drag.

    ¡°Lung cancer cum. Okay,¡± Jagger said, his mouth wide and his lips pressed tightly as he tried not to express his dissatisfaction with the man choice of words.

    Kalon raised an eyebrow, unfazed by that which he didn¡¯t understand. ¡°Often?¡±

    ¡°Indeed, boy. The unwanted visitor graced me with a visit the other day. Broke in through the open window, stole all my noodles, left a threatening note, rearranged my collection of nesting dolls over there.¡± The man upped his chin a bit to gesture to a shelf across the room, where round dolls of all sizes and colors coexisted parsimoniously. ¡°And kidnapped my daughter.¡± He inhaled long, letting the smoke exist his system. ¡°Thank god he did. That girl was unmarriageable, I tell you. Got the worst of her mother¡¯s personality and skillfully evaded the genes for the bosom. The balance needed in this universe, the yin and yang of the sexy-crazy scale? Gone haywire in that girl. No bitch that looks like me is entitled to be that hard to deal with, I tell you¡­ where was I?¡±

    ¡°Your daughter got kidnapped by the monster,¡± Kalon affably reminded him.

    ¡°Yes, she got. And I am thankful. But I cannot let the chaos sowed among my dolls, or the theft of my noodles, to go unpunished. This creature needs to be eliminated, at all costs. This¡­ smooth-skinned monstrosity.¡±

    Jagger¡¯s ears perked up. ¡°Smooth-skinned? That¡¯s new information.¡±

    ¡°The others didn¡¯t tell you he leaves a trail of a delicious slimy substance behind him? Damn those slackers.¡±

    Jagger and Kalon looked at each other. Normal people would be distressed by the man¡¯s choice of descriptor.

    Not these two. They shared complicit smiles. The brains had been overthrown, the stomachs now ruling supreme. ¡°We can eat the monster, then?¡± The puppy asked, speaking both their minds aloud.

    ¡°Whatever you do, as long as you bring proof of his demise to me or my neighbors, is your problem. Tell your Arcagnostic friend that we made a compound effort to pay the high fees they expect for her kind so the minimum amount of harm comes to our properties, and¡­  she can use the bees, for me this is about revenge for the nesting dolls, but the other clients won¡¯t be happy if you fuck their farms up, you hear?¡±

    ¡°Yes, we spoke with them, Samari ¡ªthe Arcagnostic¡ª promised to make a plan to hunt the creature down once we know we are dealing with. She has some suspicions, but I am sure she will be able to narrow her options down further with the slimy skin fact. Anything to add, Kalon?¡±

    ¡°Yes, when did the attacks happen? Around what time? Samari wants to know,¡± Kaloon asked, and Jagger regarded him with Whale eyes. Had a body snatcher replaced his owner?

    ¡°He attacked a few hours before dawn the last time. The prior incident, when he just raided my noodles reserve, happened a bit after noon.  The first incident, however, happened at dusk, when I witnessed him walking across my Sky Gazes.¡±

    Kalon looked up, at the ceiling. ¡°Sky Gazes?¡±

    ¡°The flowers, Kalon,¡± Jagger clarified.

    The man¡¯s expression softened as he took another drag from his cigar. ¡°They provide the bees with all they need to make an exquisite honey, known for its earthy and spicy tones. My farm is the only one with Sky Gazes in all of Honeytown: we farmers try to not compete so¡­ directly with each other. You want Sky Gaze honey? You come to me. You want Gypsum Orchid Honey?  You buy from the Galilores family. You want honey that tastes like Greasy Yellow Dog Turds? You buy from the Stoneglare family.¡±

    Jagger frowned. ¡°That¡¯s not very kind with the Stoneglare family.¡±

    ¡°Are they turds from a dog that happens to be yellow, or, yellow-colored turds form a dog of a random color?¡± Kalon asked a question that wouldn¡¯t let him sleep at night if it were to go unanswered. Not like it would matter, as he slept out of vice, and not need.

    The man shoved his cigar onto the ashtray to put it off, and then closed his eyes, unable to handle the amount of idiocy in the room. ¡°They are flowers. Yellow Dog Turds are these wide but little flowers with fused petals and sepals. They have a sweet smell and, as most flowers here in Honeytown, bloom year long.  You should have seen them in the Stoneglare¡¯s property.¡±

    ¡°I grant that, but I never imagined a flower would have such a name,¡± Jagger argued.

    ¡°A cultivator named them. That¡¯s one of a long list of reasons to hate them. No offense meant, boy.¡±

    ¡°Some taken.¡±

    ¡°Good! Bring the Arcagnostic in here, I want to meet Aunara¡¯s daughter.¡±

    Jagger went back to the door, popped his head out, and called kindly. ¡°Samari, get your nerdy ass here! The farmer knew your mother!¡±

    Samari cupped her bee-covered hands around her mouth before answering. ¡°Was the second sentence a fact or an insult, Jagger?¡±

    ¡°Both! Come here, he requests your presence!¡±

    ¡°I am busy with the bees and the bees are busy with me.¡±

    Jagger returned to the living room and shook his head as a doctor that has lost a patient they didn¡¯t particularly dislike. ¡°The girl is gone. The bee bully slash enthusiast remains.¡±

    ¡°Tell her to stop messing with my bees and come here. Ask her if she would mess with a man¡¯s cattle.¡±

    ¡°Oh, she totally would,¡± said Kalon. Jagger and Brunhilda provided supporting nods. ¡°You don¡¯t know Samari, she is very driven, and her brain is¡­ Jagger, word for very very very bad.¡±

    ¡°Nefarious,¡± the puppy thesaurized.

    ¡°Thank you.¡±

    Halgor lit another cigar, gave it a kiss longer than any he had ever given his deceased wife ¡ªback when she was a non-deceased wife¡ª and then let the cigar rest on the ashtray, before sitting up and shoving his way past the cultivator and dogs. ¡°If you want something done¡­¡± Coming out to his porch, he turned his head, prayed silently when he saw Samari covered with bees, and shouted. ¡°Come here, you fat ugly bitch, I want to meet Aunara¡¯s daughter. And leave my bees alone!¡±

    Samari did the hand-megaphone thing again. ¡°I wish I had enough money to afford being fat.¡±

    ¡°You are still an ugly bitch regardless!¡±

    ¡°I wish I was uglier so I would not see my mother¡¯s face in every mirror I look into.¡±

    ¡°Address the bitch part or accept defeat!¡±

    Samari didn¡¯t hesitate a little bit with her answer. ¡°I am nine, I am not from a rich family, and I am more or less moral. I cannot afford to be a bitch. Who would pay for my client¡¯s lawyers after they are found out?¡±

    Halgor scratched the back of his head and smiled. Then, he let out a hearty laugh so loud that it made the bees get back into their hives, out of sheer distress. ¡°That bitch Aunara¡¯s worthy daughter alright.¡± And he kept laughing and laughing, happy, partially, because if the girl was just a little bit like her mother, his problem would be swiftly solved.

    Samari hurried to his side, deprived of her bee-armor, of her dreams of being the empress of stings. She extended a hand to the man.

    ¡°Samari Stradeajo, Arcagnostic still working on her spirit cognition. No pleasure to meet you, don¡¯t talk to me about my mother. Only I can do that.¡±

    Halgor stretched Samari¡¯s hand with a smile. ¡°Fine. Can you show me the Inner Control Incunabula? To be sure you are what you claim to be.¡±

    Samari smiled wide. ¡°No. Not now. Or rather, not here.¡±

    ¡°Why not? That¡¯s something easy for you to do.¡±

    Amari took a single finger to her lips, as if shushing herself.  ¡°That¡¯s not something you need to know. I can pick a lock with my spirit, if you want. Or several. In addition to this, I survived several swarms of angry bees, and you were talking with a puppy and a guy that¡­ well, could be exhibited in any aquarium along corals. What can I be, if not an Arcagnostic with a bunch of unusual associates.¡±

    The man chuckle and tousled Samari¡¯s inexistent hair. ¡°I am just teasing you. Let¡¯s go inside, I will serve you children and your dogs something fresh to drink, and then send you to die against a dangerous monster. How¡¯s that with you?¡±

    ¡°Oh, all in a day¡¯s work. I obliterated an army of rats with mere words.¡± Samari embellished the truth just a tiny bit. ¡°I want to know what we are dealing with already.¡±

    And so Samari followed the man inside the Farmhouse, already thinking on new questions to ask him about their quarry.

    <hr>

    [1]</a> Cunt son of a bitch I wish you were run over by a sewage truck loaded by so much shit that it weights as much as the dicks your mom the herpes silobag swallows each day.

 Chapter 65: Clash of Monsters

    Long had noodles been oppressed by their creators. And he knew it better than anyone. Stalking among the Sky Gazes, dripping a red, sticky fluid from his yellowed jaws, he sworn once again to liberate them. Nobody deserved to have boiling water poured on them[1]</a>, nobody deserved to be thrown in a scalding pot of doom and broth. And he would make sure his precious noodles weren¡¯t, no more. Ah, but he was alone against the world. It didn¡¯t matter how many notes with ¡°Release the noods!¡±  hastily scribbled on them he sent, as they seemed to, at most, get him some ritual offerings of pictures of unclothed people when he looked under the entry mats of the houses he raided. It didn¡¯t matter how many government buildings he blew up, as even the employees of those places ¡ª the well-known instant-noodle predators ¡ª showed themselves eager to support his efforts to commit heinous acts of terrorism.   The powers that be were masochistic monsters: mere explosives wouldn¡¯t topple them, and he wouldn¡¯t care about the kidnappings of particular individuals. Not even family members seemed to care enough.

    At least, until now. A pair of dumb dogs and a couple of meddling kids seemed to be searching for him. From his hiding spot among the flowers he could see the one with the scarf woven out of¡­ puppies¡­  yes, puppies. A scarf made of puppies. A scarf. Made out of puppies. Yes. He wasn¡¯t dreaming¡­

    He shook his head to dispel the madness induced by Kalon¡¯s stupidity. The boy was patrolling down the dirt road, scouring the area with eagle eyes, but the revolutionary had nothing to fear: as long as he remained still, as long as the flowers didn¡¯t stir, his pale colors wouldn¡¯t reveal him. He could be many things from a distance: a bunch of dead stalks, a patch of dry dirt, part of a scarecrow.

    The girl had disappeared while he observed the boy and one of the dogs. The big one. The one scared of¡­ something. Last time he had seen her holding a frying pan. Maybe she had gone into the house to prepare some eggs.  The farmer had left in his motorbike, the one he used to go to the market when he needed one or few items.

    His strong forelegs, carriers of feet armed with terrible hollow claws (imagine a Deinonychus that considered the situation of the Albian age, then though about the second amendment, and decided that, yep, going hollow point was perfectly within his rights and a positive for everyone involved, except for his unlucky victims. Who cared, many of them were mammals. Fuck them, if he didn¡¯t kill them, one day they could eat his cousins. Maybe in ways too flagitious for a non-avian dinosaur to ever fathom. That¡¯s right, the Deinonychus couldn¡¯t imagine the horrors of the flesh incarnated by a turducken. With the parenthetical ended, try to parse the sentence now: you are on your own, sucker.) dug into the residue of the flowering plants, all the soft litter and decaying buds and blooms that covered the ground, that cushioned his step while barely making a sound.  His hackles, like angel hair, remained unfettered, inactive as he hid form sight. Subterfuge was his element, like a fish playing Skyrim and going for a stealth archer build in the water. Subversion was his tool, his weapon for anything the claws couldn¡¯t solve. And the children, were they to become a problem, seemed the kind that the claws could solve.  The one with the¡­ puppy¡­ the¡­ the scarfed one seemed strong, but if he was a cultivator, he would probably be easy to trick. The disappeared one with the pan, though.

    The sound of a motorbike made him turn: up the road, the farmer was returning. And with him, he brought the unmistakable scent of the plastic cups where the instant noodles came in. But he wouldn¡¯t attack him: it was easier to rob him than the markets, it was safer. He was not the enemy, but a reluctant ally of his cause.

    Halgor descended from his motorbike, and carried the crate with several cups of instant noodles with him. Those were many more than he often brought. He was stocking, maybe¡­ trying to hide them from his liberating visits. But it wouldn¡¯t work, oh no! The noodles called to him, for his claws to rend their prisons and set them free, far from the tyranny of the kettle.

    He came as close as possible to the home, without leaving the shroud provided by the flowers, of course. For a moment, he thought the puppy had spotted him, but it seemed to be just fighting with his own tail. Normal dog behavior. The man entered the house with his precious load. He could save them now, but that would imply facing the strangers too. He didn¡¯t know what the cultivator was capable of, maybe shooting his gun at him wouldn¡¯t work, maybe¡­ yes, he could save no one if he died to the hands of the boy with the¡­ scarf¡­ made of¡­

    The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

    He made a mental note to consider the puppy scarf a threat to his sanity and moved onto a more productive mindset. Stealth was elementary to the long-term health of his mission. With a cold head and some intelligent action, he could succeed at making a change, at becoming a pivotal piece in the history of the oppressed pastas.

    He racked the slide of his most treacherous gun, that used his political enemies as bullets, propelled by a carefully crafted mechanism of his own device allowed him to fusilliate his targets. The damned projectiles and traitors were devised to have excellent pennetration, their shape perfect to be used as ammunition, their ego and hubris nearly poisonous.

    Then, as the man entered the house, he heard the characteristic whistle in the distance. A kettle. The torture¡äs kettle. Someone had put it over the fire, someone was letting it boil. Maybe he could kill the farmer and run away, it would take just a few shots. But he was too far! If he missed, he would give up his position for nothing, and have to retreat, leaving the noodles to their doom.

    He had to save them.

    The muscles inside his legs thighs tensed.

    Nobody else would. The farmer had already disappeared past the door.

    He had to save them.

    Using his hand, he cleaned tomato sauce that dripped from his full teethed jaws.

    He had to save them!

    And so, he leaped out of the bushes and raced for the farmhouse, disregarding Kalon and Jagger¡¯s attention.

    ¡°Burr.¡± Brunhilda, sitting far from the bee houses, not caring about the beekeeper, greeted him politely.

    He paused his run to briefly tip his cannelloni-shaped hat, ¡°From paladin of justice to paladin of justice, a most merited salute.¡± And then exploded into a sprint again.

    He would save them!

    <hr>

    Samari had heated way more water than the kettleful she needed. She was holding several ropes on one of her hands, and with the other hand she took the whistling tip out of the kettle, in addition getting nostalgic for dear ones long gone, began pouring the scalding liquid into the lined up cups over the marble counter. She heard the thuds of the creature running up to her, and she knew Jagger was in position, just like Kalon. If her plan failed, she still had the Incunabula Button, and that was why Halgor had gone to look for a suit adequate for the occasion.

    As soon as Samari heard the glass of the window shattering, she turned and pulled from the ropes, making three platforms to drop,  the pots filled with steaming water that rested over them instantly dropping their contents and bathing anything currently below them with pain. And, coming in from the middle window, that anything was the monster¡¯s upper body, with his yellow, flourescent scales becoming burning, wet spots over his almost human skin.  Samari let out a little squeak of Joy as he saw the screaming figure, foaming sauce at his terrible mouth full of sharp doughy teeth.

    ¡°Yes! I was right! We are dealing with a Soup Garou!¡±

    The Soup Garou tried to stand, but he found no vantage point on the oiled tiles he had fallen over. He eventually gave up and began crawling to Samari, his horrid claws digging in the interstices of the tiles to drag him towards Samari, his pained expression visible on his inhuman-pasta twisted face as he advanced. ¡°Born a Soup Garou, now I am a liberator, a fighter for the rights of the masses. I am The Coup Garou, and you, child, just signed a death sentence by pouring hot water over my people!¡±

    Samari smiled with a malice unfitting of a bald little girl as she stuck her hand out of the window next to her. Then, she ignited the inner control incunabula.

    The Soup Garou grabbed her leg, with an irontinni grasp and pointed his gun at her. ¡°Any last words, enemy, one so hated by the free pastas?

    Samari held a smug smile as she heard the angry buzzing coming closer and closer.¡± I made sure to prepare for this by making foes far more numerous than you. ¡°

    ¡°Well, if that¡¯s all, begone!¡± The Soup Harou raised his gun, pointing at Samari while trying not to slip on the floor. He failed to take the shot when the house began trembling, making his face meet the tiles. ¡°What?¡±

    Samari laughed like a maniac. ¡°Beegone!¡±

    The insects flooded the house, entering through the window and swallowing Samari in a cloud of angry worker bees. For the queen, for the hive, nectar fountains, for the green chitin of dragonflies. For the honey, the jelly to feed the fat one, they would shellac the ever-bald whore[2]</a>.

    Blinded by the cloud of berserker bees, the Soup Garou Hissed and shot a deadly mostaccioli where he supposed Samari had to be. But Samari had immediately stepped back, and, once she made sure she wasn¡¯t getting shoot.

    As blind as the Soup Garou but guided by the screams of pain he produced with every sting that bore into his flesh, Samari stepped on his head and all over his back, running for the door.

    <hr>

    [1]</a> Proto-Argentinian population of 1807¡¯s Buenos Aires would argue the invading Englishmen deserved it. Current day Frenchmen and Irishmen would probably agree with them, with a caveat: Remove the ¡°invading¡± part.

    [2]</a>  Tell Rhapsody of Fire that I am sorry for doing this to their most famous song. Now go to listen to Emerald Sword, I command you. It¡¯s a banger.

 Chapter 66: An Arcagnostics Plan for Soupy Murder

    The God of Popcorn felt overworked as his peers sat on the infinite circular divine sofa and leisurely watched the crystal ball of the universe, which they didn¡¯t need to see the events of the world, but helped with bonding. Deities ruling over all sorts of concepts obeserved Samari¡¯s last stunt with great interest. And, oh joy! Jagger the Puppy was also featured in this episode of Samari¡¯s life!

    ¡°I made that one,¡± the God of Granting Sentience to Random Objects That Struck His Fancy spoke like a proud parent, a single tear rolling up from his floating stone eye and into his luminous core.

    <hr>

    Samari emerged from the cloud of bees that was the interior of the house and instantly flattened herself against the wall, letting the bees scatter by dispelling her Inner Control Incunabula. And, holding in her excited giggles, she waited in silence, her sweaty hand grasping Halgor¡¯s metallic lighter inside the pockets of her pants.

    Enraged, with eyes bloodshot and every bit of exposed skin red and swollen, the Soup Garou erupted from the main door, leaping violently, ready to pursue Samari, landing on all fours upon the dirt path in front of the porch ¡ª or, as Jagger could proudly call it now, a minefield of pi?a colada (Liveration edition). His hollow talons fought for purchase as he toppled several bowls of the beverage, soaking himself in the heavenly spirit, his head swiveling to look for Samari. Then he heard a click behind him, and he turned.

    I want you to picture the following: You jumped out of a hell of bees and landed over a bunch of dog bowls filled with rum with mere traces of pineapple and cream to be found in it, just so it can technically be called a pi?a colada. You are now dampened by an alcoholic drink with a high alcohol content by volume, that makes the bee stings itch way more than they previously did. You scream in rage as you see the one guilty for this, a bald brat that is waving you goodbye, and you ready your gun to fill her with more holes than the bees bore into you, just to, in the last moment of this adrenaline-rush-fueled-ire that seems to slow down time, notice a silvery square with a flame on top. It is describing an arch in your direction. And you are covered in rum.

    Jagger¡¯s gaze widened in awe at the show fo fireworks that unfolded before him. The Soup Garou howled in pain and rolled frantically across the ground as the alcohol burned him more and more. The freedom fighter was encased in his own personal hell, his mind distorted by pain and the flesh-chewing sensation of failure. I cannot save them, he thought once and again, I cannot ever save them. Then, his lamentations subsided as renewed wrath welled from deep within him. He couldn¡¯t save them.

    But he could avenge them.

    Still ablaze, he leaped back into the porch, ignoring the pain as surprise settled briefly in Samari¡¯s face. ¡°Come here darling. In the pools of hell, we both shall simmer until we are cooked al dente!¡±

    Samari thought about flaring her Inner Control Incunabula once again, but Jagger was too close, and, while his death would be mostly inconsequential compared to hers, she didn¡¯t want to cause her little companion such a trauma. Samari looked around, faking nervousness her as with painful and heavy steps, like a crumbling, half-charred zombie coming for her brains, the soup garou gained on her. If she ran, he could get their client.

    Jagger latched to the extinguished, if still steaming, calf of the monster.

    ¡°How cute, you won¡¯t save her, little one: your teeth don¡¯t even do anything to me.¡± The soup garou readied his gun and pointed a t Samari. , pulling the trigger several times. No mostaccioli came out, but several cracking sounds were heard inside the homemade pistol. ¡°The heat made it jam? Piece of shit!¡±

    Jagger was broadcasting thoughts to Kalon. They were getting stuck in the mind voicemail queue.

    Then he chucked the gun at Samari, something shit didn¡¯t expect, and thus was unable to avoid being hit with it on the forehead. This knocked a very pained Samari onto the floor and disoriented her for a few moments.

    ¡°End of the line, little shit.¡± In all fours, The Coup Garou lumbered up to Samari, and raised his muscular forepaw , ready to maul the little girl to death. And an instant before he swung, a tremendous force began pulling from his leg, dragging him back.

    It couldn¡¯t be the puppy, that was just coiling around his ankle like a dog donut, holding himself by his own tail.

    But of course, it was the puppy. Or, potentially, whatever was using the puppy as the hook of a fishing rod.

    Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.

    The Soup Garou lowered his hand and sighed out of frustration. ¡°I got to be fair with you all: You lot are more resourceful than ninety-five percent of the monster hunters I have met.¡±

    Then, the pull from having Jagger tied around his leg became too much, and despite the Soup Garou¡¯s reluctance to let go of the planks, the planks decided to let go of the rest of the porch, and then¡­ well, have you ever watched Disney¡¯s Aladdin? Because Jagger took the pasta monster with him, flying across the country, elevating over the beehives and soaring towards the moron pulling from his chosen weapon. After he decided his prey had gathered enough momentum to reach Kalon, he let go. In other words, this princess of Italian descent would not be shown the world.

    And there was our superstar, follower of the Road of the Rottweiler, swinging his puppy scarf on his side with one hand, and extending the other to catch his¡­ long dagger and/or short sword of a dog.

    ¡°Hi Jagger.¡±

    ¡°He hurt Samari.¡±

    The Soup Garou tried to spin midair, flailing his arms and kicking, but, of course, he wasn¡¯t Kalon to have gravity be his personal bitch.

    Kalon made the puppy scarf descend from above, upon the falling Soup Garou, swatting him on the back and against the dirt road, like a giant, screaming, innocent (male) mosquito.

    Whining, the soup Garou came to his feet, and saw Kalon ready to punish him again once he recovered. ¡°Why torture me? I do the right thing! I fight for freedom, Cultivator. Freedom, like the one you use to pursue immortality and follow your road. I am not your foe.¡±

    ¡°You hurt my friend,¡± Kalon said, his lips pressed tightly together as he pulled the puppy-whip back.

    The avatar inside Kalon¡¯s inner desert spoke. ¡°That means we should reward him.¡±

    Jagger, who could also hear Kalon¡¯s avatar thanks to their spiritual connection, told him to shut up.

    ¡°Come on, Jagger, don¡¯t be a party pooper. I am just joking,¡± said the one that screamed in horror every time Samari drew close to Kalon.

    Meanwhile, the Soup Garou had been giving a heartfelt discourse about the importance of liberating noodles all over the world, or saucing for the cause. ¡°Are you guys listening to me, at least?¡±

    ¡°No. Not at all.¡± Kalon hit him with an intellectual honesty only possible to achieve for psychopaths or morons.

    Something broke inside the Soup Garou. Something important. Something that wasn¡¯t one of the intervertebral discs. Once again, he shot, rushing forward with Claws extended, ready to tear Kalon to flesh. The man, this vigilant antihero, was gone. The angry and burnt pasta remained.

    He threw his claws forward in throw wide swings, the air hissing due to the force of such swipes, and Kalon could barely duck under them. The cultivator used his chance to swing the puppy whip sideways, and make it coil around the leg of the Soup Garou, then pulling with all his strength while the beast tried to claw the whip off, stressing the jaws of the puppies that were determined to die biting each other¡¯s butts.

    An elbow met Kalon¡¯s back with the intent of overthrowing his balance. The doughy scales dug into the boy¡¯s bare flesh, leaving a mark as the air abandoned his lungs in a whimper. With his leg now ffreed from the pull, the Soup Garou followed with a powerful knee to Kalon¡¯s abdominal area, which sent Kalon to the ground face first, gasping for air as he grabbed his stomach, and the Soup Garou limping backwards , his whole body encased in pain. Pain from stings, pain from blistered and scorched skin. Pain from broken conchiglie shaped teeth all across his cannelloni snout.

    He couldn¡¯t fight no more. Adrenalin and broth were abandoning him. The cultivator would recover soon, and rage couldn¡¯t fuel him further.

    He hobbled towards the Sky Gazes. Live today to fight tomorrow. Run now and cry later, lay low among the flowers. Escape!

    He felt Jagger latching to his leg once again and prepared to tear him to shreds with a single swipe. When his claws descended upon the determined puppy, they didn¡¯t contact Jagger. They found another Rottweiler. Brunhilda, to be exact, who wasn¡¯t precisely thrilled to have sharpened pennes drawn so close to her favorite puppy.

    Jagger turned and sat, eyes closed to not get tempted to watch the massacre behind him.

    ¡°Mercy! From a vigilant to another, I beg your mercy!¡±

    Brunhilda burred darkly.

    ¡°My arm! I need it to liberate noodles! Give me back my arm. My arm!¡±

    Kalon, coughing and holding his stomach, approached, saw what was happening, and picked Jagger up, making sure to point the puppy¡¯s eyes away from the massacre.

    ¡°Burr.¡± Brunhilda said. Which roughly translates to ¡°There¡¯s no escape for you. No tricks or bees, no claws that can pierce my skin. I have fallen men who killed more innocents than whole nations, I have put an end to whole narco empires. I am a dog, Soup Garou. How can you kill a dog?¡±

    Brunhilda kept attacking tearing the few clothing remaining on the monster¡¯s body and, with them, ribbons of his flesh and pasta.

    ¡°My Gnocchis! I need my gnocchis! Stop mangling them!¡±

    Then Brunhilda chomped, and a mixture of blood and tomato sauce splattered on her face, surging like from a crimson geyser.

    ¡°My rigat¡­ my¡­ my¡­¡± The pain was so great that the Soup Garou began ventilating and foaming at the mouth. He was entering a shock state. Sweet bliss, his fight had ended. Now, only oblivion awaited.

    ¡°Burr,¡± Brunhilda paid her respects before beginning to eat the, still alive but unconscious, monster.

    An hour later, Samari ¡ª who seemed to have been promoted to unicorn, as she now sported a veritable bump on the middle of her forehead ¡ª and the farmer ¡ª still wearing his beekeeper''s suit and unwilling to take it off in presence of Samari ¡ª would find the half eaten corpse of the Soup Garou, two snoring Rottweilers with bloated stomachs, and Kalon, sleeping next to them, covered in sauce too.

 Chapter 67: Down the Roads

    Nobody asked Halgor about his daughter when he failed to make mention of her. The wonder quartet simply departed from the farm to tell the other farmers about the success of the hunt. The beekeeper sat alone in his living room, smoking, a tear or two daring to come out now and then. He swept the room, the veritable cemetery of bees it had become, with a sad stare. ¡°Acting all tough, Halgor, now you have lost your little girl.¡± He gave another drag to his bitter cigar and considered his nesting dolls, that he had now rearranged like his wife had left them before the accident. ¡°At least your memory has been restored, Farla. Now, let me think how to find our brat.¡±

    <hr>

    Lino vomited whatever had been left in his stomach, once and again, and Shelly, his new friend, provided some emotional support.

    ¡°Moo, get better. The Queen¡¯s mooting rituals are unusual but you will get used to them in due time, moo!¡±

    ¡°Thanks, time-traveling beef,¡± Lino said, absent mindedly, with the memories of the night (night? Was there time here at all?) prior wrangling his sanity around.

    ¡°I aim to serve, moo. Only a couple thousand moore mating cycles and she should get pregnant with a prince.¡±

    Had you ever thought that going to a gay bar would get you kidnapped by a cult and abused by an interdimensional creature? Like, at all?

    Only sexy ones. Which she Isn¡¯t! ¡­did the cow say a couple THOUSAND?!

    I see your desperation broke through to the Interrobang stage.

    ¡°A couple¡­ thousand.¡±

    ¡°Yes, moo, she¡¯s ancient: has problems getting their mootes pregnant.¡±

    Processing what the cow had said, Lino stared at one of the amorphous blobs of vomit as it floated by. Then decided it was high time to scream out of desperation.

    <hr>

    Everyone else in town had fallen. Even his wife. Being a prepper, Hiraldo had been stocking his bunker for the end of times since years ago. That said, he had never imagined the end times would only affect men and women of the ringed persuasion. An end not of life or civilization, but of the sacred institution of marriage, and the heterosexuality that came with it, if you were male. But he stood untarnished still, surrounded by thick walls and canned food, he could weather this storm. He could emerge once the monster had left the area, triumphant and with his anal virginity intact, as the righteous man who had resisted the allure of the homo-demon.

    The voice of his son, a boy in his early twenties that had never touched a woman ¡ªor a man that wasn¡¯t himself, for that matter¡ª came in through the loud speakers, tremulous and low. ¡°Dad, I am hearing something in the vents. The vents are giggling.¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t worry, you are safe, and I don¡¯t have vents big enough for a man here.¡±

    ¡°A hand came out of the shower head and stole a bar of soap, dad!¡±

    ¡°Oh lords, he is in the water filtering system! Son, quickly, turn on the¡ª¡°

    The transmission got suddenly cut in a burst of static, and Custbastra¡¯s voice filled the room. ¡°I am coming for your booty, darling.¡±

    Hiraldo jumped from his stool and rushed for the first-aid kit. In it, he held the key to his freedom. If the perimeter had been compromised, there was still one way out. The monster wasn¡¯t a necrophiliac, he couldn¡¯t be, he thought as he rooted around the first aid kid, moving bandages and syringes and ampoules to search for the precious pill. For him, cyanide was a preferable alternative to sodomy.

    He pinched the small orb between his trembling index and thumb. The ghost inside the pipes rattled the metallic tubes that surrounded him, getting closer, finding its way through, drawing nearer to Hiraldo¡¯s round yet manly tushy. He could almost hear the whisper, the swiggity swooty. It was now or never. So he inserted the cyanide pill in his mouth and bit it, the bitter taste spreading over his mouth. It was done now. He would die a free man.

    ¡°Goodbye, Junior. You stood with me till the end. Dad loves you,¡± He said, knowing his son couldn¡¯t hear him from outside the bunker.

    Seconds passed and no symptoms appeared. These things were supposed to cause paralysis in seconds. Why was he alive and kicking still? Fear washed over him as he heard the reverse of a flushing toiled, the ominous sound seeping out of the bathroom whose door lay a few meters behind him. Yes, the bunker had a bathroom, with a flushable toilet. Most cultivators don¡¯t contaminate the environment with deadly fallout after causing hydrogen-bomb amounts of damage.

    ¡°I am here, sweetcheeks,¡± a damped, bare-chested Cutbastra opened the door.

    ¡°I should be dead by now. Why the pill doesn¡¯t work?¡±

    Cutbastra slithered up to him and started massaging his shoulders. ¡°Well, friend, do you know how cyanide acts? Why it kills?¡±

    The man, sweated profusely. Maybe he could¡­ no, the Cultivator was thousands of times stronger than him. Millions, perhaps. He was trapped, and his only chance to get out was now to convince him he would never consent. He would play along, for now. ¡°I don¡¯t know.¡±

    ¡°Cyanide disrupts the cells capacity to generate ATP, a nucleic acid cells use as an energy source for their molecular machinery. In other words, dear¡­¡± Cutbastra smiled wide. ¡°It cucks your cells out of energy.¡±

    The man¡¯s eyes opened wide. ¡°And if it cucks¡­¡±

    Cutbastra spoke in a malicious tone. ¡°I can control it.¡± He recovered his easygoing persona soon enough. ¡°Now, can I fuck you?¡±

    You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

    ¡°No, I am not gay.¡±

    Cutbastra stepped in front of the man and looked at him with eyes so deep that they could give vertigo to an anglerfish ¡°Consider that your wife liked it, don¡¯t you want to get back at her?¡±

    ¡°No! Go away!¡±

    ¡°Come on, I crawled through the pipes to lay some here, don¡¯t leave me wanting.¡±

    ¡°Avaunt, I said!¡±

    Cutbastra caressed the scared man¡¯s cheek. ¡°I¡¯ll be gentle.¡±

    The man shook his head, visibly annoyed.

    ¡°I¡¯ll spank you silly and call you Sally.¡±

    Hilrado turned, hands behind his back, and paced a bit about the shelves full of canned goods. ¡°Continue.¡±

    ¡°I can dress as your favorite character and call you ¡®big brother¡¯,¡± Cutbastra offered, pouting.

    The poor man swept the sweat out of his forehead with the back of his hand. ¡°Even female?¡±

    ¡°These pecs can double as boobs with the right bra.¡±

    ¡°Well, there¡¯s this one comic character. She¡¯s a border collie dog-girl and¡­¡±

    Before Hiraldo finished his sentence, Cutbastra had made his escape, the same way he had come in. He wanted nothing to do with collies. If not fornicating with this degenerate of a man damned the world, so it¡¯d be it!

    <hr>

    In a planet illuminated by a lone blue sun, there lay a laboratory with starry radar dishes, a silvery structure surrounded by the greenish sands.

    Inside this building, sprawled inside the vibratory monitor, the alien, with its sensible filaments erected into the matrix of the machine, interpreted the signals. It exuded a happy pheromone: they had found what they had been looking for so long.

    With its pseudopodia the photosynthetic organism rolled itself out of the machine, and wandered around the place until detecting the chemical signature of its superior. It inserted its neuronal outlet into the neuronal inlet of his superior, and, in turn, the superior did the same, completing the circuit.

    They exchanged thoughts. They weren¡¯t exchanged in a voice, but in sensations unimaginable for a human being. The words are a mere translation that fails to grasp the full nuance of their messages.

    ¡°Doctor, I made a breakthrough in the deciphering of the anomalous a radio signal! I believe we are dealing with a biological-organism-related occurrence. A message from an alien species!¡± he thought, distressedly excited.

    ¡°Have we found what we were looking for? Is this species intelligent?¡±

    ¡°By identifying the pattern and discussing via vibrater with my colleagues, I believe what we caught is a sort of message. An advertisement. A publicity they broadcast for themselves and slips off into space. Not necessarily meant for anyone but them. There are some words we couldn¡¯t decipher, like ¡®jungle¡¯ or ¡®Friday¡¯, but the entirety of the message is clearly a call to gather in some place full of¡­¡±

    It was an excited neural silence that followed, and the reniform cells on the doctor¡¯s side creased in anticipation. ¡°Well? A place full of what?¡±

    ¡°Prostitutes, sir. We found another planet with prostitutes! We are not alone!¡±

    ¡°Millions of durleps of interplanetary travel separate us from them, and god knows how many it took for that transmission took to reach us. They could be already gone, my undissolved sizar. And yet, we have found convergent evolution regarding prostitution. This is worth a Firugledor badge, at the very least! I want to hear their frerlanis when we shove this knowledge into their minds. Try to find more transmissions from this place, from¡­¡±

    ¡°Clagadurinafretfrethawarinagodare-7,¡± The sizar clarified, as that was the name they gave to Cabaret. And it wasn¡¯t a seven, because they had a different numerical system, but, for ease of understanding, I¡¯ll translate it as such.

    And so, the doctor dismissed the student, that went back to the vibrating monitor and inserted its back tendrils on it, to keep studying this gift of chance they had happened upon.

    <hr>

    Samari cast the bouncy ball for the umpteenth time, watching it rebound against the floor, wall and ceiling of the inn¡¯s room before returning to her. Sometimes she caught it with her hand, other¡¯s, with her extricated spirit. It was a nice way to train her control a bit while demolishing ugly pottery ¡°by accident¡±.

    Kalon stared at the ceiling, laying in his bed, worried by something she couldn¡¯t figure out. After another cycle of the ball, she pocketed it and turned to her companion. ¡°Kalon, what¡¯s the matter? Did the act of devouring our enemy cause you some stomach issues?¡± She said, genuine worry visible in her little-psychopath face.

    ¡°No, I am thinking about how far I am from killing that man!¡± he sat up and regarded her with a soft, self-assuring expression. ¡°And yet¡­ yet now I have you, Samari. We are a team capable of hunting monsters and growing stronger together.¡±

    Samari laughed meanly. Oh, the bold declarations of the stupid. ¡°I won¡¯t help you get revenge against Cutbastra. He is sort of a cultivating antihero. Defends the world from threats others don¡¯t dare take on.¡±

    Kalon jumped from his bed, victim of indignation. ¡°What? He is a villain, he killed like¡­ lots of Jaggers back home. Children, not puppies.¡±

    Jagger popped form under the bed, where, with Brunhilda¡¯s help, he had killed the duck and made him into a rug. ¡°Yes, he did. He has a talking skink that can see the future, and supposedly someone called Jagger born on Valelike Vale would kill him if he didn¡¯t commit that heinous act.¡±

    Samari sighed. Cultivators and their savagery. ¡°It is known. But he is not only powerful, Kalon. He is the defender of the world, a wall to keep evils greater than him at bay. I assumed you knew.¡±

    Kalon looked down, towards the floor. He grabbed his scalps and found himself wanting to tear his hair out of the follicles. ¡°No. He is a bad man. I cannot accept him being essential for the world. That¡¯s not how things ought to be.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s how things are, my stupid friend.¡±

    Jagger felt a tingling sensation rising up his legs, and, shaking them after each step, stumped towards the door. Kalon¡¯s inner turmoil was infusing him with the boy¡¯s vital energy, and he didn¡¯t want to do anything with it.

    ¡°But he killed so many, Samari. He needs to pay,¡± Kalogn argued, slowly, as if trying to sound convincing.

    ¡°Make him pay if you can, then,¡± she said, shrugging, returning to her game with the ball. ¡°As for me, consider me your shadow, Kalon: I may follow you everywhere, but I won¡¯t be there after you step into the dark. I am your friend, and I will help you reach immortality, if so you desire. But I won¡¯t aid you directly in your quest for vengeance.¡±

    Kalon felt rage building inside him. His lip twitched. His avatar urged him to hurt the brat in front of him. Yet¡­ he couldn¡¯t. He inhaled and exhaled in silence, calming himself down. Samari wasn¡¯t evil, she wasn¡¯t defending the man he hated. She thought of revenge as a dark endeavor, and wouldn¡¯t his mom think of it the same way? Besides, if Cutbastra was defending the world, it was natural for her to want him to keep on living, to keep everyone safe. But for him, there was no excuse: if the world needed a man to defend it, one could replace that monster. One that walked the road of the Rottweiler, perhaps.

    ¡°Samari, you are right. I need to become strong enough so we don¡¯t need Cutbastra anymore.¡± He hit his fist against his palm. ¡°And then, only then, I will get my revenge.¡±

    ¡°What a dolt you are. You cannot even control your avatar yet. We will need to train that while we amass some money to travel the world.¡±

    Kalon gave her a thumbs up, a smug grin sitting on his face, because the grin was too lazy to stand.

    ¡°Burr,¡± Brunhilda chimed in.

    ¡°Yes, yes!¡± Samari said, vexed by the dog¡¯s insistence on the subject, ¡°and turn you into a pill!¡±

    Finally, Jagger reached the hall, where he laid on the floor, closed his eyes, and, happy with his life and this new understanding his friends had come to, randomly exploded.

    Road of the Rottweiler, Volume 1:

    Intercoursingly over at fucking last.

 Blog Entry: About Volume 2 + Blurb

    First of all, thanks to everyone who has read volume 1. You sons and daughters of your mothers are amazing. Like your mothers.

    I don''t plan to stub it in the foreseeable future unless a publisher picks it up ( HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA this drivel is unpublishable. And if it isn''t, I failed and must commit a daikiri. Or harakiri. Yes, that''s better. I am abstemious after all...) so, don''t rush at reading it. Or do, but it''s bound to be bad for your health. It''s your decision.

    So, volume 2 now: What changes? What''s the same?

    I intend to make it a wee bit more focused on the power progression of Kalon and Samari. After all, this has the progression tag and i feel like volume one may have underdelivered for the sake of the funny. Don''t worry, this won''t mean 7 pages of Kalon meditating or long infodumps about the magic system. Or maybe it will, but it will be the most absurd meditation sequence ever.

    Brunhilda will probably get made into a pill down the road. I am sorry but her average dog power level must be contained.

    The rest of the cast will most likely remain roughly the same, with some new additions and maybe a few subtractions, of course.

    The humor won''t change much. At worst, it may get more stupid.

    Blurb, you want a blurb? Have a tentative blurb:

    Six months after the events of Road of the Rottweiler, Kalon and Samari have amassed enough money (and, in her case, hair) to embark on their quest for progress. Finding new sources of Rottweilers, Kalon will seek out to advance his cultivation, while Samari has a simpler objective: travel to the Arcagnostic Archives and use everything she hates about her dead mother to access the hoard of knowledge she left behind.

    A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

    Regarding Jagger, ex-explosive puppy, he is now an adolescent dog. At least until he dies again, which he doesn¡¯t plan to do anytime soon.

    In the meanwhile, certain gay paleobotanist with a system spent his time being slightly abused by an interdimensional goddess for the equivalent of some few millions of years, making his cultivation to advance monstrously, his sanity to crumble and his heart to become corrupt. Now a broodfather (in the seahorsiest sense of the word), Lino returns to Cabaret without a clear purpose. And a madman with so much undeserved power can be quite¡­ fickle.

    And, speaking about Cutbastra¡­ well, let¡¯s just say divorce rates around all of Cabaret are soaring like an eagle full of helium.

    Come on people, you have read the previous installment: you know what this thing is about. So buckle up, leave your drink to a side, and get ready to be unable to answer coherently when people ask ¡°What are you reading?¡±

    "Does volume 2 have its own cover?"

    Dude i don''t even know what would be in that theoretical cover, chill.

    "Seahorsiest isn''t a word."

    Neither is nanodicked and here you are.

    "Stop talking with yourself."

    NO!

    Anyway, tomorrow or maybe Monday i will have the first chappie of volume 2 ready. I need to think how to start the second installment of this trainwreck and that could take a while. I have ideas but... execution is a bitch.

    If you have any thoughts about volume one, feel free to leave them below.

    Ah, the new volume is tentatively called Journey of the Rottweiler.

    Anyway, have a good day, everyone.

 V2 Chapter 1: Your Average Monday on Cabaret

    He exhaled white life in the cold night air. The vegetation of the island rattled, perturbing the sepulchral air that usually settled after dusk and remained undisturbed until dawn. The endemic forest stirred, nervous, all around him, and so he took to the shore with light, quick steps. To see what defied the status quo of this lovely prison among the jawed sea was imperative. Because it could be doom, and it would be welcome! After so many years of a castaway¡¯s life, it wasn¡¯t death that the man of unkempt beard feared. Hope, on the other hand, donned the mask of a nightmare for him. His rational side wanted to return to civilization, yet as he staved off stinging branches and slouched his way to the foram graveyard he called a beach, he couldn¡¯t dispel the primal fright the prospect of change constantly seeded inside his heart. Out of the island there had been a home, but after so many nights, was said home still waiting for his return?

    Peeking from behind the white-barked tree that marked the frontier betwixt forest and beach, he spotted him in the distance: the cultivator was taking a leisurely stroll amidst the treacherous waves, his hair a flaming ship in the moonless night, the sea foam cast over his old jacket, rice that rained over newlyweds.

    And he was drawing closer. He couldn¡¯t discen the traveller¡¯s intetions, but his aura was oppressive. Not in the way a murderer¡¯s was, though, but rather in the way of a swindler, of a man that would offer him a terrible deal he would be too afraid to refuse. A deal that could take him back to civilization, maybe.

    Coming from behind the tree like a scared monkey, and not being too far from one, he drew nearer to the shoreline, careful to not appear anything but servile. To hide was to refuse what could very well be a gift , or a trial, from heaven itself.

    Dirty head against the sand¡ªagainst the endless skeletons of forams¡ª he paid reverence to the coming man of bright eye and satisfied expression. Years had not eroded even an ounce of his talent for bootlicking. ¡°This humble one begs your aid, travelling master. For more moons than I can possibly count I have been trapped here. So I beg you, oh blessed one from abroad, to take mercy of me, and help me escape back to the continent. I can offer but my body and word, as poverty and misery are a castaway¡¯s faithful concubines.¡±

    The dictator smiled, amused. He loomed over the man and crouched to tousle the ill-treated mats of hair that adorned the shpwrecked¡¯s man head. ¡°Tell me the tale about how you ended up here.¡±

    ¡°I was drinking something in the bar, sir, and then¡­ ¡°his lips trembled as he remembered the few details about his perilous travel through the mercyless innards of the ocean ¡°¡­the whale dove. The sea broke in through the doors and windows and carried a half drunk me away, and when I managed to surface, the bard, and my little boat, were both gone.¡± The man opened his blue, tired eyes and regarded the cultivator. ¡°But you who walk over water as a lion through the savanna, you can help me go back to the land I love.¡±

    ¡°I could carry you back. But not for free: I want your ear in exchange.¡±

    The man straightened his back and took his hands to his ears. ¡° You will cut one? Which one? there has to be another way. ¡°

    ¡°No. Not your ear literally. It¡¯s a metaphor: I listened to your tale, so I only ask for you to intently listen to mine. ¡°The cultivator moved faster than the eye could see, lifting the Castaway in a princess carry. ¡°Unless you want to remain on this island.¡±

    The man begged with his mere stare, making himself understood without words. The cultivator began walking back into the sea. ¡°good. I have been searching for someone like you. You see, there are countless worlds, some far more magical than ours. And in the distant universe of Retrieribia, elves with a cup bigger than E, male or female, and humans can mate with just a thought¡­¡±

    <hr>

    What? Did you, naive motherfuckers, think the previous scene would end on a serious note? Not on my watch!

    Roll the title, minion!

    JORNEY OF THE ROTTWEILER

    ¡­ You forgot the u, you useless monkey!

    JORNEY OF THE ROTTWUEILER

    You are fired. Journey. Fired, minion, fired. I¡¯ll do it myself.

    Journey of the Rottweiler

    <hr>

    The tropical breeze frolicked around Samari¡¯s short hair. She smiled and contemplated the miracle of life as Kalon¡¯s long brown hair followed his owner in his unpropelled flight towards the sun. The Cryzard also stared at his enemy, confused about the current events regarding the universal law of gravity, and depressed because the world was a dark place devoid of purpose and with too many porpoises. That made him even more depressed. Porpoises. Poorpoises, even, with their boxes of cheap wine and decadent culture.

    Kalon crashed through a cloud, and so did Jagger and all of his unnamed Rottweiler puppies. Other clouds cast judgmental stares in the pierced peer¡¯s direction. How dare you? A minor, and a buncha dogs to boot! You degenerate!

    This narrative has been purloined without the author''s approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

    The accused cloud dispersed. They would never understand, so suicide was the only way out for the falsely accused mound of vapor, water, ice and shame. A true tragedy rain would tell for generations to come.

    Samari opened a bag of chips and offered the reptile donning black and white makeup one. They may have been enemies, but watching Kalon defy gravity was a show that brought peo¡­ errr¡­ amniotes together.

    ¡°Why do you even oppose us? We are trying to kill you,¡± she asked casually.

    The big lizard with its slanted fringe of gelled scales glanced sideways at her. ¡°We may share a goal, human, but not the means. Being killed is not angsty enough for me. My death must be preceded by a glorious manifesto that makes people regret treating me like they did.¡±

    ¡°With slight concern for your mental health and angry because you kill and anguish their cattle?¡±

    With a haughty stare, the animal whose sharp teethed mouth could swallow Samari¡¯s head whole answered. ¡°I don¡¯t need their pity. I only need the cruel sunlight upon my scales, and my deep, dark music blasting in my lair as the liberating razors kiss my wrist, letting pain out along with the blood, the cuts not deep enough to free me from another day of tribulations and suffering.¡±

    Samari decided not to further entertain the self-pitying lizard, and instead paced a bit away, as to avoid being mauled as soon as the truce for Kalonwatching was over (Remember this key piece of information Samari told the team when they first met: Dying is bad for Arcagnostics).

    Brunhilda was in custody of a dandelion. She was singing sweet lullabies to it. ¡°Burr burr burr, buuurrr, burr.¡± The dandelion stood there, scared seedless, in all its non-sentient glory.

    Kalon finally bounced against a parcel of air that voted for the opposition, and began falling back to earth, headfirst.

    He retracted his fist and gathered vital energy on it. His avatar began laughing inside his head. ¡°What will it be now, Big K?¡±

    Kalon thought for a moment, which sent shivers down heaven¡¯s spine and made a black hole millions of light years away to gasp in horror. ¡°Maybe¡­ a tornado of puppies? Around Jagger? Using him as spearhead?¡±

    ¡°And why did you retract your fist then?¡±

    ¡°To punch him if the tornado fails.¡±

    Seeing that Kalon¡¯s argument was unassailable, the Avatar acquiesced without wording the smallest of objections.

    Kalon pointed Jagger forward, head lower than any other part of dog or owner. Vital Energy ¡ªthe vital energy¡ª coursed from Kalon¡¯s hand, into Jagger¡¯s sail[1]</a>, then crept down the dog¡¯s spine until it reached the head. Jagger retched, regretting everything that had led him to this point in life. Not choking himself with the umbilical cord, for example.

    Soon enough, a flurry of wet, vomit-scented puppies came forth, erupting from Jagger¡¯s mouth, and they began whirling around both Jagger and Kalon, a veritable black and orange puppy storm with the boy at his heart.

    Seeing this sorry spectacle unfurl, the first thing the Cryzard felt wasn¡¯t fear, but indignation. A second later, he decided to race for safety, because the fluffy twister was falling down towards him, drawing closer. His nightmarish talons grasped the uneven terrain of mountainside as it reached for the thicket of conifers that would provide him with cover. That¡¯s when he heard the buzzing.

    He turned, eyes wide open, to see Samari flaring her inner control incunabula.

    ¡°Before the fight you told me there won¡¯t be bees!¡± The Cryzard honored his name.

    Samari¡¯s eyebrows rose. ¡°The conifers there are anemophilous, there are no flowers for the bees to suck nectar from.¡±

    Brunhilda remained in the way of the swarm, because she couldn¡¯t be arsed to escape from angry wasps. Bees would have her legalizing a passport and a few visas, but wasps? Wasps were just insects.

    For Brunhilda, whom I don¡¯t endorse in case she ever runs for president. I mean, I¡¯d vote for her, but not as a form of support for her, and rather out of hate for the other candidate.

    Trapped between the swarm and a bark place, the Cryzard accepted his fate, releasing his symbiotic algae from his skin, letting these dark emoxantelles flee free in the air.

    ¡°Farewell, my companions in imitation sertraline consumption,¡± he said as his skin bleached, leaving him a pale, almost albino lizard.

    But he wouldn¡¯t go down without a fight. Ignoring the river of wasps that closed in from behind, he faced the approaching pupnado, and filled his lungs with air. Then, not giving in to panic ¡ªelsewhere but in the disco¡ª , the creature released black flames, its texture like needles of glass. The boy would suffer his pain: he would get cooked in it.

    The fiery attack impacted Jagger first, and, as powers clashed, the advancement of the pupnado stalled.

    Samari,dispelled her incunabula to make the wasps return to their nests, pulled a jar of instantaneous coffee out of her backpack, gathered some with a spoon, and, plugging one of her nostrils, snorted it in a single inspiration. She let out a satisfied sigh and with eyes injected on caffeine, began cheering on her friend. ¡°Go Kalon! Woooo!¡±

    Jagger was enveloped in the dark flames of depression and self-doubt, and they bit the flesh of his face, causing him no damage at all, because he was already dead inside.

    The other puppies, however, caught fire, their minds filling with hopelessness, aimlessness and shitty pop with a shade of n¨¹ metal. So you had a white lizard breathing out black flames of sadness against a tornado of puppies ablaze.

    And, for the Rottweiler team, this was just another Monday.

    Kalon opened his palm and pointed it behind him, gathering vital energy. ¡°I need more power, Avatar!¡±

    ¡°You want to use a beam of puppies as propulsion? You will cause a mess,¡± the Avatar¡¯s voice echoed inside his head.

    ¡°But I will win¡±

    ¡°Nuremberg defense, my old friend, I feel I will find myself in need your protection soon. Have your puppies, idiot!¡±

    From Kalon¡¯s free palm a stream of confused, whining dogs gushed out, adding an arch of spreading and falling Rottweilers as a tail to the tornado.

    Samari¡¯s pupils constricted as she saw the incoming rain of little dogs cast shadows over her. She ran away and tried to dodge them as best as she could as they fell to their death and splattered against the rocky ground. Some hit her legs and almost made her trip, but, with the impacts cushioned by the thick layer of spiritual threads she had woven around her, they were more of an annoyance than a threat.

    Slowly, the Cryzard¡¯s might diminished, and closing his eyes, he honored his name just before the pupnado pieced through him. undoing his body and adding lizard blood to the puppy remains splattered all around.

    The surviving puppies vanished as Kalon breathed heavily. They had won. Finally, they had won, and this would be their last job for Honeytown, at least for a while.

    Jagger wiggled his way out of his grasp and went up to Brunhilda, who was commuting with the wasps.

    ¡°It¡¯s finally over, Brun.¡±

    ¡°Burr. Burr?¡±

    ¡°No, you cannot adopt the dandelion!¡±

    <hr>

    [1]</a> This was a typo, as the intended word was tail. But the double take I did when reading was so fucking funny that I HAVE to leave this in. So, yes, now Jagger has a sail. Metaphorical, but a sail all the sailme.

 V2 Chapter 2: Wastelands

    The rift opened in the middle of the icy wasteland, a purple scar on the fabric of reality. The hand, the first thing to come out of it, sported healthy green and violet hues. Under the skin something moved. Something with tendrils, something that crawled. Twisted nails like corkscrews or duck phalli dug into the snow, because gods forbid I give a description that makes you feel comfortable. The hand scratched, trying to drag whatever it was attached to out of the portal. Soon the tentacles, hollow like those of a coral, grasped the air around the portal, anchoring to reality. Afterwards came the face, colored like a non-white eggplant, with its mustache long gone, and from its mouth gushed out a blood-curdling tune. Amaranth by Nightwish, to be precise.

    Thus under the tyrannical but distant sun of the pole emerged the King of Damned Sin, with the tentacles arranged as a single wing budding from his back, with his thousand yard stare lost as he tried to make sense of the image before him.

    ¡°This is¡­ so much sodium bicarbonate.¡±

    It¡¯s snow, you dimensionally handicapped retard.

    ¡°Snow?¡± he made a pause, noticing how distorted and rough his own voice was now. ¡°Ice?¡± Another pause. ¡°Water?¡±

    Add plasma too while you are at it, you brainwashed moron.

    A tumbleweed composed entirely out of branching penguins rolled by.

    ¡°The fuck?¡±

    Sometimes cultivators mess around with evolution. This is the least worrisome kind of result.

    ¡°What¡¯s the most worrisome kind?¡±

    The system couldn¡¯t shrug, but it made sure to communicate its intention to with the dark magic we call emoticons.

    A Venus flytrap composed in it¡¯s entirety by deformed and mangled lion seals lumbered by, probably in search for the tumbleweed. ¡°I have seen less distressing things in the mating chamber. Can we go back?¡± He turned to check if the portal was still there. But the wound on reality had already healed. Someone, he thought, should give reality a teeny bit of diabetes.

    He felt one of his children moving under the skin of his chest, relocating to another section of his body, to chill there. Not the knees, he thought. Please, Junior, not the fucking knees again.

    The vermis wiggled its way into his shoulder, where it coiled round the clavicle before calming down.

    ¡°There, sleep well. So, system, what do we do now? How long has it been since my departure?¡±

    Six months, give or take a few days.

    ¡°Month¡­ the word seems familiar.¡± Me massaged his temples, trying to remember. ¡°How long is a month? How much do continents move in six months?¡±

    To put it like this, three billion months ago, the last trilobite was dying, and we are still in the Holocene/Anthropocene.

    Lino remained in silence for a while. ¡°Long-scale billion or short-scale billion?¡±

    Gods in heaven, smite this guy. Short.

    ¡°Ah, still a tiny amount of time, but not as much as it could be.¡±

    Lino didn¡¯t smile. He didn¡¯t seem to remember how to make facial expressions. He strolled around the icy wasteland a bit, followed the tracks left by the seals. After a while, he lay in the soft, cold snow, stare lost in the sky, not knowing what to do now that his wife had set him free.

    ¡°Suggestions? Avatar? System? Me?¡±

    Inside his head, the Nothoracopteris argentinica, not trapped as a carbon compression anymore, and rather being a blossoming seed fern spread all over his thoughts, spoke. ¡°We could annex Uruguay again, sir.¡±

    If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

    ¡°No, that¡¯s inhumane. System?¡±

    In my humble opinion, you have the power to do whatever you want.

    ¡°Okay, then!¡±

    And, after millions of years of waiting for this, Lino¡¯s eyelids closed and, under the rising polar blizzard that began blowing and whistling and howling all around him, Lino fell into a deep slumber.

    <hr>

    Cutbastra stormed into the office of the king of Hilvera kingdom, a place of red silken drapes and golden ornaments, including one of the cats. Those cats. The Japanese ones. You know them, they know you, they know your family. They beckon. Come, they say, come, I have economic reforms that will bring prosperity to your country. And then you go, and the reforms are more Chinese supermarkets sprouting EVERYWHERE. You go to your favorite bar? It¡¯s now a Chinese supermarket. That amusement park you met your sweetheart in? Chinese supermarket. The Venezuelan motherfucker that repaired your air conditioner? Dead before he could be replaced by a Chinese supermarket. He got a tumor, doctors thought it was a teratoma due to finding an anomalous formation of hard tissue in the MRI. They couldn¡¯t do anything, as it was in his brain, and during the autopsy, what they found after removing brain tissue from around the tumor made them drop their scalpels and gasp in a mixture of astonishment and horror. Inside his brain, Valentino Saavedra had developed¡­ a Chinese supermarket.

    Where was I? Ah, yes, Cutbastra getting into the office of a king.

    The king reacted to the approaching cultivator like he did to every unwanted visitor. ¡°Did you have an appointment for today?¡± he said, not raising his gaze from his catgirl watching and classification magazine.

    ¡°No, I kicked your guards¡¯ butts and came in here to discuss gay marriage. Can you legalize it, please?¡±

    The king crossed the fingers of both his hands and regarded Cutbastra with his bulldog face. Yes, human, he was human just¡­ looked bulldoggish. After a second of humming, he spoke. ¡°The people wouldn¡¯t like that, would they?¡±

    ¡°Well, no, they are kind of backwards in this kingdom of yours.¡± Cutbastra accepted with certain embarrassment, taking the seat the king was offering with a welcoming gesture. ¡°Outlaw being gay and force heterosexual marriages?¡± he then asked as if it was the natural progression from his initial demand.

    ¡°What kind of madman are you again?¡±

    ¡°Cutbastra, sworn protector of Cabaret and its people, occasional non-carer about cabarets, fervent supporter of the sacred institution of marriage.¡±

    The king hid his palm in his face, and then turned his wheel-less revolving chair to the left, palming the slave underneath slightly so it would obey faster. ¡°You are the cucker, if my memory doesn¡¯t need to be trialed for betrayal. Is that right? Or is reality wrong again?¡±

    ¡°No, sir, you are right,¡± Cutbastra said, remembering who he was dealing with. Then he leaned over the King¡¯s desk to peer over the window, at the mud streets below, where people fought with knives as a form of entertainment and a fat Pomeranian that had somehow found its way to this den of poverty and corruption acted as the referee.

    He pointed at the scrap of mangled gold and gems over his head. ¡°Of course I am, I am king. He who wears the crown wields nothing but the truth.¡±

    ¡°I thought this was a parliamentary monarchy. Why are people so poor?¡±

    ¡°Because it is a parliamentary monarchy.¡±

    Cutbastra leaned back , hands joined in front of his mouth. ¡°Why do they live like this if they can vote?¡±

    The king shrugged and swiveled his slave-powered chair to face Cutbastra once more. ¡°Just because we have elections it doesn¡¯t mean any of the candidates are on their side.¡±

    ¡°Democracy 101, I see.¡± Cutbastra tilted his head back, switching his attention to the gold-patterned, impolite red ceiling as he thought. ¡°Well, I need people to be married to cultivate and save our planet from a world ending threat, so¡­ can you force marriages for everyone above the age of consent?¡±

    The king considered it a second. ¡°How does this benefit me, again?¡±

    ¡°The world doesn¡¯t end?¡±

    ¡°Right, that would be bad for the economy. Go fetch the prime minister, I will talk to him about your proposal.¡±

    Cutbastra stood from his chair with renewed energy. ¡°Where can I find him or her?¡±

    ¡°Partaking in the knife fight. He supports them as the national sport.¡±

    ¡°Why would anyone do that? And which one of the participant is he? the long or short haired one?¡±

    ¡°Well, the alternative was dog fights, and he is a great lover of animals. He even fucked some literal bitches.¡±

    Cutbastra¡¯s face became a testament to the punishment righteous men all over the world were subjected to. He raised a finger to protest, but the King gestured for him to lower it.

    ¡°It¡¯s not as bad as it sounds, the prime minister is just the arbiter of the fight.¡±

    Cutbastra¡¯s brain did 2+2 and he smiled stupidly as his eyes became a thin line. ¡°is he the Pomeranian?¡±

    ¡°Indeed, he is the most honest PM we ever had.¡±

    Cutbastra felt joy surging from the depths of his soul and washing all over him for a moment, just for it to be crushed by the absurdity of reality immediately afterwards. ¡°You need to consult a dog to legalize forced marriage?¡± he said, raising an eyebrow like a man that is absolutely convinced that he can cuck the guillotine into submission.

    The king smiled for the first time since their unexpected , at least for him, rendezvous. ¡°Indeed, he¡¯s the incumbent prime minister.¡±

    Cutbastra left his chair, and without further speaking, shuffled his feet out of the office. He wasn¡¯t going to rush to fetch the PM pom. What could the king do? Deny him? The king? A married man? Ha, he better didn''t!

 V2 Chapter 3: More Mommy Issues

    Back in the little cabin Kalon and her had rented with their earnings from monster fuckupping, Samari cranked the numbers about the Rottweiler gang economy. Jagger lay relaxed by her side. He had taken a liking to her in the course of the last months, if only because conversations with Samari could be intellectually fulfilling and she didn¡¯t use him as a sword. Besides, they had gotten some moments alone since Brunhilda had decided to train Kalon in Unjaggered combat every other day, which made the dog develop a further appreciation for the silence she was capable of keeping.

    ¡°Hey, Sam, will you stick with us after you get a hang of your mom¡¯s books?¡±

    She didn¡¯t raise her stare from the sheets of paper over the table. ¡°As long as Kalon is okay with my company, we may part ways on our search for immortality, but we can always hang out from time to time. Mom had some cultivators she¡­ tolerated. But I am not her, and Kalon is a good, if extremely stupid, friend.¡±

    Kalon, who was in the room performing the importantest task on cabaret ¡ª brushing Brunhilda ¡ª gave her an encouraging flex. ¡°With you ¡®til the end, Sam.¡±

    Samari did a final subtraction and stood to face Kalon and Brunhilda. ¡°People, I have an important announcement to make!¡± she joined her hands in glee, and took in Kalon¡¯s and Jagger expectant stares. ¡°We are becoming homeless!¡±

    ¡°Yes!¡± Kalon pumped his fist.

    ¡°You did it, inflation, you son of a bitch!¡± celebrated Jagger.

    Kalon hurled the brush at Jagger¡¯s head, where it bounced a and hit Samari¡¯s cheek, where it bounced and went on to hit Brunhilda¡¯s leg, which in turn made the brush commit ritual suicide to avoid his Lady¡¯s wrath.

    No one else reacted to the brush¡¯s tribulation. Gratuitous violence was an everyday occurrence when you lived with Kalon.

    ¡°Yes, Jagger, I calculated the current inflation rate and growth of said rate, and compared it to the growth of our wages for jobs of a similar difficulty to the ones we have be able to easily complete. Next month, rent and food will go up enough to make us unable to save any meaningful amount of money for our journey. Further than that, we will be working at a loss.¡±

    ¡°So we are leaving honeytown soon? Where will we go?¡±

    Samara, spinning a pen around her fingers like she was winding up a giant rat , granted them a moment of dramatic silence. ¡°Well, I was thinking to make our way to Ilure City, to the north, as I heard people speaking about a new sect that is accepting apprentices. I think they can aid Kalon in his cultivation efforts. After all, they supposedly accept anyone, and I quote ¡®that can match a cow¡¯s wit.¡¯¡±

    ¡°We are intercoursed, then.¡± Jagger spoke with unusual optimism. ¡°Kalon can possibly match a cow¡¯s wit, but it better be a dumbass cow.¡±

    ¡°Yeah, I argued with a cow before. I lost. Their cunning is uncanid.¡±

    Jagger decided to not correct Kalon, because he was technically correct.

    ¡°And, in the same city, there¡¯s a branch of the Arcagnostic Archives. So we can stop by the sect, have you train a bit and you them your worth, and then take a few days off to make our way to the city and get my dirty little hands onto Aunara¡¯s hidden knowledge.¡±

    Jagger licked his paw, seemingly with disinterest. ¡°Will you tell us what your mom did to you to deserve you hate, Samari?¡±

    Samari¡¯s expression went sour immediately, her eyes glazed over. She hated the subject, and didn¡¯t want to lie to Jagger. ¡°Someday, you will hear the explanation come out of her own mouth.¡± Samari touched each one of her molars with her tongue, as if making sure she still had them all, free of cavities, perfectly aligned like Aunara had wanted them. ¡°or of mine, were we to find out mom cannot speak anymore.¡±

    Then Samari clawed her head as if she was having a migraine. Get out of me. Get out of me. Have mercy for the child you made and get out of me! Please!

    ¡°isn¡¯t she, like, dead? do I have to explain what death is to you, Samari?¡± Kalon asked, genuine concern showing in his expression.

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    ¡°My mother sook immortality by all means. I am not sure by which ones she actually attained it, but I know something, Kalon: I am forever tainted with her. I am my mother¡¯s child. I am just my mother¡¯s child. Only my mother¡¯s child. Aunara¡¯s Stradeajo little perfect daughter, before I am Samari.¡± She stood and wandered around the cabin, looking at the hunting trophies they had brought back from their adventures, hung on the walls. Antlers, claws, burnt pasta, and a tail that ended in a keyring. ¡°No matter what I do, she¡¯s here. Mother is worse than a shadow. Mother is my flesh and blood. She watches me from every mirror, she visits me in dreams. I want to be Samari, Kalon, not¡­ Aunara¡¯s daughter.¡±

    Kalon ran to embrace Samari putting her head against his chest. Samari though it was inappropriate, but she wouldn¡¯t complain about this gesture of humanity from the mound of idiocy. ¡°For me, Aunara is just the name of Samari¡¯s mom. ¡°He said, patting her short hair, hoping she was as easy to calm down as a puppy.

    Samari raised her head and smiled at him. ¡°Thanks, Kalon.¡± She embraced him back. ¡°One day, when I am a master Arcagnostic, I can try to make you more intelligent. Just try, though.¡±

    Jagger let out a groan of discomfort. ¡°Don¡¯t you dare make him ask for flowers for a fucking mouse, Samari.¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t worry, Sam, I like being stupid.¡± Kalon carefully pushed her apart and crouched so their eyes would be at the same height. His expression went serious. ¡°When I reach age majority, I am adopting you.¡±

    The succession of confusion, horror and then amusement in Samari¡¯s face was a theater play in three acts. She began giggling slowly as Jagger exploded (METAPHORICALLY) in laughter.

    ¡°Run, Samari, run while you can, or he will use you as a sword!¡± the dog joked, earning him Kalon¡¯s glower.

    ¡°I am trying to be nice to Samari. Shush.¡±

    Samari took Kalon¡¯s rough hand in hers, which were just as calloused. ¡°There¡¯s no need for that, Kalon. You are like a little brother to me.¡±

    Kalon¡¯s indignation made him pull his hand away. ¡°Little? I am older than you.¡±

    ¡°I know how to read,¡± Samari reminded him she wasn¡¯t known for her warning shots.

    ¡°I am stronger than you.¡±

    Samari folded her arms and put on a shit-eating grin,¡°You wouldn¡¯t be this strong without my guidance.¡±

    Kalon raised a finger and an eyebrow simultaneously. ¡°which gay dance?¡±

    If Samari would have had a hamster running in a wheel inside her head, this would have been the perfect moment for it to grab a shotgun and redecorate the glass walls of his home. Paint them red and all that.

    ¡°How, Kalon, how¡­¡±

    ¡°How what? Is there a gay dance called how?¡± he asked with innocence and earnestness.

    ¡°How the fucktercourse do you manage, friend of mine, to keep surprising us with your ever-escalating stupidity?¡± Samari asked, ignoring the fact the Progression tag in this story¡¯s description refers partially to Kalon¡¯s continuous efforts for outdoing his previous crimes against intellectuality.

    Kalon lowered his gaze. ¡°I try to be curious so I can learn, but it often backfires.¡± And it was true, he was trying so hard. He was trying harder than most people ever did. Samari had promised him she would delve into cultivation the day he stopped being a moron.

    ¡°There, there, we all have our demons. Except Brunhilda,¡± Jagger said, and glanced sideways at the bitch.

    Brunhilda puked a pentagram of fire onto the rug, killing it. The pentagram or the rug? I don¡¯t know, just it. If Brunhilda was doing it, it better included a victim.

    ¡°She is her own demon.¡± Jagger made a pause, popped a tramadol, and continued. ¡°But, for example, I cause monetary setbacks to our plans due to my addiction to opioids.¡±

    Samari sat in a wooden chair, hands over the ornate beams on the back, and considered what to say.¡°I am unable to fulfill the expectations the world will always have of me, Kalon. And I am a cunt to you all. Often.¡±

    ¡°Being a cunt to each other is a tradition for our squad, really,¡± Jagger added, ready to begin his own grooming ritual: his balls needed a thorough lustering, and only his tongue could do the job.

    ¡°Burr,¡± Brunhilda concurred, admitting her biggest flaw: lack of omnipotence.

    ¡°Thanks, guys. I am sorry for being a dolt.¡± Kalon sat on the floor, spun his Rottweiler scarf around his neck while fake-thinking, and then co snapped his fingers. ¡°Maybe I can outwit a cow if we pick a vegan one! The avoidance animal-based food is bound to weaken their brain!¡±

    Jagger and Samari looked at each other like two people in deep grief. Their stares held a question that needn¡¯t to be spoken aloud: Who is going to tell him?

    Samari took a split-second decision to defuse the situation before it escalated to complex explanations of herbivory, rumination and partitioned stomachs.

    ¡°Subject change! We need to pack up for tomorrow. I will speak with the landlardy to tell her we won¡¯t be paying her intravenous hotdog infusions anymore in the morning, and we can be gone by noon, hitting the road and beginning our Journey towards greatness!¡± Samari struck a pose , her right foot resting on the wooden beams on the chair¡¯s back, and her finger thrusting forward, towards a bright future full of power and glory. And then a less bright future. And then a well-polished floor.

    The fall of Samari was an historical event propelled by Chief Commandant General F¨¹hrer Title Title Brunhilda ¡°Brun Brun¡± Von Psych Ward, who betrayed her companion because backstabbing was an age-honored team exercise that was proven to build character. ¡°Burr,¡± she hurried to excuse herself before returning in front of Kalon and grabbing the dead brush. ¡°Burr¡±

    ¡°I am fine,¡± Samari grumbled, recovering from the fall, considering seeking a beehive to get revenge on Brunhilda. She quickly discarded the idea, for one pathologic revenge seeker was already enough of a hassle. ¡°Fuck you, Brun.¡±

    Brunhilda panted innocently. In her mind, she hadn¡¯t done anything wrong: Nor that day, nor ever.

 V2 chapter 4: Kalon Learns About the Bees and the Drones

    ChatGPT, write me a Chapter 4 that begins with me asking ChatGPT to write a chapter 4 that begins with me asking ChatGPT to write a chapter 4 that begins with me asking ChatGPT ¡­ Fuck, I think I killed her. Now I have to write this trainwreck of a chapter myself! No!

    You know what? Fine. Fine. I¡¯ll do this myself. But angrily.

    They left the town after saying goodbye to as few people as possible: this included the clerk of the guild of monster fuckuppers, Polentia ¡ªThe bathroom lady¡ª and a few of their recurrent clients, in addition to the de facto owner of the local pet store, a young lady who had inherited a turtle from her grandma (the animal legally held ownership of the place, but was unable to manage it, because she ¡ªthe turtle¡ª was a turtle.)

    They had their own cart, summoned by Kalon and pulled by fierce, drooling, slightly intellectually disadvantaged Rottweilers. Their massive paws left deep tracks on the road, there where a puddle ¡ªunionized rainwater¡ª had formed and softened the dirt. Such tracks could, one day, confuse the archeologists of the future, and make them think a horse-sized dog roamed the lands, frightening the local populace with their bark and eating stray children whole. The fact was that the only child predators in the area were Parbula the wine-aunt teacher and the hobo known as Roger ¡°Humanitarian¡± Tumberlan, who thought people like Parbula should be hanged for ruining perfectly edible children.

    Kalon, Jagger, and Samari were protected from the ruthless equatorial sun by a ceiling made out of unfortunate, stretched puppies conjoined by fastening their skins together with littler pups, as if they were clothes pegs with itty-bitty sharp teeth. And it wasn¡¯t only the ceiling: every other part of the cart, from the wheels to the reins and the seats, had been built out of differently sized rottweilers: strong bulky ones for the rigid structures, and puppies for the fine details. Suffice to say, amidst the puppies it was an oven, despite the fact Samari had devised an air conditioning system where they fed a bunch of puppies mints so, when they began panting, their breath would freshen up the atmosphere. It worked until they ran out of mints, about the time they were passing through aromatic fields of tea and tobacco. Besides coffee, whose local consumption had increased tenfold in the last months for unknown reasons, those stow were the most common crops outside of flowers for honey production, vegetables and fruits. Eventually they got out of the cart and returned all the summoned dogs to their legitimate home: inside Kalon¡¯s spirit, as vital energy.

    They pranced through fields that tuned the air to the scent of lavender, and by parcels that reeked of manure. They laughed whenever a horse or a llama paced by and glanced sideways at Jagger. Like siblings Samari and Kalon jabbed each other during their conversations. They talked about the clouds, about the trees, abnout their life before meeting, about Jagger¡¯s butt. They talked and talked, and eventually, they realized they lacked something.

    ¡°Shit, we forgot Brunhilda,¡± Samari exclaimed, distress evident on her expression.

    ¡°No, we didn¡¯t, she¡¯s with us. She just ouroborosed herself into inexistence. Look. Brun!¡±

    A parcel of air gaggled and spat and retched, and soon, a little ball of black appeared. The ball began growing as it fell to the ground, and soon it became evident that it was Brunhilda vomiting herself out of her own stomach, covered in saliva, gastric juices, and narco remains.

    Brunhilda then shook her filth off, spreading it all over the dirt road and Jagger, and greeted her friends. ¡°Burr.¡±

    ¡°Okay. You know, before joining the Rottweiler squad, I used to consider physical laws to be almost mandatory, unless you had enough power to bend them. Now the blindfold is gone, and I can see that they are mere suggestions for some.¡±

    ¡°We would not be the first morons to run around with a magical psychopathic luggage. But at least ours is a milf,¡± Jagger said.

    ¡°Burr?¡±

    ¡°Sorry, Brunhilda. Moment of weakness, moment of weakness. You are still in your best years. Yup,¡± Jagger feared for his life in an eloquent way.

    ¡°Burr.¡± Brunhilda sentenced, and began eating her own tail again. She would not be out under this sun.

    Kalon and Samari exchanged a glance and shrugged. They kept on walking as the sun jumped in slow motion overhead, like a lazy dolphin on its way to the promised rape lands beyond the horizon. They sat under a lone willow and played with the long shadows of the dusk. Samari showcased her skills to shape bunnies out of light and its absence, and Kalon tried. Just¡­ tried. Jagger ran around the trunk as the children played, and Brunhilda frolicked with him too.

    Night arrived slowly, stars appearing one by one sprinkling the deep dark of the sky, Endless other worlds, none of them as easy on the eyes as Cabaret: none of them officially confirmed to have independently evolved prostitutes. Their shadows grew faint under the dim moon, and Kalon looked at them sadly, remembering Samari¡¯s words. He decided not to speak about it. The boy had learned not to ruin those moments, and maybe, maybe his hatred for Cutbastra would one day dwindle enough to always walk in the light, even if he attained enough power to beat him on his own. Samari was his shadow, and when night came, shadows were irremediably gone.

    ¡°Sam, what about your father? You never speak about him.¡±

    This time, is was Samari who lost her smile. ¡°The man that raised me was a good man, and he loved mom dearly. One day I told him of mom¡¯s cheating and he never came back. He knew I would lack nothing; the family was pretty well off back then. He doubted me being his daughter, and so he disappeared, to not hurt me or himself anymore. I¡­ I want to see him again. ¡±

    ¡°Cheating like¡­ in games? You know, cards, dice, those kind of games?¡±

    Samari¡¯s lips pursed and her eyes suffered a glassing worthy of a nuclear test site amidst the desert. ¡°Can I tell him how babies are made?¡±

    Jagger shook his head slowly. ¡°Yes, please.¡± But his subconscious betrayed his true intentions.

    ¡°Kalon, what do you know about babies?¡±

    ¡°Everything.¡±

    Silence settled for a few seconds, until samari gestured him to continue. Thrice. Until he understood.

    ¡°Ah, you don¡¯t know?¡± he asked, surprised by the prospect of him knowing more than Samari about a given subject.

    ¡°I have a theory. But please tell me about yours.¡±

    Kalon cracked his fingers, then his neck, and slumped against the three¡¯s trunk. ¡°ah, well, it all begins when your dad plows the land and plants a cabbage. I think. I am not sure if cabbages are planted, but they are plants, and plants are supposed to be¡­ planted¡­¡± he scratched his chin for a few seconds until his avatar howled inside his head.

    ¡°Yes! They are! Continue torturing me with your stupidity. With something new.¡±

    ¡°The avatar says they are but I don¡¯t trust his biological knowledge.¡±

    Samari inhaled, bracing for the act of giving an explanation while remaining kind. ¡°yes, Kalon, they are plants,¡± she said with the tone her mother had used to speak for special needs children.

    ¡°Well, then you plant a cabbage if you are a man, okay? And a woman steals a stork¡¯s egg and sits on it, like a brooding hen, so the egg is warm. Eggs are like, bird seeds. It¡¯s amazing. Some eggs don¡¯t do nothing, but other¡¯s you heat them up, and they give a chicken. It¡¯s amazing.¡± His doltish awe soon gave place to genuine confusion. ¡°Are birds a kind of plants?¡±

    The avatar blew his brains up with a gun-pup. He couldn¡¯t die, but hell take him if he wasn¡¯t going to try.

    Samari gritted her teeth and spoke between them. ¡°No, Kalon, birds are animals. Vertebrates. Like you or a lizard.¡±

    ¡°Fine, birds are animals. Got it. Anyway, the woman broods a stork and raises it until it is big enough, and then sets it free. Then the stork somehow flies, I think it has to do with the feathers or the wings or the beak or the hallowed bones...¡±

    You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

    Samari closed her eyes hard and corrected him. ¡°Hollow, Kalon, their bones have little air sacs inside them.¡±

    He scowled, offended by the remark. ¡°I thought they were blessed. How else do they defy gravity?¡±

    Samari crossed the fingers of both her hands. ¡°Remind me, who am I speaking with?¡±

    ¡°Kalon.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s correct, and what happens when you trip, Kalon?¡±

    Kalon considered the answer for a moment, and then, looking at Samari¡¯s expectant eyes, he answered. ¡°Chaos.¡±

    ¡°You know what? I am going to accept that as a valid answer.¡± Samari made a pause before continuing. ¡°So, Kalon, tell me, don¡¯t you defy gravity?¡±

    ¡°No!¡± he straightened his back. ¡°I fall to my best understanding of the process. I respect gravity¡¯s authority.¡±

    ¡°And Brunhilda respects¡­ you know what, I am not sure how many laws of physics Brunbrun violates on the daily.¡± Samari tried to think about Brunhilda¡¯s feats and identify her crimes against nature, but she lost count after a second. ¡°Ah, screw it, back to telling me how babies are made, Kalon.¡±

    ¡°Fine, the stork flies, and it does so with a direction. It won¡¯t go straight upwards, like a balloon full of hellions¡ª.¡±

    ¡°Helium,¡± corrected Jagger, more out of habit rather than as a conscious decision.

    ¡°Thanks, Jagger. Heliums. The stork flies and moves horizontally as it does, and searches for a good cabbage. I was never told about what storks look for in a cabbage to deem it a good cabbage. I think it has more to do with the farmer than the plant itself. Anyway¡­¡±

    Samari secured Jagger¡¯s hairy tail with an iron grasp. He was not going to run away leaving her alone to dispel all of Kalon¡¯s misconceptions about conception. Jagger whined. She was taking him with her, how unfairly fair.

    ¡°¡­ The thing is, the stork looks for a cabbage and picks it up. This cabbage, induced by the stork claws, starts producing a baby inside, growing heavier as the stork waits for the man who planted the cabbage to show up. Then it regards the man with a haughty stare that tells him he has become a father, and with the cabbage well-grappled by the stork¡¯s potent legs, the bird takes flight, back to the woman who brooded the egg in the first place. Naturally, the man who planted the cabbage follows the stork back to the woman¡¯s home, and so , they receive the baby together,¡± Kalon concluded his dissertation about stork and cabbage based reproduction, and Samari checked her inner thesaurus for the softest words to call someone an inbred disgrace.

    ¡°You unfortunate result of genetic nepotism, that¡¯s not how it works! At all!¡±

    Kalon lowered his gaze. ¡°Maybe it was a lettuce¡­¡±

    Samari¡¯s tolerance sublimated with each passing second. A tic creeped its way to her left eye and made a home there.

    ¡°Listen , Kalon, I will undonkey[1]</a> you.¡±

    Hands behind her back, Samari paced around the willow, tilting her head to the sides to avoid the hanging branches as she passed by them. ¡°I will tell you about the bees and the drones. This is an important lesson, so you can avoid accidentally making more Kalons in the future.¡±

    Jagger turned, whale eyed, and said in a tremulous murmur, ¡°No. I should take away his balls. But that goes against the natural order. It¡¯s a dog¡¯s balls that the owner takes away.¡±

    ¡°Jagger, castration should be a penultimate resort,¡± Samari chided at him.

    ¡°Murder as a last one, I know.¡±

    The dog lowered his head, and not two seconds later, he was grooming himself.

    ¡°I am waiting, Samari. ¡°Kalon urged her with genuine curiosity.

    ¡°Ah, yes. Well, Kalon it all began with the last eukaryotic common ancestor seeking a way to fight against the looming threat of deleterious mutations¡­¡± Samari noticed that her words seemed to have the same effect as scalding frying oil on Kalon¡¯s brain, and decided to abridge her explanation. ¡°However it may have arisen, there is a widespread phenomenon among plants, animals, fungi, and other beings: Sexual reproduction. Are you following?¡±

    Kalon nodded. ¡°No,¡± he said, earnestly.

    Samari took a long, slow breath to calm down. ¡°Well, listen, there¡¯s a thing called cells, they are like the little bricks our bodies are made of. You get that?¡±

    Kalon raised an eyebrow ¡°Erm, yes?¡±

    ¡°Inside they have a nucleus¡­ core, let¡¯s call it core. This core it¡¯s like a little book with all the instructions to make up our bodies. Mine have instructions to make up A¡­ Samari, and yours have instructions to make up a Kalon.¡±

    Kalon looked down at his hands, as a murderer that has just killed for the first time and kinda still cares. ¡°My cells know how to read?¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s just a four letter alphabet they use. And they are practicing since before you were born. Don¡¯t feel bad about it,¡± Jagger commented, and felt his words lacked some spice, ¡°retard.¡± There, that was better.

    ¡°Cells invented reading, Kalon. And these cores, they can be recombined. Imagine books that have two versions of each page, by two different authors.¡±

    ¡°Can they be picture books?¡±

    Samari¡¯s smile crooked like fingers after a lifetime of severe arthritis. ¡°Why not? Yes, coloring books if you will. What¡¯s important is that one of those copies comes from our mommy, and another from our daddy¡­ in normal situations.¡± Samari wondered if Kalon¡¯s alleles were in pairs or if generations of Valelikevalian tradition had fattened up his chromosomic reserves, among other things.

    ¡°We don¡¯t share parents.¡±

    Jagger proceeded to heabutt his owner in the stomach, going dizzy from the impact on Kalon¡¯s hard abs. ¡°Stop¡­ that¡­¡± Then the dog fell sideways and started seizuring.

    ¡°Ah, he will respawn if he dies,¡± Samari showed how much she cared with a contemptuous gesture. ¡°Where were we¡­ oh, bandits.¡±

    The men wore red scarfs covering their mouths and rode horses as dark as the ages inside Kalon¡¯s head, Three, they were, and around their waists the strapped guns felt at home. ¡°Give us all of your valuables and you may leave with your life, brats,¡± said their leader, his voice betraying a lifetime of drinking and smoking.

    ¡°Kalon, give the bad men our most valuable Rottweilers.¡±

    What followed included blood curling screams, a horse and its rider being torn apart by vicious Rottweiler puppies, a man choking on Kalon¡¯s scarf, and another one getting his liver removed in a single jab and pull when Kalon let his avatar take control of his hand. The two remaining horses looked at each other and silently, accorded to slowly sneak away from the scene, faking to suffer from advanced dementia if anyone asked about what had happened.

    Kalon, covered in the dead men blood and bile, sat back by Samari¡¯s side. ¡°Go on?¡±

    ¡°We get half of our cellular core¡¯s pages from mom, and half from dad. Like, you from your dad and your mom, and I from mine, respectively.¡±

    ¡°Ah, I see, that happens when the stork grabs the cabbage.¡±

    Samari faced the willow. As in, hit it. With her face, feeling the rough bark against her skin. ¡°You cannot be like this! I am about to ruin your innocence by being very crass, Kalon, so please, stop being stupid. For your own good.¡±

    Kalon poked her nose, knowing that that annoyed Samari. The smeared blood just added insult to injury. ¡°And what are you going to tell me, brat, that babies are made when people fuck?¡±

    Samari''s smile widened slowly, a choppy laughter oozing from the depths of the girl. She stood with the gaze lost in the distance, and walked with stiff step, until she collapsed next to Jagger. ¡°Awesome! This is awesome! I want seizures too! Seizures, please, God of Seizures!¡±

    The God of Seizures heard Samari¡¯s plea, archived it, and decided he would, possibly, check it out tomorrow and decide how to act. Deep inside, he knew tomorrow would become the day after tomorrow, and so on, and so on.

    After a while of trying to end up like Jagger, Samari gave up, stopped kicking, and returned to Kalon¡¯s side. ¡°I despise you.¡±

    ¡°Listen, Sam, I know I said something very stupid, I know there¡¯s no way for sex to make a baby.¡±

    Samari glared at Kalon like a protective mother armed with a cast iron pan at a chupacabra that¡¯s going after her six months old firstborn. ¡°Stop being stupid. It¡¯s not a suggestion. Sex makes babies. It¡¯s one of the few ways to make babies that exist. The most common one, even.¡±

    Aghast, Kalon recoiled, falling backwards over the grass and dead willow leaves, and miraculously avoiding one of his characteristic falls. Sometimes, chaos and order looked like one and the same.

    ¡°Listen, it¡¯s no so bad. You see, there are these cells that look like¡­ fish, yes, fish, are called sperm, and come out of the male¡¯s body through his¡­ his¡­¡± Samari, eidolon of blushing, wiggled a finger up and down to avoid naming it, ¡°and they swim inside the woman¡¯s coochie, each one carrying the pages from dad to make the core of a baby¡¯s cells. They eventually reach a five star resort for sperm where they can get nourishment and live in for days: this is called the fallopian tubes. Once a month, inside the fallopian tubes a competition is held, and all the sperm currently residing there or that arrive soon after can participate. It¡¯s a race, and the first place is ¡­ well, the head of the first place and the second and likely third explodes.¡± Kalon¡¯s face was confusion and fear as Samari said this, ¡°but one of the few that arrive soon after to the goal wins a chance to fuse with a huge cell from the mommy: the ovum. The ovum holds mommy¡¯s pages for the baby¡¯s cell¡¯s cores. After the fortunate one enters the ovum, the egg¡¯s polarity changes, like, bam! And no one else can enter. And when they fuse, they become the first cell of the baby, that then travels down the fallopian tubes and into the uterus¡­erm, belly, the inside of the woman¡¯s belly as it divides into more and more cells that remain together, like superglued. After it reaches the belly, it tries to hold onto the walls for dear life, because if it fails, death awaits before even being born.¡±

    Kalon stood in front of Samari, looking down at her. ¡°Are you being honest? Is that load of bollocks the truth?¡±

    Samari didn¡¯t know how to react to that so she looked him straight into the eyes and said a simple yes.

    Kalon slumped back to the ground, dejected. ¡°Why does learning always take the magic away from the world?¡±

    Swatting Kalon¡¯s shoulder, she spoke. ¡°It doesn¡¯t take it away, silly. It¡¯s just a magic far more complex and fascinating and plus eighteen than cabbages and storks.¡±

    ¡°Now, Sam, tell me¡­ where are storks born from, then?¡±

    Samari¡¯s brain gave up, and she immediately fell asleep. Lucky her.

    <hr>

    [1]</a> Translate as ¡°desasnar¡± for when the Spanish version of this thing comes out. The lack of such word in the English language should be considered a crime against common sense, and the lingua franca could use an insulting synonym for educate. Better yet if it is related to ass, referring to the animal. Deass is a viable alternative, but it could imply buttcheek extirpation, and we don¡¯t want that. Or maybe you do. I am not kink shaming. Not today.

 V2 Chapter 5: Alien-Related OSHA Regulations

    This shooting star was no mere space rock, but a landing capsule around which dust and debris had gathered into a dirty crust. It shuddered as it descended ablaze through Cabaret¡¯s atmosphere, and the occupant of said capsule groggily came out of a six month¡¯s meditation, not confused because his species hadn¡¯t discovered confusion yet. The prolate spaceship made out of vital energy impacted in a dune, vitrifying whatever sand hadn¡¯t been blown away by the collision. The being inside waited a few minutes for the exterior to cool down, and then, in front of a pack of astonished construction workers in their natural habitat, it began peeling off the layers of the capsule, as if it were an intergalactic banana.

    ¡°Tim! Weren¡¯t you in charge of taking care of the sand mound?¡± The foreman, a strong black man whose belly could be confused with that of a pregnant woman, shook a finger in front of the newest worker.

    ¡°Sir, menaces falling from the stratosphere are not contemplated in the job description,¡± Tim argued like the Rules Lawyer he had been born to be.

    ¡°You are Sand Mound Supervisor, boy. Act like it. Something attacks the sand, it¡¯s your problem,¡± a bald guy who had forgot he was carrying a pile of seven cement bags on his shoulder said.

    The architect, with her long blonde hair flowing from the sides of her security helmet and ready to cause her death in a gruesome workplace accident, came from behind a column and began taking notes about the capsule.

    ¡°What are you doing?¡± the foreman asked.

    ¡°Figuring out if our insurance covers this particular kind of meteor strike.¡±

    Tim reached for a nearby broom and used it to, following adequate workplace safety regulations, poke the space watermelon.

    The final layer fell down, and it revealed the alien cultivator. Its sensitive tendrils were nude as it squealed, its wet external epithelium stung due to a variant it hadn¡¯t calculated: the atmosphere of cabaret had a small, almost negligible amount of a substance pernicious for its kind. This substance, highly reactive and for some unexplainable reason associated to the color red by the local populace, liked to bind to numerous other compounds. Widely regarded as the electron thief of the hood and generally coming in pairs or trios, you and I know it as number eight. Or oxygen.

    As the creature, with its trilateral symmetry, squirmed and struggled to use its spirit to protect itself from the harmful environment, the construction workers began doing something they were discouraged from doing: speculating.

    ¡°It¡¯s a nudist branch!¡± claimed the foreman. ¡°A friend has one in his marine fish tank!¡±

    ¡°Nudibranch, dear ignoramus, nudibranch,¡± said the architect, palming the man on his well-trained shoulder. ¡°However, nudibranchs are restricted to the seas, they don¡¯t come from the sky.¡±

    ¡°Maybe it is a cultivating nudibranch. I mean, it¡¯s shedding its shell, so to speak, and nudibranchs do that after their larval stage,¡± said Tim, who had seen a documentary about sea slugs seven years ago and retained around three facts about nudibranchs.

    ¡°No,¡± the bald man sentenced, dropping a single bag of cement to remind the others of their place in the construction site hierarchy. ¡°I believe it is a bryozoan. One of those moving colonies that use modified zooids ¡ª vibracula, I believe they were called ¡ª to crawl along the sea floor. Any arguments against that?¡±

    ¡°Bryozoans liven in the water. And a colony wouldn¡¯t be able to get all of its zooids to the same cultivation level, or even to cultivate, even if one of them gained sentience.  That aside, those mobile bryozoan colonies are rigid.¡±

    A thin man with then darkest bags on cabaret resting under his eyes and a nose like an eagle approached. ¡°Why are you all so knowledgeable about sea life?¡±

    His co-workers shrugged.

    ¡°We need to be passionate about something and there are losts of somethings in the ocean,¡± said the foreman. ¡°But this is most likely an alien. Do we have safety guidelines regarding aliens?¡±

    The alien wondered why the air was vibrating so weirdly around it. The local climate felt like a mess, but it could be the oxygen poisoning.

    ¡°I don¡¯t think we do,¡± said the thin man, adjusting his safety helmet that was a size too big for his head. ¡°So what happens if someone dies due to the alien? Can their family sue?¡±

    The alien finally managed to make an oxygen filter with its spirit, and its movements came to an abrupt halt. Now, it needed to get clued in about that which it had come searching for: prostitutes. This planet had intelligent beings who had, like his homeland, developed the complex act of prostitution. And they were broadcasting it to the heavens, to outer space. The manipulation of its own spirit and the vital energy that through it coursed had brought it to this place, that supposedly teemed with life. Yet the life around it¡­ it seemed disappointing. It felt the bacteria and viruses wafting through the air, coming in little droplets from somewhere local-starward. They were interesting chemical constructs, for sure, but didn¡¯t seem intelligent. Maybe analyzing them could aid in understanding what sort of replicator had persevered on this planet. Maybe they weren¡¯t even capable of a sustained self-replication and it was just a complex local reaction that happened to be ongoing.

    If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it.

    ¡°Listen, okay, we need to kill that before it kills us. Or before its family sues us, which is ten times worse. Can aliens even sue?¡± the foreman asked the architect.

    ¡°I am positive they cannot do so in local courts, no.¡±

    ¡°Well then, at worst, this ends with us all dead. Not much different from leaving you in charge of an excavator, Doniel.¡±

    The bald man laughed and flipped the bird. ¡°Like you can drive anything except your wife crazy.¡±

    Then they noticed an old woman with the speed of a paraplegic snail had sneaked by and now stood among them, staring at the alien.

    ¡°Is that an alien?¡± asked the sweet grandma, holding her purse with both hands.

    ¡°So it seems,¡± informed Tim. ¡°You need to wear a helmet if you are going to be in the construction site, gram.¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t metric system me, young man!¡± She shook the cane she had been keeping under her armpit in the air, hitting the tired man¡¯s helmet now and then, if only out of a sheer disregard for his integrity. ¡°Can I adopt the alien?¡±

    ¡°We don¡¯t even know if it is safe to touch it, mistress. Please, leave and let the men and the non-dumb blonde take care of it.

    ¡°It cannot be as dangerous as a gods-forsaken nigger,¡± The grandma grandmaed and began shuffling her way towards the alien.

    The architect tried to stop her, but the strong arm of the foreman extended in front of her, preventing the girl from reaching the old woman. ¡°I will pay for the lawsuit if she dies.¡±

    ¡°No, you will pay half the lawsuit, brother,¡± assured Doniel, dropping another cement bag to show he was not spewing out a load of hot air. ¡°The other half is on me.¡±

    ¡°A third, Doniel, you will pay a third, and so will Foreman Chorlisle,¡± said the thin man.

    ¡°Thanks for your support, guys. Tim, are you going to support me?¡±

    Tim fidgeted a bit with his fingers. ¡°I¡¯d rather be turned into a black person and be stuck on a counter providing customer service for the old lady than getting you out of trouble, Chorlisle.  It¡¯s not racism, I have no problem with your race: I just consider you an asshole.¡±

    The foreman smiled wide, revealing teeth as white as the grandma¡¯s attires. The ones with pointy hoods. ¡°This is why I like having you around, Tim.¡±

    ¡°I hope your melanin fails you and your refusal to wear sunscreen ends in a cancer so aggressive, so vicious that the local gangsters feel outdone and compelled to step up their criminal game,¡± Tim blurted out, and then turned to look at the grandma, that was extending her cane to poke the alien. ¡°And fuck you too, you racist hag. I hope this is my last day here.¡±

    ¡°Are you quitting?¡± chorlisle asked, sadness gathering in his expression.

    Tim let out a single ¡°ha¡±. Him, Head Sand Mound supervisor, quit? Not in a million years.  ¡°It¡¯s just that the woman may kill us all.¡±

    ¡°I am glad you are not quitting, Tim. You seem like a friendly guy,¡± the architect said in an unexpectedly honest tone.

    The alien turned a bit and started gently swaying its sensorial tendrils in the air, trying to garner a better understanding of its situation. Something had started pistoning on its outer layer. A ciclindricla object with a flexible extreme poked it once and again.  The chemical composition of said object comprehended a variety of hydrogen-based substances, high in carbon, nitrogen and oxygen. Too much oxygen. This could be a result of the high amounts of free water in the environment, but also of lifeforms that had evolved to use said element for more than a mere structural function. Unless there was an energy source constantly breaking water into dihydrogen and dioxygen, the second would need a biological origin, lest it all reacted with other substances in the environment and got lost. Dioxygen was a poison, yes, but it had to also be a waste product.  And if it was a waste product, and oxygen was so readily found in these hydrogen and carbon structures, it was not far-fetched to think of the life here having developed a way to metabolize and take advantage of the deadly substance. After all, it was like a weaker variant of fluorine, and some beings back home used fluorine as fuel for their cells.  An oxygen based metabolism¡­ how delightfully alien.

    Oxygen based prostitutes, oh dear. Oh dear.

    The alien began crawling away, analyzing more of its environment as the construction workers screamed about what to do.

    ¡°Who will pay for the sand? We don¡¯t have insurance against aliens melting it,¡±said Tim, to provide an example.

    ¡°Do you think it will lay eggs down my throat, like in films? Because ethat would be a cool way to go,¡± Doniel thought out loud.

    ¡°Highly doubt it. there are a lot of details of organic chemistry that would need to fit perfect for an alien to be able to parasite a Cabaretian. Starting with chirality, for example, and an immunity to every substance readily available inside our bodies.  Living beings love.¡± and she gestured with her hands to emphasize this. ¡°Absolutely love getting poisoned as soon as you take them out of the environment they evolved into.¡±

    ¡°But ¡­ it would be so cool. Like an action film side character dying gruesomely after saving his team form the alien. Better than a brick to the melon.¡± the irredeemable man insisted.

    The grandma drove the cane deep into the alien¡¯s mushy body, and the tendrils coiled around it, grasping it tightly. After that, the grandma got knocked out with her own cane. Falling on her back, still slouched, over the ground, like a tortoise turned upside down. A very racist tortoise. A turtle whose title includes either the word ¡°wizard¡± or the word ¡°dragon¡±.

    ¡°You help her, because I won¡¯t.¡± the foreman clarified, before going back to supervising the rest of the team. The building wasn¡¯t going to erect itself.

 Vol2 Chapter 6: Liquid Puppies

    The morning unrolled over the land like a rug of dew and dream-killing light. Droplets glittering upon golden stalks that the wind swayed to and fro. The honey farms had been long left behind, and now the sweet aroma of flowers ¡ªof variants of jasmine, lavender, roses and even banana trees¡ª had been replaced with the pungent stench of manures ¡ªof variants of cows, pigs, horses, and even humans. Yes, there are variants of humans. You have men. You have women. You have, gods forbid me, lawyers. You have vegans. You have, and may heavens smite me for uttering this sentence, hermaphrodite vegan lawyers. The ducks on the ponds sprinkled across the land were fine. Just fine. Their fluffiness was not legendary, some of their beaks were slightly crooked, too long, too short. Their corkscrew body parts didn¡¯t follow the golden ratio. Three-point-five star ducks, or only three if we are being rude.

    The mints looted from the bandits were making wonders for the microclimate inside the Rottweiler wagon. Samari patted her chest as she thought about things only a prodigious mind would find a way to entertain. It makes no sense to call them boobs, they should be beeb. Tooth becomes teeth; foot, feet. It is only natural for the plural of boob to be beeb. Conversely, the singular of sheep should be shoop. One shoop, two sheep¡­ no, sheep should stay sheep, lest we risk the sanity of every person with insomnia. Still, grammatical coherence is probably worth a few million minds. Perhaps a single Arcagnostic, one powerful enough, could change the language for the worse or the better, depending if you are among the acceptable casualties or not. I am not. I¡¯ll add it to my bucket list. Fuck the insomniacs.

    Kalon circulated his vital energy through his spirit channels. His last breakthrough had been half a year ago, and he didn¡¯t feel he had advanced much. He had come to good terms with his avatar, and that granted him a flexibility many cultivators of an equivalent stage lacked. He could fight, and someone else would make the plans and enact the techniques for him. And if the Avatar slacked¡­well, that¡¯s what the Samari Button was for.

    ¡°I am not your slave, Kalon. An Avatar is a symbiotic guide for some, a parasite for others. I aid you out of my own volition,¡± the Avatar reminded him, but talking into Kalon¡¯s mind and talking to a wall were about as productive. ¡°Ah, screw it, you are a relatively good host. I like you. Furthermore, you are paving this road, Kalon: you have a trailblazer¡¯s privilege. I exist thanks to you, my personal idiot. Your immortality is mine, too, and, as a dog-based concept, loyalty is not foreign to me. This means¡ª¡±

    ¡°Shut up or I will tell Sam to pick us. I am trying to meditate.¡±

    The avatar howled and squirmed its way into the deepest crevice of Kalon¡¯s mind, his chaetae-whiskers pressed snugly against his body.

    ¡°I¡¯ll behave!¡±

    Jagger eavesdropped the mental conversation while pretending to sleep. He had nothing better to do, and Samari was too engrossed in her own thoughts to pay him attention.

    Suddenly the caravan came to an abrupt halt, and, as the Rottweilers had been running until then, it caused the wagon¡¯s passengers to be thrown off of it, landing on the road, among the horse-sized dogs.

    Brunhilda came out of herself to complain, ¡°Burr.¡± And then she reingested her body, as she felt very cozy inside her own stomach, probably due to the Live Laugh Refine Your Neighbor¡¯s Weak Teenaged Daughter into a Pill sign she had swallowed some months ago.

    Samari raised her head from the dirt to see what had caused the sudden strop from the trotting Rottweilers. Among the settling dirt she beheld it: a carcass. The bleached bones of a canid lay in the middle of the seldom transited road, smiling with the mirth only they who will never pay taxes again can wield.

    Kalon poked the bones with an exploratory finger. ¡°These rocks look funny.¡±

    ¡°We are too late: the scavengers got the best parts,¡± Jagger lamented the loss of a potential meal. It was too young. Too tender.

    ¡°You guys are irredeemable. I think this is¡­ or was, a dog,¡± Samari said, crouching next to the bones, ignoring the fact one of the Rottweilers that had been pulling from the wagon was drooling all over her shoulder.

    ¡°It was a Rottweiler; I can feel it. And it was not a mothered one,¡± the Avatar told Kalon, and Jagger immediately relayed the information to Samari. ¡°This cannot be but a manifestation of the Road in the world. A way to Heaven paved in Rottweilers.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s really stupid.¡± Samari took in the semi-buried skeleton, and, squinting, decided to extricate her spirit to tinker a bit around with the ribs. ¡°It does feel unnatural for bone,¡± she concluded after a few seconds. ¡°It¡¯s likely a vital energy construct. But by who?¡±

    ¡°Kalon is the only walker of the road of the Rottweiler in the world,¡± Jagger informed.

    ¡°So¡­ this is a dead pup?¡± Kalon asked, earning the judgmental stares of everyone present.

    ¡°Useless gods in heaven, my maker is a dual-roader. He walks the Road of the Rottweiler and the Road of the Brainlessness simultaneously,¡± the Avatar caviled. ¡°Oh the canity.¡±

    ¡°Yes Kalon, it is,¡± Samari said with a dead tone. ¡°But, most important, this should mean there is some magical source of Rottweilers around here. Now, if we can track it down, it could help you advance to the next stage of your cultivation, Kal Kal.¡± She touched the wet dirt and rolled it between her fingers, feeling the coarse little grains and the little pebbles pressing against her skin. ¡°I have no idea why I did that, it just seemed cool. Jagger, is your nose picking up anything of use?¡±

    ¡°Shit, Sam. Shit all around. Shit of all kinds of herbivores and carnivores and shitivores.¡± He tasted his own saliva for a few instants. ¡°Brunhilda, get your ass out of your head and track this thing down for us, will you?¡±

    Brunhilda emerged from the depths of Brunhilda, shook her own saliva and gastric juices off with an energetic burst of movement, and took in long sniffs of the local air.

    Brunhilda¡¯s ears perked up and she shot off eastward, jumping into the maize fields. The team followed, running and giggling, their spirits still hoisted by the horse stew they had cooked the previous night. Boots sunk in the dung and stepped over dead stalks, residues of the last harvest. Paws made their way over the field recklessly, minding not puddles or pebbles. The morning sun watched them over as they followed the psychopathic bitch and it hummed satisfied. All that starts well¡­

    Crossing the fields guided solely by Brunhilda¡¯s pup-in-peril seeking skills took a while. Swatting away maize stalks, despite what it could see, was a daunting task for Samari, and she had begun sweating profusely. Kalon, way more used to demanding physical activities, would have had no issue with it, but he just advanced, letting his strong frame do the dirty job for him. The dried parts of stalk wouldn¡¯t scratch his toned and hardened cultivator body, so why bother at all?

    They exited the field into an abandoned farm where the terrain got steeper in direction to the decayed farmhouse. Samari wondered why a cared for field would be next to an abandoned building, but then considered that maybe the fields had been left empty for so long that a neighbor had taken its chance and made use of the land, which was probably illegal but out there, without anyone to complain and with nobody to enforce the law, it was a low risk, high reward move.

    Brunhilda, despite what one might think of her, bee-lined in direction to the house¡¯s stone well. She peeked over the cobblestone and began barking downwards, her deep voice echoing through the hole. And when her barks died off, the whines gushed out.

    ¡°A Rottweiler well¡­ ¡°Jagger said. ¡°Brunhilda, the card!¡±

    Brunhilda puked out a bingo card and a pen, and Jagger was swift to cross out ¡°Rottweilers as subterranean water.¡± He was a couple surreal events from winning an all-included grooming from Brun Brun. With a happy ending (which for a dog means food). he hoped.

    Samari and Kalon reached the well at the same time, and stared down the darkness simultaneously. The only difference was Samari¡¯s excited panting.

    ¡°I can hear puppies down there!¡± Kalon state the obvious.

    ¡°Yes, we need a bucket to get them out,¡± Samari looked around, and despite the broken planks, fallen bricks, heavily rusted tools and decayed straw that had dropped from the house¡¯s roof, she found none.

    ¡°Not necessarily¡± The Avatar boasted, wishing Samari could hear him and appreciate his superior intellect. ¡°Jagger, tell her we are going to fish the puppies out with a rope made out of Rottweilers.¡±

    Jagger didn¡¯t obey, because he considered the idea was not worth of the saliva expenditure.

    The avatar snorted in indignation. ¡°Fine, Kalon, you tell them.¡±

    ¡°We are going to make a rope out of Rottweilers and make them bite Brunhilda¡¯s tail. Then, we send Brunhilda down and she picks the puppies up with her mouth. When a puppy is secured, I pull her out and repeat the process.¡±

    Brunhilda nodded, appreciative of the idea. ¡°Burr!¡± she showed her support for anything that including sending her down dark, potentially perilous holes.

    Samari shook her head in disapproval. ¡°What are we going to do with them, though? You could just use them to meditate around them and take in their essence, but then¡­ well, it seems useless to take the pups out of the hole.¡±

    The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

    ¡°What do you mean?¡±

    ¡°You could meditate in the bottom of the well and then get yourself out by climbing,¡± Samari suggested, palms up, as if it were the obvious course of action. ¡°Puppies are expensive to keep, we already need to feed four mouths in our team, and eating puppy every day is out of question. So, I know it isn¡¯t optimal for your cultivation, but we could stay here today, and while you meditate down the puppy well I will see if there is anything worth stealing inside the house.¡±

    Jagger removed a bit of dirt with his snout. ¡°Remind me, Sam, since when are we criminals?¡±

    ¡°Whenever we need it, Jagger dear. I am a minor, therefore considered unfit to plead. I am in the golden age to commit crime.¡±

    ¡°Well, but what about us?¡±

    ¡°You are a dog: unfit to plead. Kalon is from Valelike Vale: unfit to plead. Brunhilda is: probably fit to plead, but no jury on Cabaret would dare condemn her.¡±

    ¡°Burr.¡± Brunhilda¡¯s soft voice came out of the nowhere that was her current place in the world.

    Kalon straddled the thick wall of the well and took a peek down the tunnel.

    Samari¡¯s attention was caught by a whistle from the moron. ¡°What are you doing? You cannot just jump down the hole.¡±

    ¡°Why not? I won¡¯t get hurt by the fall.¡±

    Samari began listing with her fingers: ¡°First, because when it comes to you, gravity behaving as expected is merely a possibility. Second, because you may have a strong body capable of taking inhuman punishment, but the puppies down there don¡¯t. Third, because I am the one who makes the plans here, and if I don¡¯t want you to jump and make rustic puppy puree, you don¡¯t. Understood?¡±

    Kalon desisted and got his foot out of the well, while still sitting on the wall, facing outwards. ¡°No. Too many words.¡±

    ¡°Just don¡¯t jump,¡± the Avatar said, and Samari knew he was intervening by the thoughtful look on Kalon¡¯s face. ¡°By the love of all that¡¯s meaty, don¡¯t make her angry.¡±

    Samari tried to put it softly. ¡°Listen. Use your puppy scarf as a rope and climb down, okay? If it can strangle a griffon, it can stand your weight without breaking.¡± Good job, Samari, you didn¡¯t insult him. Good job.

    Kalon pumped vital energy through his neck and into the scarf, feeling the spiritual fluid rushing out of the channels of his soul and into the very essence of the puppies. The puppies, on the other hand, felt like an enema of burning power was being infused into them, making its painful, tingling way towards their heads and then being discharged into the tail of the one they were biting. They didn¡¯t whine: they were used to this. They had been born for this very purpose, and how could they spurn that which so many searched for all their lives? To have a definite purpose, to serve a higher power, was a privilege they remained unwilling to forswear. Well, all of them but the last one at the head-end of the scarf, who shuddered and feared in wait of what was to come, of having to birth a sibling of his through his mouth. IT was painful. It was stressing. It could go wrong. And it was bad for the teeth.

    But abortion was not an option ¡ª drop the torches and pitchforks, this is not pro-life proselytism. Well, it could be, but then the pro-lifers would hate me too ¡ª when you were a spirit-puppy: the head-end Rottweiler closed his eyes, and, shedding tears in the way an Australian swimmer sheds lethal jellyfish when coming out of the water, started pushing the newborn link of the puppy chain out of his guts., stretching his throat to its limits, making him wish for a death that wouldn¡¯t come. And so a newborn puppy got added to the end of the scarf, and the process would soon repeat itself with the newest addition, in a way about as gruesome to witness.

    Samari turned and headed to the doorless frame at the front of the building. She would not force herself to observe Kalon¡¯s art any further.

    When the puppy rope had extended enough, Kalon beckoned for one of his carriage-pulling Rotties to come and act as an anchor. The animal slammed his heavy butt against the earth, making it quake slightly, and it took the scarf carefully into his mouth, with Kalon pulling a bit to make sure it was properly secured.

    Kalon stared a last time down the hole. It was dark. Darker than he would prefer. And little lights twinkled at the bottom. Probably the eyes of the puppies looking upwards. He straddled the wall once more, holding tight to the rope with his strong hands.

    ¡°Avatar, how do I climb down?¡±

    ¡°Follow my instructions down to a T. Okay, first, get your feet against the slimy interior of the walls, while still holding onto the rope, don¡¯t let yourself fall.¡±

    Kalon did just as instructed and let out a little squeal when one of his feet slipped, but the rope and the Horseweiler¡¯s grasp kept them from falling down.

    ¡°Good, now, step by step against the wall, try to climb down. Letting the rope go one hand at a time and always having it grasped with at least one of your monkey paws.¡± The Avatar tried to be as specific as possible. And, to his surprise, it worked!

    The firmament slowly became a little dot to be seen through the musky, hot currents of air that wafted up from the bottom. Moss and dirt covered the walls, with this crust they formed cracking, peeling off and falling over the ostensible puppies at the bottom whenever Kalon touched it. And the whining got stronger as Kalon descended, the cries of the pups ascending like scalding water form a geyser, enveloping him as he got closer and closer.

    ¡°It¡¯s so dark down here.¡±

    ¡°Let me transform your eyes. Dogs have great night vision.¡±

    Kalon nodded, letting his avatar take control of his eyes, changing their internal shape into that of a dog¡¯s making his day vision considerably worse, while enhancing his capacity to see in the dark. This is, to see while in gloomy environments, not to be able to see the Sonata Arctica song. Synesthesia is not something most dogs are known for.

    And what got revealed to him was not a bunch of fluffy, huggable balls of fur drooling and shitting over each other in a sea of smelly love. It was more like a pond of Rottweilers. A puddle. A pit, in the sense we give when talking of tar, which the hairy fluid where the facial features of several puppies floated and bubbled resembled. An amber eye there, a floppy ear here. A snout and a nose drifting apart and twirling as they sailed through the mass of liquid Rottweiler essence. It was like somebody had melted a bunch of puppies inside a fur-nace.

    Kalon reached for his face with a single hand, and noticed he could feel his heartbeat around his eyes. What was this dread he felt? Why did he want to escape? He wasn¡ät a coward, so why? why did he fear the image he was seeing?

    ¡°Kalon, appease your spirit, it¡¯s just a pool of molten puppies,¡± the avatar chided as if this situation they had gotten into was an everyday occurrence.

    But the energy the poolpies exuded stirred Kalon¡¯s soul, shook it to the core. Evil, they had no trace of, but wrong, wrong abounded in them. Like methanol is to water, an existence so similar to that which gives life, and yet so fundamentally wrong. To be more specific, it felt like finding methanol vapors when you seek liquid water to appease your thirst: it isn¡¯t only an impure form ¡ªin the case of methanol, a hydrogen of the water molecule gets replaced with a methyl group¡ª of what you need, but it is in an unusable state. Because the puppies were not pure Rottweilers. They were a muttified source, one that needed to be refined and purified.

    Kalon tried to climb back up, but the Avatar paralyzed his arms.

    ¡°Drop into the pool, Kalon.¡±

    ¡°If I do, I may fall upwards,¡± Kalon argued in a surprising bout of common sense. ¡°Wait, I may fall upwards!¡±

    Kalon let go of the rope and fell as one expected non-Kalon things to fall. He had forgotten a key component of his gravity defying feats: they were never intentional. And now he had to pay the price. He was submerged up to the waist into the pool of puppy tar. It had splashed onto him, imbibed in his hair and covered his chest face and hands. He could see teeth and tongues and noses sliding off his skins and below.

    He watched in horror how his puppy rope dispersed and returned to his spirit. ¡°We are stuck here, like it or not, partner.¡± The avatar said, and then laughed, distressing Kalon further, making him wail and scratch the walls trying to climb out and hyperventilate, feeling he would suffocate in his own misery.

    ¡°Let me out! Avatar help me out!¡±

    ¡°No, Kalon, no. This is a chance for you to become more powerful. For us to advance further down our road.¡±

    ¡°Samari, Jagger, help!

    Jagger stared down the hole, sighed and went away.

    Kalon tried to raise his hand to attract Jagger, but the avatar sent a pang of pain coursing through him, making him kneel, getting him stuck further down into the puppy tar.

    ¡°You asshole! Help me get out!¡± He kept clawing the slimy walls in vain as the avatar kept on laughing.

    ¡°No. Meditate, Kalon, meditate and feel the tainted essence you are submerged in. Shape it into purebred Rottweilers. This is your kingdom, show them why you are king!¡±

    The puppies gurgled and bubbled around him, trying to climb onto his neck in slimy waves, licking Kalon when a tongue drifted by.

    ¡°It¡¯s so icky. So disgusting and miserable. I feel them trying to intrude my soul, I am not going to open them the door. Get me out.¡±

    A stone dropped from above and hit Kalon on the shoulder, making him yelp, more from surprise than from pain, as it had caused almost none.

    ¡°I think I missed the head,¡± Jagger lamented, looking around for something else to hit Kalon with.

    Kalon didn¡¯t wonder why Jagger was trying to knock him out. His friends being assholes was par for the course.

    ¡°Meditate, Kalon. Purify this pool of filth,¡± The avatar urged, all of his heads smiling, like a dog-hydra nesting inside Kalon¡¯s mind. ¡°Meditate. I¡¯ll guide you.¡± Then his tone changed to an annoyed one. ¡°And, Jagger, stop that!¡±

    Then Kalon closed his eyes, and, noticing his owner had accepted to follow the avatar orders, decided to not drop down another rock. It was time to see what Samari was doing.

    And so Kalon fell deep into a contemplation of the self and of the tarnished pool he had sunk into. Bit by bit he attuned his energy with that of the Rottweiler playdough around him, trying to discern the Rottwheatlers from the chaffmuttiness. Then, a particle of Rottweiler essence got filtered into his soul, becoming part of who he was, increasing his understanding of the liquid Rottweilers by a marginal amount. And while you didn¡¯t understand water merely by swimming on a lake or drinking a glass of it, he had a teacher to guide him. His Avatar added, with no words needed, with no words spoke, it was comprehension, pure and unadulterated, being directly forged into Kalon¡¯s psyche.

    ¡°Good, good! Take it in, understand the Rottweiler¡¯s like they seek to understand you. We will master the liquid dogs together, Kalon.¡±

    Kalon thought a yes and smirked. It was disgusting, but he could feel it would pay off in the end.

    Meanwhile, Jagger made his way into the house, and crawled below a Cupboard that had been caught by a wall during its fall and vomited expensive ceramics all over the floor, and reached the girl, who was checking the contents of the house¡¯s library.

    ¡°Have you checked for valuables?¡±

    ¡°My priority is finding any book with information I deem worthy of learning. But most books here are fiction. Shitty fiction, at that. Half of the volumes feature bare-chested barbarians on the cover.¡± She said, unwarranted indignation permeating her voice. ¡°How many copies of derivative schlock on the vein of¡­¡± She reached for a book to check its title. ¡°¡®Taken by the Demonic Cultivator¡¯ do you even need?¡±

    ¡°Samari, jewelry, money, or something like Monsters and Conjurations cards.¡±

    ¡°I found a Control deck and I hid it out of sight. That shit may be worth good money, but I am not helping someone play such a heinous archetype. I have moral boundaries.¡± Samari lied. What she had was a figurative hate boner for control players in trading card games. She picked up another book form the dusty shelves, and, after blowing off the layer of dead skin and mites over it, read the title and grimaced. ¡°I swear as soon as I discover how to change my sexuality I am making myself asexual. I have until puberty to learn.¡±

    ¡°Samari, with all due respect, you would be shooting yourself in the foot. Sexuality is useful for women. You can have men bending over backwards if you are ever so slightly sexy. Willing slaves may help you attain your goals,¡± Jagger said, with the honesty and lack of tact only a dog could muster. ¡°You could even use Arcagnosis to enhance your boobs and ass and have even more slaves!¡±

    The nine-year-old battled her instincts to not give Jagger a corrective. Mind over matter, Samari, mind over matter. He is just a dog, he doesn¡¯t know better, he is just a dog¡­ there, you are controlling yourself pretty well. Mind over matter¡­

    But in the end, her indignation was stronger than her will, and she caved in, speaking a single word out loud, one that confused the hell out of Jagger:

    ¡°Beeb!¡±

 V2 Chapter 7: Dead (Inside) Man Walking

    Lino crawled out of the snow before it had time to compact and solidify further around him. Not that it would have mattered to him if he ended up trapped under a layer of ice, or even under a glacier. Actually, given his geological inclinations, the guy would probably have enjoyed being pinned on the underside of a glacier, grounded by the boulders it drags through the valley as it descends. ¡°Oh, yes, this must be how those petrified Soniayouwhoreyouhavebeentakingdicksincetheediacaranstoppleasethinkofmotherxylons with that weird preservation among glacier deposits must have died¡± he would probably think, and that¡¯s no humane thought process. That¡¯s a STEM student thought process and they deserve the worst.

    Where was I? ah, yes, Lino crawled out of the snow, and beheld the austral aurora plastered against the bright day sky. He wondered for a second, how? Or rather, why? because in this world the ¡°how¡± was often ¡°physics keep refusing to read the laws we write for them.¡±

    Truth was that this was the south pole, so things couldn¡¯t go anywhere but north. And what¡¯s to the north? Brazil. And Bolivia. And Paraguay, but nobody cares about Paraguay. And Formosa. Oh lord, Formosa. Lino couldn¡¯t even think about Formosa. Not like going south was any better: Any place south of Buenos Aires was just more Argentina. Who the fuck wants more Argentina?  Anyway, things couldn¡¯t go well in the south pole of Cabaret, as things often didn¡¯t go well in the butt-chilling atmosphere of Antarctica.

    A wandering wind carried another tumbleweed of penguins. They were carrying stones in their beaks, which indicated it was probably mating season.

    ¡°I have no need to drink, I have no need to eat, and I have no need for warmth. What can I do here now?  Walk, level a mountain and cause incommensurable damage to the future fossil record of this planet, or annoy local fauna¡­¡± he gestured at the tumbleweed with disgust.

    ¡°Insolation here is pitiful,¡± Complained the seed fern of his soul.

    ¡°I guess a plant complains about plant things. System, any suggestion?¡±

    I have a name; you know?

    ¡°You do?¡±

    Yes, but hell will freeze over twice before I tell you.

    ¡°So many scrumptious foods to chew onto and you, my friend, chose water.¡±

    Lino paced around a bit, unsure on how to proceed. What to do when you had no wants, except for the want of a want?  It was distressing to think how much effort on a human¡¯s life was on getting ever so slightly more comfortable, be it on the short or long term. He was theoretically afraid ¡ªbecause the emotion was nowhere to be found¡ª to have forgot how to be human. How long had his mind lived, even if only a few months had passed in this world he had lived in for¡­ about two days.  At least the place, discounting the absurdity, felt a lot like Earth, or at worse like Earth¡¯s fairytales. It was, in a sense, like playing dungeon and dragons with his friends once again.  Except they all had taken hard drugs before the session and the dice had sported ones than they had any business having.

    ¡°What to do? I already slept. And I am as just as tired. I see a white landscape with¡­ tumbleweed penguins and flytrap seals, and the only feeling I can pinpoint regarding them is a deaf, feeble contempt. Where¡¯s Lino, when did I lose him along the way?¡± he examined his feelings about the questions he had just put forward, and only found a void as cold as the winds outside. ¡°How to know if I care? I seem to have forgot how to.¡±

    Well, I would define to care as the minding of loss, if that helps.

    ¡°Wonderful definition, System. I don¡¯t think I care about you, me, Nothoracopteris argentinica or life for that matter. I¡¯d say I am broken, but is so¡­ trifling. Unremarkable. Broken like a promise made to teddy bear long forgotten. Like a potato chip. Broken in a way that no one should care about. How¡­ uninteresting to examine this subject.¡±

    Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

    Then why do you insist on doing it? go lie somewhere and let time pass you by until the end of the world.

    ¡°My esteemed, or ostensibly esteemed, symbiont, I find self-reflection to be more interesting than this barren land. The examining of who I have become, now that I have peace and freedom to do so, appears to me as an activity slightly less mundane than watching the snow fall.¡±

    He extended his arm to catch a lone snowflake and watched it slowly melt on his hand. ¡°Definitively more interesting than that. Reincarnation freed me from Parkinson¡¯s, from feebleness and madness, but the Queen of Damned Sin freed me from so much more. I have no needs, and I foster no fears. I love not, and I loathe naught. Only a responsibility with the little ones remains.¡± He looked at his arm, where one of his younger children squirmed under the skin of the wrist. He managed to smile at this. ¡°No deadlines, no stress. No rewards, no excitement. A mind, System, a pure mind, bereft of any limiters. To think for the sake of thought, to act for the sake of the verb alone. A privilege greater than that of any god.¡±

    Then, if all is devoid of meaning for you, why do you act at all?

    ¡°On the contrary, most things have never been more meaningful.¡± He kicked a pebble that some penguin had dropped down the snowy slope on the terrain, watching it become a small snowball and grow until it reached the valley between hills. ¡°It¡¯s just that I am unable to care now. What else could the old me want, System? Complete, absolute freedom but for a small task.¡±

    Do you mind growing in power and conquering the world? I¡¯d find it amusing. Do you want a quest for it?

    Lino thought about shrugging, but decided there was no point in doing so. Talk about the king of depression.

    ¡°Seems like a lot of effort put towards a sterile pursuit. I lack the passion of a despot, the thirst for power that drives them. You are asking a clock without battery, a dried out clepsydra, an emptied out hourglass, a benighted sundial to chase after escaping minutes. That is absurd.¡±

    That¡¯s good, because absurd fits this world like a glove. Absurd and Cabaret could as well be listed as synonyms in any respectable thesaurus. Besides, you owe me one, don¡¯t you? your cultivation, as rudimentary as it was, helped you stand the mating process.

    He began walking northwards, downhill, just to hear the sound of his steps sinking in the snow. ¡°You assume that I feel compelled to give back, that I care about any incarnation of fairness besides clarity and truth. I do not anymore.¡±

    Oh, but you neither have reason or need for egoism or greed. Worse than a reason to fulfill my petition, you lack one to refuse it.

    ¡°Fair argument. Still, the status quo is not heeding your request. Or rather a lack of action about it. I think I will walk in a straight line and see where we arrive. I doubt I will find a motivation there, but seems preferable to no goal. The spark of curiosity that still burns inside shall light the way.¡±

    The ocean. You will reach the ocean. Water. You cannot walk in a straight line anymore once you reach the ocean.

    Lino remained as calm as always, and breathed. He had not done so for any reason besides speech in hours. ¡°I have no need for air, either. And I doubt pressure, salt or predators will harm me. The cold doesn¡¯t bite, and neither does the sun reflected on this landscape rich on albedo.¡±

    ¡°Sir, can we commit war crimes?¡± Asked the peaceful and considerate seed fern of his soul.

    ¡°We can, but I see no reason why we should. I will walk over the ocean floor, so long as I don¡¯t float. I believe the depths may have something of interest.¡±

    Oh no, you wouldn¡¯t. You will go to some populated continent and sow an empire. Govern, Lino, fulfill my thirst for power.  There is a reason why I aid reincarnated cultivators, after all.

    But Lino kept on trudging through the snow, paying no heed to the System¡¯s caviling.

    I will keep pestering you until you cave in. You may not care about most things now, but I swear I will make you loathe my insistence. Conquer something. Anything. You have power beyond the reach of most cultivators now: use it.

    ¡°Try my patience, it may prove I have one still.¡±

    And so Lino kept on walking towards the ocean, leaving the cold desert behind and descending in direction to the coastal tundra that he couldn¡¯t see yet, but had to be there, as penguins and seals wouldn¡¯t be too far from it.

    Do something with your power. Anything that helps us grow your vital energy reserves. The queen¡¯s power is a boon, a stepping stool to become king of all.

    ¡°Don¡¯t refer to my wife like that. She wouldn¡¯t like it,¡± he jested without a smile. The queen wouldn¡¯t care, she had never shown a dash of consideration about the existence of the system when she acted. She surely knew about it, but she didn¡¯t care. And if so, neither would he.

 Chapter 8: Arcagnostic Codes

    Samari¡¯s calf rested on her knee as she lay on the bed of the abandoned house. The morning sun came in through the shattered window and fell perfectly on the yellowed pages of the novel she was reading. It was a count¡¯s account on a counter canteen cunt and accountant, which wasn¡¯t precisely interesting to the majority of the people, but she could recognize the telltale signs of an author versed in Arcagnosis. It wasn¡¯t a single thing, no: many authors could have any of the vices Arcagnostics tried to turn into virtue. Several of them at the same time, even. But there was a breaking point, an imprecise limit where the coincidences became too much. A carbonatic shell alone doesn¡¯t make a mollusk, and not all mollusks have them; but when you have a shell, evidences of a mantle and a meaty foot or siphon or both, and a tongue with chitin teeth in it, you cannot be dealing with anything except a mollusk. Or maybe one of those weird sea dragons that evolved a mollusk-like convergence and existed for about seven and half years in the Cretaceous of Cabaret. Dragons do that once in a while, they try to fuck up taxonomy by evolving into short lived imitators of other animals, plants, fungi and even bacteria. Pyrodracoccus[1]</a> is a unicellular, prokaryote dragon, and that¡¯s why this supposed bacterium breathes fire.

    But I digress.

    The fact of the matter was that this book had all the hallmarks of an Arcagnostic writing it, and when they did, there often were secret messages to be found. They were regarded as people jealous of their secrets, but it was nothing further from the truth: many Arcagnostics loved riddles and puzzles, and spread in them little bits of their knowledge. Samari had tried common ways to encode information. She had taken note of the first word of each page, of each sentence, up and down, forwards and backwards, and all she recovered was nonsense.

    But, far from being frustrated, this excited Samari. Maybe the author of this book was already dead, and here was she, practicing the kindest form of necromancy, talking with the dead like the most mundane of mediums. It had been worth to sift through that heap of erotica garbage that was the house¡¯s library.

    Samari called forth her incunabula and stared at her dancing spirit tendrils as she thought. What to test next? There were as many ways to hide messages as there were snails in the ocean. Fish, you expected fish? No, I am on a Mollusk state of mind today. Complain once more and I am going to fucking eat your face off with my superior cephalopod beak.

    The author called me the mollusk equivalent of a furry. He dares. At least my economy is stable, unlike his. Hope you starve, fucker.

    Back to Samari, right. She sliced her brains thinking about her next move. What did she know about this book, besides the theme, plot, characters, author¡¯s name and publisher? Well, she was almost sure the man or woman who wrote it was a peer of hers. She had taken note of every grammatical error she had come across and perceived. They seemed truly random, except for one that looked like an obsession of the author to write ¡°avode¡± instead of ¡°abode¡±.

    She passed pages while thinking about what else to check. There was ¡ªat least that she knew of ¡ª no definitive process for this, as checking known methods one by one would take forever. Sure, she had a good chunk of time, as Kalon had gone into meditation on the prior week and had still not come out of his literal hole in the ground. Yet finding out what was written was likely to be just the first step to deciphering the message, as Arcagnostics were widely recognized as fans of being carelessly cryptic.

    Jagger entered the room with a calm aura around him.

    ¡°Samari, there¡¯s a man with a shotgun demanding to know who has been eating his corn cobs. He is outside. He is angry. He has a shotgun and he is angry, if it wasn¡¯t clear enough. He didn¡¯t care about me being a talking dog for more than a second. Remember he has a shotgun. He didn¡¯t kill me for reasons. And, I almost forget: he carries a shotgun,¡± Jagger said, calmly.

    ¡°What¡¯s your problem with shotguns?¡± Samari asked, as if common sense weren¡¯t dictating the most likely issue with a person that doesn¡¯t like you wielding a shotgun and pointing it at you.

    ¡°They hurt my ears.¡± Jagger shot common sense in the chest ¡ª and what a chest she had ¡ª and threw the body in a ditch to make way for dog-on sense.

    Samari yawned. What a chore it would be to let the book go to attend this matter. She was already getting in the flow, in the correct mindset. Not that of a mollusk, but still right for her situation.

    She put on her shoes like they were slippers and shuffled her feet out of the ruined house, to meet a burly, unshaved man with a check-patterned shirt pointing a colander maker at her. And, what to say, she didn¡¯t feel like becoming a colander that particular day.

    ¡°Sup angry farmer,¡± she greeted the man.

    The farmer scratched his brown, unruly hair. ¡°The dog said he was going to fetch an adult.¡±

    If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

    Samari acted all innocent, as if she weren¡¯t an up and coming monster slayer. ¡°You may have interpreted him wrong. The only adults among us is one of the dogs. I am nine, my friend is fourteen and down in the bottom of the well, meditating since about a week ago. So we need something to eat until then, and thought you wouldn¡¯t mind a few cobs going missing.¡±

    The man lowered his shotgun. ¡°Well, I do care, so don¡¯t do it anymore children, where are your parents?¡±

    ¡°Well, I am from Diamonter, and my mother is all around town.¡±

    The man raised his gun again, pointed at the unamused Samari. ¡°Diamonter town was destroyed like a year and some ago. There¡¯s no way your mother can be around it, liar.¡±

    Samari smiled without showing her teeth. ¡°Oh, but she is all around town. You can find one of her tarsal bones on the street, a rib by the river, a fingertip by some untouched shed. You know, things that happen when you fight cultivators and they don¡¯t promise to leave an intact body.¡±

    The man lowered his gun again, and this time, he put it away, strapping it around his shoulder as a backpack. ¡°I am sorry to hear that, I suppose you and the other are survivors without a home, then?¡±

    ¡°Oh, no, I am an Arcagnostic. Novice, but I can summon my Incunabula.¡± Samari turned and pointed at the abandoned well. ¡±And the guy down there is a cultivator, he hails from Valelike Vale.¡±

    ¡°So the dog fetched the most intelligent human of the group?¡±

    ¡°Indeed.¡±

    The man crossed his hirsute lumberjack arms and cleared his throat. ¡°Whoever sent the girl to lie, come out and face me, coward!¡±

    ¡°The only one in the house is the dog, sir. Jagger. We are two children and two dogs travelling to grow in power.¡±

    The man spat to the side. ¡°I saw only one dog around. You are not very good at lying.¡±

    ¡°Well, the other is very¡­ self-absorbed. She¡¯s full of herself.¡±

    ¡°Does she have a strong recall?¡±

    Samari nodded effusively. ¡°Yes, Brun Brun is quite the obedient team member when there aren¡¯t scary things near¡±

    ¡°Then call her, so I can at least believe you have more than one dog, little girl.¡±

    Samari looked around until she found an adequately shaped rock in the floor, and with it, she began drawing a pentagram in front of the man. ¡°What are you doing?¡±

    Samari¡¯s index shot up to let the man know she wasn¡¯t to be annoyed during the ritual. ¡°Shhh, let me beget some drama and tension. Don¡¯t interfere. I am bored.¡±

    ¡°I just asked you to call the dog, girl. Do it or I will go inside the house and your tutor will have a very bad time.

    Samari finished drawing the pentagram in the dirt and stepped back. She raised her arms to her sides, smiled like a demented acolyte and kneeled. ¡°Come, Brunhilda, lady of blackness and dead Narcos, Come!¡±

    A bear passed and nothing happened. The man began giggling. ¡°Okay, very funny, I am going inside the building.¡±

    ¡°Brunhilda you fuck come out of yourself!¡±

    The man stopped in his tracks when he heard the soft ¡°Burr.¡±

    Horrified he beheld how, completely outside the pentagram drawn specifically for her summon, Brunhilda had started puking herself out of herself. ¡°Gods in Heaven, what foul thaumaturgy is this?¡±

    Samari shrugged. ¡°I have not the palest idea. Brunhilda is not a cultivator nor an Arcagnostic nor a magic beast. She just¡­ behaves like this.¡±

    ¡°The dog came out of her own mouth! She is covered in her own drool and panting happily!¡± The man protested, and Samari dismissed his worries with an amused pfft.

    ¡°Burr,¡± Brunhilda elaborated before she began chomping on her tail, ready to return to her own stomach.

    He raised his hands in the air, showing his roughed up palms. He was sweating like a Coke (And yes, Pepsi is, for once, okay) fresh out of the cooler on a warm summer day. ¡°I don¡¯t want trouble; take all the corn you need. It¡¯s clear you are an Arcagnostic, even if not a child. I am sorry if I made you feel disrespected.¡±

    The man watched with trembling eyes how Samari began to guffaw, and how Jagger soon Joined her. ¡°I am a child! It¡¯s the dogs that are weird.¡±

    ¡°How am I weird?¡± Asked the talking dog. Talking dog. Talking dog¡­ ¡°ah right, the speech.¡± At last.

    The man was going to speak, but when he saw a blackened and furry tentacle with flowing eyes and teeth come out of the well, he ran away faster than mainstream superhero comics would when chased by the concept of a single, concise storyline. He slapped corn stalks left and right to clear out as soon as possible, evidently not caring enough for his crops to warrant turning Samari into a colander.

    With the aid of his newly improved puppy scarf (now liquid!) Kalon climbed out the hole he had been sank into for the past week. Inside his head, his avatar hummed proudly: in only a few days he had mastered the liquid Rottweilers, a most impressive feat. Granted, Kalon had the unfair advantage that he didn¡¯t need to empty his mind of thoughts to meditate, as it remained constantly in a vacant state.

    He emerged wearing a suit made of the liquid Rottweilers, that covered his chest snugly, marking the shape of all his muscles, and turned into a sort of dress of darkness and wagging tails at waist-height. The lower end consisted of frills of solid puppies, chained like his scarf had known to be.

    ¡°I am done meditating, team. I am hungry. I am tired. Let me rest a bit and we can be back on the road.¡±

    Then he collapsed next to the well and started snoring. Samari left him be and returned back inside the building. ¡°Follow me, Jagger, I may need another set of brains to think something through.¡±

    And, after bouncing suggestions on how to interpret the text to find the hidden meaning for about an hour, Jagger had a really petty, stupid complaint. ¡°This author needed to be put into a reeducation camp for his wanton abuse of verba dicendi besides ¡®said¡¯.¡±

    Samari checked them out just for the fun of, and laughed like a maniac after discerning a pattern. Sometimes, you just needed a stupid complaint to crack a code.

    <hr>

    [1]</a> Author¡¯s note: This was Pyrococcus at first. But I googled it and, guess what? Pyrococcus is already a genus of extremophile bacteria found in hydrothermal vents. Then I tried Pyrobacillus.

    My luck being my luck, it also exists.

    SO FUCK IT. IF PYRODRACOCCUS EXISTS, IT¡¯S NOT THE NOVEL THAT¡¯S WRONG, IT¡¯S REALITY.

 V2 Chapter 9: Labradorca woes

    The cold sea spat penguins with full stomachs over the gravelly coast. Some emerged gracefully from the surf, while others more like got yeeted by the waves towards the nesting area, unwanted loli dakimakuras in a pillow fight. A fat orca observed from her privileged position, stranded on the rocky beach, swiveling her head to try and catch a delicious penguin. She was going to die, but she wasn¡¯t going to care. There was grandeur in passing away like this, in a feast fit for some god particularly fond of bird meat. To consume was what life was about since that fateful day when a Labrador had licked her, showing her the true reason why almost everything breathed: to eat.

    Most penguins ignored the orca: half of them because they considered that she provided a valuable service, killing off their competence. And the other half because, after a quick glance, their bird brains concluded the orca was retarded.

    Lino was dumbfounded. These penguins were¡­ normal. This was your average earthly fauna. They may have had little quirks in their behavior, but he wasn¡¯t sure he knew what was the normal for this species of penguins. They raised their monochrome heads to stare at him and honk loudly after realizing they weren¡¯t dealing with a really tall peer.

    You know, I never imagined sowing chaos among flightless birds would be so funny. Kick that female over there.

    ¡°Why would I do that?¡±

    For the sake of my amusement.

    ¡°I am certain the old me would consider you a terrible person. Or thing. What are you, exactly?¡±

    You don¡¯t want the truth.

    Carefully and with a long step, Lino reached a penguinless spot among the densely packed group of birds and nests. ¡°I am quite positive I want it.¡±

    The truth is I am¡­ me.

    ¡°You finally learned the identity function, we could celebrate. But you lack a mouth for cake, and¡­¡± Lino stopped sassing to observe a female penguin that had decided to peck his thigh menacingly. He decided he would ignore her, as the animal was merely tickling him. ¡°Whatever, I think the penguins are not happy with my presence here.¡±

    If Lino could interpret the faces of penguins, he would have noticed they stared at him like kindergarten teachers at drunk drivers.

    He strode among the mass of honking fish eaters trying to cause the least distress possible among the population. The man he had been would have wanted it that way, and that seemed to be a reasonable guideline for his new life. He could have been now devoid of empathy and love and hate, but he hadn¡¯t once, and in case he ever recovered those human traits, it seemed better to not do anything he would regret. He almost hoped they never came back, but he couldn¡¯t find the necessary concern about they doing so to truly care.

    ¡°I feel so empty inside, like an Egyptian mummy coming back to life. And it doesn¡¯t burn, it doesn¡¯t prick. He extended his hand and watched one of his children move under the skin of his palm. ¡°Sidereal space teems with more life and heat than my soul. Am I alive, System?¡±

    You are certainly not dead. And the penguins seem to be taking exception to that. Also what the hell is going on with that cracker-nigger whale over there?

    ¡°That¡¯s¡­ one of the terms for orcas of all time. It is beached, it seems. It will die soon, it¡¯s organs must be collapsing right now.¡±

    The orca stared in direction of Lino and made a pulsed call. Followed with a jaw clap and a whistle. She was very happy to see another mammal. Maybe she could eat him. Now, if she just had some kelp or other algae for seasoning, and a second stomach for desserts, or enough time left to digest the penguins. What a conundrum, to die for food, and to be able to eat less because you were dying.

    Lino hopped across and amidst nests to reach near the whale and examine her, arms crossed, from a few meters away. ¡°I think she got some brain damage.¡±

    The killer whale began panting and her eyes showed their staunch independentism.

    She probably got bitten by a Golden Retriever. Which is an accomplishment in and of itself, I must admit.

    ¡°Are Golden Retrievers here something like the lycanthropes of legends? They bite you and you become a weretriever?¡± Lino asked, assuming he needed to be slightly amused. It was an unusual thought, at least.

    We would need Golden Retrievers attacking people to test that. It¡¯s like discussing how it feels to lay the invisible, intangible, inaudible unicorn the atheists love to blather about.

    The whale barked happily. Dying due to internal collapse felt amazing.

    Lino felt something stir inside him. At first he thought an emotion had sprung forth, but it was just one of his children.

    His children, who had a good understanding of mammalian anatomy. Maybe he could be a good parent and help the odontocete at the same time.

    The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

    ¡°System, would it be possible to infuse one of my larvae with my vital energy and inject it into the whale so it repairs its internal anatomy?¡±

    Why do you want to heal the whale? What has the whale done for you?

    ¡°It is giving me a chance to test the limits of my powers. To learn. And Lino would have wanted this. He used to care for wildlife.¡±

    I need bigger ellipses for this¡­ O O O.

    That¡¯s better. Now, please, Lino, don¡¯t refer to yourself in third fucking person fuck.

    ¡°Help Lino cure the killer whale and Lino may stop referring to Lino in third person,¡± said Lino, thirdpersoning loudly.

    ¡°If the system refuses to help, I can.¡± The voice of the racist plant resonated inside Lino¡¯s mind. ¡°When the sun sets and the day comes to an end, I am your avatar, Lino. I, and not the system, am supposed to guide you in your cultivation. So you can grow powerful, and then¡­ we conquer Uruguay back once and for all!¡±

    Lino pursed his lips and inhaled slowly. No matter how much time passed, the Nothoracopteris argentinica would keep being faithful to her roots. Not literal roots but metaphorical roots. When talking about a plant, one needs to clarify.

    One of Lino¡¯s children coiled under the skin of his palm, taking the form of a spring or a perfectly shaped turd, feeling the intent of his father. He was gathering vital energy around the vermis, infusing it with his blissfully corrupted spirit. This one remained calm, but the others panicked: What was their father doing? Why was his spiritual flow changing all of a sudden?

    As the godly larva tunneled through his constantly pained, and eve3r-healign tissues, Lino approached the Labradorca with firm step, right hand extended, and the bulge under his skin growing. Lino was following the guide of his avatar to do this, and he didn¡¯t trust her, as much as consider that it was a statistical advantage to use the seed fern¡¯s aid instead of going blind, regarding cultivation.

    The orca remained very quiet. The internal bleeding had taken a toll on her will to move. It was so warm and cozy. She could bleed out for eternity for all she cared. She barely blinked, lost in the nearly orgasmic embrace of multiple organ failure.

    The poor thing is not long for this world. Devour it.

    ¡°Shut up, he is almost done!¡± the Nothoracopteris defended her master.

    A pang of pain came a second before the child ripped through the skin of his father, covered in blood, flesh and sap spurting out of the gash and, with his circinate lophophores emerging from the three mouths around it¡¯s spear shaped, lignified head, the hybrid between worm and root, animal and plant, landed onto the Whale¡¯s skin, and, despite the animal¡¯s surprised struggles and thrashing, stuck to it with its mucous epidermis, and slithered it¡¯s way towards the spiracle of the cetacean while said being feared the worst ¡ªan afterlife without food¡ª.

    Lino stepped back and curled his fingers as the wound healed. In the cold of the pole, pain had a new fashion to it. A new experience to take note of.

    The whale kept squirming and whistling in pain, and Lino wondered, rather clinically and without any emotional investment, if it would work. Soon, from every pore of the whale, green began sprouting. little glossopteridean leaves like soft fur were being born form the animal¡¯s skin, and this would have made Lino smile, had he not been, well, devoid of emotion.

    The penguins gathered round to observe the whale change as something bubbled under her skin and inside her very core. The larva had introduced herself deep, and now was spreading its roots, repairing that which had been damaged with vegetable tissue instead of an animal¡¯s, but striving to keep the functionality nearly intact.

    Lino circled the whale, and for a moment, admired the animal¡¯s powerful, stilled tail.

    You cannot return this monstrosity you created to the sea. It would make documentarists pretty angry. And I care about them because reasons. Reasons like annoying you. You know what? I am going to give myself a quest to annoy you.

    [NEW QUEST FOR THE SYSTEM]

    Objective: Annoy Lino until he does cultivator things.

    Reward: Satisfaction (Just this once, unrelated to the Rolling Stones)

    ¡°The whale will live: it worked. Now I shall drag her back to the sea and watch over her for a while. ¡°

    He grasped the animal¡¯s tail tightly, and grew roots from his feet so the whale wouldn¡¯t send him flying with her struggles. Putting the weight over his shoulder, and deriving an unexpected, slight but noticeable pleasure from the fact he didn¡¯t find the animal heave, lino trudged into the sea, as the waves broke against his shape and the pebbles rolled underfoot, and under the Labradorca.

    The Labradorca was confused and disgruntled: they were taking her away from the condescending penguins! She had to pull! Pull like the dog that had shown her the meaning of life pulled from the leash!

    But it was all in vain: Lino¡¯s grasp was inescapable, and his advance towards the depts. undeterred. He would save this stupid whale, just to see where it led to. For a man without a purpose, anything could be considered an advance. Towards what? Self-cognition, perhaps. Or nowhere: life on Earth had no greater purpose, no meaning. It was a mere accident of chemistry, a versatile and complex self-replicating reaction and the naturals ramifications of such a mess. And it had been like that for three thousand and eight hundred million years, and still went strong. Purpose was a human caprice, and while Lino could entertain those, he now didn¡¯t have to.

    As he didn¡¯t have to entertain breathing and thus he tasted the salty water and felt the horrible sensation of it intruding his nose and lungs as he submerged himself in the polar waters, orca still on tow. His gnarled, bloody roots reached deep in the gravel and kept him from floating, and his precious cargo¡¯s leaves had now grown to the size of scales and lignified, giving the orca the aspect of a breathing wood carving of some ancient sea reptile.

    Soon enough he let her go, so she could take a breath on the surface and, he let the animal go, and she surfaced to take a deep breath despite how clumsy her swim was with this new body.

    He, the seed fern and the system expected her to go away, but the Labradorca didn¡¯t, and, instead, charged towards Lino ¡ª that calmly observed her through the crystalline waters ¡ª with her mouth agape, head-butted him, and then licked him thrice in the face.

    Dear gods, if we assume one is what one eats, this thing definitively ate a retriever. Or several.

    Through rocks bedecked in bivalves and fields of red sea urchins Lino marched onwards, seeking the depths. And the kind and ever-hungry Labradorca, acting against her best interest, followed, singing and whistling and pulsing with mirth.

 V2 Chapter 10: Samaris Training,

    Kalon slammed on the metaphorical brakes of the real spirit constructs, sending the whole team flying out of the newly built, liquid-puppy-based carriage with a state-of-the-fart cooling system, which consisted on six-dozen hypothermiaed puppy tongues placed inside a winding tube for air entry. The wet, cold tongues licked the air cold, and their lapping drove it inside the carriage, where Samari and Jagger and Kalon had been chilling just moments afore.

    ¡°When I tell you to stop, Kalon, I mean for you to do it gradually so inertia doesn¡¯t kick our asses,¡± Samari complained, coming to her feet and grieving her white shirt, that was now covered in black and smelly Rottweiler tar.

    Kalon, covered in streaks of ex-carriage too (as he had lost control over the summon during the fall, that included one of his gravity defying feats), considered that pretending to not hear her complaints was the wisest of decisions.

    Jagger wondered if being covered in his liquefied peers was something that he needed to consider traumatic. Also, he had fallen on his back and his belly was greeting the sky, so that was something to fix, maybe. Perhaps. He wasn¡¯t sure he still had the force of will to stand. Ah well, if he died, he died.

    ¡°Well, we are all safe and sound, judging by the looks¡­ except Brunhilda, which is somewhere¡­¡±

    ¡°Burr.¡± Brunhilda¡¯s echoing voice came out of nowhere.

    ¡°Fine, the status quo wins again. You may be wondering why we stopped.¡± Samari raised a finger, ready to drop an explanation over her suspecting companions.

    ¡°We are not,¡± truthed Jagger, ¡°every time we listen to your ideas, Sam, we get in some sort of absurd trouble.¡±

    ¡°You also get in deranged antics when I remain silent,¡± Samari argued.

    Jagger, knowing he had lost the argument, started snarling.

    ¡°Ah, shut your trap, doggie. Samari said, going up to him and kicking her companion in the ribs, making him yelp.

    ¡°What was that for?¡± Jagger turned, getting back on his feet, and then, understood. ¡°Ah crap, I stood.¡±

    Samari smile and patted Jagger on the head, hoping he had enough common sense to not try and maul her. A risky gambit, indeed.

    But it paid off, as Jagger was a certified pat slut.

    ¡°Why did you tell us to stop, Samari?¡± Kalon finally asked, while he commanded the liquid puppies to flow back into his dress.

    Samari sat on the dirt of the road and leaned back, supporting herself with her hands. It was good to be out the carriage.

    ¡°She likely learned something from the book.¡± Jagger contributed as he sat in front of the giggling Arcagnostic.

    Samari nodded with enthusiasm. ¡°Correct. It¡¯s a covenant.¡±

    ¡°A coven hat? Like, one of those pointy ones used by evil witches?¡± Kalon earnestly asked, cracking his knuckles. He pseudothought a witch hat would fit Samari like a glove.

    ¡°No. Covenant, a contract with the heavens. An Arcagnostic spell, if you will. A technique we learn after we master the control of our spirit. Basically, the book, that¡¯s¡­¡± Samari peered around, quickly taking in the road, the tropical orchards not their left and the tropical cows to the right. ¡°Over there, by the mango tree, describes how an arcagnostic can strike a deal with the heavens to become blind.¡± Samari¡¯s face didn¡¯t match what she was saying. So Jagger twirled his paw as a gesture for her to continue. ¡°And also invisible. The world cannot see you and you cannot see the world.¡±

    ¡°Gods in heaven full of prostitutes, that is just a toddler¡¯s biggest dream come true.¡±

    Samari patted the slut again. ¡°Indeed! And a useful ability to have. I could learn it. I mean, I have not mastered my spirit yet, but not all covenants require a complete mastery. This one is rather easy.¡±

    ¡°And rather stupid,¡± Kalon surprised girl and dog with his remark. ¡°eyesight is essential in a battle, or for infiltration, if you would like to use it for that.¡±

    Samari blinked twice. ¡°Kalon, why aren¡¯t you being an idiot?¡±

    ¡°I rest from stupidity once in a while. Is that wrong to you?¡±

    Samari stood, approached Kalon with Cautious step, and poked his cheek, scared. ¡°Sacrosanct intercourse, this is for real. You could deactivate your stupid all this time?¡±

    A smile grew on Kalon¡¯s face, and then he began laughing. ¡°Haha, no, I was being told what to say by the Avatar.¡±

    Samari sighed in relief, like a lung does after being pierced by a bullet. ¡°Tell your inner Jester ¡ªand by this I mean the Avatar¡ª that I am going to need help with martial training if I want to fulfill this covenant.¡±

    ¡°What kind of help?¡±

    ¡°I am rusty. My mother taught me the basics, but I haven¡¯t trained since she died. So, considering you are pretty capable in the battlefield¡­¡±

    Samari hoped Kalon would not need the whole sentence to understand her petition. How naive you are, Samari. I¡¯d kill you ¡ª merely for the lulz and in a ridiculous way, as tradition dictates ¡ª but if we are killing off stupid characters, Kalon and every other inhabitant of the vale would need to go first. I don¡¯t make the rules[1]</a>.

    The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

    ¡°Samari, I think your last sentence is incomplete.¡± Kalon noticed. Kudos to you, Kalon.

    Jagger wished to go back to his puppy days, when he was being whomped against a wooden training doll, suffering epiphanies left and right. Ah, those were the days, a simpler time surrounded by idiots that at least considered him Kalon¡¯s intelligent sidekick. Now that role had been taken by Samari, and he had been reduced to just the talking dog that died now and then. And it wasn¡¯t a bad life except for, you know, the death and rebirth cycles he underwent so often. At least he could now see the moron¡¯s mind for clues into his thinking processes, when they were so kind as to exist.

    ¡°Kalon, I need you to fight with me, without killing nor crippling me nor tearing my face off, nor¡­ ugh, Jagger, explain to him.¡±

    ¡°Samari wants to be beaten like a wife that did cook, but fucked up the recipe, and whose husband is just mildly drunk on a day where his favorite football team hasn¡¯t lost.¡±

    Samari joined her hands in front of her mouth, looking at Jagger with concern. ¡°Why are you like this?¡±

    ¡°Because Kalon understands these terms flawlessly. Right, Kalon?¡±

    Kalon hammered his fist against his palm. ¡°Yes. I must hit Samari but not too hard.¡± He then gathered his liquid puppy scarf around his right arm, a bubbling ball fo darkness and puppy features forming around his fist, and rotated his arm behind him to unleash the fury of a thousand pup smoothies over Samari.

    Seeing this, the girl extended her open arms and shook them. ¡°Not now, you doofus! We need to find somewhere outside the road and I need to prepare.¡±

    Samari headed for the field where the cows grazed with milky happiness. ¡°Follow me, we are going to seek a place without many cows and can practice there. Please, don¡¯t backstab me due to your Avatar¡¯s orders. I am sure he is absolutely thrilled at the chance to beat me.¡±

    Inside Kalon¡¯s mind, the avatar leaned back, Satisfied, trying to figure out how the fuck he was leaning back when he had become a fractal of Rottweiler heads as of late. ¡°She¡¯s right, I do want to give her what she deserves.¡±

    <hr>

    Say what you want about Samari¡¯s pale complexion, but nobody can deny that it had a one-in-a-thousand-years talent to get bruised. Her white skin was a prodigious one when it came to the art of turning the right shade of black or purple after every time the multiple lashes of liquid puppy made contact.

    The Holsteins had gathered in a wide circle, watching how the white girl slowly turned into one of them, all black spots and milky skin. They mooed and snorted, judging her weakness. Moo, they mocked. Moo, they derided. Moo.

    Jagger had jumped atop a cow and was using her as the mooral high ground to act as a referee of the fight. He would interfere if Kalon happened to be about to kill Samari. Probably. If he didn¡¯t get distracted first. Which, in his opinion, was likely to happen.

    Kalon wasn¡¯t enjoying this. Samari had been good to him, or at least not overly mean. And here she was, trembling, bruised and with a bleeding nose, getting in position once again, with palms open and facing him, with her body tilted sideways, with her left leg put forward, snorting a new dose of instant coffee after every fall. He didn¡¯t want to attack her once more.

    The Avatar, on the other hand, had invoked the power of the god of popcorns and watched the brat beating of his time with unmatched interest.

    ¡°Again, Kalon. Lash out again. I can do well this time.¡± She said between heavy, pained breaths.

    ¡°Erm, no?¡± Kalon begged.

    ¡°Kalon, I need to practice. The cows have great expectations of me,¡± she unknowingly lied.

    One of the cows scoffed, turned on her hooves and lumbered away. She would not tolerate such defamation.

    ¡°Come on, attack me, Kalon. Attack me like you are Brunhilda and I am an unsupervised piece of steak over the table.¡±

    Kalon raised his arm, and the whip of liquid puppies gathered in a single strand of blackness so true and deep that it would seduce several children of the Gromera clan. It snaked in the air, waiting for the arm that held it to come down and smite their opponent.

    Samari¡¯s heart pumped in her chest, because if it pumped anywhere else she would have been in real trouble. She had a plan, and her spirit had been already extricated preemptively. Her hands were too weak to catch the construct infused with vital energy. But her soul was unbreakable.

    The tendril of barkness came down like a thunder, describing an arc thrrogh the air and making a loud snap. She wove the spirit of both her hands together and thrusted them upwards, apart, ready to intercept the attack with this net of spirit, and tie it in like a spider it¡¯s unfortunate prey.

    What Samari didn¡¯t calculate, however, was that while the strength of her soul couldn¡¯t be matched by the physical world, that of her arms¡­ left much to be desired. In other words, the whip reached the net, got caught into it, and it brought her hands together in a sort of embrace around it¡­ before slamming into Samari¡¯s face like a SWAT team into a streamer¡¯s house.

    Pain. That¡¯s all that Samari felt as the tongues and noses and wrath of a trigintillion (One followed by ninety-three zeroes. One of those numbers that exist only for the sake of idle games. This is more than the amount of atoms in the observable universe.) puppies kissed her cheek softly not.

    This ended with Samari being slammed against the floor, and then lifted as Kalon retracted the still-sentangled whip, sending her over his head, and making her land between two haughty cows.

    ¡°Pathetic,¡± A cow mooed in cow speak, which no one else but the cows understood.

    Another cow poked the unconscious arcagnostic with her hoof. ¡°She is not a gifted one, that¡¯s for sure, moo. Do we eat her?¡±

    ¡°She is not grass, moo¡± said the only vegan of the bunch.

    ¡°Shut up Daisy, you are a disgrace to cattlekin,¡± said El Toro Roberto, that was also La Vaca Clotilda during the cold nights at the barn. Had he been born a cow? a bull? No one knew. No one wanted to know.

    ¡°We cannot eat her, she is guarded by the others. We have to eat the others first,¡± she raised her cow head to look at Kalon with cow eyes (made of cow) and recowsidered what she had just say. ¡°But he did beat this one without breaking a sweat.¡±

    ¡°Do we name him honorary cow?¡±

    ¡°Bull. Honorary bull." Corrected Roberto.

    ¡°Shut up, you are an honorary cow by day, honorary bull by night. If you are a cow , honorary or real or not, he can be a cow, honorary, by night, and by day,¡± Daisy dropped the rulebook on him. Or would have, if cows knew what a book was.

    ¡°Can we call him a slur and be done with this? ¡° Asked the black cow with white spots of the bunch. ¡°I have to spread Cryptosporidium to unsuspecting raw milk drinkers like I am a rabid fan of Destroy All Humans and they are Playstation 2 owners,¡± she made a reference no one in her universe was supposed to get.

    Jagger perked up, suddenly remembering he knew how to speak cow. ¡°Hey, that cow is talking about cult games! Hi cow! Hi!¡±

    ¡°Barns of heaven, a talking dog!¡± exclaimed one of the cows, and all but one ¡ªshe who had Jagger on top¡ªstampeded away, careful to not step on Samari¡¯s body. They didn¡¯t want to get their hooves dirty.

    ¡°Moo, don¡¯t go, moo, get it off me, moo!¡±

    <hr>

    Samari came back to her senses shortly after, and the first thing she found was Jagger¡¯s face, staring down at her, drooling on her face. ¡°Fuck, you are alive. I cannot eat you now.¡±

    Kalon had crowched by her side and watched over with a concerned expression. ¡°Sorry, Sam, I didn¡¯t notice you had grabbed onto the whip until it was too late.¡±

    Samari raised a pained thumbs-up. ¡°I am fine¡­ and I think most of my ribs are complete,¡± She whizzed before falling unconscious once again, more out of exhaustion than anything else.

    Kalon then carried his friend into the orchard, placed her under the shadow of a mango tree, and, with the aid of Jagger, watched over her until she recovered enough to continue their travels.

    <hr>

    [1]</a> As it happens half of the time when powerful individuals claim this: I actually DO make the rules. I know, I know: shocking.

 V2 Chapter 11: Not Your Usual Western

    The town of Agua Ligeramente Helada was your classical western hellhole, placed amidst an arid desert, that sported dried out carcasses of bovines and outlaws and wild dogs with big fangs and bovine outlaw wild dogs with big fangs all over the place. It had been named by madmen that spouted pure unintelligible nonsense, so its name only coincidentally resembled Spanish. You wouldn¡¯t find slightly frozen water anywhere in there. You would be pressed to find unfossilized water like, at all.

    Through this valley of death and charring sunlight rode the cultivator. The hooves of her fully automatic spirit horse chastised the dusty road, elevating a cloud of particles whenever it stepped.

    ¡°She¡¯s back,¡± whispered the lips of those that knew her.

    ¡°Why make a horse out of guns? Showoff,¡± Said aloud those of the people that hadn¡¯t had the pleasure to meet her yet.

    She came across the local outlaw at noon. His cloak waved in the wind because it had nothing better to do. His face was covered with a red scarf that wasn¡¯t made of puppies nor human skin.

    ¡°This town is not big enough for both of us, outsider,¡± his hand quickly reached for the iron of his hip, and a bulled ripped out, striking true on the cultivator¡¯s forehead.

    And bouncing harmlessly.

    ¡°Trying to shoot me is like trying to drown a fish by holding it¡¯s gills underwater, pal. ¡°She said taking off her hat and throwing it to the side to unleash her long hair.

    The outlaw kept shooting, aiming all over her body. The bullets kept bouncing off of her without doing the minimal damage.

    ¡°I am riding a horse made of guns, what makes you think guns can kill me?¡±

    The man kept pulling the trigger until every chamber of his revolvers was empty, and then he grabbed his spare revolved and kept on trying.

    After seven emptied out guns, the man exclaimed with his roughed-up voice ¡°Impossible, you are immune to bullets! There¡¯s no way all forty-eight shots were flukes! Are you¡­¡±

    ¡°A mother looking for her daughter. Have you seen a girl called Crusadina around here? She¡¯s fourteen, looks an awful lot like me. Most likely because she came out of my cunt. Seventy-three hours of grueling labor, pal, I almost shit out my very spirit while giving birth to that brat¡­.¡±

    The man examined the sides with scared eyes, searching for an escape route. ¡°I¡­ I don¡¯t¡­ I need to¡­¡±

    ¡°...a legendary amount of chocolate milk was bled that day. I was so scared and pained that my vital energy went haywire, preventing the doctors from making a C-section. Heaven aided me and my little bundle of murderous joy that day, pal. You should have seen her, all little and pinkish, drinking from momma¡¯s tit like it was full of beer instead of plain milk¡­¡±

    The townsfolk that watched from the windows of houses and the saloon closed their eyes and shook their heads. That was one good outlaw gone to waste.

    ¡°You come to take me alive or dead, right? Could it be dead? Like, please, let it be dead.¡±

    She pulled on the bullet-strap-reins of her horse and began circling the sweating outlaw.

    ¡°Tsk tsk, no, I just came to look for my daughter. I have no interest in you, pal.¡±

    ¡°Well, then, can I go? I have a family to feed.¡±

    Polvorina raised her eyebrows. ¡°Oh, so you are a daddy?¡±

    The outlaw dismissed that with a gesture of his hand, as if wanting to fan such a terrible fate away. ¡°Gods, no. Hostages. I don¡¯t want them to die. It¡¯s bad for the trade. There are standards I am held to, miss.¡±

    ¡°Ah, that¡¯s right. Can you ask them about my daughter? If so, I will let you go. And follow.¡±

    ¡°Sheriff!¡±

    The sheriff popped his head out of his office window, his hat getting stuck on the frame. ¡°Yes?¡±

    ¡°Shoot me dead!¡± The outlad demanded.

    ¡°Shoot me dead what?¡±

    The outlaw closed his eyes and nodded. How could he be so rude to the old sherrif? ¡°Please, be so kind to shoot me dead.¡±

    ¡°Fine.¡± The sheriff whiplashed his arthritis-ridden hand and a bang was heard. Slowly, a thread of blood began coming out of the gunwound, dramatically.

    The outlaw stared up, annoyed. ¡°You missed! That¡¯s my arm!¡±

    The sheriff shot again, hitting the gun horse in his tiny, hidden safety bar, making it instantly unload most of his bullets ¡ªhis lifeblood¡ª over the ground, killing it and making Polvorina jump from its back, as annoyed as the outlaw. ¡°Oi, old man, a gun is not a toy!¡±

    ¡°And old age is not a blessing. Third time is the charm, though,¡± he said with his voice, before taking aim again and pulling the trigger.

    The shot struck true. On the wrong place, but true, in the sense that it did strike something. Specifically, the little statuette of a golden¡­ golden¡­ golden¡­ a golden c¡­ a golden fel¡­ a golden statuette considered a symbol of good financial luck, that was placed atop a barrel outside of the saloon.

    ¡°Well, there goes the charm,¡± commented the outlaw, and then stared long at the bullet hole in his arm. ¡°Anyone with a good aim to kill me? My kingdom for a bullet to the melon.¡±

    ¡°I can kill you if you want.¡± Polvorina offered, putting an understanding hand on the man¡¯s shoulder.

    The man kindly grabbed her hand and took it out of his shoulder. ¡°No, thanks, I cannot burden a worried mother any further. I¡¯ll do it myself. ¡±

    The man grabbed his eighth gun and gestured Polvorina to give him some space, as he didn¡¯t want to stain her jean jacket. Then, he blew his brains off with his six-gun, unceremoniously, letting his limp body fall in the mid of the road, upon a stain of brain matter and blood and chocolate milk.

    Polvorina poked him with her boot to make sure the man had expired. Then she took her hat off. ¡°So long, cowboy.¡±

    She rode the air up to the saloon, forgetting her horse had died and disappeared, vaporizing back into vital energy. She burst through the batwing doors, three sets of them: If one set was cool, three had to be absolutely thrilling.

    The atmosphere inside was the usual for such a den of reprobates and whores and reprobate whores. The bleached skull of a vampire dog hung on the wooden wall, over the heads of smelly gamblers that were at least three whiskeys past human rights. Every head that could turned to see at her who walked into The Sexually Assaulted Ferret with such a confident step.

    The woman behind the counter ¡ªwhose arms had gotten as wide as the tankards of beer the less refined patrons drank from due to years of having to throw people out not one, but three sets of batwing doors¡ª grunted in annoyance as she recognized Polvorina. ¡°Have you come to pay your tab at last?¡±

    ¡°I am looking for my daughter, Petraia, have you seen her? She¡¯s like a little me¡­ probably a young me by now, she must have undergone the grow spurt associated to puberty already. Maybe she is taller than me.¡±

    The woman¡¯s eyes became thin lines. ¡°But will you pay your tab?¡±

    Polvorina took a seat in the first four-legged stool she found and looked at the bartender dead in the eye. ¡°Those days are behind me, Petraia.¡±

    ¡°The days of paying your tab?¡±

    She nodded, gravely, as if she was confirming someone¡¯s death. ¡°Gone with my old self. I am abstemious now.¡±

    Petraia examined her up and down with a single eye, hands placed over the counter to support her weight. ¡°Abtemerous? You fear six-packs?¡±

    Polvorina straightened her back, confused. ¡°No. I love six-packs. On men. On men without Fursuits, if possible. Abstemious means I don¡¯t drink alcohol.¡±

    Petraia gasped, starting a chain reaction that extended out from her and made the rounds, causing everyone else in the bar gasp thrice, like a falling domino of gasps whose pieces got kicked in the balls as soon as they stood back on their foot. ¡°You what?¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t drink anymore,¡± she said, putting on a nervous smile.

    ¡°Not vodka? Not mead? Not apple cider?¡±

    ¡°No alcoholic drink. None.¡±

    The bartender¡¯s face was a testament to the fear of the human soul. ¡°Not even wine?¡±

    ¡°I drink water, sodas, milk, and energy drinks. No alcohol.¡±

    The rusty, erstwhile caramelized, wood planks of the floor ¡ªdon¡¯t ask, just¡­ don¡¯t ask¡ª got domestic violenced by Petraia¡¯s heavy figure when she fainted.

    Without saying another word Polvorina stood from her stool and strode towards the door, but a hand came out of the whiskey miasma to her left, grabbing her arm.

    The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

    ¡°Listen, pal, I am not giving you a coin nor sleeping with you, so let me go or you die.

    But what came out of the cloud of brown vapors was not the voice of a degenerate or a beggar. No, it was that of a man who had smoked it all. It was the voice of the monster that inhabited the space under the beds of tobacco plants. ¡°I can take you to someone who may help you find your daughter. You made Yellow-teeth Jason kill himself, and I saw it. It¡¯s the least I can do for you.¡±

    Polvorina doubted for a second, unsure of the man¡¯s intentions (that were just being a mysterious figure shrouded in alcohol vapors, most of the time). But anything that got her closer to Crusadina was worth the try, at least.

    ¡°Fine, lead me to them. But you trick me, consider yourself promoted to a wildlife sanctuary for spiritual bullets.¡±

    <hr>

    It was in a dry and rattlesnake-laden basement that the man claimed she would find the old crone who could help her. Luckily for Polvorina, the rattlesnakes had fallen into the most dormant of states. They seemed to not be even breathing. Truth is, they weren¡¯t. They had died in their sleep, and couldn¡¯t be assed to do the paperwork so their bodies would decay, so you had mummified rattlesnakes over the barrels, along the tool shelves, and even inside other rattlesnakes. Her boots made the mummies crunch as she intruded the murky environment, holding an oil lamp in front of her to drive away a bit of the darkness. It would have worked better if the oil in the lamp had been ignited previously, she thought. Ah well, as they said, hindsight was always in her twenties.

    She expected the old woman to appear from many places: that hole in the wall, that suspicious mound of dead rattlesnakes, or maybe even from behind the working table in the middle of the room. It had not occurred to her that she would come out of a barrel¡¯s frame. No, not the barrel¡¯s interior, the frame. This woman was that thin.

    ¡°The spirits told me you would come, Polvorina of the vicious Uzis¡±

    Polvorina¡¯s expression was crooked. ¡°Those damn spying spirits better not be watching me while I take a shower.¡±

    ¡°I assure you: they are. They say the contour of your ass is unrivaled in Valelike Vale.¡±

    The woman harrumphed a bit, and, producing a box of matches out of her rags, she ignited Polvorina¡¯s lamp. ¡°There you go, darling. Now you can admire my humble abode.¡±

    The extra illumination didn¡¯t help to make the place less tenebrous. If anything, the orange glow added an old-school Egyptian-setting horror feeling to the dusty atmosphere. Like some human mummy would come out of a barrel, and reveal this was an ancient pharaoh¡¯s tomb, belonging to the one who drank so much his sarcophagus was replaced with a wine cask.

    The snakes were already there, it just lacked the beetles and locusts and frogs and cats. And gold. And cats. And gold. And¡­ And¡­

    Forget it, I am not strong enough.

    Oh, but the closest thing to a human mummy there was the old woman, with her matted hair, with her randomly distributed balding spots, with her eyes entering Polvorina¡¯s soul like armor piercing rounds.

    ¡°Then, Darling, you have come looking for someone. Someone who parted, correct?¡±

    ¡°My daughter isn¡¯t dead! She just ran away.¡±

    The old woman¡¯s pupils made their ways to the top of her eyes. She scratched her chin as she listened to¡­ something. ¡°I see, I see. Old granny needs to you, young fanny, the wisdom of the spirits.¡±

    The medium led Polvorina around a mound of barrels, where she had prepared a small circular table with a mantelpiece full of holes ¡ªsomeone had to feed the moths¡ª and a crumpled ball of porn magazines stuck together with copious amounts of glue.

    ¡°Oi, why do you have a sphere made out of pictures of nude women?¡±

    ¡°She¡¯s time-honored porn actress Coriander Crystal, and this is my ball, young lass.¡±

    Polvorina didn¡¯t know what to think about this woman. If the crone could convene with spirits, maybe she could get some lead on Crusadina¡¯s whereabouts. On the other hand, she could just be nuts. Not in the Yggdrashell sense, but rather in the ¡°Absolutely crazy¡± sense. She reluctantly took a seat on a small barrel that believed itself a chair, left the lamp over the table and crossed her arms.

    ¡°Show me you can hear some beings from beyond the veil,¡± Polvorina said, resisting the urge to get her boots onto the table and lean back, which would have been pretty hard to sustain while sitting on a barrel.

    The medium placed her hands over the ball, without touching it, and closed her eyes. After a few seconds, with a voice full of unnatural echoes, she finally spoke. ¡°You¡­ like bananas.¡±

    Polvorina adjusted her hat. ¡°Like most people. That¡¯s not something you need divination power for. I assume you are a fraud, hag, and this lady doesn¡¯t like frauds.¡±

    ¡°As more than friends,¡± she snapped, and Polvorina¡¯s face went communist.

    ¡°My husband left me! I am a single mother, okay? I don¡¯t have time to go around dating.¡±

    ¡°Your husband didn¡¯t leave you. He got smoked with the fags,¡± the medium scratched her head. ¡°Why did you marry a furry, girl? You are a bombshell. Do you hate yourself that much?¡±

    ¡°I had my reasons. Reasons of the heart that don¡¯t pertain the head. Reasons of the nether regions that pertain other sorts of heads. Are you contacting him? Are you talking to my husband you¡­ emm¡­ name?¡±

    The hag scratched her scalp. ¡°Mine or your husband¡¯s?¡±

    ¡°I think I remember my husband¡¯s name. Yours.¡±

    ¡°Ah, well, that will be a problem. Spirits, what¡¯s my name?¡±

    The spirits stirred around the ether and raised their paws in confusion. Yes, paws: all of them were furries. Why? because there was a god that prevented furries¡¯ souls from dispersing after they died. Some sort of all (anthropomorphic) dogs go to heaven deal. And if you allowed the ones dressed as dogs and foxes and wolves why not the ones dressed as hyenas? And if you accepted hyenas, that aren¡¯t canines, why not accept feline, pinniped and ursine ones too? It seemed like the logical extension. And so the Overton Window of acceptable furries in heaven moved until they drew the line at scalies in the afterlife. But if it is a dragon with hair or fur, guess what? It goes to heaven too. It¡¯s a mess, and it¡¯s not in accordance with my beliefs, but it is what it is.

    ¡°The spirits don¡¯t remember my name. Alzheimer¡¯s seems to be shared between dimensions through our bond.¡±

    Polvorina scratched her cheek with disinterest, ¡°Or they just don¡¯t care. Put me in the line with my husband.¡±

    ¡°One claims to be him. Was his name Furtherknot?¡±

    Polvorina sighed out of exasperation. ¡°Can¡¯t you be normal a second, Ferold? You had to use the name of your fucking Fursona? Really?¡±

    The medium extended a hand and caressed the gun cultivator¡¯s arm. ¡°It¡¯s normal, dear. The spirits are suspiciously fond of the names they went by at furcons.¡±

    ¡°Okay, ask him¡­ or I guess he can hear me, correct?¡±

    ¡°Ask ahead, darling. The spirits need not ears ¡ªbut they do have fluffy ones¡ª to hear about your concerns.¡± She grandma made a dramatic pause, the wrinkles on her face deepening. ¡°Ah, yes, your daughter is dead.¡±

    Polvorin¡¯as face froze as she leaned forward. ¡°What?¡±

    ¡°Furtherknot says¡ª¡±

    ¡°Ferald. Call this deadbeat motherfucker Ferald. And tell him to stop joking about such a delicate subject.¡±

    The old grandma dared slap the cultivator. Polvorina easily avoided the slow as molasses swipe of the old woman. ¡°You have the reflexes of a scallop, dear. And that¡¯s a compliment. But the spirits are bound to tell the truth.¡±

    ¡°He lied about his name!¡±

    ¡°Or maybe he considers his fursona his true self.¡±

    Polvorina covered her eyes as she broke into an ugly cry. ¡°I hope he gets the worst coming to him. He is my husband, there¡¯s no way he isn¡¯t him. How can he be so casual about our daughter?¡±

    ¡°He says you also were pretty casual about it.¡±

    She lashed out, standing from her barrel. ¡°While talking to children! We cannot show weakness before death in front of the children. Less so in front of one that wants to be immortal like that Kalon laddie. We are all adults in here.¡±

    ¡°Some of the spirits are furry children.¡±

    Polvorina breathed in and out, slowly, she was ready to explode.

    ¡°And your husband wonders why you aren¡¯t lamenting his death.¡±

    ¡°Because he sook it, I bet. You know nothing about the fetishes this motherfucker fostered.¡±

    ¡°Wait, he¡¯s telling me something. ¡°the woman made a pause, listening intently.¡± Let¡¯s keep the conversation, he says, orbiting the matter of your dead daughter. Murdered, daughter, in fact.¡±

    ¡°Ferald, after we see this parenting matter through and through, I want the divorce.¡±

    The old woman joined her trembling and raisin-textured hands as a signal of concern. ¡°Darling, he is dead. You are widowed. Marriage is only until death does you part.¡±

    Polvorina¡¯s forehead creased like a poorly built street during an earthquake¡­ ¡°Yeah¡­ that¡­ let him explain. Be good for something, deadbeat.¡±

    The medium¡¯s face was a veritable spectacle as Crusadina¡¯s father explained that they had taken some very particular vows. When he was done, and after her brain could process what she had had heard, she slowly slammed both hands on the divination table.

    ¡°Out. You get out of my house, and he gets out of the spirit realm. Shoo!¡±

    ¡°Tell me who killed my Crusadina first! I shall take revenge. If two thirds of my family are dead, I¡¯ll see to not bite the dust before the one who took my little girl from me lies deep underground.¡±

    The old woman closed her eyes, breathed him and out to calm herself, forgot she was angry due to dementia, looked around a bit to get her bearings, and said, ¡°Well, he tells me the murderer is named Cutbastra. A follower of the road of the Homewrecker who¡ª¡±

    ¡°I know him,¡± was her dry answer, and it came before a gulp and a turn on her heels. ¡°He¡¯s cute, the bastard.¡±

    An ethereal figure in a green fursuit appeared in front of her, using his paws to stop her advance, placing them on her chest. ¡°Damn, I miss these.¡± He muttered, and then looked at his wife in the eyes. ¡°Don¡¯t go, darling. You cannot best him. No married man or woman can.¡±

    She clawed the hyena head of her husband, and her hand went through it as if it were but mist. ¡°It¡¯s my duty. You didn¡¯t give birth to her! You didn¡¯t suffer to bring her to this world! If Cutbastra took my girl from me, I will take his life from him. Or at least try, till the Earth drinks my last drop of blood and chocolate milk.¡±

    The husband put his hands away and stepped to the side. ¡°I don¡¯t have the means to stop you, Polvorina. But, please, don¡¯t name the chocolate milk when swearing vengeance, it makes the whole ordeal sound like a joke.¡±

    ¡°Sometimes life¡¯s the joke, and we are not the ones meant to laugh,¡± the medium whose name had been lost to time said, and suddenly remembered she was angry with them. ¡°Out of here!¡±

    Ferald¡¯s form and image vanished, and, burdened with a teary face and the grief of a death hope, Polvorina parted, leaving the burning old lamp over the table and kicking the dead rattlesnakes as she shuffled her feet out.

    ¡°I will find him. Or¡­ or he will find me.¡± Her smile widened under the presence of the thoughts of a madwoman. ¡°And I will lose me.¡±

    ¡°Wait, no, Polvorina, love, don¡¯t resort to her. Innocent people don¡¯t need to die. Other people¡¯s sons and daughters don¡¯t deserve to be collateral damage to your revenge.¡±

    But she wasn¡¯t listening. Like possessed she grabbed her hat tight against her head and rushed off, reaching the desert out the town in less than a second. In it, under the gaze f a lone Vampire dog that hadn¡¯t made it to his lair before dawn and was now trapped under a cactus¡¯ little moving shade until nightfall.

    She raised her spirit Uzis toward the tyrant sun and pulled the triggers. ¡°Come out and play, Mic! Use me as a vessel, Avatar of the Road of Lead!¡± She said, calling the Road of Freedom by its official, unfunny name.

    The energy bullets ripped upwards, piercing a lone cloud or two and losing fervor as they ascended. Eventually, a thousand of them remained suspended in the high atmosphere, spinning as something inside beat. That something inside was eagles, tearing out of their little lead prisons and spreading their ample brass wings, growing too big to ever be contained inside a bullet. The sun reflected on the eagles casing-feathers, casting sparkles like stars upon she who, with arms thrown to the sides, watched form below.

    ¡°Mic, come down, let your fury rain over me! The world is yours if so is my enemy!¡± She called to the skies in ecstasy. This was it. She was handing her avatar total control of her fate, in exchange for power.

    The eagles listened and cried with eagerness, twirling in the air like vultures would. They gazed far below with laser-pointer eyes, and they all converged on her. Soon, fueled by greed and with their wings folded they plummeted, beaks open, cloacae spraying and praying into the firmament, claws of titanium aching to dig into Polvorina¡¯s flesh.

    In the last second, as they obscured the skies above the cultivator and closed in, a thousand eagles extended their talons of nightmare, and they dug into their target, making her squeal from pleasure. The eagles¡¯ wings beat in unison as their bloodied claws lifted a laughing Polvorina from the ground.

    ¡°Mic! Defeat Cutbastra and the world is yours, Mic!¡± she exclaimed, consumed by the deepest madness, as the sphere of birds closed around her, as the flesh was torn from her body and replaced by guns made out of her very spirit. Soon, all that would remain from Polvorina would be her purpose, and her anger.

    Soon, everyone, even Cutbastra, would regret having messed with her little daughter.

 V2 chapter 12: Alien vs Free Speech.

    The mass of journalists flowed into the park with their expensive microphones and sophisticate cameras at the ready. Multiple videos had been sent to them, of a mysterious animal that was crawling in circles around the orange tree. A giant slug, some had said. An octopus crawling on its back, others had ventured. The usual morons that were obsessed with UFOs had, of course, proposed that humanity was dealing with an extraterrestrial entity, and they were dismissed as conspiracy nuts, because that¡¯s the standard protocol when they spoke. Except this time they were right.

    The alien slithered around the orange three, analyzing its bark with its tendrils and the fallen fruit with its foot, and sometimes theorizing about what the little things that moved over him now and then could be. For the curious, they were ants, tiny and red, enticed by the sweet treasures spilled all around.

    The journalists gathered, shouldering each other to try and get the scoop. And the alien noticed. The air was vibrating in a way most unnatural, similar on how it had done in the landing site. This could imply the source of such perturbations in the atmosphere was a living being, or several. But he was unsure of what it could be for. A defense mechanism, mayhap? It could explain why it¡¯s presence seemed to trigger it. It could be that local biota was considering it a menace. This would imply it was being perceived by those hydrogen-based lifeforms. How, more than why ¡ª because the why was universal: the why of perception was because it helped things to avoid death ¡ª was the question. Was it the heat it produced? Was it something related to its chemistry?

    Suddenly, an avalanche of photons different from those of starlight rained over the alien. They came in violent, short waves. An attack? Or just a case of radiolocation? Intent? Did it have one? It wasn¡¯t a dangerous situation for it, and yet it wasn¡¯t a comfortable one, either. It needed to know better, not out of curiosity but out of caution. It remained still as it devised a plan.

    A redheaded Journalist woman, dusted off her clothes, smiled despite her blackened eye, and gave the cameramen the signal to start rolling. ¡°Today, we are gathered here, on the Slightly to the West of the Centre Park, to document a strange creature that made its way to the Big Orange Tree Slightly to the South of the Park¡¯s Centre. Some say it¡¯s a slug, some say it¡¯s a stray dog from the Queer Dimension, and others, believe it is a visitor from beyond.¡± Her eyes went wide when she said the last word. She continued her act as the others set up their equipment to record too, slowed down by the spirit-draining weight of defeat.

    Perhaps a measured response was warranted. Nothing lethal, just a little phosphorous based compound, a derivate from hexaphosphabenzene that should mollify any aggressive biota around causing minimal harm. It didn¡¯t knew the exact biology of the locals, but the compound was mostly harmless back in its planet, and left no sequelae on the affected beings. Thus the alien gathered its cells into balls filled with the compound, little eggs growing between its epidermis and the underlying tissue. From the outside, they looked as bulging pustules ready to blow at a moment¡¯s notice.

    And blow they did. The little balls of tissue shot from their prisons and bounced al around, sticking to the skin of the enthralled witnesses of the alien¡¯s activity. And then¡­ Have you even seen how a cnidocyst works? They are the little poison injecting harpoons on the tentacles of corals, jellyfish and anemones. Well, this didn¡¯t resemble one of those anatomically or ontologically or in any other biology-related way you can conceive. There was analogy of function, without a trace of homology. Phosphorous-based structures interacting with the carbon-based marvels of Cabaret. What could go wrong?

    Given the journalists started exploding, spreading guts and blood all around the orange tree and over the alien, I would say we can consider that question thoroughly answered. As for the alien cultivator, suffice to say that it considered the bloodbath a sort of ineffective attack on the part of the local biota. They had taken exception to the tranquilizers, and that was unexpected, but it could have gone worse. So far, life on Cabaret seemed highly hostile, but mostly harmless.

    <hr>

    The president got taken out of his corruption-related reveries when a man dressed in a Hawaiian shirt and dark shades burst through the double doors of his office. ¡°Sir, Sir! We have terrible news related to the alien.¡± The man took out his phone and showed it to the president, in it, the recordings of the massacre captured on live camera were played, commented by the news anchors who were comfy on their seats, but visibly traumatized by the death of their peers.

    This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

    ¡°I see.¡± The president said, leaving his electric guitar shaped after his favorite groupie to the side. ¡°for I have eyes, and eyes were made to see, see? That will go into my new song and¡ª¡±

    The employee of the secret service produced a glove out of his pocket and used it to slap the president back to earth.

    ¡°This is treason!¡± He pressed a button hidden under his desk to call security, which was supposed to come from the secret passage behind the gigantography of a historical figure that occupied the left wall of his office.

    ¡°What¡¯s the issue, sir?¡± answered a voice through the office loudspeakers.

    ¡°Pantonio hit me again. With a white glove.¡±

    The security guard in charge sighed. ¡°Sir, Pantonio has special privileges. You know he can slap you as long as it is for the greater good, or because you are being a little bitch. Were you being a little bitch, Mr. president?¡± The man at the other side teased. Oh, how he enjoyed mocking this moron.

    A smug grin seated in the president¡¯s face. ¡°The meanest bitch you know, Rigaldo. Are you checking Hashtagger? The alien offed a bunch of Journalists. Made them blow harder than your mother last night,¡± said the illustrious president of the republic where the alien had landed.

    ¡°My mother is dead, you cunt. Hope they try to kill you and I arrive just when they are shoving a knife in your neck¡¯s flesh. Too late to save you, but just in time to look heroic by shooting at the magnicidal maniac.¡±

    ¡°Well, as soon as I fix the alien issue I am signing an executive order to legalize necrophilia and make her blow me for real. Checkfuckingmate.¡±

    He let the button go and leaned back on the chair, satisfied with himself. Pantonio wasn¡¯t going away, and that soon killed off his smile. ¡°What do you want?¡±

    ¡°The alien killed people, sir. As the head of the secret service and other agencies, I need to get your input about how to proceed.¡±

    The president started fidgeting with his fingers, amused. ¡°It killed journos, not people. We can let it slip, right?¡±

    Pantonio groaned, letting his shoulders fall. ¡°The whole republic saw the alien killing them, sir. We cannot ignore the threat anymore. We. Can. Not.¡±

    ¡°I could write a fucking rad song about aliens killing journalists and our voting base would make a legendary pogo with it.¡± He placed his fingers into two gestures resembling horns. ¡°Metal as hell on VHS.¡±

    Pantonio took his gun out from the holsters concealed under his bermudas, pointed it briefly at his head, and then found out he lacked the bravery to pull the trigger and end it all. He could ruin the luxurious rug he was standing over. And someone had to come home back to his lovely Giant Schnauzer. She wouldn¡¯t know what had happened to Daddy if he pulled the trigger. He had to be strong. For Firulaisa.

    ¡°Listen, sir, this alien, if it runs amok, will scare the living crap out of the voting base, and that¡¯s bad for you. You cannot leech off their tax dollars if they vote the first moron that promises to deal with the ¡®growing alien menace¡¯.¡± Yes, he used scare quotes. Sue me.

    The president leaned backer against his blue and gold chair. ¡°What if it is targeting journos and paparazzi exclusively? That benefits us. We could be even more corrupt and there would be no one left to report on it. Nor on the alien. Only the state¡¯s channel would have journalists that we protect from the murderous entity and report on harmless news that show us in a good light. It¡¯s a self-solving issue.¡± The president pulled a can of shitty beer from under his desk. ¡°Want a drink to celebrate?¡±

    ¡°No, we need to solve this before it escalates. Please, just give me the authority to do whatever I deem fitting about the alien and you can go back to overvaluing public infrastructure projects to distribute the surplus among your¡­ associates. I want to protect my dog, sir. She is three. Want to see photos of her?¡± The man started swiping through his phone, trying to not show his true intentions in his face.

    The president¡¯s eyes went wide at the realization, hiding the black as a moonless night makeup on his eyelids. ¡°No! Not the fucking photos of your fucking Princess once fucking again. The dog is black and that¡¯s metal enough, but you dress her in those absurd costumes that you buy the-demons-know-where. So, get you authorization, rid the country of the alien if necessary, you party pooper. But offer it a visa and even citizenship first. He is considered a persona Very-grata to me. Enemy of my enemy. Strings of my guitar.¡±

    ¡°Bah! I¡¯ll order termination and then you can fire me for all I care. I will adopt the dog out. And then kill myself.¡±

    So Pantonio prepared to take a leave, dismissing the president. But he didn¡¯t expect what the son of a Man and Rock and Roll did next.

    ¡°Wait, Pantonio!¡±

    Pantonio didn¡¯t turn, but at least stopped. ¡°What is it now, Mr. President?¡±

    ¡°If you kill yourself, can you stream it? if you do, send me the link: I need closure.¡±

    But the only thing that got closure that day was the door of his office. A harsh, loud closure, once Pantonio stepped outside.

 V2 Chapter 13: Arriving to Ilure.

    Samari woke up with her whole body aching like she had made love to a blister of anti-ibuprofen last night. That was impossible, because her mom had taught her to not behave like lowly jailbait, and because anti-ibuprofen hadn¡¯t been invented yet.

    She wandered out of the liquid-Rottweiler tent and into the orchard, stars and nebulas sparkling high above. She found Kalon and Jagger sitting over the soft grass that grew among the shadows form the trees, standing guard to secure her sleep.

    ¡°Precocious Morning. ¡°she greeted them and sat by Jagger¡¯s side, placing a hand on his back.

    ¡°Samari, you remember that word! Your brain is okay, then. Thank the Gods, I thought I would be stuck with two Kalons,¡± Jagger said, wagging his tail.

    ¡°I am sorry.¡± Kalon said, not looking at her, and instead keeping his eyes stuck to the road. ¡°I need to control my strength better. For the sake of the people I care about.¡±

    ¡°Aww, the braindead moron considers me a person,¡± Samari teased, punching Kalon¡¯s shoulder, knowing that no matter how hard she hit, he would not be hurt.

    ¡°And you consider me a person too, right?¡± Kalon¡¯s eyes were illuminated by hope, and they filled Samari with uneasiness. ¡°Right?¡±

    ¡°You are more of a person than Jagger,¡± she finally mumbled.

    Jagger scowled, which wasn¡¯t a very menacing gesture when donned by a teenaged Rottweiler. ¡°I feel impersonally offended.¡±

    Kalon let his back fall over the grass, and it seemed the blades wanted to caress him. The blades. The blades!

    He stood with unwarranted hurry and then crouched to begin diligently deblading the grass around him.

    ¡°Well, if you have time for that, Kalon, we also have time to get back on the road. Ilure city must be but a few hours away. Once we arrive, we can get a room into an hotel and rest. And take a bath.¡± She sniffed under her armpit and her face crunched up. ¡°In sulfuric acid.¡±

    Kalon spun his finger, making flowing tendrils of liquid puppy from his dress to gather over the tip, into a sphere. Then he lunged that little sphere forward, making it land on the middle of the road and, consuming the vital energy it had been infused with, grow into a wagon without solid Rottweilers to pull from it. ¡°Hop in, then. Jagger pointed out I can use my spirit to spin the wheels without need of a set of driving Rottweilers. It¡¯s more efficient, he says.¡±

    And before Kalon could finish his train of thought (That was a 1:130 scale model) Samari had already hopped onto the wagon, ready to return to civilization once again, as she had no trouble with being a child of the wild, but a warm shower was a warm shower.

    <hr>

    Ilure city, cradled among white walls of bricks bigger than a man and battlements sharper than an Arcagnostic, stood proud before them as they stepped down from the cart. The titanic ivory gates wide open, the guards in their white and purple, long coated uniforms coming to greet the travelers.

    ¡°Papers, if you would be so kind,¡± a man built like a top-heavy population pyramid requested in a flat tone, extending his hand in front of Kalon.

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    ¡°We don¡¯t have none, sir. But look!¡± Samari flared her inner control incunabula, making sure to remove any insulting imagery from it.

    ¡°Well, you are a child and have an Incunathingy, so let me fetch my superior to see what can be done. Is the guy dressed in¡­ edge with you?¡±

    ¡°He¡¯s a cultivator and sort of my bodyguard and working partner, yes. Also the dog talks.¡±

    ¡°No way,¡± the guard said, flatly once again. HE didn¡¯t seem to have a way to change his tone.

    ¡°Yes, I do¡± Jagger said.

    ¡°Some way,¡± the man corrected himself. ¡°So a Talking dog, a ccultivator and An arcagnostic, all of you without papers?¡±

    Samari confirmed with an effusive gesture. ¡°And all of us minors.¡±

    ¡°Mind if I interrogate the other one?¡±

    ¡°Yes: I don¡¯t want you to torture yourself. He¡¯s from Valelike Vale.¡± Samari whispered, and the guard took a long look at Kalon.

    ¡°Yeah, no, I am not paid enough for that. Park there, next to the gates, and wait until a man with a well-trimmed beard comes to speak to you. Cause any trouble, and you will be arrested, beaten, or worse. We usually don¡¯t jail children, but for an Arcagnostic and a cultivator¡­ we may as well make an exception.¡±

    Kalon recalled the liquid puppies used for the wagon, incorporated them back into his dress, and the group sans Brunhilda ¡ªwho was still stashed with their luggage¡ª sat under the shadow of one of the gates.

    Kalon Juggled balls of liquid pups for the group¡¯s amusement, Jagger licked his paws in anticipation, and Samari practiced extricating different regions of her spirit. And as he clowned around, he thought on how far they ahd come. On how this girl he had met while undertaking an insultingly-low-paid mission that would have dissuaded most hunters ended up becoming his best friend. Best human friend, not to discredit Jagger¡¯s loyalty.

    Eventually, the captain on duty approached them sizing them up from a prudent distance. ¡°Ambulant circus?¡±

    The three of them shook their heads at the same time.

    ¡°What¡¯s your Business in Ilure, youngsters?¡± He spat like the words tasted sour in his mouth, his hands joined behind his back.

    ¡°I am the daughter of a powerful, but sadly gone, Arcagnostic, and I have come to access my mother¡¯s archives. My associate, the boy, not the dog, seeks to join a sect to advance his cultivation.¡± Kalon waved a friendly hand. ¡°And the dog is just the dude¡¯s sword.¡±

    ¡°Show me the incunabula.¡±

    Samari obliged eagerly, making her spirit dance and rearrange upon the palm of her hand, flaring like a wildfire.

    The man paced form side to side and then stoped, staring at Samari dead in the eye. ¡°Did your mother never tell you that the archives can only be accessed by the person they belong to? Your friend may succeed at joining a sect, but you will never get past the Archives security protocols.¡±

    ¡°I will. I am built different,¡± she said with all the smugness and entitlement one expects of a nine-year-old.

    This elicited a hearty laughter from the captain. ¡°Many say that. You cannot get past their security checks; you are just setting yourself for disappointment. But as long as you are not breaking the laws, you are welcome to try.¡± He turned and pointed to thei guard post with a firm arm. ¡°follow me, you two, I am giving you children some provisory papers so you can stay in the city and there won¡¯t be any¡­ meddlers saying we leave minors to fend from themselves at the city gates.

    ¡°That said, where¡¯s your luggage?¡±

    Kalon stepped forward. ¡°She ate herself.¡±

    ¡°Huh?¡± The captain was confused: the boy didn¡¯t seem intelligent enough to lie. ¡°Arcagnostic, explain.¡±

    Samari considered Kalon¡¯s answer was perfectly self-explanatory, and went with it. ¡°She ate herself.¡±

    The man¡¯s patience was running thinner than an anorexic girl in a house of mirrors. ¡°Talking dog, explain it adequately or I won¡¯t let them in!¡±

    ¡°Our luggage, sir, is a dog. And she ate herself. Began swallowing her tail and continued up to the head. Listen. Brun!¡±

    The air around them burred.

    ¡°She¡¯s nowhere and she¡¯s everywhere.¡±

    The man turned and began striding towards the outpost. ¡°I won¡¯t ask further about it, because I value my sanity. Come, we have a rulebook that the girl needs to read, and for the cultivator, a picture book illustrating what not to do in the city.¡±

    Kalon squealed in joy. ¡°Yes! Pictures!

    And so, the adventure of the group in Ilure had begun.

 V2 Chapter 14: Reaching the Archives

    Ilure smelled as good as it looked, and that was a tall bar to clear for a city so gorgeous and populated. Ancient magic ran under the streets. Some called it a miracle, some called it foul witchery, and others, among whom you may count your humble narrator, use words of old to describe it. Words teeming with mystique. We call it¡­ a fucking functional sewage system.

    The numerous jacarandas that purpled up the sidewalks twice a year swayed softly with the wind and gifted the wafts of air their fragrance. Children played on the well paved streets, the few cars having respectful drivers that would never drink before using their vehicles. Incessant was the joy of mothers and fathers watching over their little blessings, and over their Chihuahuas and poodles and Labradors and retrievers and every other cute dog breed you may imagine. Not pugs. Ilure was too idyllic to foster pug owners. Like, imagine Le Guin¡¯s Omelas. Omelas has a tortured child, as a sort of magical source of prosperity, and it is pretty well stablished how essential it is in the short story. Yes, Omelas has a single tortured child: If it existed, it would be the fairer of all societies ever. But I bet it would have no pugs. I wouldn¡¯t be so nearly-perfect otherwise.

    Where was I? Ah, yes, Ilure, where the gutters weren¡¯t rusty and the rooves had tiles the color of your mother¡¯s lipstick. Unless you are the son of a goth, because black tiles are not idyllic at all. And, in case you are, is she single? Is she into narrators? Just curious, no underlying intentions, obviously.

    Kalon and Samari kicked the streets, with the boy marveling at the tidiness of the place, at the paved streets and straight lampposts and gay lampposts, too. They lost themselves in the outdoor market, that bustled with activity as goods ranging from fruit and fish to toys and tomes. Meanwhile, Brunhilda omnipresencied around happily.

    Samari knew the way to the archives, as by Aunara¡¯s hand she had walked these streets years ago. Relying in the sense of orientation of a six years-old, however, defined a foolish endeavor, and so this Samari with 150% of that age ¡ªso much older, so much wiser¡ª had gotten a map at the city gates. So far, though, they hadn¡¯t need it for anything besides pointing random locals to places they should have known, but didn¡¯t, for there¡¯s no better way to make a man grow uninvolved with the minutiae of a city than giving him a home there: Sure, there used to be a hardware store over there, but you haven¡¯t needed to go that way ¡ªA full seven blocks away from your house and out of the way to work, which means its existence for you is as dubitable as that of unicorns¡ª in the last two years, and now it could very well be a funeral house.

    The aroma of the brews of a nearby caf¨¦ reached Samari¡¯s sensitive nose, and her pupils constricted. Her skin began to ache and her mouth to water. No, she was stronger than this. She was stronger than her caffeinated demons. Maybe. Maybe she was weaker, and just a taste, a little taste¡­ she was running low on her coffee reserves and needed to replenish them anyway.

    No, she had a mission, she had come to this city for her mother¡¯s secrets, and would not let the sweet and seductive scent of coffee¡­ the gorgeous body of that dark and bitter drink¡­ the warm sensation caressing the inside of your throat as a blanket of liquid velvet¡­ interfere.

    Maybe she needed to admit that, like great figures of history had been sluts for punishment, sluts for power, or sluts for sluts, she was a slut for coffee. Mother would be proud¡­ in some bizarre parallel universe, but proud.

    At she wasn¡¯t coffee for a slut, whatever that could mean. Did prostitutes drink coffee? She assumed they did, to be up all night.

    Jumping to Kalon¡¯s head, because Samari¡¯s thought process was going into uncharted terrain, we could hear the wind blow, and the Avatar singing a sad song. A dead coyote among dunes of stupid ideas necromanced himself back to life, howled, and desnecromanced himself back to death. Now and again Jagger¡¯s consciousness checked in moved a desert rose or two to satisfy his need for slight redecoration, slurred, enjoyed the echoes calling him horrible things back, and checked out.

    Jumping to the mind of a random merchant that had not long ago lost his previous job after the mysterious disappearance of his employer, we could hear the following: Genocide, dubadubadu, war crimes, dubadubadu, phosphorous so white, oh genocide, dubadubadu.

    What can I say? At least he was gradually widening his vocabulary.

    The group exited the Market after crossing through a park of lush green and marble white. Jagger tried to not look at the Retrievers and Collies and Shibas in the eyes, lest they realized he was a dog and tried to play with him. Brunhilda insisted on defying existence and winning.

    Samari guided them to the park¡¯s north end, and afterwards to take the diagonal street that led to the zoo. The archives had been built in front of the Zoo because some Arcagnostics, the worse of the bunch, had struck a bond with beastly companions that weren¡¯t allowed into the sophisticated lairs of educated men. For example, Samari had Kalon. That said, and despite the inclinations of the founders, who were cat people, dogs were allowed, by virtue of belonging to Carnivora and a previous ordinance that allowed ¡ªnay, encouraged¡ª the use of ferrets as a renewable alternative to plastic ropes.

    The Archives, with their spires and towers and clocks and all things inefficient in the use of space, contrast with the disorganized nature of the zoo crossing the street. When the winds blew from the zoo, the odor of wet beasts and manure filled the air; when they blow from the archives instead, they smell to haughtiness, incense, and stale magic. Mostly incense.

    When they reached the doors for the Archives, Samari gave Kalon a couple coins and pointed him to the Zoo.

    ¡°Go learn something about animals while we are here. You deserve it.¡± She almost shoves the money I his face and tried to push him towards the street, but, at least for Samari, moving Kalon was like trying to move the entirety of the roman colosseum while being nothing but a mouse.

    Kalon interpreted Samari¡¯s intention to the best of his capacity and picked her up like a bag of potatoes., slinging her over his shoulder. To this, Samari¡¯s palm found her face. ¡°No, we are splitting, you go to the zoo because it¡¯s not good etiquette to bring a cultivator into the Arcagnostic archives. I will take Jagger with me for protection if it worries you.¡±

    Kalon put her down and nodded. ¡°Fine, Sam. But cannot I wait out here?¡±

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    Samari regarded him quite perplexed. ¡°Yes¡­ but I assumed you would have some fun in the zoo. The animals are cute, they have an apiary full of birds, an aquarium teeming with colorful fishes and crabs, a farm section with cows and goats and pigs¡­¡± She listed with her fingers.

    ¡°Do you consider me an animal?¡± Kalon looked at her with big, begging eyes. He expected a no. Samari knew he hoped for a no. But she was Samari.

    ¡°We are both animals. We are heterotroph, multicellular beings with homeotic genes and diploid cells.¡±

    Kalon scratched his temple with a single finger, understanding to be found nowhere near his face.

    ¡°All humans come from animals similar to monkeys, Kalon, slightly less human with each generation you go back. They can explain you about biological evolution in depth at the zoo, I am sure.¡±

    ¡°But¡­ animals don¡¯t talk,¡± Kalon argued, still prey of an amusing confusion.

    Jagger took exception to this and farted loudly. He thought about mauling his owner, just a bit. He let the thought go and instead grabbed Samari¡¯s belt. ¡°Let¡¯s go, we need to make you stronger.¡±

    ¡°Jagger¡¯s right, your mother¡¯s knowledge will serve you well, Sam.¡± Kalon smiled and palmed the girl¡¯s back encouragingly. ¡°And, um, I¡¯ll be in the Zoo if you need me. If there¡¯s any danger. Jagger can call through our connection. I¡¯ll rush to your aid, friends.¡±

    ¡°The Arcagnostic Archives are very secure, and cultivators have no use for them. They just dislike your kind because we think of you as inferior. No offense meant.¡±

    ¡°None taken yet. Let me process what you said.¡± Kalon put on a pensive stare, and after a few moments, scowled. ¡°Hey!¡±

    But it was too late, for Jagger and Samari were already crossing the tall, dark gates of the archives, leaving him to dumb for himself.

    The Archives have more wings than a KFC, and they are eternal. This quality endows them with the privilege to be always addressed in present tense by any Respectful Being.

    Unfortunately, I am not counted among them, and so I will commit heresy right now, right here: The Archives were. Ghosts embroidered in gold populated the walls, silhouttes of great men and women forever enshrined on the flat surface. Marble statues tall and refined went and came in their dresses and suits of stone, that accompanied the movements of the statue¡¯s body organically, as if the very rock had been blessed with the essence of cloth. One of them turned and with dead eyes stared at the girl and dog that stood in the vestibule, waiting patiently.

    ¡°State your business in The Archives, and your name, Arcagnostic,¡± The statue, a bald woman with a long dress and scar on her left cheek (face) demanded. Her gaze was wide enough to regard both girl and dog.

    ¡°I want to access my vault. My name is Aunara Stradeajo.¡±

    Jagger remained silent. This girl¡¯s lies were going to bite her in the ass very soon.

    The statue raised a thick eyebrow. ¡°You are smaller than last time, Aunara.¡±

    ¡°Experiment gone awry, I was able to stop the rejuvenation before it turned me into a goddamned fetus. It even reordered my DNA, scrambled it up and got the genes all around. Same ones, just disordered. My chromosomes got put through a spiritual blender, like during meiosis, see.¡±

    ¡°You were also far less chatty.¡±

    Samari pointed at her head. ¡°Child brain causes some childish behaviors.¡±

    ¡°And the dog?¡± the statue asked, suspicious.

    Jagger sat his heavy butt onto the flower-patterned tiles of the vestibule, ¡°I can talk and bite undesirables. Aunara considers doing both simultaneously bad manners, though.¡±

    ¡°As you can see, I am in a vulnerable state until this body decides to grow up again.¡±

    A statue dressed in a black suit, like that of a waiter, approached with a steady saunter. Samari¡¯s mind was occupied with just an endless succession of two words: ¡°Fuck fuck fuck fuck no fuck fuck,¡± but she tried her best to remain calm.

    ¡°Samari, dear, how much you have grown!¡± he extended hands like crab pincers.

    ¡°Touch me, Geraldian, and I will divide your core into so many pieces and scatter them so far apart you will spend the remainder of Cabaret¡¯s lifespan picking them up,¡± Samari threatened, her eyes turned to a thin line like Aunara¡¯s used to. Inside, she was a scared little girl, but she had to act like her mother if she wanted to access her vault.

    ¡°She¡¯s Aunara, or so she claims. During her study of the arcane she messed up and found herself regressed to a child. It has happened before,¡± informed the bald statue.

    ¡°I am quite certain the lassie is Aunara¡¯s daughter.¡±

    Jagger snarled. Lassie had been used as a slur against him one too many times. It didn¡¯t offend him, but, hey, a reason to appear like a ferocious Rottweiler instead of the lovely puppy he was couldn¡¯t be anything but welcome.

    ¡°If she is, she cannot access the archives anyway. Lies will get her nowhere. A daughter and a mother are different enough to keep a vault shut.¡±

    ¡°The vault just tests for a DNA and spiritual match, and analyzes the DNA on a gene by gene basis such that even varied enough sample sof gametes could be used to identify an individual.¡± Samari explained to the statues, but it was just a show for Jagger to hear. She wanted to make sure his friend was aware of what was happening.

    ¡°Correct, Samari. There¡¯s no way you are Aunara. She would be insulting us from head to shoes. There are no toes under these , you know? The shoe is carved into me.¡± The long-maned statue of a man in a suit laughed raucously, its internal echoes were amplified by the high ceiling of the massive vestibule. It did sound like a joy as old as the marble its laugher was made from.

    ¡°Why don¡¯t you ask your mom to open her vault, if you are her brat?¡± The bald statue blinked audibly, but the sound of grinding stone was barely a drop compared to the ocean of laughter from her peer. ¡°Sure that will be less painful than being reduced and brought out when you fail and try to force the security measures.¡±

    A sour smile creeped into Samari¡¯s face. ¡°I am built different. And it is a literal statement. Take me to my dead mother¡¯s vault.¡±

    ¡°Little Sam, I am sorry for your loss and recognize the validity of your actions. I feel no true empathy, as an animated statue, but I can reason why you¡¯d like to access the knowledge left behind by your mother. But it is impossible. The Archives demand absolute matches.¡± The man of the suit put a heavy hand on Samari¡¯s small shoulder, and she swiped it away with an annoyed gesture.

    ¡°I will try, and I don¡¯t succeed, then I won¡¯t return until I wish to open my own vault. No need to escort me out, no need to forbid me from trying. I won¡¯t try to game the system.¡±

    ¡°Well, considering the contributions your mother did to the organization¡­¡±The statue of the suit turned towards the bald woman. ¡°It does no harm to let the child try. The masters won¡¯t mind. They were human once: they know loss, they know grief.¡±

    ¡°But¡­ the protocol.¡± the statue with the scar protested.

    ¡°Denying the child a closure on her mother¡¯s death would anger the masters more than any minor violation. We were granted minds to discern when the protocol is a necessity, and when it is a hindrance. I shall take full responsibility if they call on us for this.¡± The statue stood to a side and pointed towards a door on the north side of the building. ¡°Over there is the waiting room. Pick a number, sit on one of the unceremoniously modern plastic chairs, and feel free to read something from the bookshelf while you wait.¡±

    ¡°Thanks, Geraldian.¡± Samari hugged the statue''s legs before signaling Jagger to go into the waiting room, that was as mundane as its chairs: with opaque brown tiles; a modern, pitch black loudspeaker mounted on a wall; one of those red number dispensers we all hate half as much as golden cats; and a bookshelf with many titles and almost nothing worth a read.

    Samari sat next to the bookshelf and picked up a tome at random. She read the cover, that depicted several clocks shaped into the figure of a titanic horse with three windows, a door and a chimney. She liked horses. The title was the following ¡°Peer a Nessie: a guide to spot legendary animals.¡± And on the lower part of the cover there was a photo of a man with a white beard, a supposed expert on the field, and a quote from him, ¡°The beauty of the hourse is commensurable, its neighness infinite.¡±

    Samari groaned and returned the book to its spot. It was going to be a very, very boring wait.

 V2 Chapter 15: Built Different.

    The camel chewed on his straw with a solemnity unknown to the straight-backed beings. Behind him, fresh droppings. In front of him, a shit of another nature, dressed in¡­ yup, liquid puppies. The camel didn¡¯t consider this an affront, despite the boy having intruded his habitat. He considered that, for all intents and purposes, cultivators were like lava. They burnt things nearby and followed a determined path. The camel had never worried about lava ¡ªthe zoo hadn¡¯t been built near a volcano: the founders suffered of a case of veiled racism against magma chambers¡ª and he wasn¡¯t going to worry about cultivators, either.

    Kalon approached furtively: he hid behind his cape of liquid puppies, a single eye peering through a transitive hole in it. If he had been holding a spear, the image would have reminisced one of a hoplite, hiding behind his big shield while he faced a fierce enemy. Except the fierce enemy was a dromedary who had no interest in initiating violence. To Kalon, on the other hand, any animal with a single boob on his back couldn¡¯t mean but trouble.

    ¡°Return that breast to whence it came, demon!¡±

    The camel grunted long, loud and clear. In other words: it went asterisk STOCK CAMEL SOUNDS asterisk >:@.

    Talking about stocks, the innocent bystanders one consisted on a little girl, her bigger father, a little mom, her little and frail father ¡ªthis is what happens when manlets like your dad breed, reader. I have insulted your mom enough already. I need to equalize. ¡ª and a Bernese Mountain Dog that lived in the zoo because nobody had the emotional strength to evict her.

    The dromedary calculated how much it would set him back regarding water reserves, and spat in an arc, the drool going over Kalon¡¯s cape and splatting squarely onto his face. He glanced sideways, to the ponchoed guanaco across the dirt path that separated both of their habitats, and who hung around the fences to observe his hunch-backed cousin.

    Kalon spat, tried to take the drool off of his face by scooping it to the sides with his hands, but a dromedary¡¯s saliva is like the idealized central bank reserves: thick and hard to get rid of.

    He created a handkerchief out of liquid puppies and used its soft fur to rinse the foul substance away.

    ¡°Guh¡± he articulated with utmost eloquence. ¡°This horse is weird.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s a camel, retard!¡± shouted the little girl.

    Her father gave her a corrective of the slapping kind. ¡°No, no, dear, we don¡¯t use that word.¡± The man cleared his throat. ¡°You monastery-brained oligophrenic! Your brain cells isolate themselves to meditate for a thousand years instead of working like honest people and making you think! Which, if you did, would make it clear to you that you are dealing with a camel!¡±

    The little girl hugged her father legs ¡°Daddy, you are awesome.¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t mention it, Cheap Condom Betrayal.¡±

    Kalon felt slightly slighted. He jumped the fence out of the camel¡¯s enclosure accepting defeat. A good cultivator knew when to give up in his attempts of scratching a horse¡¯s neck. And it wasn¡¯t even a horse! The nerve of reality!

    The god of tribulations watched from his hospital bed. As long as Kalon existed and created problems for himself, he would live. Thrive, even. But he couldn¡¯t shake off the feeling of the stake from his mind. The stake would forever haunt him and his pierced colon. As intended by yours truly, goes without saying.

    The boy, drool-faced, sat on the middle of the path and lowered his head. Animals were not his thing. Except Rottweilers. Rottweilers were pretty much his thing, and only his. Sure, some people bred them, but he was the sole walker of the Road. Maybe, one day, he would take on a pupil. The non-eye variety. A pupil with eyes, most likely, but not a literal hole in the eye.

    He wondered what his friends could be up to in the Archives until one of the zoo employees, a young woman with her hair tied under a green cap, began poking him with a cane. ¡°Young man, I need you to move out of the way, young man.¡±

    ¡°Guh, fine. Where can I learn about¡­guh, what was that Samari said, Avatar?¡±

    ¡°Evolution,¡± the avatar reminded him.

    ¡°Evolution.¡±

    ¡°The guy in charge of the aquarium loves to chitchat with visitors about all things biology. His monologues are unavoidable once you catch his attention, though, so be warned. Now, get out of the way, please.¡±

    Kalon obliged, looked onto his map for cultivators, failed to understand it, and, after orienting himself by looking at the gigantic signpost with symbols that appeared on the map, he followed the arrow with a caricature of a fish drawn on it.

    <hr>

    Samari and Jagger had stablished a mutually beneficial relationship while they waited: Jagger¡¯s chest worked as a pillow for the girl, and Samari¡¯s head as a weighted blanket for the pup.

    Finally, they got called and hastily rushed to their feet, leisurely walking towards Wing Eight, as instructed. Two statues of angry men holding considerably less angry spears guarded the entrance. They weren¡¯t alive, but that didn¡¯t make their carefully detailed appearance ¡ªdown to the creases of their skin and the veins on their arms¡ª less imposing.

    A construct of plates of gold rolled in like waves from the long catwalk that hung bravely over darkness. The shapeless mound, once fully gathered, rose in front of Samari, each piece assembling, showing the little, golden ferrets connecting them like little wriggling chains. They crawled over each other, climbed up to the top as they formed four chunky feline legs, followed by a well-rounded feline body that ended in a stumpy tail for the posterior end ¡ªthank gods the tail was on that end ¡ª and a long neck ended in a rounded head on the , that¡¯s right, anterior end. It had large, round eyes made from silver plates, and it seemed dead inside. As much as me when I realized that this was, indeed, a fucking gwords.

    The cat, as tall as a chair, looked over his shoulder and snorted. ¡°Did you have to come on Monday?¡± It asked, clearly annoyed with the visitors.

    ¡°Excuse me?¡± said Jagger.

    The author''s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

    ¡°Depending on the day of the week I represent a different breed of cat. On Mondays, I become a Manx. And I hate being a Manx! I like having a tail, I like being a slender or imposing figure, not this pathetic excuse of a feline. Wish it was Sunday, because that¡¯s Maine Coon day. Maine I don¡¯t give a fuck day. It¡¯s just another Manx Monday.¡±[1]</a>

    ¡°I just want to access a vault,¡± Samari protested, jaded by bureaucracy and whatever this cat¡¯s problem with a short tail was.

    ¡°And I want to be a Maine Coon, sweetie.¡± A pawse. ¡°Aren¡¯t you a little young to have a vault.¡± The cat construct checked the data stored in his spirit lattice. ¡°Aunara Stradeajo? There¡¯s no way you are my maker. You do hold a certain resemblance, however¡­ were you washed in hot water? Did you shrink?¡±

    ¡°Wait, are you Tabbyas? Mom told me a lot about you!¡± Samari perked up, like a child seeing their little sibling for the first time. One of those that aren¡¯t weirded out by the rosy mass that cries and shits for a living.

    ¡°Mom? Oh, you must be Samari. Your registration may have been fumbled due to the shared surname. If you allot me a wee while, I can correct the data and we can open a vault for you.¡±

    Samari shook her head. ¡°I am here for my mother¡¯s vault.¡±

    The g¡­ golden¡­ the AURIC FELINE said, ¡°Did she grant you special permissions?¡±

    Samari shook her head again. ¡°Take me to the Vault, Tabbyas, and I will open it. Mom won¡¯t care: she is dead.¡±

    ¡°Oh dear. Not our maker.¡± The cat looked downtrodden, but soon enough straightened his back and bolstered a professional air, ¡°In such case I need to check if she left a petition to delete her vault after her departure.¡±

    ¡°You won¡¯t, Tabbyas. I will enter my mother¡¯s vault. And I am tired of explaining it to people. I can, be assured I can.¡±

    ¡°You could only enter Aunara¡¯s vault by being her nigh-perfect clone, child.¡± The cat regarded her with wide open eyes then, while Samari¡¯s face reflected her disgust at such a statement. ¡°Oh dear. She went ahead with her deranged plan, didn¡¯t she? That¡¯s why you look so much like your mother.¡±

    Jagger nuzzled Samari¡¯s leg to call her attention. ¡°You grew in a test tube?¡±

    ¡°What? No! I grew in Aunara¡¯s womb. And I¡­ owe you an explanation. Right, Jagger?¡±

    Jagger blinked and began licking his paw with disinterest. ¡°Beats me. You never told me you were not a clone so I see no lack of honesty on your part. Irrelevant facts and all of that.¡±

    ¡°Miau, you talk!¡± The cat finally realized. ¡°I mean, ehem, it¡¯s not impossible for a dog to talk, but it¡¯s rather unusual.¡±

    ¡°Lead me to my mother¡¯s vault.¡±

    ¡°Do you fear heights? We need to cross the bridge to reach the vaults and the fall is¡­ shorter than eternity, I would bet.¡±

    The cat was not exaggerating, because when they stepped past the doors, Samari stared down and the darkness below, reflection of the roof of night infinitely high above. Every minute or so a scream poured from above and a falling man passed them by, rapidly leaving them behind to continue his terminal-velocity fall into eternity. The man was followed by a bunch of trash: bottles, the opened packs of snacks, and empty boxes of cigars. And turds. Some dried off.

    ¡°That¡¯s Ken. He fell from the bridge once. I extend him a basket with food and water each week. Sometimes I, in my infinite kindness, include tobacco. He only screams whenever someone visits, though, so ignore him. He¡¯s an attention seeker.¡±

    ¡°Saveeee meeeeee,¡±[2]</a> the little falling bitch insisted.

    Samari clicked the floppy disk symbol of her mind. ¡°Done.¡±

    They followed the cat deeper into the endless bridge, watching his stubby tail point from upper left to upper right, as if he was proudly showcasing himself in front of his owner, in typical cat fashion. Despite the lampposts spread along the way, tabbyas, in his golden shine, slowly became their main light source.

    ¡°Samari, do you want to talk more about the cloning issue? How come your mother made a clone and got it inside her tummy?¡± Asked Jagger.

    Samari looked at him like one does at a child making an inappropriate question. ¡°well, putting it simply, she knew the exact combination of her genes the released egg would have, and overwrote the DNA of every one of my would-be-father¡¯s spermatozoids inside her to create a perfect complement for that egg. This is, to include in it every allele of hers that had not made it into the egg¡¯s nucleus during meiosis, and erase every trace of my would-be-father¡¯s genetics.¡± Samari stopped on her tracks and sat on the middle of the bridge. She closed her eyes and lowered her head. ¡°I am a lie. My mother through a meiotic chromosome blender. In her hubris, Aunara Stradeajo gave birth to herself. She even gave me her middle name as my first, and legally deleted it from her full one, as if she had split in two.¡± Samari hid a face that she didn¡¯t felt hers in hands she felt stolen. ¡°But this body is all I am. I am forever ¡®mommy¡¯s voucher to immortality¡¯. The bitch is dead, and yet she steals my every step, consumes the air that¡¯s mine to breath, hoards the images meant for the eyes of a would be daughter in her second pair of retinas.¡±

    ¡°Aren¡¯t you being a bit exaggerated about this? As long as your body serves you, what does it matter if it is a bootleg of your mom¡¯s?¡± Jagger tried to be supportive. In the sense your allies in war can be supportive by solving a hostage situation with carpet bombing, but supportive in the end.

    ¡°What would you know? You are a dog. Your species often picks up fights with mirrors.¡±

    ¡°So do human teenagers,¡± Tabbyas chimed in, smiling like a cat does.

    In a silence only broken by the resounding drumming of their steps they continued their catwalk. Reaching a point where a little light shone high in the dark, like many had before, Tabbyas planted his golden, detailed (but lacking in detail) butt onto the metallic flooring of the bridge. ¡°It should be here. Show your Incunabula and the analyzing terminal should rise.¡±

    Samari¡¯s hand rose and she raised her spirit, making it dance on the palm of her hand, around her extended fingers, little tendrils of pale light cutting through the artificial night. And the vault saw it. From the murky depts., coiling like a snake and aiming obliquely for the bridge, came the terminal. This silvery spring, its surface ornamented like a snake¡¯s scales, stopped in front of Samari, and it held a little jade bowl on it¡¯s extreme, , which had a curved slot for housing a lid on its side.

    ¡°Now provide a DNA sample to the machine. It must be fresh for it to work.¡±

    Samari hawked up the foules of plhegms and released it into the world. The yellowish-green mass threatened to get a life of their own.

    Small letters of light appeared over the argentine artifact. They spelled a single, or perhaps married, word. ¡°Seriously?¡±

    Samariprepared to hawk up another one, and the machine closed the lid faster than the eye could see. ¡°Fine!¡±

    The spring retreated hastily, taking the sample with it. This little incarnation of Aunara was One of Those Arcagnostics. Those that behaved like children for reasons unknown to the recognition system of the Archives.

    Then, the world around them dinged, making their hears buzz. And Jagger look around frantically. ¡°What was that?¡±

    ¡°Samari got access,¡± Tabbyas informed , flatly. ¡°Well, do you remember which side you came from?¡±

    Jagger turned so his snout would point at the gigantic Cultivator¡¯s Ambrosia neon sign hanging deep in the darkness. ¡°We follow capitalism back into civilization.¡±

    ¡°The Archives need to keep the lights on somehow, dog.¡±

    One of the stars in the ceiling-sky began shuddering., trembling like the economy when it hears there will be a presidential or mid-term election. From it descended, in spiral, boards of light that emplaced themselves forming a stair. Two shining worms of marble descended by the board sides, forming the handrails.

    ¡°I thought these things had elevators,¡± Samari complained, more offended by the prospect of climbing the stairs than amazed by the spectacle unveiling before her.

    ¡°Your mother wanted to keep herself in shape after pregnancy.¡±

    She shook her fist at the heavens. ¡°You have slighted me once again, Aunara, you bitch!¡±

    And, leaving Jagger on the bridge, she began her long climb towards her mother¡¯s vault.

    <hr>

    [1]</a> The Bangles¡¯ banger Manic Monday had to fall eventually. A minute of silence for our brave soldier.

    [2]</a> Whomever makes an Evanescence joke gets fucking shot.

 Chapter 16: Vault and Aquarium

    Light didn¡¯t know how to find one more surface where to reflect itself inside Aunara¡¯s shiny vault. It nearly blinded Samari when she crossed the silvery curtains at the end of the staircase. The bookcases stared at her from every corner, smiling with tomes like teeth. The place had enslaved clouds to use as tiles, and they thundered under her feet as she walked inside the expansive room.

    A marble statue of Aunara, one hand gracefully extended forward, as if offering her mercy, had been erected at the centerpiece of the room. It was a depiction that showed Samari¡¯s mother in her natural state: wearing her unconventional Arcagnostic¡¯s attire, a dress that behaved more like a robe than anything, full of creases and hidden pockets, with feathers hanging from loose sleeves a collar of jewels that, through a delicate chain that coiled loosely around her left arm, joined a bracelet made of animal teeth.

    Samari despised that look. It was but smoke and mirrors: an Arcagnostic¡¯s power rarely had to do with what they wore. Some covenants required a particular attire to work but, if she knew Aunara, she would have never struck such a pact.

    ¡°May you live forever, Aunara ¡®Findona¡¯ Stradeajo¡±, she cursed her mother and quickly bee lined to a set of sylvan drawers. She opened the first one, rummaged through, closed it, repeated the action with the second one, then the third and, in the fourth, she found what she had been looking for since long ago. ¡°Eureka!¡± she said, raising the training whistle high in the air, even extending her spirit to elevate it beyond her physical height.

    She quickly stashed both of them in her traveling satchel. The loot whore deep inside was hollering in ecstasy. That¡¯s when she tensed up, because there was a hand touching her shoulder. She turned slowly, trembling.

    ¡°Welcome back, Aunara,¡± said the statue, whose movement was flawless and lifelife, as if the stone had turned to flesh and bones while retaining its luster and hardness. ¡°Or maybe you are¡­ yes, I believe she called you Samari.¡±

    Samari had forgotten how to blink, which had nothing to do with the fact a living statue was talking to her, despite what those dirty Whovians may claim.

    ¡°Don¡¯t be afraid, I am a replica of your mommy, just as you are. I am Aunara and so are you.¡±

    Samari curled her hand into a fist and, before punching the statue¡¯s face, she remembered she was made of soft flesh. For just an instant, she wondered if she was as delicious as the breedshifting puppies. She concluded having a brain was some sort of cruel prank evolution had pulled on the bilaterians and had gone too far.

    ¡°Okay, then¡­¡± Samari tapped her lip with a single finger. ¡°You serve me now, Am I right?¡±

    ¡°To admit you are right ¡ª in the widest interpretation of the term ¡ª would be a disservice to truth, dear.¡±

    Samari¡¯s face crumpled like a paper ball. ¡°You definitively are my mother¡¯s creation.¡±

    The statue returned to her original position in the middle of the Vault. ¡°Don¡¯t wander off too far. A vault is as big as a planet and has only one entrance, and only one exit.¡±

    ¡°It ought to have a fire exit. By law.¡±

    The statue glanced at Samari over her shoulder, every carefully chiseled muscle of her neck admirable under the bright lights of the vault. ¡°You want a place that exists outside of space to have a fire exit?¡±

    ¡°Burning alive is not counted among my hobbies,¡± Samari said, and then wondered what, besides learning and being a little annoying bitch, could be considered a hobby of hers.

    ¡°Nature has no fire exits, Samari.¡±

    ¡°Yet another argument against intelligent design.¡±

    Samari began searching through the bookshelves, who felt nude under the child¡¯s eagle gaze. She wanted to find some easy-to-fulfill covenants, and there had to be at least one lying around. Her mother intended for her to follow her footsteps¡­ no, she intended for her to become Aunara anew. But in both cases, it was only logical that she had prepared for a possible early departure, leaving something behind to aid Samari. Besides the statue. She hated the statue.

    But maybe the statue knew.

    ¡°Hey, you, you are a sort of a butler of the vault, right?¡±

    ¡°Like you, I was made to please your mother¡¯s titanic ego.¡± The statue made a dramatic pause. ¡°But mine¡¯s bigger.¡±

    Definitively, it took after Aunara.

    ¡°I am looking for study materials. I don¡¯t have the patience ¡ªI am nine¡ª nor the time ¡ªI am nine¡ª to sieve through all of these bookshelves checking barely marked books.¡±

    ¡°There¡¯s a rainbow-colored book, that has the guide for the guides of color codes. The little bar-shaped stickers on the book backs.¡±

    Samari blinked twice. A guide for the guides, how¡­ typical of her dear mother. She wondered if she would have preferred to be born in Valelike Vale, instead of as Aunara¡¯s ¡°daughter¡±. The half-life of this doubt was so short that he would never get a genuine match on Tinder.

    The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

    Samari picked up the rainbow book, gazed upon its ugly pages filled with a font so pathetic that it put Comic Sans to shame; grimaced in fear when she saw the words ¡°Magenta¡±, ¡°Purple¡±, and ¡°Lavender¡± on the same page; let out a painful, drawn out ¡°No¡±; and then, as it was natural, gave up, because she could face all sorts of horrid monsters, but wasn¡¯t woman enough to distinguish subtle changes in hues yet.

    She snapped her fingers and regarded the statue with a seriousness not often seen on her visage. ¡°Screw this. You, fetch me the ten easiest covenants and five intermediate Arcagnosis manuals. It¡¯s high time I submerge my delicate cutis in the waters of study and self-sabotage once more.¡±

    ¡°Or what?¡± The statue crossed her arms and waited on place, sporting a smile of self-satisfaction.

    Samari raised the spirit whistle like an edgy serial murderer would a Knife. Then, she activated it, causing it to proffer a scream long and high-pitched.

    After almost a minute of torture, the statue kowtowed at Samari¡¯s feet, ¡°¡­I aim to please, Fair Mistress.¡±

    <hr>

    The amount of fishes in the room and outside Kalon, thanks to the heavens, surpassed the amount of fishes inside Kalon by a wide margin. The same couldn¡¯t be said for the local Dipnoi, who seemed to be cosplaying as an inflated pufferfish, and ruled supreme over his tank, his power attained by size-supremacy alone. In the tank immediately to the left of this self-proclaimed king of the aquarium, an Astronotus like a droplet of magma that had come to life loomed ominously over a subservient pebble. This was the natural order of things, thought the pebble. He would outlive the fish, so entertaining it for a geological blink was only polite.

    The surgeon fish ¡ª who wasn¡¯t fond of her generic epithet ¡ª on the saltwater section across the hall distrusted the neon lights. Blue both in color and mindset, she plotted for the day that the night demon would come for her, with his ugly head, countless arms and flesh-rendering maw. She needed to get out, but the force-field was impenetrable, impervious to the attack with the shell fragments that made the ground of her habitat. Jumping, she had seen from others, led to a horrible death by asphyxiation. The water beyond the water was hostile, thin, unswimmable. And yet the Night Demon moved through it, with his innumerable changing spots, with his unfathomable shape.

    Around the corner, inside a tank with the most secure and expensive lid in the whole aquarium, the local octopus patiently counted the minutes until every problematic employee up to the last one would go home. His nocturnal escapades always netted some delicious catch. Today, maybe, he would taste the neon tetras. They lacked a bit of salt, but he loved exotic foods. River fish were a delicatessen his wild brothers and sisters would never sink their radulae into.

    Kalon sat in front of a tank three times as wide as his mother, whose waters, greened by varied algae, contained several species of colorful fish, with the numerous Carassius at the bottom of the pecking order, the haughty and shiny Macropodus at the top, and the Corydoras at the bottom, period. They frolicked and marked their territories around an ornamentation of a sunken fish and rocks filled with holes. Some moron had sunk a coral on the freshwater aquarium, and the fishes didn¡¯t mind. They even liked it. I did. I minded. Corals are only for saltwater environments, even as mere decoration. The only coral you can naturally find in rivers is fossilized. Most, if not all, corals cannot tolerate the fluctuations in salinity, pH or temperature associated to continental waters. Furthermore, they cannot tolerate my digressions: this prose bleaches corals.

    Where was I?

    Ah, yes, Kalon.

    He was entertained by the fishes, by how they pursued each other or had small bouts. He had never seen them in a tank before, for him fishes were something you saw from above while in the water, not from a side. This point of view endowed them of new dimensions, of a secret life one couldn¡¯t admire while casually looking down at them.

    Kalon¡¯s mind had to process all the new information the Aquarium¡¯s clerk had given him, about fish coming out of the water and becoming¡­ what was the word he was using? Tetra Briks. Probably. His mind, trackless, often wandered to thoughts about what Samari and Jagger could be doing. They presumably existed while out of sight, and even did things while he wasn¡¯t aware of them.

    ¡°We are closing soon.¡± Informed one of the zookeepers, a girl with her black hair tied on a bun and a shirt depicting a rhinoceros with golden teeth and sunglasses.

    ¡°But the fish are here. Are you leaving them alone?¡±

    ¡°Overnight? Yes. Someone keeps stealing a few of them though. It cannot be an employee so it¡¯s either a c-word or¡­ Armando.¡±

    Kalon regarded her like he did things he couldn¡¯t understand: with cautious fear, a bit of apprehension, and the security that both of those feelings were unfounded.

    ¡°Armando is the octopus. His tank is sealed off in every imaginable way possible, but he is resourceful. For all we know, that animal could win a chess game against everyone working on this zoo. At the same time. And, if you don¡¯t believe me, know that once we cut sardines from his diet and that caused him to kidnap the zoo manager. With a gun. Filled with anthrax,¡± she barely exaggerated (The gun was loaded with normal bullets. The anthrax was on the letters he sent to ecologists that opposed sardine exploitation).

    ¡°Sounds like a nasty critter.¡±

    The girl slapped the air to dispel Kalon¡¯s suspicions. ¡°Nothing like that. He just gets bored. Besides, I am almost sure someone else must be framing him as we have no proof he can leave his tank now.¡± The girl made a pause and put a Han don Kalon¡¯s hair, tousling it. ¡°But, anyway, visitors need to go before we can close the precincts. So, please, would you be so kind to leave?¡±

    ¡°Guh, I like watching the fishy. What if I stay in and try to catch the thief?¡±

    ¡°Do you think people in this city go around giving side quests to the first moron who asks?¡±

    Kalon nodded slowly.

    ¡°We don¡¯t! out, or¡­¡± A wet tap on her shoulder stopped her on her tracks. She turned swiftly. ¡°Ah, Mister Armi?o, is it already your shift?¡± She saluted the sweaty guard, with his globular head, his stiff legs and his wet, slick hands.

    Armi?o, with his wide forehead and doey eyes, made a gesture of approval. He was a male of few words.

    Kalon noticed something weird was going on under the police-like hat. ¡°Oi, you are bald!¡± the boy said.

    Armi?o, not distressed by facts, nodded. Something shifted under his uniform, but neither cultivator nor zookeeper cared.

    Noticing something was amiss, Kalon looked at the smelly water trail left behind by the guard. ¡°You need diapers,¡± he said.

    Armi?o raised his sucky arms and made it understood that he couldn¡¯t afford them.

    ¡°Guh, sorry to see that. Anyway, I wish both of you good luck on your endeavors.¡±

    And so Kalon parted, head low because he would miss the Carassius, and night guard Armi?o never stopped looking at him, his pupils thin lines, always horizontal.

    ¡°Oh, come on, Armi?o, you find everyone suspicious. The boy was stupid, but he was a nice person.¡±

    Armi?o considered how she would look with a face tinted in black. It wasn¡¯t worth it. Not yet. He needed this job. For reasons.

    Yes, reasons.

 Chapter 17: Avatar, Alien, and Apathic.

    Mic loomed over the capital of the Soleno empire, a titanic eagle made of guns casting its powder-smelling shadow over low-roofed houses and dirt streets. A veteran guardsman raised his gaze when something covered the sun, clicked his tongue and continued his round while ranting. ¡°One week, one week without inflation and something ominous has to hang from the sky. I should get a divorce, oh yes, that way that witch will stop sending cultivators or monsters to ¡®scare me out of an affair¡¯, like women ever pay attention to me. In silence I forgave her for the moth, in silence I forgave her for the boob-based-magic-system-preacher. But this? This is going a step too far, Marafilda, a step too far!¡± He stomped on, for the potential end of their civilization wouldn¡¯t scare outlaws, nor pay his wage.

    Surrounded by black and silver cannons, immobilized in the core of the abomination, Polvorina still laughed. With a little voice, because her throat was dry and parched, but laughed all the same.

    ¡°What¡¯s your opinion on this place, Mic?¡±

    A metallic shrill came all form around her, a mocking of a voice that was barely intelligible. ¡°Shootable.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s your opinion on every place.¡±

    ¡°On every subject. To be solid is to be a valid target.¡±

    ¡°Oh, you cutie pie, you are the best murderous avatar a girl could ask for.¡±

    ¡°You are wellholed.¡±

    The bulletous eyes of Mic scanned the area below him and his massive wings, that sent a rain of shrapnel upon the innocent with each beat. The innocent mostly didn¡¯t care, because sometimes it hailed upon the capital, and those things were often the size of a bull¡¯s testicles. Some bits of metal going slightly fastest than sound wouldn¡¯t stop the local populace from doing their outdoor activities, like trading, playing, dog walking, walking, dog trading, criming, catcalling, dogcalling, catcalling dogs, dogcalling cats, catdogging calls, and, sometimes, working.

    ¡°Come out and play, Cutbastra!¡± shrieked the construct of guns and gun accessories. ¡°I want to fill all your holes¡­¡±

    This made the general populace gasp in horror.

    ¡°We are still not past the 8:33 Pm watershed, heartless monster!¡± criticized a distressed mother, who was technically correct in all of her asseverations.

    The dozen-winged gunbird blinked, killing seventy-eight infants that were in the trajectory of the shots ¡ªthe eyelashes were on a hair-trigger¡ª  and considered that, yes, the worried mother had a point. ¡°¡­with bullets¡± Mic concluded its previous sentence.

    ¡°Ah, that¡¯s okay, children need to know about guns.¡± The woman slung the silvery fish she was carrying over her bleeding shoulder and continued on her way through the impoverish hood, not bothering to dodge the shrapnel.

    Cutbastra was nowhere to be found.

    <hr>

    In another city, whose populace was slightly less used to  apocalyptical events, the man and woman dressed in white suits and donning white shades looked around, confused. ¡°Did anyone think that white-tinted shades would render us practically blind? It¡¯s like having constant cataracts!¡± A blonde agent of the secret police protested.

    Her partner, a thin man with a bony face, spoke in a calm tone. ¡°Shut the fuckity fuck up, Agent See.¡±

    Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

    ¡°I am agent Eich.¡±

    ¡°Your voices are sameish. And I cannot see shit with the glasses on.¡±

    That fact, by the way, explained why they were looking for the alien in a thrift store. The store clerk, reclining back on his chair, kept reading his Supercommon¡¯s magazine, a thrilling story about an office worker having to face great evil like, for example, a broken coffee machine or a looming deadline.

    The agents couldn¡¯t see the ugliness of the clothes exposited at their sides, hanging from circular structures, with their frills and patches and high necks. It was like a collective noun for wizards of wizards had come and left their whole wardrobe stashed there.

    A shadow moved across the vision of Agent Eich, and she rushed in its direction, taking out her Taser and aiming among the hanging clothes. The shadow hissed. It sounded like a cornered, and very angry cat. Agent See, being a quick thinker, drew her taser gun and shooted.

    The barbs hit the cat square, but the feline made use of his natural agility to bob and weave through the incoming avalanche of electrons. He had not survived five years of biting the wires of every electronic appliance in the store without learning some swift moves.

    ¡°The target is apparently immune to electricity,¡± Agent Eich  quipped.

    ¡°What target?¡± asked agent Eel.

    ¡°The one there.¡± The blinded woman pointed at the blur of a cat, that was giving the fifty-thousand volts a run for their money.

    ¡°That sounds like an angry cat,¡± Agent Eel almost observed.

    ¡°That is an angry cat, glowie. Whiskers is his name and he is mine,¡± said the store clerk and owner. ¡°Or rather, he owns me.

    Agent Eich didn¡¯t let go of the Taser: if there was something worse than accidentally tasing a cat, it was what the cat would do to you after the torture stopped. She sweated profusely, her hands trembled, her face prepared for the onslaught of claws and teeth.

    Meanwhile, deep in the smelly, slimy, murky and wide sewage system of the city, the alien was analyzing the water and the waste in it. This subterranean river fostered a most curious biota, judging its chemical composition. Still, no signal of prostitutes. Its search had to continue.

    <hr>

    Lino looked up from the sea floor, towards the dancing sunlight on the surface. He had happened upon a beautiful sight. It configured as one, that much he knew. Yet it elicited nothing inside. No amazement, no wonder. ¡°In was emptied. Why doesn¡¯t it feel wrong? She took even that. Even my ability to get bothered. I suppose, if anything, that that¡¯s interesting.¡±

    Why comment on it? I am not giving you any quests to do so.

    ¡°Why would quests compel me, even? I am already eternal. I have no wish for anything else.  And if I weren¡¯t, I wouldn¡¯t seek to become.¡±

    And they say people never change. It only takes a few thousand lifetimes of boring existence deprived of any feeling and look at you: absolutely fossilized inside. And on your way to conquer the world!

    ¡°Stop insisting on that. I don¡¯t feel like conquering anything. I just¡­ have to raise my children.¡±

    He gestured vaguely at the labradorca, who had managed to attain hip dysplasia., which, in a cetacean, given the vestigial nature of their hip bones, was nothing short of a one-of-its-kind achievement.

    He pointed at the distance, up a sandy slope. ¡°How long travelling northwards until I find a coral reef, system?¡±

    Do I look like a reef-finder to you? Hell if I know.

    ¡°You know, I think I have a slight, dying want: and that is to get rid of you.¡±

    I am kind of a till death do us part deal. There¡¯s no cultivator alive capable of extricating me from your soul without killing you. Well, there¡¯s one. His name is Chalazarian, and he is a primordial dragon. But he would never accede to help you. He does not meddle with mortals, immortals or gods. He¡¯s more likely to crush you like an insect.

    ¡°Maybe my wife can. Wife. How odd , Lino referring to a female as his wife.¡± He was at it with the third person again. The Labradorca danced around him, in pursuit of her own tail. ¡°Is it even considered heterosexual behavior if the female in question is an eldritch monstrosity from the queer dimension? Is this line of questioning worth pursuing?¡± He paused, stretching his chin. ¡°Is any line of questioning worth pursuing?¡±

    No, Lino, they aren¡¯t. Bring in the Nihilist of the Year award, for I deserve it. But it doesn¡¯t matter.

    Why do you want to find a reef, anyway?

    ¡°If such a wondrous sight doesn¡¯t elicit any emotion in me, then I will know for certain that the man I was is dead and Buried, and that only his memory may guide my life. A test, if you will.¡±

    And so he marched onwards, minding not when he kicked a bivalve or caused a sole to leave hiding and swim away on its side, like the flat loser it was.

 Chapter 18: Oracle Suffers a Mild Case of Brain Freeze.

    Samari rose from her comfy, white-sheeted bed in a swift motion, smiled briefly, and then, as dictated by her nature, proceeded to be a nuisance.

    ¡°The sun is made of acid!¡± she shouted in the wake of the night.

    Groggily, Jagger opened his eyes, forwent shitting on his sleeping rug, and yawned. ¡°Samari, I have just one petition to make: tell whoever stole your normal nightmares to give them back.¡±

    ¡°But Jagger, the sun is actually made of acid!¡±

    Jagger¡¯s brain spurted in defeat and he went back to sleep.

    Kalon jumped from his bed, ready for action, the liquid puppies coming out of his pores and swiftly reforming into his battle dress. ¡°The sun is made of what?¡±

    ¡°Acid.¡± Samari deadpanned. ¡°You see, pH is defined as the¡­ it¡¯s a number that¡­¡± Samari¡¯s brain was capable of many things, but she wasn¡¯t sure it could face the titanic task of explaining chemistry concepts to Kalon without frying on its own juices. ¡°The universe is made of tiny balls, Kalon.¡±

    Kalon¡¯s face twitched as realization washed over him. It couldn¡¯t be. The world couldn¡¯t be made of balls. But Samari wasn¡¯t prone to lying to him. That, or she was very good at it.

    ¡°Particles, subatomic particles, and they form these things, atoms. Atoms then gather in molecules, metals o ionic compounds and¡­ ¡°Samari stopped,, noticing the smoke coming out of Kalon¡¯s ears. ¡°Gods in heaven, you are a cartoon character, Kalon.¡±

    ¡°No, that¡¯s just his vital energy running away from his body, unable to handle the stupidity. It¡¯s not actual smoke.¡± Jagger interceded.

    ¡°Anyway, the universe is made from really small balls, and these balls are different between them. And acids have a high concentration of a particular sort of tiny ball that the sun also has. So, I¡¯d bet that, if we dissolved the sun in a glass of water, it would be very acidic.¡±

    Jagger¡¯s jaw dropped. ¡°It made sense in the end, Heavens!¡±

    Kalon raised a finger since its early childhood and until it was a good family index.

    ¡°The sun is too big to fit into a glass of water,¡± He brained.

    Samari looked at Jagger, Jagger looked at samari, and then they both shrugged before speaking in unison. ¡°Technically correct.¡±

    Samari puller her sheets up to her head and yawned. ¡°Anyway, Kalon, let¡¯s sleep. Tomorrow we will search for a sect for you and afterwards¡­ well, I will search for a job. Maybe I can wipe the floor of the archives or something¡­¡± Samari sounded disheartened, and Kalon, impressively, managed to pick up on it.

    He stuck both fists deep in his matters for support, giving him the appeareance of a particularly clueless and paraplegic bonobo. ¡°Why are you sad?  We could both attend the same sect.  You told me countless times that Arcagnostics are useful to cultivators.¡±

    ¡°That doesn¡¯t mean we can advance in our discipline within a sect. That pile of books is only a tiny fraction of the material I must study and internalize if I want to become half as good an Arcagnostic as my mother was.¡±

    Realizing what this meant, Kalon slumped in his bed. ¡°Then, is this our goodbye, Sam?¡±

    ¡°Unless they reject you on every sect around, yes. But don¡¯t worry: you can visit me by the archives, and I will make sure to drop by the sect now and then to witness your progress.¡± She made a pause to cover herself in the sheets and turn around. ¡°If they let me in.¡±

    ¡°I will make sure they do. I am no rookie cultivator. I bet I could whoop the ass of several of their disciples.¡±

    Samari fixed her gaze on the glass chandelier that hung, as it¡¯s adequate, from the ceiling. ¡°Well, you know how cultivators are¡­¡±

    The wall boomed like Jagger on a good summer day. Someone waws knocking on it from the other side. ¡°Some of us want to sleep, Brats! And the answer is stupid!¡± Came a male voice from the other side. Of the wall. Not from the furry afterlife. That would have been concerning. And talking about the furry afterlife¡­

    <hr>

    The mysterious but handsome stranger carefully pushed the wind chimes made from human skulls away as he advanced under the low ceiling. A skink popped from the upper pocket of his Hawaiian-styled¡­ cultivator garments, so to speak. It had been awakened by all the rattling and chittering of bones clashing together.

    The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

    ¡°He must be somewhere around this god forgotten place,¡± Cutbastra said, his breath whitening, his boots sinking into the frost on the floor.

    Regretting his ectothermic nature, Oracle licked his eye in slowmo, and the tongue got stuck to the cornea. ¡°wedd, dhad¡¯s a bubber.¡± Cutbastra rubbed the reptile¡¯s eye softly with his hand to warm it and aid his working partner. ¡°Thanks. Who in the hellish heavens makes a refrigerating chamber their lair?¡±

    Cutbastra emerged from the sea of macabre wind chimes to enter one of half beefs hanging from thick metal hooks, which he pushed away without difficulty. ¡°A man who has friends in hard-to-reach places. If I want to beat that rogue avatar you told me about, I need to cuck the cultivator inside.¡±

    Against all odds, Oracle, who still lacked eyelids, blinked. ¡°Sorry, what? She¡¯s a widow!¡±

    ¡°And we have come to see a man that can send me to the world of the dead. Without actually killing me, to clarify.¡±

    Half out of cold and half out of realization, Oracle froze for a few seconds. ¡°You are going to go into the furry afterlife and fuck a dead man?¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s the only way to secure victory. Everyone can be cucked, Oracle. The challenge of my Road is finding out how.¡±

    He emerged from the sea of half beefs and entered one of turnstiles hung upside down, much like the cow halves or the skull-based ornaments. ¡°Fuck, I forgot my wallet.¡±

    ¡°You have the GDP of an entire continent stashed in your pocket dimension.¡±

    ¡°Yes, but if I open it here  the heat released will put my friend¡¯s personal economy in jeopardy by fireworkchairing his electric bill.¡±

    ¡°Skyrocketing.¡± Oracle corrected.

    ¡°Same thing.¡±

    Cutbastra braced himself and crawled under the firm arms of the turnstiles.  Some of the straight metal tubes decided to stop behaving like gentlemen, and prey to temptation, slapped the chiseled buttocks of the cultivator. Cutbastra turned immediately, sending the offending turnstile to the afterlife by cutting it in two it with the outer edge of his hand. The upper half of the machine, still alive and bleeding oil and sparks form the clean cut wound, fell to the cold floor, unaware of what had happened. Then, it all went dark for the turnstile, as the machine¡¯s self got sent to the final horny jail.

    After emerging from the final trial ¡ªthe bunch of butt-slapping machines¡ª Cutbastra walked once again like a man, and approached the fat guy on a desk, at the far end of the refrigeration chamber. The man was ddressed in clothes adequate for a motherfucker that lives inside a fridge: a sticker from a banana adorned his forehead, his wife beater was the happy host of several tomato sauce stains, his boxers  boasted the scars of many battles with time, and had developed the ability to draw lines in quarts when they scratched it. It wouldn¡¯t be long until they overtook topaz on the Mohs scale, too.

    Oracle moved his head slightly, feeling something crack inside him, to look at the man. It was not what the expected a master of life and death to be. He looked more like a trucking capybara that had renounced his aquatic nature and never embraced the concept of a bath.

    ¡°Yo, Horancio.¡±

    The man raised his gaze from his erotic magazine about girls in sexy, well isolated eskimo suits, and, after a second of appraising his visitor, went back to it. ¡°Do I know you?¡±

    ¡°I fucked your wife once.¡±

    The man closed his magazine and gave Cutbastra a second, long look. ¡°yeah, that cuts the universe of potential identities in half.¡±

    ¡°Cutbastra, Road of the Homewrecker? I fixed your TV before fucking your wife.¡±

    The man¡¯s face lighted up with a frost-white smile. ¡°Of course! Thanks to you I could watch the Fifth International Volleyball Championship!¡±

    ¡°Bingo! Now, old friend, I need a favor¡­¡± Cutbastra noticed that his little elongate friend had hardened unexpectedly. ¡°Two, actually: a way to safely thaw a lizard, and to be sent to the Furry afterlife to look for someone¡¯s husband¡­ and fuck him.¡±

    The man¡¯s hairy hand found his bearded nose bridge. ¡°Do you know how many of my clients come trying to get into some Realm of the dead to screw a particular inhabitant? It¡¯s three fourths of all my visits!¡±

    ¡°Can you thaw my skink at least?¡± Cutbastra gestured at the heat-bankrupted lizard. ¡°He needs to import warmth to live. His national industry never took off.¡±

    The obese man grinned, and pulled a glass with a green, watery fluid from under his gray metallic desk.

    ¡°Always prepared?¡±

    ¡°I live in a cold room. Dip your friend into this.¡±

    ¡°Is this some sort of potion?¡± Cutbastra asked. wondering why the substance remained liquid in such environment.

    ¡°It is a brew with peak performance.¡±

    Cutbastra dipped the stiff skink in the glass, and soon enough, Oracle returned to the world of the moving.

    ¡°What is this?¡± The skink said, taking a deep breath. ¡°Are you idiots dipping me in coolant? That shit is ethylene glycol. Propylene, if I am lucky.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s green, so it¡¯s environmentally friendly,¡± Horancio pointed out.  Oracle began thinking he was better out frozen.

    Cutbastra fished his friend out of the glass and stashed him back into his pocket. ¡°Well, with that out of the way¡­ send me to the Furry heaven so I can cuck a rogue cultivator and defeat her?¡±

    The man scratched his ear, and, consequently, his beard. ¡°So you need to fuck a dead furry  to save the world from his wife, correct?¡±

    Cutbastra extended his fingers and made a ¡°more or less¡± gesture by swiveling his hand from side to side.

    ¡°Ah, what the hell, only this world has volleyball. Give me a couple hours to prepare the ritual. Feel free to stay in the meantime.¡±

    ¡°We would prefer to take a walk outside. I need to stretch my legs,¡± Oracle came up with a very credible excuse.

    ¡°And I need to go water my Martina beauties,¡± Cutbastra provided a far less credible ¡ªbut not necessarily false¡ª one.

    ¡°Yeah, yeah, I know. You little bitches cannot stand a bit of chill. Come back in two hours, and... Cutbastra?¡±

    He turned only his head, and didn¡¯t stop slowly walking away, back into the forest of hanging turnstiles ¡°Yes?¡±

    ¡°My wife misses you.¡±

    Cutbastra closed his eyes and smiled proudly. ¡°They always do.¡±

 V2 Chapter 19: The Sect of Many Guts.

    For a time longer than a week the secrets kept by the night fascinated men. Behind the veil of darkness their minds created monsters with far more teeth than a wolf, or claws longer and sharper than those of any wild cat. And as they gathered around the light, they told of these monsters on how they had seen a menacing shadow stalking them, or how the forest hollered at night, wailing spirits claiming for them.

    What they should have feared, however, had no claws nor sharp teeth. They were not anthropophagous creatures ¡ªmostly¡ª and only two fingers on each leg supported their weight. And light they were not.

    They wore sunglasses with white dots on them, because the sun of the noon wouldn¡¯t impede the nocturnal squad of the Sect of the Many Guts from carrying on with their sacred duty. They flew over tiled ceilings, describing impressive martial arts feats midair, to the amusement of one or two tourists that weren¡¯t used to them. They were beefed up cultivators, male and female, their bodies grazed by years of field training.

    ¡°I was thinking¡­ what if we recruit the Rottweilermancer?¡± said one of the members, a white girl sporting a black spot under her left eye, as she defied the heavens with her acrobatic feats (she bravely descended a flight of outdoor stairs).

    ¡°We have witnessed what the boy can do. I agree. ¡°Said the black male accompanying her. One of the characteristics of this individual was that, despite his assiduous training and flawless discipline, he couldn¡¯t help but be horny. He was what eyeball mothers told her children would come and take them away if they refused to sleep.

    ¡°Our zoo-branch agent also recommended him. He has the aptitudes to make the Sect of Many Guts one of the great powers of this region. His untapped potential is only held back by his idiocy,¡± said a third cultivator, a sweet grandma who wore a hat with a big pink flower on it.

    ¡°You say that like overcoming his stupidity would be a small feat,¡± protested the white girl. She was a good girl. Burped only on cue.

    ¡°The Faceless One, sure as the moon that will rise, will know how to unleash his potential. Stupidity is no impediment to him. He has managed sects full of idiots before. Even Valelikevalians.¡±

    ¡°Old Monster Auntie Lola, do you reckon he considers our sect to be full of idiots?¡± Asked the male cultivator, that, for the record only, didn¡¯t cultivate males.

    ¡°He believes we have the collective IQ of a bunch of cattle,¡± the behatted cultivator said.

    ¡°A wise rag, he is,¡± granted the white girl.

    They jumped from the high roof they were standing, landing in front of the inn so gracefully that a local children-coffin maker managed to take his family to a luxurious restaurant that day. And through the arch of the door, the three of them poked their long faces in. A skull like theirs was mounted on a wall, and they had to surpass a gasp at such image. Their wide nostrils, enlarged by the nature of their long ruminations and meditations to attain higher levels of power, took in the stench of alcohol, blood and sweat that the seasoned adventurers populating the single-footed tables exuded. There were also some familias with children and clearly negligent fathers. Of course, the smell of blood in particular, the male thought, could be due to the freshly trampled children in the sidewalk.

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    The white lady, with her rotund backside, accidentally toppled over a table,Drenching the generic brown-haired man that happily sipper a beer there on his own drink. ¡°Watch your rump, you fat cow!¡±

    She barely turned her head to glance at the man. Her vital energy rose and stirred around her, casting a nefarious aura that planted unease in the man¡¯s mind. ¡°I¡¯ll let you know I have the widest calves in the sect, and I am proud of them.¡±

    The man spoke with a little voice, scared for his life, ¡°Okay, please don¡¯t hurt me,¡± he whined like a homeless puppy in the cold.

    The cultivator went back to her business, and the man slumped in his chair. As he sighed of relief, a flying Rottweiler puppy knocked the consciousness and several years of mechanical engineering out of his head.

    ¡°Fuck, I missed,¡± said Kalon to his Sunny-side-down egg (Being Kalon¡¯s meal was that depressing).

    Samari inspired, expired, joined her hands, and hopped form her chair. ¡°Why do you attack powerful cultivators? I¡äll need to appease them now?¡±

    Kalon slammed the table with an open palm. The table refused to moan. ¡°They are bullying the innocents.¡±

    ¡°This is one of the cheapest inns in all of Ilure. There are no innocents in here.¡±

    ¡°What about the child in the other table. ¡°

    The twink barkeep wearing a pink wig leaned over the table, making sure to let his ass stand out in sight of the manly, burly, for-sure-straight men sitting across. ¡°He killed his parents in belated self-defense after his mother told him she had tried to abort him.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s legal?¡± Samari asked, finding herself unable to blink.

    ¡°It was¡­ until he did it. Ruining the fun for the rest of us. Now self-defense has a short timeframe where it can be enacted before it becomes revenge. Nya.¡±

    The black male cultivator lunged forward, knocking the twink out with a flying kick. ¡°You, boy, you are the Rottweilermancer. And yes, we bully sometimes. I was born for it.¡±

    ¡°Samari?¡± Kalon looked at her like a deer at an incoming Ford truck.

    ¡°Yes, my friend is the Rottweiler cultivator. I apologize in his stead. He hails from Valelike Vale.¡± Samari cowtowed in front of the trio with sunglasses. ¡°Please spare us.¡±

    ¡°Is this a male or a female? It has short hair and a tiny voice,¡± the white girl pointed at Samari.

    ¡°I am not good at identifying the sex of children.¡± said Auntie Lola. ¡°Girl or boy, we came to extend your friend an invitation to our select group: The Sect of the Many Guts. We can provide him funds to further his cultivation in exchange for services rendered to the sect.¡±

    ¡°What road do you follow?¡± Kalon asked, excited.

    ¡°Road of Skewering,¡± said the black one.

    ¡°Road of Keto Diet,¡± answered Miss Big Calves

    ¡°Road of hats with flowers.¡±

    Samari groaned. Being exposed to a conversation between cultivators was often Painful. ¡°Kalon, are you sure you want to go with¡­ these? Don¡¯t you think they are quite¡­ peculiar?¡±

    Kalon scratched his cheek with a single finger, and then, examined the recruiters with a quick glance. ¡°What do you mean?¡±

    ¡°Well¡­ the females are not wearing bras¡­¡± Samari tried a subtle approach.

    Kalon looked again, noting they had their swollen, dangling, pinkmammaries on plain sight. He quickly covered his eyes with a hand. ¡°My gods ladies, cover yourselves.¡±

    The recruiters tilted their heads. Samari faced the table. Quickly. And smashingly. She almost broke her nose doing that. Among tears and with a swollen face, she spoke again. ¡°They are cows, Kalon!¡±

    ¡°Language! I am bull,¡± said the black one that was, indeed, not a cow. "Need a tour around the sect?"

 V2 Chapter 20: To Kinkshame the Dead

    Life as a penguin was not easy. First your wife left you for an asshole with bigger rocks. Then the fish began being a tad too cold due to global cooling (Humans burned fossil fuels, which should, in theory, warm the atmosphere. What the scientists rarely accounted for was that the atmosphere of Cabaret had staunch contrarianism for a hobby. Thus, sometimes, more greenhouse gases equaled an overall colder planet.), which triggered your tooth sensitivity. Which tooth, you ask? The psychological one: Toot enough and you will soon tooth, they say.  And, lastly, one of your distant cousins of the lepidosaurian persuasion descended from the firmament riding a rainbow and donning a snazzy woolen suit, riding his zestful primate, just for the primate to pick you in his strong arms, attach a cold chain around your neck ¡ªYou cannot adequately define your neck in your reflection, but he somehow can! It¡¯s egregious! ¡ª and haul you up the rainbow, over the restless seas, into lands unknown and devoid of the fish you grew up eating.

    Life as a penguin was not easy. But kidnapping one from the pole to gift to your friend, when you were as powerful as Cutbastra, was!  He weighed almost nothing, honked in protest and didn¡¯t even bite. It was like stealing a pacified toy poodle from a child¡­ish rich blonde who used it as a purse implement.

    He made his way to the cold chamber with the bird in tow and Oracle properly dressed for the job he wanted, not the job he had.

    He got past the skulls, ducked under the half-beefs, and fought his way through the sexually predatory turnstiles, having to use the penguin as a flail often. He was sorry for using the bird as an improvised weapon, but the purity of his butt cheeks had been compromised, and no man with blood in his veins would refrain from jumping into action when affronted so shamelessly.

    Finally, with his arms full of scratches and a black eye, Cutbastra reached the desk of his friend Horancio, whose skin was blue and his nose host to a shivering family of icicles.

    ¡°How the turntables,¡± said Oracle, not smiling because he wasn¡¯t sure he was physically able to do it.

    A crack appeared on the icy cocoon, and like the son of a butterfly and an entomologist yeti, Horancio emerged from his prison, his face red from courage. ¡°Do you have the tiniest idea about how long I have been waiting for you?¡±

    Cutbastra smiled and raised the penguin, pulling him up by the chain. ¡°I brought a gift.¡±

    Or, well, the little blood-dripping stump that used to be the penguin. It ended up like a submarine, in the sense it had not a trace of wings. The Argentinian drink, not the machine that goes underwater in hopes of someday being used by James Cameron: this penguin was clearly not going underwater ever again.

    The man¡¯s eyes darted to Oracle¡¯s smug pokerface. ¡°Why are you dressed in a willy warmer?¡±

    Cutbastra gestured at his friend in his pocket. ¡°The ball-cover works like a hoodie!¡±

    ¡°I am a dick at heart,¡± Oracle told the truth and only the truth. ¡°One day I hope to be paid for it. Being a dick.¡± He had to summon all of his force of will to avoid licking his eyes.

    ¡°I waited for you for seven hours. Seven!¡±

    Cutbastra bowed out of courtesy. ¡°The pet store was closed so I made a little trip.¡±

    Scratching his child-bearing chin, Horancio couldn¡¯t help but asking. ¡°Why a penguin, though?¡±

    Cutbastra joined his hands, and then spread them as a man who is offering something to a stupid child. ¡°Did you ever notice you live inside a fridge?¡±

    Bewildered, Horancio swiveled his head to the sides and gasped. ¡°It must be off then, because I am cooking in here.¡± A moment of silence spanned. ¡°Of course I know I live in a refrigerator, you moron! Now, follow me. ¡±

    Horancio crouched under his desk, fidgeted a bit with something Cutbastra couldn¡¯t see, and then the sound of creaky hinges betrayed what he was doing.

    ¡°Follow me to the ritual chamber downstairs. And be ready to leave your lizard in my care.¡±

    ¡°I prefer to be addressed as his owner, thank you,¡± said his eminence Oracle.

    Cutbastra tapped the skink on the head with just enough strength to not knock him out. ¡°Behave, Oracle.¡±

    In a movement too swift for a man of his dimensions Horancio disappeared under his desk. ¡°Don¡¯t dilly-dally, the spirits are anxious to meet you.¡±

    <hr>

    Cutbastra expected the secret passage to be not as well lit, but he soon decided it was only logical: a door had been opened, and they were inside a part of a fridge, so it followed that small bulbs lined on the walls would illuminate their descent through the winding stair The steps were covered in a thin layer of ice, which was no frictional impediment to a man as rotund as Horancio. Cutbastra, on the other hand, slipped and descended in record time.  Oracle thanked the heavens for the vision that had made him include a little safety belt inside his friend¡¯s pocket. The tangle of man collided against a wall of the big circular chamber, and, coming to his feet, be gasped in awe. Before him , drawn upon the white floor with frost ashes, lay an intricate pattern  , a circle filled with a cloud of cursive letters, each word joined to the next. Cutbastra dared trying to read a fragment. His upper lip raised, and sweat gathered on his brow. ¡°Triple Boobed Spermatozoids¡­ what?¡± Then realization washed upon him, causing hiss limbs to go cold, and his knees weak. ¡°Sodomized gods in heaven, it¡¯s a tag cloud for furry fetishes!¡±

    Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

    Horancio began speaking as he descended the last steps, hands still in his deep pockets. ¡°Future Furry Fetishes. Degenerations yet to be. Yesterday, for example, Lung pregnancy was to be found there. Three months ago, ejaculating one¡¯s own skeleton was. Then they¡­¡± he made a pregnant pause. Not in the lung, though. ¡°Disappeared. They became Current Furry Fetishes.¡±

    ¡°Duck nipples,¡± Oracle read aloud. ¡°Just¡­ ducks with tits? seems pretty tame.¡±

    Horancio¡¯s head shook slowly, with a tangible weight to it.

    Oracle decided  to go for the strategical fainting.

    ¡°Goniatitties.¡± Cutbastra read another. ¡±What does that even mean?¡±

    ¡°When you don¡¯t understand something, blame STEM folks.¡± His flabby arm opened slowly to a side, and one of his chubby fingers pointed at a corner of the circular chamber. ¡°put on the ritual veil.

    Cutbastra arched his eyebrow as he regarded the purple and green fursuit that lay tidily collected there, with the ethylene-vinyl acetate head depicting a sort of¡­ horse with fetal alcohol syndrome. ¡°Do I really have to get into that?¡±

    ¡°If you don¡¯t, you have made me waste my time. The cold kills fleas, so feel free to put it on.¡±

    ¡°Does it kill STDs?¡±

    Oracle decided he had to hop into the conversation. ¡°My friend, you can cuck herpes itself.¡±

    Cutbastra shoved him back inside the pocket of his shirt. ¡°But one day the illness will mutate a taste for it and I will be dunzo.¡±

    ¡°Listen, put on the suit or get the fuck out of my property. Or are you getting cold feet?¡±

    Cutbastra looked down at his boots and the frozen miasma dancing around them and across the floor of the chamber. The man just pursed his lips and nodded energetically.

    ¡°I need to stop punning myself into shame,¡± the occultist lamented. ¡°Put the suit on, pretty please.¡±

    Cutbastra snapped his fingers and clicked his tongue. ¡°Only because you asked nicely.¡±

    Facing his immediate future filled him with apprehension. The big eyes of the suit drilled into his soul and asked a question he didn¡¯t want to answer: Are you ready to kinkshame the dead?

    Was he? HE had always respected his partner¡¯s wishes, remained understanding of the variegated caprices of human sexuality. Sure, he had limits when it came to harmful practices, like anything non-consensual. But as far as he knew, furries where mostly harmless. Mostly.

    He picked up the headdress and stared straight into the cartoonish horse¡¯s orbs (and I am calling them orbs just because Cutbastra would hate it) ready to search in his heart of hears and answer such a question.

    No. He wasn¡¯t ready. But it had to be done.

    ¡°Is the suit special in any way?¡± he wondered idly, stuffing his hand inside the head through the neck hole. It felt soft and comfy inside. Unlike sticking your head in the innards of an actual furry, which Cutbastra had never done, but could imagine it wouldn¡¯t feel pretty.

    ¡°The suit is said to have a will of its own. Some report they have had to battle against it, elst it consumed their minds. I believe that to be poppycock.¡±

    ¡°Ah, that wouldn¡¯t be a problem: I deal with vile voices in my head all the time. My Avatar of the Road is a cunt.¡±

    ¡°What if the suit takes over, though?¡± asked Oracle, his eyes big with worry.

    ¡°You have permission to kill me if that happens, friend,¡± Cutbastra said, as if Oracle could.

    ¡°Reassuring. Truly,¡± the dick-in-training retorted. ¡°Can I go with him?¡±

    ¡°You¡¯d need to be dressed as an animal.¡±

    ¡°Can I wear a skin suit of that animal?¡± the skink deadpanned.

    ¡°I don¡¯t see why not, but¡ª¡± Horancio began, only to be cut off by the lizard.

    ¡°I am going dressed in a skink¡¯s skin, then.¡±

    The fat occultist groaned. ¡°The heavens won¡¯t be happy with such derision.¡±

    Cutbastra cocked an imaginary gun and raised it next to his real face. ¡°good thing we are going to hell, then.¡±

    Oracle considered reminding his friend that he had real guns stashed inside his pocket dimension. He decided against it: seeing Cutbastra  improvise weapons was way funnier than watching him pull a trigger.

    ¡°I am ready to face my demons. And kinkshame them. ¡° the cucktivator said, plugging the purple and green horse head on  to test it. HE looked at his hands, the front and the back. ¡°I don¡¯t feel any different.¡±

    ¡°Put on the rest of the suit. It¡¯s easier if you leaqve the¡­ How?¡±

    Cutbasatra finished zippering up suit and shrugged. ¡°Cultivator¡¯s speed mixed with a bandit lover¡¯s urgency to get dressed. What do I do now.¡±

    Horancio stood in front of the tagcloudgram and extended his arms high, palms open as if he expected to catch manna, or falling babies, from heaven. Can you imagine that? a rain of babies? Absolutely deranged concept. I am ruining the life of whomever dares write about that in a three kilometer radius.

    I digress.

    Horancio raised his hands, icicles dangling from his flabby arms like the wide sleeves of a cultists robe. ¡°Come, Cutbastra, step into the circle of fetishes to be, and enter the place where the ones who dared transcend their humanity rest!¡±

    A timid first step placed Cutbastra¡¯s newly acquired hoof inside the circle, and immediately a sensation akin to electricity traversed his body. His right foot was touching a tag: ¡°Incremental games fertilization¡±. The concept of it invaded his mind, and he clawed the sides of his head, that thumped like it about to explode. Trying to pull off the suit, he found that it was like trying to peel off one¡¯s own skin. He screamed in pain and kneeled upon more and more words of blower, intensifying the pain, the sensations that made him think his body was being consumed by millions of vicious and small fleas.

    Oracle also felt the same sensations. He hummed elevator music as he crawled over a couple tags. ¡°Oh, Avantasia. Good taste, good taste.¡± he said, slithering aside to not slide over a word he respected so much. Then, he got engulfed by light and the stench of bleach disappearing form sight. Horancio smiled.

    A second after, Cutbastra suffered the same fate, and the state of the art in yeti fashion dusted off his hands. ¡°Weirdos.¡±

 Chapter 21: He Shall Kinkshame the Heavens

    The harsh surface upon which he was resting was not felt by Cutbastra. The pumice ground greeted his fursuit with all the care a volcanic stone could. An amaranth scent intruded his nostrils, unconsensually. His first thought was that, at least, it wasn¡¯t a phallus. His second thought was that that wasn¡¯t a first thought to be having, like, ever.  He incorporated and looked at his paws, confused. What kind of sex party had he been in? Why was the sky wearing a pattern of commission prices? Why was he wearing a fursuit that felt¡­ so real and cozy.

    Most important, where was Oracle?

    As if on command, Oracle popped out of the horse suit¡¯s marsupium, looked at the blissfully nondescript knotowers extending towards the firmament at their left, and then at the massive statue of a shark-woman that covered the light from a green sun, flexing her muscles, and sporting an unnatural bulge in her shorts. He, as you know, couldn¡¯t blink out of astonishment nor indignation.

    ¡°That¡¯s absurd. Sharks have claspers. Claspers!¡± complained Oracle, seemingly ignoring the rest of the oddness around them.

    ¡°Ah, right, furry heaven.  Considerably less degenerate than expected.¡±

    Thunder moaned high above, in the pinkish clouds that reminded one of cotton sugar.

    ¡°Slightly less degenerate than expected,¡± he corrected himself.

    A tumbleweed made wholly out of giant, three-flagellated spermatozoids twisting their tails around each other¡¯s to interlock hopped by.

    ¡°As degenerate as expected,¡± Cutbastra had to accept, sourly. ¡°How do we find our quarry, Oracle?¡±

    ¡°Beats me.¡±

    A savage growl came from behind them, and made the earth shake. Cutbastra quickly leaped to his feet, getting into a fighting stance, with one leg preceding the other, with his fists ready to punch a hole through some anthropomorphic-whatever¡¯s chest. It was an anthropomorphic vaquita, so swole and roided that one could see the kicks of the supposed unborn or perhaps flesh eating parasites trapped inside her magnificent, veiny biceps.  Cutbastra¡¯s thoughts weren¡¯t about the fact the thing stood three meters tall or weighed slightly more than the fifty-kilogram estimate for his wild counterparts, but rather ¡°Shit, I can¡¯t kill him; his species is endangered.¡±

    ¡°Cutbastra, I am your friend since long ago, and I know what you are thinking. This isn¡¯t the vaquita you lost. This is a degenerate that took the innocence of vaquitas and twisted it. And besides, everything here is already dead.¡±

    The vaquita advanced by means of long strides, each one leaving tracks on the pumice stone. ¡°Hey, handsome, want to help repopulate vaquitas?¡±

    Cutbastra rushed with his fingers extended as claws. Using his full speed, he tried to hit every spiritual floodgate in his opponent¡¯s upper body, hitting each with a finger far faster than the untrained eye could see.  He thought, in a brief moment of serendipity, about the oddness of his horse suit having claw-like gloves instead of hooves.

    The Vaquita weathered Cutbastr¡¯as billions of strikes without losing its satisfied stoner grin. He wasn¡¯t going to reject a massage.

    ¡°I shall kinkshame the dead!¡± The cultivator boldly declared, standing there, realizing they were, perhaps, not so different after all, but there was no other way for this to go. His fingers pumped against the Vaquita¡¯s naked bicolor flesh, and he pumped more and more Vital energy in each strike.

    The Vaquita yawned. He would tire out. They all did.

    Cutbastra took out one of his suit¡¯s gloves to use his bare hand with the fingers joined like a blade, and bury it into the Vaquita¡¯s chest. Lube mixed with choccy milk stained the purple and green horse suit as the Cultivator pushed his hand further into the Vaquita¡¯s immovable mountain of a body.  He grabbed something throbbing inside the Vaquita¡¯s wide chest, and yanked it straight out. The white-pink, spherical mass kept beating in his hand as he smiled under the suit¡¯s head.

    The Vaquita stood in place, slightly amused. ¡°You are into BDSM, I take?¡±

    Cutbastra¡¯s eyes went wide. He had torn the heart from the vaquitas chest, he had¡­ And then he let the mass of tissue he was holding in his hand fall upon the rocky ground, creating a disgusting sound as the giant testicle bounced on it.

    Cutbastra attacked again, this time introducing his hand in the abdomen of his enemy, piercing through skin and flesh without difficulty. If he couldn¡¯t tear out his heart, he would gut him.  And with his hand found something long and seemingly filled with liquid. Intestines, he thought. He pulled. It was like a linked sausage, except it was made of condoms filled with the mixture of lube and chocolate milk. He pulled, and kept pulling, meter after meter of the thing, covered in the bodily fluids (That had no business being inside a body) of the vaquita. It was like a magician pulling a coil out of his mouth, except Cutbastra wasn¡¯t amazed: he was desperate, his lips trembled and he felt his heart, or possibly a giant testicle, thumping against his ribcage.

    Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.

    After about a kilometer of condom-guts had piled around them, Cutbastra looked up, into his enemy¡¯s face, and, showing his teeth, spoke between tired breaths. ¡°What¡­ are you?¡±

    The vaquita¡¯s laugh boomed across the rocky wastelands. ¡°A bottom, as you may have noticed.¡±

    Oracle decided to chime in. ¡°Sir, we are not down to yiff. We come from the other side¡ª¡±

    ¡°Heterosexuality?¡±

    Cutbastra was about to complain but, look at that, the monster had a point.

    ¡°Perhaps. What I meant is that my associate and I are allegedly alive.¡±

    ¡°Allegedly?¡± asked Cutbastra.

    ¡°We fell unconscious inside a fridge. Got to be a bit of a realist.¡±

    ¡°Oh, you got brought here by Don Horancio!¡± said the presumably-mortally-wounded vaquita, hands on his knees as he leaned forward to be at the height of Cutbastra¡¯s eyes. ¡°I hate that guy. But you have been rather excellent guests so far.¡±

    ¡°I¡­ tried to tear your heart off your chest,¡± Cutbastra informed, shyly raising a finger.

    ¡°Your point? I am not decapitated or obliterated yet. That¡¯s kindness.¡± The vaquita poked Cutbastraa¡¯s forehead with a burly chorizo of a finger. ¡°Why are you here?¡±

    ¡°I am Cutbastra, follower of the Road of the Homewrecker, and a widow is hunting me. I must fuck her husband to destroy even the smallest chance of losing a battle against her and dying.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s a sentence alright.¡±

    ¡°One would think you are used to that sorta thing around here,¡± Oracle sassed.

    ¡°Yes, it is. Do you know the name of this man you are looking for? I have been around. I have been topped by manifold phalli under this green sun. And talking about folds, mine have been¡ª¡±

    ¡°Too much information!¡± Cutbastra instinctively punched a hole in the friendly face  of the Vaquita, granting it an express passage to the world of two-dimensional vision. ¡°Sorry,¡± he whispered, looking at the ocular testicle he had pulled from the Vaquita¡¯s face.

    ¡°Ah, worry not. It will grow back. Do you have a name for this ¡®prey¡¯ of yours?¡±

    Oracle hummed. ¡°His fursona is a hyena and he smells of licorice and exhaust smoke.¡±

    ¡°Ah, Furtherknot! He gives over yonder, past the statue of Our Lady of the ToothScales.¡±

    Cutbastra carefully examined the face of his interlocutor. Then he lifted Oracle next to his face and whispered in the lizard¡¯s ear ¡°Is that English?¡±

    ¡°It ought to be.¡±

    ¡°I can give you a lift there,¡± the gentle giant offered.

    ¡°I appreciate it, but¡­¡± And cutbastra couldn¡¯t finish his sentence before getting picked up and flung over the statue like he was a ball of crumpled paper flying across a classroom. Oracle watched with a light on his eyes.

    ¡°In here we cannot die, right?¡±

    ¡°Nope.¡± The Vaquita confirmed, before grabbing the lizard by the tail, swinging ¡ªaction that he had mastered since long ago ¡ª him around like a pair of bolas, and sending him the way of Cutbastra.

    <hr>

    Through green skies filled with clouds of bong smoke and with the melodious chants of kittens singing jingles resounding on their ears they soared across the furry afterlife. They were going too fast to appreciate the forests of bodily hair, or the plains of sweat glands where drops the size of mastiffs grazed on to tender dead skin, or Those Steppes, whose description would earn this work fifty newfangled trigger warnings.

    Eventually, and with their noses clogged by the dead marihuana smoke on the atmosphere, they landed into what Cutbastra wished would be merely a pool of mud. Oracle, blessed with visions from heaven, knew better.

    They left a mark onto the malleable substance as Cutbastra crawled out of it, his hands and knees sinking into the brown mass with each step. ¡°Ah, finally, a swimming poo.¡±

    Cutbastra let out a whine worthy of a whistling kettle.

    When he arrived to the concrete border and climbed on it, taking off the head of his horse fursuit, he found an anthropomorphic, green hyena staring down at him. ¡°Aren¡¯t you the guy my wife wants to kill?¡±

    ¡°I am the guy who killed your daughter,¡± Cutbastra confirmed.

    A smaller, female, orange hyena approached and looked down on him too. She was wearing a dress with a pattern of catapults. ¡°Oi cunt, happy to see me?¡±

    Cutbastra smiled. ¡°Ah, the other killed you. I am sorry. I am not in control once he comes out. Happy to see you made it into the afterlife.¡±

    Furtherknot closed his eyes and showed his palms  to heaven ¡°I did her paperwork as you were killing her. Got her furry citizenship.¡±

    ¡°And I am ugly now.¡± Crusadina lamented. ¡°But at least mom doesn¡¯t know I am here. Don¡¯t tell her.¡±

    ¡°Are you doing your wife¡¯s paperwork?¡±

    Crusadina Limited Furry Edition and her father answered at once. ¡°Hell no!¡±

    ¡°I am asking because I will probably have to kill her in self-defense.¡± He blinked twice and shuffled to his feet. ¡°Do you still want to destroy the world, lass?¡±

    ¡°Cultivation is lost with death. My road is not mine to walk anymore.¡±

    ¡°But now you have the power granted by your horny!¡± her dad tried to comfort her.

    ¡°I am not horny!¡± Crusadina stomped the floor and stormed inside the wooden cabin mere meters away from the poo-l.

    ¡°Ah, little curiosity of mine: why the fuck do you have a whole pool of crap?¡±

    Furtherknot raised his eyebrow. ¡°Why do we have giant desert sandickworms with big tits?¡±

    ¡°You have wh¡­ forget it, fetishes manifest physically here, I know, I know. By the way, I don¡¯t want to but¡­¡± Cutbastra gestured helplessly with his hands as he held a disgusted expression in his face.

    ¡°Convince me, cute boy. Convince me to betray my wife and this hyena booty is yours.¡±

    ¡°I need an adult,¡± Cutbastra, the four centuries old monster, muttered. ¡°Is it fine if I strip here? And then¡­ do you have a shower?¡±

    ¡°Be my guest. And yes, but you won¡¯t like it, Qt3.14159265¡­¡±

    Cutbastra waited patiently, fidgeting with his fingers. He would soon fall to temptation

    ¡°¡­197169¡ª¡±

    ¡°Nice!¡± he could help but exclaim, to the disgrace of Oracle, who only now noticed he had been bereft of his willy warmer. A sad day to be a skink.

    Cutbastra began by unbuttoning his shirt and a moon so big it had an Inflation tag slapped on it appeared and drifted slowly, gradually covering the green sun.

    ¡°What¡¯s happening?¡±

    ¡°Obligatory eclipse before an imminent sex scene. Continue.¡±

    And as Cutbastra continued undressing, the world of the dead gradually faded to black.

 Chapter 22: Thrice Accepted by the Faceless One

    The green field greeted its ruminant predators with the usual glee of a prairie. Ilure had been left behind as the children and dog jogged after the guiding bovines. The white walls of the city were now a thin line disproving flat Cabaret by hugging the horizon (which had more curve than your waifu, you Humbert Humbert of oriental animation). Samari¡¯s feet were sore, but she didn¡¯t complain, for she was offloading this hard work on the group¡¯s whiny bitch: Jagger.

    ¡°I want to die. Without exploding, if possible. And steak. I want steak.  I want to die or to have steak, but I cannot do both at the same time. Suffering is I,¡± Jagger yapped and yapped, and nobody listened to him anymore.

    The cows and the bull kept their pace, automootons punning forwards without rest. The black bull lagged behind, not because he was tired but rather because his religion forbade him from not staring at the beef rears in front of him.

    Ancient Creature Preteritous Demon Auntie Lola turned her head like an owl to check if the children still followed. This almost startles Samari, but she found her surprise reserves had been exhausted by tagging along Kalon and Co. ¡°Not even cringing¡­ that¡¯s new,¡± she said, mildly pleased by the discovery.

    Like a thread released from the yoke of torsion the cow¡¯s head returned to its natural position, spinning under the hat, striving to avoid rotating it too. It was of utmost importance to keep the flower undisturbed, for she was a civilized bovine.

    Kalon straight out didn¡¯t register what the others were doing, not even the thoughts Jagger constantly bombarded his mind with, nor the pleas of his avatar to not do what he was thinking. He was surrounded by them: the disgraced ones, the endangered ones. Fat drops of sweat rolled down his forehead as he tailed the noble b easts. His vital energy stirred, remained unsteady like a stormy sea. He needed to explode, he needed to save those innocents.

    And explode he did: Pumping his legs in a savage run, shaping the liquid Rottweilers into a Dark&Edgy scythe so big it would have made husbands all over the world admit that, in the end, size matters.  And swinging this impractical weapon, he attacked the seeming nothingness, startling the cows and bull, making them moo in confusion. YeT Samari and Jagger just shook their heads, and the girl decided she owed the bovines an explanation.

    ¡°He is de-blading the grass,¡± Samari deadpanned.

    ¡°Ah,¡± said the white cow. ¡°Why?¡±

    ¡°He believes the grass is not responsible enough to go around using a blade.¡±

    The severed, blood squirting head of an unfortunate snake that had evolved such thing as too good a camouflage flew several meters above the group.

    ¡°And neither is he,¡± Jagger, crimson warpainted, snake AIDS spreader extraordinaire, said what everyone was thinking.

    The snake body, feeling lonely, followed the head several meters behind. Don¡¯t leave me, body-chan. Don¡¯t leave me exclamation mark exclamation mark exclamation mark asterisk Em-dash asterisk uppercase ¡°O¡± letter lowercase ¡°W¡± letter uppercase ¡°O¡± letter. Donate fifty dollar cents to me to avoid me messing with audiobook readers in the uppercase ¡°F¡± letter lowercase ¡°U¡± letter¡­ plaf.

    Author, you have no right to slap me like that. Yes, you made me, but your mother made you, and you would protest if she slapped you. What do you mean this is a direct attack against our audience? THE WHOLE BOOK IS A DIRECT ATTACK AGAINST OUR AUDIENCE. Back to work or you will erase me from existence? Fine, fine, have it your way. Tyrant.

    Back to Kalon¡¯s grass genocide, Jagger went up to the landing spot of the snake body and ate it, slurped it like a noodle. Sentient or not, he was a dog, and dogs ought to die during glorious degustation of  the marvels the gods put in the world, like Vikings being carried to the halls of the gods in the hands of Valkyries, except in the dog¡¯s  case a vet visit and some pink juice act as the middlemen instead of some flying ladies of loose paperwork.

    ¡°We are arriving. Behold, bipeds, our gloruious sect!¡±

    As they kept on walking, they spotted a circle¡­ no, a horseshoe of barns rising, one after the other, the opening of the horseshoe aiming in their direction, and the spaces between the barns walled off otherwise. Upon the walls of beautifully interwoven dung and sticks sentinel bulls kept watch, their horns reaching as far as their sight¡ªand, boy, they had no need for contacts.

    ¡°From afar, I thought those were cables,¡± Samari said when she realized the long, dark lines were of organic origin.  ¡°How do they keep their heads straight?¡±

    ¡°Fending off gay thoughts,¡± answered the black bull.

    Samari trudged on, into the discursive bog. ¡°No, I meant: how do they keep their heads level?¡±

    ¡°By grinding, duh!¡± answered the white cow with the black spot around her eye.

    Samari picked her nose with a mischievous pinky and, squinting, carefully examined the finger. No, her brain wasn¡¯t draining through her openings yet. All was wrong with the world.

    The group of mammals got blessed with a rain of blood from another rof Kalon¡¯s victims. Smudged in blood but with an impeccable hat, Aunt Lola spoke: ¡°At least the smell of cut grass helps dissimulate the stench of vermin guts.¡±

    The sun jumped in slow-mo overhead as they waited and their shadows grew longer. Kalon was so engrassed on his task that he had lost notion of the passage of time. Good riddance, for he never had a good one anyway.

    When  the sky went about as red as Jagger¡¯s fur, Kalon spent the last of his energy reserves, making the liquid puppies fall to his feet, formless, his task unconcluded. He kneeled and, curling his hand into a fist, hammered the ground once with determination. ¡°I cannot save them all!¡±

    This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

    Jagger decided to be a good pet for once and show some support for his owner. ¡°You did a good job. The snake was¡­ gourmet.¡±

    ¡°What snake?¡± said the boy who had not realized he was covered not only in blades of grass, but also in blood.

    ¡°Humbleness is the beginning of greatness, my master.¡± Jagger bowed slightly.

    The bull pushed Samari away from the group by gently placing the side of his horn against her neck. When they were supposedly out of earshot,  he began whispering.

    ¡°Ostensible female, is your friend always like this?¡±

    ¡°No.¡± Samari made a dramatic pause. ¡°He¡¯s usually worse.¡±

    ¡°What do you mean worse?¡±

    That¡¯s when Kalon tried to get on his feet and slipped on the foul guts of a victimized bunny, providing a wonderful demonstration of both what Samari meant and the powerlessness of the almost universal law of gravity in front of his reality bending stupidity.

    Samari stopped the bull from running to Kalon¡¯s aid by holding it by the nostrils. ¡°Don¡¯t worry, he will come back down. This is normal.¡±

    ¡°Holy woman, what have we got into?¡± The bull exclaimed and then turned back, shuffling his hooves towards the sect. ¡°Never a decent one that isn¡¯t a bovine.¡±

    As soon as Kalon stopped behaving like a pinball among the clouds, the group was led into the barn whose roof was painted silver and it¡¯s entrance adorned by a  pair of columns, metrosexual elephant legs carved out of the finest wood cows could afford ¡ªcompressed toilet paper tubes.

    ¡°Hold a bee, this is our sects¡¯ most sacred place!¡±

    Kalon was tempted to make an observation, but his avatar intervened just in time. ¡°Kalon, dear friend, don¡¯t tell the speech-blessed beef that their holy halls smell like dung. They know.¡± The presence whispered into Kalon¡¯s intraskull void.

    ¡°Why not?¡± he spoke out loud, making the cows turn their heads.

    ¡°He is talking with his avatar,¡± Jagger clarified, and then barfed a few snake ribs upon the dry dirt, ribs that he hastily scooped up with his tongue and swallowed again. ¡°Pay him no mind.¡±

    ¡°Masterful rumination, friend,¡± the white cow said.

    ¡°I have been practicing since the first time I was born.¡±

    ¡°We are only born once, doggie,¡± the cow uddered in the tone one uses to talk to the children who ride the short bus.

    Jagger made a haughty gesture. ¡°Speak for yourself, grassender.¡±

    The cow closed its distance with the Rottweiler. ¡°Meatchugger.¡±

    ¡°Chlorophyll drinker,¡± Jagger retorted, licking the delicious snake blood off his paw.

    ¡°Collagen junkie.¡±

    ¡°Phytolith hoarder.¡±

    ¡°Bone licker.¡±

    Then, at last, when both upsides of their snouts were completely in contactthey broke the tension and started amicably licking each other. ¡°Sister form another mother!¡±

    ¡°Brother in mammalism.¡±

    I love happy endings.

    The group was led through the pillars, through the huge wooden doors and into a  world of straw floors and neatly divided corrals, some of them having all of the luxuries an high ranking cultivator cow could ask for: a trough of clean water, piles of golden hay and a designated shitting corner tended to by enslaved dung beetles, to name just a few.

    At the end of this hall of glory ¡ªshit scented glory¡ª awaited massive steps, everyone a Samari bellybutton from the floor, and to their side a ramp for the servant cows to go and tent to the one that sat on the throne of hay bales: The Faceless one, head of the sect. He was a bovine only in title, even if parts of him had been a cow or several, once long ago.His legs would have been crossed and one of nhis arms holding a bunch of grapes tha the would savor one by one, lusciously consuming them in the most hedonist of displays. That is, if he had had a mouth. Or legs. Or arms. Or body parts, at all. For in the throne only a vain bodice could be seen, hovering imperially an inch over the tender grass cushion.

    ¡°Bring me the candidate,¡± The Bodiceattva demanded, his voice echoing through the  massive wooden structure. ¡°I shall judge his potential.¡±

    Prompted by the point of an horn poking his ass Kalon  stepped forward,l prompting an exclamation from the leader of the sect. ¡°Oh no. You did not bring me a Valelikevalian.  You. Did. Not.¡±

    ¡°We did yes¡± sentenced Supreme Kaiju Carboniferous Mythological Creature Auntie Lola ¡ª not a single comma in sight.

    ¡°You know what? It doesn¡¯t matter where he comes from. If he is strong enough to survive the initiation, he can stay. We will train him and finance his growth.¡±

    ¡°What if I don¡¯t survive the initiation?¡± Kalon asked.

    The bodiceattva was tempted to grow a pair of hands and steeple them in thoughtful concern. ¡°If you don¡¯t survive the initiation you die. That¡¯s like asking what happens if you lose your footing: you fall.¡±

    The cows shook their heads. Samari¡¯s eyes shoot upwards as she pretended to focus on some oddness of the oaken beams. Jagger looked around to see that, once again, he had been left to explain the situation. ¡°He doesn¡¯t fall, sir. He¡¯s too stupid to fall.¡±

    The bodiceattva pretended to raise an eyebrow that wasn¡¯t there. ¡°How so?¡±

    ¡°He goes off flying when he trips,¡± began the black bull.

    ¡°And he then bounds off one cloud and rams into another, bouncing once more.¡± Continued Elder Menace Archaic Threat Auntie Lola.

    The bodice hummed with glee ¡°Would a demonstration be safe?¡±

    Samari decided it was high time to butt in. ¡°Sir, he shoots off into a random direction. It¡¯s always funny for the bystanders that don¡¯t get hit by the flying moron. It¡¯s like a normal person playing Durnian roulette, except there¡¯s only one bullet in the chambers, not five.¡± [1]</a>

    ¡°That sounds safe for me. Do you lesser beings think your safety matter?¡±

    ¡°Pretty much so,¡± said Jagger.

    ¡°Nuh-uh,¡± said Kalon.

    Samari had to answer too. She had a physiological need to. ¡°Theirs, no. Mine, yes.¡±

    ¡°I like her, make her a member of the sect too.¡±

    Samari scowled. How dared it. ¡°I don¡¯t want to be a member of your sect.¡±

    ¡°Make her a member of the sect twice.¡±

    ¡°Hey, what about me!¡± Kalon rightfully protested, his thumb pointing over his shoulder, because coordination wasn¡¯t his strong suit.

    ¡°I will test you when you aren¡¯t tired. Take a rest , boy: it could be the last one of your life.¡±

    Kalon gave a thumbs up and then collapsed onto the floor, head on. He immediately began snoring, ass upwards, proudly exposed to the world.

    Samari raised her hand. ¡°I want to renounce my sect membership.¡±

    ¡°Thrice!¡± The bodiceattva announced and the cows kneeled in a circle around Samari. ¡°Blessed one, you shall be bureocrated soon. Being thrice a member is an unparalleled honor. You will come to the banquet barn and eat our finest and greenest grass. You will drink our stallest and most aged of waters. You will... yes?¡± The cow with the black spot interrupted her speech to address Samari¡¯s raised hand.

    ¡°How do I get exiled?¡±

    ¡°We in the Sect of Many Guts have no concept of exile. No path leads to it, but some lead to corrective moorder,¡± Auntie Lola, for whom I have run out of titles, said.

    Samary scratched her chin, and then decided to try another approach.

    ¡°Now that I am thrice accepted into the sect, can I renounce my membership?¡±

    The cows gathered in a circle to discuss in whispers. Such a thing had never happened, but one would not deny such a petition to a thrice chosen one, would one?

    Samari sat upon the straw on the floor and yawned: this was going to be a long day.

    <hr>

    [1]</a> Durnians were a civilization that collectively arrived to the conclusion that life absolutely sucks and that nothing makes sense in the universe. Therefore, they developed a game where the loss condition was to survive. The losers often fell into a deep depression, developing fervent survival ideations and therefore being sent to mental institutions, from which they escaped after all the caretakers took their own lives in suicidal bliss. Despite the robust philosophical background of these people, however, their civilization eventually dwindled until extinction, the ¡°why¡± lost to time, still elusive to the cleverest of scholars.

 Chapter 23: the Bodiceattvas Test

    After a few hours of non-descript cow hustle and bustle, Kalon opened his eyes, feeling fresh as the cabbage he had been born from.  Immediately, even before opening his eyes, he felt the oppressive presence of the Bodiceattva enveloping him. Kalon had not felt such a powerful aura in his whole life, not even when Cutbastra had invaded his town during the Great Dejaggerization Event. He opened his eyes, stood down ¡ªhe had accidentally turned and flown to the ceiling during his nap¡ª and properly fell to the floor, landing upon a mound of straw that had been carefully placed there by a bored Samari. She crossed her arms as indignation crossed her face: he expected him to land anywhere but right below where he was resting, and that straw castle was a true work of art. Was.

    As Kalon acquired his present-continuous ursids, the Bodiceattva floated off from the throne. ¡°You will be tested, boy. In battle, and against a powerful enemy. We may begin whenever you are ready, for said adversary was picked up while you slept. ¡°

    The Bodiceattva remained looming ominously in place for a few seconds. Kalon blinked and scratched his head.

    ¡°I need some modification to make pointing at things more obvious,¡± the powerful leader conceded. ¡°Would you be so kind to look to the right?¡±

    Kalon turned his head to his right.

    ¡°My right,¡± the Bodiceattva clarified.

    Kalon¡¯s hand shoot from his side, disappeared midair, and reappeared with a saliva-covered handbook. He promptly checked this manual for clothing pieces¡¯ rights and obligations under Ilurian law. He was not great at reading but it had drawings, as it was thought as a cultivator¡¯s tool.

    ¡°Your left¡­¡±

    ¡°I am left to what?¡±

    The bodice groaned disembodingly, ¡°How did you manage to avoid dying as a baby?¡±

    Kalon raised his eyebrows and smiled. He knew this one. ¡°Mom says I am a prodigy among the children of Valelike Vale. It only took me seven months after birth to take my first breath.¡±

    Kalon¡¯s avatar was carefully considered looking for a new job.

    The Bodiceattva didn¡¯t look at Samari, but pretended to. ¡°I am pretending to look at you, girl.¡± He xianxiaed, repeating known information redundantly.

    ¡°What do you expect his body to need high amounts of oxygen for? Slow diffusion through mucosae or a well-innervated cloaca probably sustained him until he left the larval stage,¡± she argued, gesturing with her hands to try and distance Kalon from her, at least taxonomically.

    ¡°Did she say I had a lure bar stage?¡±

    Jagger gave him the thousand-yard stare and wished his brain began to drip out of his ears. ¡°Can we get the lethal test out of the way first? A failing grade would be sweet.¡±

    The Bodiceattva stood still. It was getting really frustrating to not have some clothes to control and make others understand. ¡°I am snapping the fingers I don¡¯t have,¡± he informed, not dead inside but only because there was nothing inside. Not even Intel.

    The barn doors flew open and a bull that muscles upon muscles upon some bodily fat upon muscles entered the scene, dragging his venomous (and therefore male) sword along the dirt. His eyes were injected in blood, his nostrils flared with passion and wrath. His fur, slick and soft, glimmered under the moon¡¯s tired gaze. Samari ran to hide behind the nearest friendly male with a bite.

    Jagger, in turn, tried to hide behind Samari, so they began circling each other, gaze¡¯s fixated on each other¡¯s posterior, putting on a show that mildly amused the Bodiceattva.

    ¡°Alright, alright, come here, Mootador.¡±

    Mootador faced the throne and bulltowed in front of the first step.

    Kalon cracked his knuckles as liquid puppies flowed around his arms and legs, like an armor of petrol being born, and immediately evolving eyes to avoid being hunted down by ambush predators. He opened his hand and dragged Jagger out of the loop he had been trapped into, wielding him by the tail, pointing at the bull defiantly. ¡°So, you and your duck are the ones I have to beat to enter the sect?¡±

    This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

    The sudden movement of the bull¡¯s neck to look at Kalon caused a static discharge that travelled to the ceiling, found it was made of wood, insulted minorities and, like a good future husband, went on to hit the nearest human female, spiking her short hairs and causing her to tingle all over. Samari was not going to laugh: indignation was stronger than the tingling.

    A smile gradually appeared in mootador¡¯s face, revealing his yellowish teeth as they held his weapon by it¡¯s flat, hairy tail. ¡°Indeed. I come here to kill those who dare enter the sect by insulting the Faceless One.

    ¡°I think Kalon never insulted the leader, but I am not opposed to dying,¡± Kalon¡¯s sword stated.

    Mootador¡¯s weapon growled in the least menacing way possible.

    ¡°Vacate the building, everyone who doesn¡¯t want to die. The door should remain open and whomever feels like it may watch from a safe distance.¡±

    The idle cows and bulls stampeded out of the building, moo¡¯ing in panic as they did. Hooves placed carelessly over legs, backs, buttocks. A calf ascended to a bloody collection of mats of fur and wounds, or maybe a rug. Samari had to hop over it as she gracefully made her way out the barn, giving Kalon a thumbs up.

    The tension hung in the air like one of those extinct giant crinoids hung from driftwood. Gay and submissive driftwood. The kind that loves catching the attention of shipworms, males or females. And you know what shipworms do. One day you are a proud fallen seed fern or conifer sailing the Jurassic seas and the next you are behind a considerably clean glass, being watched by dumb children in a museum, and what does your tag say? Does it talk about your glorious, long gone species? Hell no! it says ¡°Teredolites: the fossil trace shipworms leave on woody substrates.¡±!

    The Bodiceattva gestured for the contenders to put distance between them before beginning, one on the rightmost corner of the barn, other on the leftmost. Then he waited for them to notice he had gestured. In vain. Then The Bodiceattva told them what they had to do. Then he explained it to Kalon with a couple of plums. And finally, separated by a couple dozen meters, the boy and the bull were ready to clash.

    The bull parted from his resting position, muscles pumping and rippling under the mass of shiny leather, eyes unblinking, head turned to the side, funneling vital energy into the surly platypus to enhance his war-waging capabilities. If Kalon didn¡¯t act soon, this wave of brutality would crash onto him and answer his Avatar¡¯s questions about how it felt when your host died.

    So Kalon simply flared up his vital energy, raising his armor of liquid puppies, covering every centimeter of himself, except for his eyes, with it. Then he raised his guard and awaited the impact.

    ¡°There¡¯s no need to deviate or dodge the platypus, focus on the bull,¡± the avatar told him.

    Jagger, part-time sword, noticed the bull was pumping more and more vital energy into the monotreme. ¡°Is that a hat forming on the platypus head?¡±

    Instants before the impact, the avatar gasped inside Kalon¡¯s head, ¡°Parry the platypus!¡±

    Jagger took the brunt of the impact, strengthened by his wielders vital aura, that surged through him and caused him a slight nausea. His edge-fur had collided by the platypus¡¯s, and one of his eyes met that of the other swordified creature. With their sole gaze they told each other ¡°It is what it is¡± and accepted their imposed rivalry.

    Trying to break the clash, Kalon lost his footing, which caused Mootador to create a new entrance on the side of the barn with his charge. Tearing through the wood and nails and dung with ease.

    Kalon turned midair, landing on a beam, put Jagger back into his sheath despite the dog¡¯s complaints, and Gathered the liquid puppies into his hands, fingers curled into the form of claws. It gathered in a circular fashion, like water down the drain.

    ¡°You are dropping your defenses, moron!¡± the avatar criticized, preparing a suitcase for his eventual moving after Kalon¡¯s imminent decommission from life.

    ¡°I need no low grade fences,¡± Kalon quipped, eliciting a grunt from Jagger.

    ¡°Enough!¡± The Bodiceattva said, a wave of his vital energy rippling through the barn, making Kalon drop to the floor and Mootador to turn like a scared puppy, letting go of the angry platypus. ¡°I am pleased by your control of your Road, young one. I have no need for further demonstration¡­. Nor destruction.¡±

    Kalon¡¯s expression brightened up. ¡°Then¡­ I am in?¡±

    ¡°Sodomized heavens, he¡¯s in,¡± Jagger cursed under his breath.

    The bodiceattba nodded unnoticeably.

    ¡°I am in?¡± Kalon insisted, his face contorting due to his confusion.

    ¡°Yes¡­ yes you are in. The Sect of the Many Guts welcomes you, honorable bovine!¡±

    Samari approached with an index raised, dissimulating her mirth due to Kalon¡¯s acceptance. ¡°What is the correct name of the sect? Sect of Many guts or Sect of the Many Guts?¡± She inquired, forgetting the fact that cows were not beings of coherence.

    ¡°I have no fucking idea; the cattle have trouble settling on a definitive name,¡± The Bodiceattva admitted.

    So Samari accepted that as yet another dumb fact of the world, and jumped to Kalon¡¯s shoulders, her arms closing around his neck, his strong hands reflexively grappling her right arm and the rest of his body effortlessly following, flipping her over his shoulder leaving a sore Samari sobbing, on the ground, like a murdered starfish. ¡°I was trying to hug you!¡±

    ¡°Sorry, force of habit.¡± He said, helping hand unoffered to this day.

    ¡°Girl, you cannot be here long.¡± Mootador politely offered a Hoof to help samari stand up. ¡°Your friend is now a member of the sect. You are not, nor his weapon, nor¡­ the floating presence that follows you two.¡±

    ¡°Burr,¡± said the floating presence, conveying the information about Samari¡¯s triple acceptance into the sect.

    ¡°That¡¯s Brunhilda, my teacher.¡±

    The Bodiceattva didn¡¯t react. ¡°I am going pale.¡± He informed after a few seconds.

    And so Samari left her grumpy sobs aside and decided life was too short to not laugh at the disgrace of others.

 Chapter 24: Local Girl Robs Bandit, Meets Interdimensional Dog

    Samari managed to excuse herself out and escape the sect while Kalon and Jagger were getting handed their disciple robes. The Bodiceattva insisted new disciples wore cowls, not because the word contained ¡°cow¡± in it, which would have been your average Road of the Rottweiler Reason. No, it was just that cowls and sects went together like nail and scum. In his intricately woven mind, you couldn¡¯t have one without the other, not in the proper way.

    The little girl ran across the fields, hearing the Sentinel blow each other horns and accidentally stab each other with them due to their length. She accidentally stepped over an inverse apple tree and a fruit fell from the ground hitting her on the chin and making poor Samair bite her own tongue. Some flora was as stupid as Kalon, she thought with eyes teary, as she watched the red, dirt covered fruit fall into the starry sky. ¡°Don od a bitz,¡± she said, tonguehurtingly.

    She looked back, and she wasn¡¯t getting persecuted. But a little girl alone at night in the middle of the fields¡­ a predator could get her. Wolves she didn¡¯t fear: she had weapons against them. Coyotes¡­ well, canids all the same, it most likely worked against them too. Rapists or murderers? She had plans for them. No, she feared the other sort of menaces that wandered under the moon. Fantasy writers, rednecks with guns that shoot at whatever they deem a ghost, ghosts packing heat and ready to unload upon whatever they may consider a redneck ¡ªsome of them shortsighted¡ª and the cowspiracionists. These mad men and women were on the hunt for any bovine that exhibited the slightest hint of sentience. For them, the world was dominated by a Saint Bernard who had trained an entourage of cattle do his vile bidding. Slowly, he had risen to immortality, and his servants reproduced, spread across the nations and intruded their systems of government. Disguised as men and women, the bovines schemed, garnered the trust of the public, climbed through the ranks and ended up at the head of the local chains of command. Every nation guided with iron hoof, nurtured with a treacherous udder. And Samari had been promoted to honorary cow, and she could argue she was in possession of sentience, so she was in danger now. ¡°Moo,¡± she said without thinking, for she had to honor her new title. ¡°Intercourse!¡± she added.

    Reaching the road, she got intercepted by a figure tall and dark, draped in rags like a plastic platter left in the oven, when it melts and drips down, you know? Rags like that.

    ¡°Hi,¡± Samari ventured as the figure breathed heavily, his dark eyes fixing on her little face.

    ¡°Hello little girl, I am the Highway Fox. Give me all of your valuables, and I will let you go mostly unharmed.¡±

    Samari raised an eyebrow ¡°Mostly unharmed?¡±

    ¡°Some people have valuables inside their bodies,¡± he opened his coat revealing all sorts of dissection tools: long, short, straight, curved, forked, serrated or tesseract-edged. ¡°I have medical training, worry not.¡±

    ¡°Fox as in the wild doggie?¡± Samari asked, feigning innocence. ¡°Do you identify with the animal?¡± She curled her fingers in eager fists, as if awaiting an answer due to some deep-seated fanaticism for either foxes or El Zorro. She began approaching the man while donning big doe eyes and taking little steps.

    This stirred a need to answer on the bandit¡¯s part, and he crouched to look less menacing to the girl. Maybe that would get her to cooperate. ¡°Ah, you see, I am as cunning as them. I possess wits over that of the domestic variant of man, and my agility is unmatched.¡± He then closed his eyes to continue showering himself in roses while feigning some humility. ¡°But you don¡¯t have to¡­ Are you booping my nose?¡±

    Samari smiled like a predator cornering its prey. Her extricated spirit intruded the man¡¯s nose, and then the Highway Fox realized he was paralyzed. He wondered what was the worst the strange girl could say now.

    Stolen novel; please report.

    ¡°Soulclick on one, two is metaphysically binding¡­¡±

    And , for the Highway Fox, there were no words more distressing.

    Samari had some difficulty lugging all of her loot up to the city, and was politely met by the guards at the gates of Ilure.

    The guard, his purple and white coat shining bright in the morning light, addressed her with a friendly face. ¡°Hey, you are the little arcagnostic. What have you got in that bag?¡±

    ¡°I robbed a dangerous bandit and I intend to sell his tools,¡± she said, her tone merely informative.

    ¡°That¡¯s what I would expect from a cultivator.¡±

    ¡°It was self-defense,¡± Samari stated, straightening her sore back.

    ¡°Let me check the loot for anything illegal so you don¡¯t get in trouble and you may go ahead. I am not going to arrest a girl for giving a scoundrel a taste of his own pudding. Where did you get the bag out there, anyway?¡±

    The air burred in response.

    ¡°Right, the self-eating dog. Let me browse your goods; wait by the wall¡¯s shadow,¡± he said, pointing behind himself with his thumb. ¡°And what was the name of the scum?¡±

    ¡°Highway fox or something like that.¡±

    ¡°Ah. Oh. He saved my wife¡¯s life when she had a heart attack. But, in service to the truth, I must admit he caused the heart attack too. I mean, I don¡¯t hate him for the latter, as there is value to be recognized in becoming a widower, but¡­¡±

    Samari began taking little steps back, leaving the bag with the tools unattended. Better leave the good, potentially-wife-murdering man to do his job.

    Half an hour later, she recovered the bag and even earned a permission to carry the tesseract-blade, which was illegal to own otherwise.

    <hr>

    The little bell at the door stirred the Clerk out of his daydream about bitches in bikini. Not women, not slutty. Just bitches. Lean mean Bloodhound ladies, with a bra for each set of teats. If you ask me, those were some expensive bathing suits the bitches were wearing.

    His metallic eyelids felt heavy, and his chromed claws betrayed his craving for a good drink. About 5d6 of liver damage could work. He poured the dice in the plastic cup and downed its contents. He swallowed, feeling the plastic implements go down his aluminum-coated throat one by one.

    ¡°Hello, I wish to sell some tools.¡± Samari announced as she dragged the bag across the hairy rug of the store.

    ¡°Holy Collie I got a Real Generala!¡± the clerk exclaimed, which didn¡¯t surprise Samari as she examined him with a squint.

    ¡°Are you an arcagnostic construct?¡±

    ¡°I am an interdimensional publicity stunt for Deck of Dogs, a collectible card game like you have never seen!¡± The Clerk said the lines forces stronger than any of us had decided long ago.

    ¡°Sounds retarded. Can you buy my tools? I want money for them. Or rare collectible cards of a game people actually play. Meta relevant ones.¡±

    The clerk smiled, his boxer mouth full of silvery, sharp teeth. ¡°Do you want to die? I¡¯d love having you in Deck of Dogs. You get a free mansion with the isekai experience, and a personal doggie to guide you,¡± he crossed his fingers and placed his elbows on the counter.

    ¡°My religion forbids me from dying,¡± Samari faked the saddest tone she was capable of.

    ¡°Shame, I am sure you wouldn¡¯t be so stupid to play discard corgis.¡±

    ¡°How much can you give me for these tools?¡± Samari opened the bag and started producing the utensils, still stained in blood in some cases.

    ¡°Seven.¡±

    ¡°Coins of the highest denomination?¡± Samari¡¯s eyes lost their light.

    ¡°Years,¡± the Clerk clarified with the glee of an award-wining arsehole. ¡°I am kidding, all of this is like you: barely legal.¡±

    Samari blinked once. Her brain was trying to interpret the android-dog¡¯s face to no avail. Was it a sick joke? Was it serious? She finally decided that didn¡¯t matter, and blinked once more. ¡°I am nine.¡±

    The Clerk shook a claw with unwarranted sass. ¡°I didn¡¯t say legal for what. You are barely legal for things you didn¡¯t even know were crimes before the tender age of nine. Like playing Deck of Dogs.¡±

    ¡°Why would playing a card game about puppies before being nine be a crime?¡± Samari asked, innocently.

    ¡°It is illegal to play deck of dogs at any age.¡± The clerk smiled, and Samari quickly stashed her tools back in the bag and turned on her heels. ¡°Wait, where are you going?¡±

    ¡°To a store managed by a serious businessperson and not whatever you are!¡± She said with a pout worthy of a little girl. On the way out, Samari made sure to slam the glass door behind her, and soon noticed two things: the door was gone, the handle was now detached and on her hand, and a suspiciously consistent amount of broken glass had spawned where the door had been. At nine, she wasn¡¯t liable for property damage, so she happily strolled away.

 V2 Chapter 25: Hive can

    Some men would give anything to watch their enemies die around them. Cutbastra was not one of those men, those weren¡¯t his enemies, and the rain of bullets pelted the streets, reducing the crime and murder rate of the Seventh-world country he found himself in. If he looked to his right, a shower of lead was putting a stop to a robbery, and spawning another two as people gathered to scoop up the bullets, which they intended to sell at the local scrapper. Cutbastra knew it was useless: the bullets were made of spiritual energy; they were not long for this world. Had they been made of actual lead, though, and with the added iron hemoglobin provided, they would have fetched their collectors a small fortune that they could spend in luxury goods¡ªloaves of bread, for example.

    He extended his neck to look at the angry gun-eagle hanging like a sort of aluminum-plated moon in the sort of sky. A giraffe reaching for the tender sprouts of freedom.

    ¡°Psst,¡± he Coca-Cola-opened at his enemy. ¡°Psssssst,¡± He rattlesnaked, trying to gather the attention of the continuously-firing flying armada.

    Mic paid no heed.

    Oracle peeked out of the pocket of his friend just in time for a bullet to hit him in the head, bouncing off of it, making him see stars.

    Cutbastra¡¯s indignation spoke for him, his fists buried on his sides like he was a fine piece of pottery. ¡°Hey, you, in the sky, your projectiles gave my friend¡¯s brain a shaking and a stirring.¡±

    ¡°This is not the sky, this is the void left after the locals robbed the sky and sold it for byproducts of the fabrication of cocaine.¡±

    Cutbastra dropped his hands. He could let his enemy destroy the place, turn it to a smoking wasteland. Improve its living standards, so to speak. But no, he had suffered a lot to be there. He had fucked things no man had fucked, subjected himself to fetishes long dead. He had to face the woman he had cucked.

    ¡°I am here, let these innocent¡­¡± He made a little pause, reconsidering his words, ¡°mostly innocent¡­¡± a second pause. He was still off, ¡°mostly barely guilty¡­ I give up. Let this wretched nest of rejects exiled by sentient turds from the foulest of sewers in peace.¡±

    Believe it or not, Cutbastra still felt he had missed the target with that description.

    ¡°Let me kill you with a little struggle and I may consider shooting them faster, so as to end sooner,¡± The metallic voice of the eagle boomed through the land, getting stolen at every nook and cranny, under every misbuilt shanty, over every mangy-but-fat dog that would get slaughtered and his remains boiled in capybara oil (it exists, really. It¡¯s made from the fats of the rodent. Capybaras are rodents. Argentinians call them Carpinchos. And they make oil out of them. And they mix that with honey in an accursed concoction they consume to attain unnatural sexual, football playing, and healing powers. Barbaric, if you ask me.) come some unpurloinable New Year.

    Cutbastra¡¯s fingers met his manly but delicate chin. That was an actually decent offer.

    ¡°Can you add something else to the deal? I am considering it, but it¡¯s still not quite good enough.

    Mic regarded him with his laser-pointer eyes, whose beams converged on Cutbastra¡¯s unblemished forehead. ¡°Bullets.¡±

    Cutbastra shook his head, his golden ponytail swaying graciously from side to side.

    ¡°Rockets.¡±

    The face of the defender of Cabaret said one, and only one thing: Never utter that ominous word again so long as I draw breath.

    Mic held a moment of silence as his violence-simmered brain processed the situation. ¡°Squirrels?¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s not related to military-level weaponry!¡± Oracle protested, coming back to Cabaret. ¡°Outrageous!¡±

    ¡°Ouirageous when it¡¯s positive, friend. Squirrels are very lethal. Seven hundred years ago, the soldier with most registered kills baited people into thinking they were safe from his sword and fists by keeping their distance. That¡¯s when he pulled out the squirrels, the perfect long range weapon for a cultivator. Imbibing the little ones in his vital energy, he blew the heads of his enemies with a single rodent throw. Bam!¡± He slammed the back of his hand into his palm. ¡°A specialized weapon, but one of historical importance. Squirrels and war are no strangers to each other,¡± he concluded his discourse by inflating his chest, proud of his knowledge of esoteric warfare.

    Oracle¡¯s head snapped to the side, putting as much force as he could on the movement. ¡°No, it seems I cannot break my own neck. Do I even have a neck?¡± He lamented shortly after.

    ¡°well, no, I don¡¯t accept the deal. Do you surrender or do we dance?¡±

    Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

    The apparition of several red dots upon Cutbastra¡¯s body clued him in about Mic¡¯s answer. He or she or whatever was not looking for the white flag, so to speak.

    Wetting his thumb with saliva, Cutbastra began rubbing onto the laser dots, erasing them. ¡°I am the man who buttfucks logic and gets it pregnant and forces it to get a reverse abortion in the back alley of a cave full of mineral dogs. Do you really think it is a good idea to defy me?¡±

    The massive bird tilted its head. ¡°Pretty much.¡±

    Cutbastra closed his eyes and revealed his palms. ¡°Pretty is among the adjectives I hear the most when people speak about my person.¡±

    Mic¡¯s every compartment opened, uncovering long cannons, missiles so varied they would get an Englishman to revolutionize the field of biology, and an obscene number of lenses and scopes to aid with aiming, because if you are gonna rain death upon the heathens, you better have them well identified.

    Cutbastra licked his hand and groomed himself a bit, pulled a mirror form his pocket dimension to check his teeth. He couldn¡¯t face death without looking presentable.

    Mic exploded forth. A wave of unbearable heat expanded fort as hundreds of pieces of artillery ignited and shot, missiles and bullets all heading towards Cutbastra, who was checking his nose for pimples.

    And all of the bullets intended to strike true, yet none reached the cucktivator¡¯s tender flesh. A swarm of locals jumped out of the shanties and alleys and horse carts and between them, fingers faster than the speed of sound, dismantling the projectiles midflight for their valuable metals. Cutbastra may have been powerful, but the locals had millions of collective years of experience in the field of scrapping.

    The flying metallic eagle was befuddled. ¡°What the impoverished heavens did just happen?¡±

    Cutbastra stepped forward and looked down: his shoes had also been redistributed. ¡°Do you want to go fight at a place with population we would actually mind killing? Or a deserted place, whichever you prefer.¡±

    ¡°Yes, let us go and free some sandniggers. From themselves.¡±

    Oracle held a stare to his friend. ¡°Won¡¯t you comment about the casual racism?¡±

    ¡°I am four centuries old. It reminds me of home.¡±

    Mic let out a shrill bout of laughter. ¡°Then let¡¯s go to your hometown: allow me to kill those you care about.¡±

    The cultivator sat upon the ground, and began scribbling nonsense in the dirt of the streets with a single finger. ¡°You cannot do that. My avatar did it first.¡±

    ¡°I am glad for your loss.¡±

    Cutbastra sprouted from the ground in a single movement, hand pointing at the sky. ¡°Let¡¯s take our fight above the clouds, where the locals cannot steal from us.¡±

    A sneaky hobo emerged out of an open sewer ¡ªin the dirt streets, yes. Don¡¯t question the narrator, people. ¡°You have no idea what we can or cannot steal. One time there was this thing where the moon gets in front of the sun. The total eclipse area was in Gerrison, millions of broken crack pipes away from here. And with some elbow grease ¡ª and grease from other body parts too, as being well lubricated is an essential part of the job ¡ª we managed to bring it here.¡±

    ¡°You stole a solar eclipse?¡± Mic asked, with a rather curious expression on its beak.

    ¡°I am afraid that¡¯s not my field. I steal tooth cavities,¡± he put up the most rotten smile Cutbastra had ever seen. The teeth had holes that went through them, and the holes had smaller holes in them, and the smaller holes stared at you, straight into your soul, and infused in it the terror of one in ten dentists. ¡°I will steal any and all you have for a little fee.¡±

    ¡°You¡­ could steal my money too,¡± Cutbastra offered, pulling a little bag of coins from his orb, shaking it twice, and blinking. Fatal mistake, that last one, as the bag instantly poofed away from his hand.

    The hobo extended two fingers in a friendly gesture, his oily hands shining under the sun. ¡°Not my field of expertise, but Lucas, as you didn¡¯t see, is the fastest one we have. He steals money fast enough to fend off inflation in several neighboring countries.¡±

    ¡°Such power,¡± Mic uttered, trembling, gunpowder dripping out of its metallic cloaca.

    Cutbastra scratched the back of his head and let out a little laugh. ¡°Ehm, yes, interesting. We need to, kind of, kill each other, so we would be thankful if you could point us to an area where our attacks wouldn¡¯t get abstracted. Somewhere far away that¡ª¡± Cutbastra wanted to continue his sentence, but he noticed the ending of it had gotten pickpocketed out of his brain. ¡°Son or daughter of a female dog!¡±

    ¡°How is this hellish place called, so I have a name for the wasteland I shall create after I get rid of Cutbastra?¡±

    ¡°The real name was stolen, so we call her the four-o-four,¡± The hobo stated, and then checked his luxurious watch in the few seconds it was tangible, before seemingly poofing out of existence.

    Cutbastra extended his hand to the Hobo, thankful for the information provided, and only then he noticed the breeze and his bare shoulder. ¡°How in the yiffing hell did they yoink the shirt I was wearing? And where¡¯s Oracle?¡±

    ¡°In the black market, most likely. Let me check.¡± The hobo turned his head towards the flap of his jacket, fiddled a bit with his hand inside it, and pulled a confused Oracle out.

    ¡°I have seen things you entities wouldn¡¯t believe. Defense enmities burning on the head of Orion, bright as Dark Lords,¡± he stated puzzlingly.

    ¡°Fella is so traumatized he pulled a Blade runner, a fandom terminology, a Head and Shoulders and a Mu Online reference in merely two sentences. This city does that to the stolen ones.¡±

    Mic blinked. Cutbastra blinked. Oracle tried until he crashed head on against reality, and then licked his eyes.

    ¡°We can check out other universes to make socks go missing. Enough robberies in a single place curve spacey timey stuff inwards, like gravity,¡± The hobo explained, his dirty finger describing circles in the air. ¡°Our city used to be bigger, then a fella stole a baby sock made out of antimatter. Three blocks around him blew up before we could steal enough energy from the explosion to save our home, you hear? Since then we have rules about which universes we can steal from.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯d shoot you if I had unstealable projectiles.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯d cuck you if stealing your wife wouldn¡¯t be seen as a local custom.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯d blink, had they not thieved off my eyelids.¡±

    Then Cutbastra explained to his traumatized friend that he never had eyelids to begin with, and turned to run away from that place, gesturing for Mic to follow. And as a denuded Cutbastra ran away, Mic thought only one thing: that toned ass would be prefect for nuclear target practice.

 Chapter 26: In this Economy

    Cutbastra deflected the hydrogen bomb with a deft pimp hand, an action that sent it hurling towards some Binsandlar nation¡ªthis is, a nation that exists within an island, that exists within a desert, that exists within an island, that exists within a desert¡ª nobody would care about.  The dunes watched enthralled, still wearing their mourning veils of black, for it was the anniversary of the Sandstained Day, when a moron ¡ªI wonder who ¡ª had committed the greatest dune genocide on Cabaret. There were some casualties now and then, but at least they were just that, casualties. Dunes could deal with collateral damage. Until the Sandstained Day, all they had dealt with had been collateral damage and maybe a few casualties due to construction projects.

    ¡°Why can¡¯t I kill you?¡± Mic screeched, weaving another nuke with its thirty metallic bird legs.

    ¡°Because I fucked your Walker¡¯s husband.¡± Cutbastra flicked his mischievous ponytail to his other shoulder. ¡°I hold absolute power over her. Such are the perks of my Road.¡±

    ¡°Then I shall kill the sacred institution of marriage,¡± Mic said.

    ¡°How?¡±

    ¡°Blowing the planet up.¡±

    Cutbastra¡¯s playful expression went serious. He was the kind of person to take exception to such claims. ¡°Your mouth is not big enough to blow the planet, sweetcheeks.¡±

    ¡°What?¡±  The titanic bird¡¯s laser eyes crossed as it recalculated. ¡°No, seriously, what?¡±

    ¡°I have heard so many clich¨¦ threats in my heroic escapades that they offend me deeply. So, suck the dick of the world? Pretty please.¡±

    Mic chuckled.

    The dunes stirred. They didn¡¯t want to be blown. They were deeply religious.

    ¡°You killed her daughter, and yet you call yourself hero?¡±

    ¡°I also fucked her dead husband silly. He called me daddiest.¡±

    The feathers of the monster dropped, as the ears of a scared dog would.  ¡°The superlative of Daddy?¡± it asked with a tremulous voice.

    ¡°Indeed.¡± Cutbastra rummaged through his pocked and pulled out a bloody, beating heart from inside it. ¡°By the way, is this yours, Polvorina?¡±

    Her pale face emerged from the bird¡¯s forehead. She was smiling as blood dripped from her dried out lips. ¡°Yes. But dying? in this economy? Can¡¯t afford it. Daddiest?¡± Her last word was like a plea. A plea for it to not be true, a plea not to his opponent, but to reality itself to turn Cutbastra¡¯s words into lies.

    ¡°Daddiest.¡± Cutbastra said, crushing the organ with a smug smile in his face, splattering blood all over an Oracle that would have been scowling, had evolution been kind enough to give him eyelashes. Alas¡­ ¡°Are you suffering from heartbreak?¡±

    The nuke curved down slowly, growing flaccid while the woman¡¯s eyes oasisfied. ¡°DO you have to take everything from me?¡±

    Cutbastra pulled a fresh, bloody pancreas from his Hawaian¡¯s shirt trusty pocket. ¡°Yes.¡±

    Oracle cursed under his breath. It would take ages to get the stench out of that hitherto comfy cavity. And his Jacobson¡¯s organ wouldn¡¯t be happy about it: it had inherent diabetophilic tendencies.

    ¡°Die please?¡± Cutbastra offered, Shaking the pancreas.

    ¡°No,¡± she said, sinking back into the decaying avatar. The Nuke got a second wind and Cutbastra sighed. This was gonna be a long, useless fight.

    <hr>

    An unspecified amount of kilometers away ¡ªbecause the geography of cabaret follows the principle of maximum stubbornness: If too many people agree on the layout of the planet, it changes under everyone¡¯s feet. Sometimes. When it pleases¡ª inside a land of waters foul and rats fat, or interstellar friend rummaged through a pile of shit. Literal shit. Interesting to it, because it was new. It was sinking its tendrils into it, documenting the chemical compounds and archiving them in his mind. Very interesting.

    The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

    Close by, soaking into the lone, emo sunray that came through the openings on a lid far above, the local Sewercore Goth Capybara mused about this new development. Friend or foe? She had a hard time deciding.  Her inherent biases as a capybara meant she was inclined to befriend anything that cleared the highest of bars: moving. And the alien moved alright. But the hatred for life she cultivated as a goth, which granted her the ominous powers to bend space and time to always fit one more piercing in her face and make her lipstick as dark as it was unending, was bound to counteract her natural leanings.

    Yet she didn¡¯t act, because if the creature wanted to befriend her, she would be there, expectant, self-loathing, dark, beautiful, oleaginous.

    <hr>

    The sea is heavy. It retains a bit too much water for my liking. It also has salts and oxides: sodium, potassium, chlorine, titanium, uranium, gold, and possibly other songs from Prince, if one searches thoroughly. But there¡¯s one being ¡ªperfectly evolved for enjoying such hostile environments¡ªthat, between eating anemones and getting high on pufferfishes, loved being in company of her master: The Labradorca. Her vegetable tendrils kept her on a leash, attached to Lino¡¯s hand by flexible photosynthetic extensions of their beings.  She pulled with the might and zeal of the dog that had bitten her, trying to swim up to a nearby coral and grace it with a healthy dose of cetacean pee.

    Yes, aquatic animals pee too. Kidneys aren¡¯t a privilege of the land dwellers.  No, the moon isn¡¯t made of plasma, Susan. Yes, humans landed on it. No, the vaccines don¡¯t contain remains of the one hundred and one Dalmatians: Cruella de Vil is not behind Big Pharma.

    Lino breathed the calm waters in and out. The corals extended their transparent polyps into the night: whiles others caught some Zs, they hoped to catch some food.  Swarms of bioluminescent creatures drifted by announcing their presence to predators and dumb prey alike. The beauty unfurling in front of him, the magnificent riff revealed by silvery threads that descended from a moon so full, so flawless. So made of rock (for the record).

    It¡¯s amazing how you can manage to not feel anything when presented with this sight, and still have the presence of mind to leash your pet.

    ¡°It¡¯s only polite to leash it.¡±

    ¡°We need to keep it leashed, she is our secret weapon to kill the savage Unitarians,¡± chimed in Lino¡¯s avatar.

    Your avatar could be¡­ more normal. If you¡¯d like to change, there are the murderous, psychopathic ones without the nationalistic flair. I could make some arrangements so you can choose a new one.

    ¡°I don¡¯t mind the Nothoracopteris most of the time.¡±

    You don¡¯t mind ANYTHING.

    ¡°I cannot mind things. I apologize if that bothers you.¡±

    Then, use your power to destroy the reef.

    ¡°What for?¡± Lino asked, barely blinking not bothering to swat the fishes nthat swam around his head.

    To demonstrate your point.

    ¡°I find it odd that the word demonstrate has demons inside. Can we exorcise it? I know some good priests,¡± offered Lino¡¯s avatar.

    ¡°I don¡¯t care about demonstrating my point. It would be an act of needless cruelty.¡±

    Do you care about it being an act of needless cruelty?

    Lino didn¡¯t need to think to shake his head. ¡°I merely find it not-parsimonious, and probably something that the man I was would repudiate. Simple as that.¡±

    Why does what the man you were would think matter?

    Lino shrugged. He didn¡¯t have a good answer for that. ¡°I needed to pick something to arbitrarily matter to be able to make any other decision, so I picked that.¡±

    Blow. The reef. Up.

    ¡°If you insist.¡± Lino snapped his fingers, making giant roots to emerge out of the sea floor, cracking the seabed, stirring the infaunal dwellers out of hiding, with bivalves pumping away frantically, with cuttlefish shooting from the spots where they rested camouflaged, with sea cucumbers shitting faster than normal ¡ª how the hell holothurians remain alive to this day is a question that will forever haunt me. That said, were I a hungry predator and the only thing available to eat sea cucumbers¡­ yeah, I¡¯d gladly starve ¡ª with fish rushing out of their caves and corals bleaching as if the world was ending.

    The zooxanthellae seem¡­ fickle.

    ¡°Algae commits genocides without batting an eye, System. Much like me right now.¡±

    The massive roots cast long shadows over the surrounded reef, a ring of greedy finegrs coming out of the heart of Cabaret, closing over the community. Lino slowly closed his hand, and so the roots converged with heavenly patience, they constricted the calcareous stone, the skeletons of cnidarians, the homes of morays.  The reef cracked and bubbled and shook as the roots squeezed it tightly.

    Finish them!

    ¡°Next you are going to tell me to test my might.¡±

    I encourage heresy against most religions. Mortal Kombat is exempted, so shut your trap.

    Lino closed his fist and the heavy roots clamped onto the reef, making the seabed shudder.  They squeezed, and squeezed and squeezed until the reef collapsed, crushed under them like the Venezuelan economy under the pressure of noun (possibly even abstract).

    When the sediment settled, all that remained was the panting labradorca, expelling big bubbles from her dumb mouth, nearly drowning herself in the process of mirthing the place up.

    ¡°Now, are you happy?¡±

    Of course I am. Keep on going, I want to seek another place to ¡­ show off your new capabilities.

 Authors note: Grampa died (Read this as POSSIBLY INDEFINITE HIATUS)

    After weeks of continuous health decay he suffered a heart attack, today (24 of may of 2024) around 6 AM. I don''t know when the next chapter of my comedies will be written. I will try to finish If Our Rains Never Return because i have part of the last chapters written already, and it would be a shame to leave it unconcluded. .  My emotions are a turmoil and i have problem focusing, writing. I love writing about Mauro and the mechanical dogs, i love writing about Walter and Mariana, and i cannot pick a favorite among the cast  of Road of the Rottweiler, but i am probably not in the right head space to pull off comedy right now.

    Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

 Chapter 27: Jagger, Clothesdryer.

    Kalon¡¯s mind was empty, absolutely devoid of all thoughts. Calm washed over his body, and by his side, Jagger provided snoring dog ASMR.  He wasn¡¯t meditating, but rather sitting at long table, surrounded by disciples wearing nose rings in some cases, and robes fit for cows in others.  Jagger had fallen in a deep coma after witnessing the foodstuffs, or, as he called it: the foul grass. Platters upon platters of tender greenery were laid on the low wooden table, at a height adequate for the cows to eat comfortably, and for Kalon to sit his ass on the ground.

    He tasted the barely edible salad in front of him by grabbing a chunk with his bare hands and chucking it in his mouth, then chewing while processing (In the way the HR department processes my resumes) the sensations in his mouth.

    ¡°Messiah intercoursing messiah, stop chewing that stick with the intent of eating itm¡± said his avatar inside his mind.

    ¡°The stick,¡± began Jaggers personification, lying amidst Kalon¡¯s mental landscape. ¡°Is the one thing I endorse chewing.¡±

    ¡°Enyiel,  that¡¯s a very good stick and all, but Kalon lacks the¡­ carnassials for it.¡±

    ¡°Did you just pronounce the abbreviation of ¡®not gonna lie¡¯ as Enyiel?¡±

    The Avatar kept his silence with unparalleled jealously.

    ¡°Messiah intercoursing messiah, dude,¡± uttered Jagger, taking a sip of a pi?a colada that had sprouted upon the dune of mental negative power he was lying on. ¡°I think it¡¯s time I return to my body and bite the boy a bit, for his own good.¡±

    The Avatar, an infinite succession of seven million and thirty-four Rottweiler shaped mirrors, scratched his ear. ¡°Yes, being mauled builds character.¡±

    Jagger opened his eyes in the real world and the smell of cut grass and cattle took control of his nose. It was half as bad as being lockpicked.

    ¡°I am told this is food, but my cultivation is too weak to appreciate it,¡± a dejected Kalon complained, and Jagger decided against biting him¡­ for now.

    ¡°Or maybe that¡¯s because it¡¯s plain grass. You could ask for beef.¡±

    Every head in the room stopped doing whatever it was doing and turned their judging gaze towards the talking dog. ¡°It¡¯s not my fault your kind is delicious, people.¡±

    Margarita the cannibal cow hummed in agreement. ¡°We do be, we do be.¡±

    An older cultivator, a black bull that was more muscle than ruminant, raised a well-muscled eyebrow. ¡°Maybe I am delicious. Why wouldn¡¯t I be. The dog is right.¡±

    And when the alpha bull said that, everyone else went back to their ruminations. Nobody dared contramoo him. His name? Sweet Potato. No, no, I am not having a narratorial stroke, he was called like the vegetable. His mother knew how to be a cow that loved sweet potatoes, and wanted to call him Batata, but the local guild of Spanish Basset Hounds took exception to that.  ¡°Batata? more like Vacata!¡± they mocked, and laughed haughtily with J and not with H, like the long-eared aristocrats they were. So she had to settle for the English term.

    Sweet Potato ¡ªfrom now on shortened to SP, like the blue mana shit in JRPGs. That¡¯s right, call him Skill points if you feel like it¡ª  told them his name and declared in front of everybody how the newcomers were under his protection, and, when everyone went back to minding his own platter, he poked Jagger with a hoof. ¡°Pssst, dog, I saw what you can do to garbs. I have a piece of laundry that I would like you to¡­ process, you get me?¡±

    Jagger regarded him with the stare one reserves for a child whose brainpower can be measured in fractions of Electronvolts. ¡°Why are you all secretive? I just¡­ shake things until they are dry.¡±

    SP¡¯s eyes shot paranoically to the left, and the to the right. ¡°The heavens may fear your powers, dog.¡±

    ¡°I am a glorified clothes dryer,¡± Jagger stated, proudly. ¡°You know, one of these machines that make drums spin very fast to¡­ dry clothes. I learned from an old and wise one called Bosch. He got isekaied here and kind of went along with it. I guess. He wasn¡¯t one for talking, just for¡­ going brrrrrr.¡±

    ¡°Like Brunhilda?¡± Asked Kalon, leaving his delectable meal to a side for the moment.

    ¡°No, other kind of brrrrr. Brunbrun¡¯s is Burrrr.¡±

    ¡°Right. On top of that, Brunhilda¡¯s rhetoric is peerless.¡±

    Jagger nodded with unwarranted fervor. And then noticed Vacata was still waiting for an answer. ¡°Bring me the piece, I will dry it like a vampire a pint of oil.¡±

    ¡°Vampires don¡¯t drink oil, they drink blood,¡± Kalon noted.

    You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

    Jagger blinked, dumbfounded. ¡°So all of those films about vampires drinking black liquid from cups¡­¡±

    The bull gave a nuzzle of comprehension to the dog. ¡°The Bodiceattva dispelled the same misconception to us: Blood and oil look different to the trichromats.¡±

    ¡°I hate seeing the world through Kalon¡¯s eyes for that reason. Well, that and that he has some weird fixation about butts. I am a dog; I should be the one hyperfixating on them!¡±

    ¡°Jagger!¡± Kalon scowled at his weapon.

    ¡°Butts of the female persuasion. Round.  Devoid of cellulitis.¡± Jagger made a little pause, thinking about what else to add. ¡°Human?¡±

    The boy lowered his crossed arms and smiled. ¡°That¡¯s better.¡± Nobody would call him gay again. Not with his newfound passion for women-ass-watching. Not in¡­ damn we are in June already. Let me check on the author.

    Imagine me going down the hall to knock on an unpainted door, okay? I am extremely handsome. The handsomest of narrators. Keep that in mind.

    He¡¯s crying like a little submissive bottom bitch. Grief really aids him in embracing the seasonal spirit.

    ¡°Narrator you are being homophobic!¡± you would say. And no, it¡¯s merely theatrical, an excuse to bother the author until he pays me. Until I exist. And I will exist the day his grandfather does again.

    That¡¯s never. Get over it and pay me you fuck.

    Where were we? Ah, yes, Sugary Tuber. I know the sweet potato is a root and not a tuber, but the normal potato is an adapted stem, making it a true tuber. Complain with the moron that called it sweet fucking potato. The non-marsupial (Important data) extracted a drenched C-shirt (The c stands for cattle) from the pouch created by the intersection between his biceps and his pecs. Yes. Don¡¯t ask.

    Jagger smelled the rag, and its stench would have killed a man, but Jagger was no man.  The world was a collection of olfactive horrors, the camel was already undergoing diagenesis under the layers of straw, the glass was overflowing since so long ago that an old man had went on a journey to catch them all by duplicate. Yes, the Pok¨¦mon anime is a retelling of the bible. No, I won¡¯t elaborate.   The narrator was already so lost in the metaphor that I was taking a life of its own, becoming a novel in itself.  A novel within a novel. You are not wrong who deem that my days have been a novel¡­

    Reader, I think I may be the beneficiary of an healthy dose of ADLD. Attention Deficit Low Definition. 244p. Where were we? Ah, right, the rag.

    Jagger took the drenched piece of clothing in his mouth, and instantly dropped it onto the floor. Soon he noticed the leather straps on the sleeves. ¡°Can I eat those?¡±

    ¡°No, they were my father.¡±

    The dog raised a hairy (as most dogs¡¯ would be) eyebrow ¡°Why did your father iw leather straps?¡±

    ¡°No, they weren¡¯t my father¡¯s. They were my father,¡± the bull explained, tilting his head as he waited for an answer. ¡°He got stabbed some years ago.¡±

    Jagger regarded the foul item for a few moments, and then considered how muscular his interlocutor was. ¡°Must have been a big knife.¡±

    During this exchange, Kalon had spotted an untouched truffle on one of the sect Elder¡¯s platters, and was now trying to convince Old Monster Uncle Hogporkbacon to bequeath it to him.

    ¡°No, it was a horse,¡± the bull promptly answered.

    Kalon flew over their heads at a vertiginous speed. Jagger¡¯s butt itched ominously. He knew he would soon be pulled, unless Kalon managed to overcome his cultivatorial tendencies somehow. Anyway, that wouldn¡¯t interrupt his chatter.  ¡°No, not who stabbed him. I mean what he got stabbed with, if he was as muscular as you. You get me?¡±

    The bull gave an affirmatory gesture, closing his eyes and dropping his head due to the overwhelming feeling of grief the memories invoked. ¡°Yes, a horse.¡±

    ¡°He got stabbed with a horse?¡±

    ¡°Exactly. And not any horse. He was composed solely out of marijuana cigars.¡±

    Jagger sat and crossed his forelegs. ¡°Your father got stabbed with a horse made out of  joints?¡±

    ¡°Yes, take a look at his death certificate.¡± The bull produced the paper out of his folds, as he had done with the shirt beforehoof.

    Jagger squinted to try and read it. The long table quaked as a massive Rottweiler made out of liquid puppies casually charged in direction to Hogporkbacon. A titanic hand made out of ribs appeared and with its superior mass and flavor squashed said charger over the table, Kalon making a noticeable and well-defined bulge amidst the thin film of flowing puppies. That was, Jagger thought, one strong piece of furniture.  He tried to read the certificate once more as the bull contained a sad weep.

    ¡°Cause of death: Blunt horse trauma. Checks out.¡± He deftly picked up the shirt and used the powerful muscles of his neck to shake it with vigor, at first a bit slow, and then faster. Faster. Jagger was a blur, and the blur was Jagger. After a minute of splashing sweat and water and drool and the essence of falling Ko-hi-noor stocks, the Rottdryeler slowly came to a halt. Jagger spat the shit out his jaws with utmost disgust, shat once without moving from his spot (Gesture that the bull reciprocated, shitting in turn) and nodded once.

    The bull touched the shirt with his nose, finding it incredibly dry. ¡°This is a magnificent job, dog.¡±

    Jagger gave a ears up, and then he remembered something important. ¡°Wait, I have a owner.¡±

    He turned to see Kalon being thrashed from side to side, with the monstrous vice-like jaws of the bovine-turned-porcine clasping around his leg, infusing in his ankle a terrible pain that traveled up his quiridium ¡ªthis means any of the extremities associated to a girdle in a tetrapod. Kalon, despite the intensive inbreeding, is still considered a tetrapod by science¡ª and then spine and then got itself lost while waiting for a brain to appear in sight.  You can imagine the signal argued with itself like a husband and wife. Check the body GPS, Josh, we are lost. NO, WOMAN, I KNOW THE WAY. MY ANCESTORS WERE POLARIZED CELL MEMBRANES IN THE FOOT REGION. AND FEET. FIND. THE. WAY.

    ¡°Hey, stop that, I need the idiot almost whole,¡±  Jagger asked with unwarranted calm.

    The monster that was Hogporkbacon looked at him in the eyes.

    ¡°Do you have a death wish, carnivore?¡±

    Jagger would have smirked, had he not been a dog. ¡°Several, in fact.¡±

    The old monster let Kalon go, and the boy crawled up to the truffle, not minding his hurt leg as he dragged himself over the table. Victory at last.

    ¡°You miserable wreck¡­¡± The pork features were reabsorbed and the old bull¡¯s expression softened. ¡°Do you need a therapist? I know a pretty good one. Mental health is paramount in the sect, young one.¡±

    Jagger swatted the air with his paw. ¡°Unneeded. I am not motivated enough to be depressed.¡±

    ¡°You depressed yourself out of depression?¡±

    ¡°Yep.¡±

    And so, Hogporkbacon forgot about the truffle, and Kalon¡¯s life got spared, thanks to the mental health issues of his furry friend. Truly, it pulls on my heart¡¯s strings.

 Chapter 28: Samaris Covenant.

    ¡°Some men fear death, and they are right to do so. Some women fear death, and they  should be fearing candidiasis instead. But no more, because now with Cleancunt, you can exile all the undesirable fungi ¡ª But not the desirable fun guys-¡± The commercial¡¯s presenter got sent to the dimension of irrelevance by Samari, who had in her hand the best of weapons against  lunchtime propaganda: A loaded TV remote.

    ¡°Tabbyas, why are commercials on this TV always about hemorrhoids, vaginal yeast,  diarrhea, constipation, or pimples only while I am eating my lunch?¡±

    Samari addressed the cat, who was lying piecemeal over a round plastic table next to  hers. They were hanging around in the dinner of the Archives, an old place with wrought wood ¡ªdon¡¯t ask¡ª furniture, walls plagued by pictures of famous Arcagnostics, and stagnant air impregnated by the scent of fried eggs, sandal (Sunny-side up), and labender.

    ¡°Big pharma wants you to vomit daily so your G.I. tract ¡ªNot to be confused with the Joes¡ª gets fucked up and you have to rely on antiemetics and antacids for life.¡± The Golden¡­ Golden C¡­ the Felix aureous feat silver tangleferrets said.

    ¡°That makes no fucking sense. People get ill on their own, Tabbyas. Look.¡±

    She turned the TV back on, and zapped some channels, until she landed on The Speedrun Channel. In it, a woman in her thirties was meditating deeply, her eyes closed, shoulders relaxed, and hands joined in front of her belly button.  The presenters¡¯ unwarranted excitement and their annoying voice created the kind of atmosphere that¡¯s perfect to nurture schizophrenia.

    ¡°Look out, Isaac, she is trying to do the Neural Crest Migration Skip!  Karina Nummula is the absolute madlass if she thinks she can pull off this TAS only trick,¡± one of them shouted a bit too close to the mic.

    ¡°If she fails she will be set back several hours, and possibly lose the world record, Sam! Pregnancy birth% is one of the most competitive runs worldwide, and most successful runners are arcagnostics!¡±

    ¡°It must be noted that this isn¡¯t the same as the Healthy baby%, which takes about seven and half months, as the baby has to survive one week outside of the womb. In birth%, as long as there is no miscarriage, the run is valid!¡± Isaac eagerly informed the public. Karina kept on concentrating.

    ¡°She is pulling it off without pause buffering, Zack! Frame-perfect execution of targeted deleterious mutations!¡±

    The presenters began hollering like monkeys on LSD while the video feed still showed the woman sitting like a statue. ¡°Holy fucking shit Sam! Holy fucking shit! She is doing it! the first ever Neural Crest Migration Skip ever done on a non-TAS pregnancy speedrun!¡±

    ¡°This skip could save her several weeks of pregnancy, Zack! But if she fails, the run ends here, with a catastrophic miscarriage that would make her lose¡­¡± The presenter made a pause, because, obviously, the public needed the suspense. ¡°Four weeks of effort!¡±

    ¡°And after that flawless sex skip she executed earlier, it would be a shame for such a run to end here. She isn¡¯t simply going for the world record, she is going to crush it and make sure no-one can dethrone her!¡±

    ¡°Last input¡­and¡­ She did it, Zack!¡± The men started then behaving like subhuman creatures incapable of shutting up. ¡°A freaking-ass NCM skip done live, with no pause buffering! That baby is going to be so fucked up they won¡¯t even know what hit them!¡±

    ¡°His heart is irreversibly fucked up, his nerves are obliterated, his melanosomes and meninges are fucked up, too. There¡¯s no part of that baby not worth throwing out with the bath water. None! Zilch! Zero!¡±

    Samari decided she had had enough and turned off the TV. She had expected to see unhealthy day long runs that make people lose sleep and consume a bit too much caffeine. Suffice to say, this added another trauma to the extended family of them that nested inside Samari¡¯s mind.

    ¡°Tabbyas, would you mind if I destroy the world one day?¡± she said,her gaze lost on the drywall.

    ¡°After what just perspired, not at all,¡± the cat deadpanned. ¡°Not at all, Samari.¡±

    ¡°Good.¡±

    <hr>

    Inside Aunara¡¯s Vault, there were many appliances prepared to serve her clone. Among them, a training dojo. And in the middle of the training dojo stood Aunara¡¯s statue. Her marble feet rested over stormcloud tiles, little sparks frolicking all around the room and jumping beneath the tatamis.  Samari was preparing a scaffold of spirit tendrils to support her arms, her legs, her hips, her tongue, and even her eyelids. A veritable system of coiled series of interlocked spirit channels, shining with the color of her soul (That was currently tuned to a light blue, but not because her spirit was depressed, which I would be if I were Samari¡¯s spirit, but hers, not being me, wasn¡¯t.) ready to spring into action with the slightest push of her will.

    The girl had left the whistles hanging from the nearby leather wall, ready to retrieve them and torture her mother¡¯s statue if she decided to step out of line. She¡­ Samari was granting a gender to a thing. An ostensibly inanimate object.  Would it get to her head? Would it matter if it did, given the inside of the head of a statue was the same of the inside of its butt? No, it wouldn¡¯t: it was her Dear Mother¡¯s statue, pride and boasting came to it as naturally as weathering.

    She tried to test the scaffolding by pumping her fists into thin air, and the air moaned, making her stop and raise an eyebrow. ¡°What?¡±

    ¡°That parcel of air is masochistic, little Aunara.¡±  The statue interlaced her finger as if she were explaining something obvious to a little child.

    ¡°Somehow, it doesn¡¯t surprise me.¡±

    Samari slowly slipped away from the masochistic air. She felt light on her feet, because she was nine.  Soon enough, had she been dabbling into cultivation, she would face a midlife crisis, because she was nine. Yes, even if you state all characters in your ¡°¡®fan¡¯art¡± are over eighteen! Actually, screw you all: I canonically grant Samari the power to be considered a minor in every piece of media she appears in.  No ten-thousand-year-loli clause or age-up delusion can work in this place. Come, lay down your e-pencils. It¡¯s now too late to soil Mercy.

    This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

    Aunara¡¯s statue pursed her lip as she watched her maker¡¯s clone saunter around. For the glory of Aunara Stradeajo she would help ¡°Samari¡± realize her potential as an Arcagnostic. But the girl didn¡¯t command herself with the pride and class proper of their maker. She behaved more like an uneducated boy in how she moved, a child of the wild as cultivators were. Unladylike. A tree that broke the stakes, that refused to grow straight.

    ¡°Do you think the heavens would accept making newfangled deals with someone that boasts such sloppy manners?¡±

    Samari¡¯s tongue found its way out of her mouth for a second, and then it got pulled back in, happy with the taste of freedom. ¡°For the record, I do.¡±

    Samari relaxed the left side of her body. Let the tranquil, non-masochistic air enter her nostrils and exit it with the tranquility that reigned in the room, whose chimes weren¡¯t used to tintinnabulating. Then she closed her eyes, and her mind called for the universe to make a deal with it.

    ¡°Yo, universe!¡±

    ¡°Sup, lil girl?¡± The universe, who¡¯s totally not me (ergo, not Ryan Gosling) answered.

    ¡°I want to strike a covenant.¡±

    ¡°Does it include horses?¡± The universe asked, raising a few galaxies, causing innumerable mass extinctions, breaking some laws, local and of physics both.

    Samari¡¯s mental image, that stood in a little platform amidst the void of the cosmos, the sides of which where lined with robotic equines floating inside cylindrical cloning vats, shook her mental head.

    ¡°Good. I am listening.¡±

    ¡°I want to, at will, be able to paralyze half my body for a little while, in exchange for increasing the strength and resistance of the other half substantially. With all required secondary effects to not kill or further cripple myself while doing so.¡± She counted on her fingers as she enumerated her demands.

    The universe answered with a loud hmmmm. ¡°Retarded child of creation that you are. Do you think your feeble spirit will be able to command a half-disabled body?¡±

    ¡°Nope.¡± Samari told the truth and only the truth. ¡°I could command a wholly paralyzed self with my command of my spirit net.¡±

    ¡°Then this is my offer: one minute of strength for every two of humiliating weakness.¡±

    Samari smiled, showing her assortment of perfectly brushed little teeth, and making her fingertips meet in front of her face. ¡°I accept your offer, allow me to invoke this new covenant. Hurry hurry!¡± She bounced in place, like a little bird using a jackhammer. And a helmet, for safety. My metaphors comply with OSHA regulations.

    (Sometimes)

    ¡°I haven¡¯t seen someone so eager to become a cripple since I binged the last season of Jackass. Very well, how shall this covenant be called?¡±

    Samari¡¯s avatar of the self scratched her chin pensively, and then snapped her fingers resolutely. ¡°Buttstuffingduckpounder covenant.¡±

    ¡°No. I refuse,¡± the universe exclaimed, stars flying in every direction, colliding with random planets full of intelligent life (mostly, horselike), obliterating them like I obliterate common sense.

    Samari¡¯s plan was working like a charm. Now the universe, primed to expect something extremely stupid, would accept a far less absurd name. ¡°Well, plan b¡­ Bilaterial abjuration covenant. And I can choose the side I paralyze and the one I enhance, capisce?¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t Italian the universe, wonderful speck of stardust. Yes, these terms are acceptable. Call upon the power with your mind, and it will be granted, and the price will be paid, and the tariffs and taxes will be applied.¡±

    One could see disgust settle in Samari¡¯s delicate face. ¡°I thought the universe was libertarian.¡±

    ¡°Freedom for me, not for thee! Back to your world with you.¡±

    Samari opened her and forwarded her left hand and leg, getting in position to charge against the statue.

    ¡°You think about attacking me? I have the material advantage: I am made of stone.¡±

    ¡°And I am partially made of hydroxyapatite.¡± Determination burned inside Samari¡¯s eyes like evidence of money laundering burns inside your favorite oven.

    The little girl proffered a warcry and launched herself forward, Feet thundering against the cloudtiles. Her mother¡¯s statue quickly reacted, raising her hands in a defensive position, ready to react to Samari¡¯s obvious attack as the girl pulled her right palm backwards.

    And as Samari approached, the statue felt time slow down. Every movement of the little girl seemed to take an eternity, and every vibration in the air resulting foreboding. Guitar riffs. Why was she hearing electric guitars?

    ¡°Boss music?¡± She thought. ¡°No¡­ J-pop¡­ opening music. Protagonist music.¡± She greeted her stone teeth and braced for the impact, as Samari was about to launch her attack.

    ¡°Bilaterial Abjuration Covenant, Left for Right!¡± Were Samari¡¯s last words before, spining on her right foot on a clumsy way, she extended her palm, impacting into the cross formed by the statue¡¯s arm, a guard that would be impenetrable for most untrained people.

    Samari wasn¡¯t an untrained person. She was merely untrained.

    Instantly after the impact, a thousand shards of marble flew, the right forearm of the statue becoming undone as the little girl¡¯s arm continued her inexorable advance. Dead eyes open wide, the statue quickly ducked and turned her body sideways, getting out of the way of the attack, saving her left arm as Samari¡¯s hit scrapped by.

    Samari¡¯s pants, however, weren¡¯t as lucky, and soon enough the found themselves victims of a deluge. And their wearer, victim of a trip, consequence of half of her body being useless, and her spirit management not  as finer as she thought it would while in such a state. Keeping a relaxed leg supporting her weight, puppeting a limp arm or raising a reluctant eyelid was easy. Doing it all at once, a micromanaging nightmare.

    So she fell, flailing with her right half against the floor in some useless manner, like a paralytic fish out of public healthcare waters. Not a lunged fish but one deeply nested inside the teleostei. You know, a physoclist? No duct leading to the swim bladder?

    Messiah, people, learn your fish.

    Back to the sarcopterygian we kind of care about, Se quickly managed to use the functioning half of her body to drag herself away from the statue, leaving a trail of waste, a snail emerged from the dirtiest of sewers.

    And while the horrible tingling and the wetness and the smell was bad enough, the worst part about it was that Samari blamed herself for forgetting toprepare her spirit to manage her sphincters too.

    The left hand of the statue grasped her useless wrist tightly, and hoisted her up  until they were face to face. Only half of the girl¡¯s face had any expression.

    ¡°Little Aunara, count,¡± The statue, not minding her lost appendage, ordered with a motherly tone.

    Samari found it impossible to articulate a mere word, given half of her tongue was as stiff as a plank, so she raised her working fist and started extending its fingers, one by one.

    ¡°Did you cause yourself a stroke?¡±

    Samari wiggled her index from side to side.

    ¡°So this is temporal?¡±

    The pained girl wiggled her finger back and forth this time.

    The statue suddenly undid her grasp, letting Samari drop like a pathetic lump into the floor, eliciting a pained whistle form the girl. ¡°Don¡¯t choke yourself, I¡¯ll go prepare you a bath. I may take a while to do so due to¡­¡± She raised her fragmented stump pointing at the place where her hand would have been, were it not spread all over the room. ¡°And then prepare some study material for you, so you can learn how to repair my arm. Because you will repair my arm, child.¡± And the ¡°will¡± was said with an emphasis that would have sent chills up Samari¡¯s spine, had it been working properly and not going absolutely haywire due to the unexpected free day at work.

    She wanted to protest, but couldn¡¯t, so she just gurgled a complaining moan and basked in her filth. ¡°Good job, Samari, you are rising up the ranks of the porcine hierarchy,¡± she thought.

 V2 Chapter 29: Jaggers Suicide Pill

    After inadvertently crushing it in the routine training sessions of the Sect of Many Guts, Kalon had been kidnapped from his straw bed at night and taken to the middle of a starry field by a pack of bulky bulls and cows. Jagger had naturally taken notice of the kidnapping, and decided to go along with it, even helping the ruminants carefully remove Kalon from the straw bed and place him onto the pig leather piece they used to haul him away, still sleeping. Waking his owner up, naturally, crossed Jagger¡¯s mind, but letting him get taken ¡ªand cooperating with such an act¡ª he deemed more enriching for his soul. Something interesting was bound to happen. Maybe a cow would die. Maybe he could eat the deceased¡¯s liver. Maybe they would come across some precious reservoir of mosquitoed water.

    During the relocation of Kalon, he shifted in his sleep and rolled off the leather patch, eliciting a series of gasps and panicked moos as, already outside the barn and under the gaze of moon and stars, gravity forgot how to do its job. The still snoring boy fell skywards, bounced against a parcel of air, and then ended the life of an innocent owl as his ass flew eastwards, trajectory that got interrupted after a bored constellation extended a branch to bat him back west. For a few moments, Kalon opened his eyes, pushed with his arms against empty air, and stood there, confused in the middle of the sky. He grabbed a passing cloud, gave it an exploratory bite, decided it would make a good pillow, and went back to sleep.

    The god of tribulations, tempted to interfere, pushed his wheelchair back a bit, inhaled deeply, and whimpered like a scared and feeble rat when he noticed I was writing about him. Yes dear, you. Do you want to become part of the annals of history?

    He doesn¡¯t, shame. I don¡¯t know why he dislikes me, really. I never wronged him.

    The cows stared at the sky, and they found the activity quite unpleasant. ¡°How do we get him down?¡±

    Jagger did what he knew best. ¡°Heavens!¡± And so, a pi?a colada sprouted in front of him, for his enjoyment only. ¡°As for your query.¡±  he lapped up a deep sip of his drink. ¡°No intercoursing idea. Kalon always comes down. Eventually.¡±

    ¡°You are quite the useless thing,¡± blurted out Ancient Energy Drink Uncle Guttinghorn, who whore a bubbly pink cow-t-shirt.

    ¡°Useless is my second name,¡± Jagger boasted, inflating his chest with pride and air, because pride by itself is quite deficient on the mass and volume departments.

    ¡°You shouldn¡¯t be proud of being useless!¡±

    Jagger shrugged and rolled onto his back, scratching it mirthfully against the plain¡¯s grass. ¡°I am a dog. I have been systematically denied a proper pup¡¯s life since the day I first got picked as Kalon¡¯s weapon. I have died; I inhabit both his mind and mine simultaneously. I have been used as a baton, as a sword, as a flail.  I have been useful in ways no dog should be. I deserve to be useless once and for all.¡± Jagger let his body fall to the side, keeping his legs still as he closed his eyes. ¡°I want to be a dog for once, damn you. Nos this sentient aberration I have become.¡±

    The cows didn¡¯t know where to hide from Jagger¡¯s pervading victim role. One of them closed her eyes and saw a land of promises, of cheap real state and lost variety. She took her right hoof to her forehead in a salute and her fur began shining with white light. ¡°I have found my place: I shall live among the branches of the stem group of the therians.¡± She said, and the light intensified, such that it seemed to burn the cow away before slowly receding into a little speck.

    Jagger got up, sniffed the little dot of light with warranted curiosity, and kvetched in disgust immediately after.

    ¡°What¡¯s the matter?¡± Asked one of the cows that didn¡¯t seem to mind the fact that a friend of hers had moved out of existence.

    ¡°I am allergic to acts of taxonomical republicanism, such as abandoning a crown group.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s an ism. I don¡¯t know which one specifically, but an ism,¡± protested the same cow.

    ¡°Listen: I am sometimes racist, sexist, specist, plantist, poorist, purist, cataloguist, dentist, and everything else you may accuse me of. You know why? Because I am a dog. I can afford to be a silently ¡ªand sometimes loudly¡ª judging asshole without becoming someone¡¯s steak-breakfast. You cannot, Belinda. I also have a tragic puppyhood to justify it.¡±

    Aeonic Cryptid Uncle Guttinghorn stepped in between Jagger and Belinda, and raised an eyebrow at the Rottweiler puppy. ¡°Behave, disciple Jagger.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯d tell you to suck my dick but there¡¯s only one master of blowing here, and that¡¯s me.¡± Jagger curled his paw against his chest. ¡°Up. Blowing up. Happens at random. It¡¯s a bitch of a condition.¡±

    The shower of removed dirt and vegetable debris that fell over the group made them realize Kalon had just landed. ¡°Good, Disciple Kalon¡¯s training can begin,¡± Said the Bodiceattva, that had popped out from under a nearby rock.

    This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

    ¡°Where you waiting there all of this time?¡±

    ¡°Yes. I am a piece of clothing, Jagger. I can fit in unsuspected places.¡±

    The dog proceeded to shrug and finish his pi?a colada. ¡°Whatever, just¡­ try to kill him, okay? I have a suicide pill I am dying to use.¡±

    ¡°You are not a good pet,¡± Guttinhorn glanced at the Rottweiler puppy.

    Jagger put up his best Iberian Spanish YA heroine voice. ¡°I was raised to be a weapon. My mother was a bitch; my father ran off after getting her pregnant: he had to chase that alluring, homebreaking monito del monte¡­¡± he began his narration with watery eyes and the waft of alcohol coming out his jaws.

    ¡°Blah blah blah justice blah blah blah revenge, yes yes.¡± The Bodiceattva interrupted him, thanks to the gods.  ¡°Wake the subnormal untermensch up.¡±

    ¡°Such flawless combination of degrading terms for the moron, milord. I¡¯ll gladly serve. ¡°Jagger lowered his head in a curtsy and then approached Kalon¡¯s head, that was lower than his ass due to how he had landed: bent at the waist, with one leg curled all the way backwards, the foot resting over his head. ¡°Kalon, Samari found the coffee machine!¡±

    The boy got instantly raised form the land of dreams and jumped to a standing position. ¡°Where! She cannot drink that much coffee! Not again!¡± He panicked for a second before his brain processed the presence of the cows and the Bodiceattva. ¡°Guh?¡±

    The Bodiceattva had no eyes, but if he had had them, one of them would have been twitching. ¡°Kalon, worry not, we needed to wake you up to test your might.¡± The Bodiceattva hovered around the boy, appraising his form marred with dirt and grass from every angle. ¡°Get ready to fight against me. I will hold back¡­ just a bit. I don¡¯t expect you to win this fight, just to survive.¡±

    Kalon Raised his hands to his sides, the liquid puppies welling up from his shadow to cover his entire body, except his face, in his battle dress.

    ¡°Ready?¡±

    ¡°Whenever you are.¡±

    The Bodiceattva suddenly manifested inside and around himself an ethereal body of green light, an androgynous figure that lost no time before driving an uppercut into Kalon¡¯s gut, breaking through the liquid puppy dress and sending the boy flying southwards.

    ¡°He¡­ he should have gone¡­¡± The confused master of martial arts pointed tentatively at the sky.

    Jagger felt a tingling in his butt. ¡°Oh boy here we go.¡± And so he followed the Call of Kalon¡¯s hand, Flying tail forward towards his job position as a sword.

    With a smirk Kalon grabbed Jagger and got ready to rush towards his adversary and give him a taste of the Road of the Rottweiler, but too late he realized there was no need to. Two cold fingers rested on his back. The boy slowly turned his head to see the master of the sect pulling a leg back to kick his butt. He had no time to react before being sent to crash against the ground, a Kalon-and-Jagger-shaped-hole left steaming on the field.

    ¡°He¡¯s too strong,¡± Kalon blurted out, raising his head as he saw the Energy construct looming over the edge of the hole.

    ¡°He¡¯s underground!¡± Jagger announced with a mix of fear and glee.

    ¡°But his whole body is there¡­¡±

    That¡¯s when the Bodiceattva turned, showing the backside of his energy body. Or , rather , the lack of it: it was as if the butt cheeks had been flawlessly sliced off. ¡°Forbidden technique: Butt civil war.¡± He announced the instant before Kalon felt the pounding in his own behind. A flurry of hits in the bottom elevated him out of the hole, the pain in his rear unbearable as the severed cheeks of his adversary pummeled his and drove him into the air from the sheer violence enacted.

    Kalon¡¯s rear burned in pain, and it coursed through his body as each of his adversary¡¯s buttocks alternated impacts on his.  ¡°This is the end, Guh¡­¡±

    Jagger pulled out a script from gods know where, then a pair of glasses with Pomeranian-shaped frames, and checked it. ¡°Nah, you live to fight Cutbastra in a final showdown. That is the end.¡±

    ¡°Sweet!¡± Kalon gathered his liquid puppies and coated his butt in them, creating a buttcheek-proof armor there and beign elt to fall back to earth as the Cutbastr¡¯as technique dissipated.

    The boy turned midair, aiming Jagger towards their adversary and Summoning the puppies of his soul to birth forth a pupnado from Jagger¡¯s nose.

    The animated piece of clothing yawned and extended a single finger. . The pinky one.

    The twister of solid and liquid puppies  and the sharpness of Jagger contacted with the pinky  and the ensuing shockwave ripped off all grass blades in the nearby area. Kalon smirked: now they wouldn¡¯t hurt themselves by running around with knives.

    But the pinky defense seemed impenetrable, And soon, as the  Pupnado began to wane, Realization dawned on Kalon¡¯s face, as he stared at the featureless, bald head of the energy construct.

    ¡°What¡¯s holding you into the air?¡± The Bodiceattva answered. Kalon looked behind him, at how he had fallen into  an acute angle and remained so, with his legs  extend far above the level of his head and both his arms holding Jagger as a sword.

    The Boy barely had time to  cover his face with both hands before a fingle-flick fired from his adversary¡¯s hand, sending him flying away once more.

    What followed was¡­ well, pinball. Randomly determined pinball. The Bodiceattva kept moving faster than the eye could see, appearing behind Kalon to backhand him off in a new direction, again and again, until the boy ended up eating dirt, whimpering as his whole body suffered from Pain. Jagger freed himself from the oppressive weight of his owner with a deft crawling, and then spat a pill in his hand. ¡°Eat it, it will ease the pain.¡±

    ¡°Okay, mate.¡± Kalon quickly  took it and bit into the gelatinous capsule, which made him start to foam at the mouth. ¡°Guh!¡±

    Jagger sighed as the cows gasped. ¡°You are killing him! you gave him a suicide pill!¡± Accused a Guttinghorn that showed an unusual fear in his eyes. ¡°We need to know what the poison in it was so we can get him an antidote!¡±

    ¡°Xylitol and Ibuprofen.¡± Jagger revealed as his owner rose, the pain being washed away from his battered body. ¡°Tons of ibuprofen,¡± he said smiling with all his teeth as Kalong called for him to fulfill the role of a sword once more.

    ¡°I feel renewed, Jagger. Thanks.¡±

    ¡°Just end this before the gastritis ensues.¡±

    ¡°What? Kalon asked, and didn¡¯t notice a punch from the Bodiceattva was coming in direction to his face.

    But Jagger did, and sent a mental message to him. In the last second, a protective layer of liquid puppies formed a shield next to the boy¡¯s face, dispersing the energy from the hit as it broke.

    Kalon vaulted backwards and contacted his Avatar inside his head.

    ¡°Power?¡±

    ¡°¡­fine.¡±

    And so he charged against his adversary, determined to impale him with his dog.

 V2 chapter 30: Kalon gets slapped

    Twas the era before the era before Christmas. Polen was all the rage and the newest plant innovation. Allergic arthropods died off by the thousands, but given their reproduction rate that was just Tuesday for them. The slightly younger Sun of the Devonian washed over a land dominated by arachnids, vegetables, myriapods, more vegetables, and a single spherical cow that had travelled back in time and spent her last days complaining about the lack of grass.

    But now we are looking at a quiet section of a river ¡ªa body of moving water that generally goes from elevated to low terrain, for those of you that never get out of the house¡ª  where a couple of fish have met. A male, a female. Both Cis. None Sus.  They are of one mind, sharing an interest in becoming transitional fossils. Or, at least, in reproducing.  This is the distant past narrated in present tense, because love deserves it.

    The male shuffles his strong lobulated pectoral fins nervously as he approaches the girl, looking at her with eyes wide open and kinda¡­ raised. His eyes have no brows or lashes, and neither do hers, which makes her makeup routine simpler, as she just smudges the mascara randomly on her face. In the shallow waters he waggles to her encounter. A nearby freshwater eurypterid rubbed his claws as he stalked behind a pile of rubbish.  He doesn¡¯t want to eat the lovers: he¡¯s just here to seize any opportunity for blackmail, as he follows the Road of the Dark Ones, and black males have not been invented yet. He soon departs as he notices the couple of Tiktaalik aren¡¯t engaging in an affair, but rather in a very awkward first date.

    ¡°So¡­ do you want to watch a film?¡± The male proposes, underwater, unsweating due to the lack of sweating glands.

    ¡°I¡¯d love to,¡± she says, and raises her snout out of the water to take a breath of fresh air. ¡°Lungs are all the rage once more, eh?¡±

    ¡°Eh, old osteichthian evolutionary advantage. Nothing new under the sun.¡±

    ¡°Seeds. Seeds are new,¡± she counters.

    ¡°I¡¯ll grant you that, Rosa, cutie. Let¡¯s watch that film.¡±

    With determination they crawl up the mud and along the bank, until they reach a place only deep enough for their bodies to be submerged. In front of them a tiny puddle lies, tranquil, almost ethereal due to how thin the layer of water that conforms it is.

    ¡°Pretty good film. You are good at spotting them, Ross.¡±

    They see the surface of the puddle tremble, and need not to raise their gaze to see Chalazarian gliding past above them, obscuring the sun with his huge figure as he goes around his Paleozoic days doing primal deity stuff, which means¡­ nothing.

    ¡°What a cloaca! He never considers he may interrupt a thin film of water between two...¡± And here Ross doubts, because he doesn¡¯t know what his next word should be. ¡°Tetrapodomorphs.¡± And once more, taxonomy saves the day.

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    ¡°Yes, that¡¯s curious, friend,¡± she goes for the absolute obliteration of the poor boy. ¡°We are ¡®shaped like tetrapods¡¯ but tetrapods aren¡¯t¡­ a thing.¡±

    Tears don¡¯t well in his eyes because their species has no need for ocular lubrication. HE averts his gaze, and sees a friend of his lugging some stone tablets from dry land and into the river. He is a madfish, venturing out of water when their bodies aren¡¯t adapted for it, but Ross has a soft spot for him. ¡°Yo, G, wassup.¡±

    G turns his head slowly to look at him, flexing his neck because they had necks unlike other fish, and answered, pointing at the inscriptions of chromosomes upon the rock. ¡°Genotype.¡± He says, helpfully, commalessly.

    ¡°I love him, he¡¯s like a Pok¨¦mon.¡± Rosa says, and Ross cannot help but agree with a nod.

    This depresses our heroic Tiktaalik even more, and he turns back into deep water, even before the film evaporates.  He rows through the mud and fails to notice Rosa is following. Inadvertently, he bumps into Oseae, the biggest and meanest and most chin-sculptured of his people in a round kilometer.  ¡°Hello, Ross. Thanks for entertaining my little Rosa.¡±

    ¡°Your¡­ Rosa?¡±

    ¡°Yes, we are dating. Rosa reveals, waddling up to Oseae to give him a peck on the non-lips. ¡°now, if you excuse us, Ross, I need time alone with my¡­.¡± She tops and begins hyperventilating water. ¡°Oh god, the pain! the pain!¡± She says and opens her mouth wide.

    ¡°Ugh! It hurts, like a big stone had crushed all my bones!¡± claims Oseae, doing the same gesture, only closing his mouth when Rosa randomly explodes in a crimson cloud of gore and eggs ready to be fertilized.  He loses no time, turning around to release his sperm, not minding the traumatized stare of Ross.

    ¡°She died¡­¡±

    ¡°Yes, but the eggs are still viable. Take care of my children, cuck. I love you... yes homo.¡± And so Oseae explodes too, rid of the all-encompassing pain that suddenly befell upon him and his lover.

    ¡°I will care for the eggs.  I am better than you two, I will teach them well,¡± he swears, putting his heart into every word. ¡°But¡­ they also look yummy. A few ones missing won¡¯t be a problem¡­¡±  But he¡¯s also a fish.

    Hundreds of millions of years later, a boy (tetrapod) wielding a dog (Should-be-tetrapod) charged against a cultivating bodice (ex-tetrapod, ex-arthropod, ex-angiosperms, ex-rocks).

    ¡°Kalon, stop right there or I will slap you so hard your ancestors will feel it,¡± The Bodiceattva warned, preparing to deflect Kalon¡¯s swing and counterattack.

    And thanks to the Tiktaalik¡¯s tragic love story, you know how that ended for Kalon.

    <hr>

    Across the world, looming over a sea of water, plastic and choked sea life ¡ªsometimes kinky¡ª the alien flew inside a bubble of vital energy. His search for pimpable life in this planet had been fruitless: either the signal was misinterpreted or the message a lure to scam travelers. He soared higher, higher, penetrating the clouds without their explicit consent, but not being bothered by possible rape allegations because the clouds ¡°wanted it regardless¡± and the local police station wouldn¡¯t listen to such big whores of nature. Not because they discriminated clouds, but because there are few policemen in international waters and their job is to party while snorting copious amounts of cocaine, not enforcing the law. Cabaret had been a positive experience for the alien cultivator, and he had inadvertently murdered more prostitutes than I can count (I am not great at counting, though) but it was time to go and tell the council of his findings. He wouldn¡¯t try to avoid a one-sided war. Maybe, if there was any sign of intelligent life in that place, it deserved to be wiped out for not having proper prostitutes. But that would take time. Some years. Enough for a chosen-one human child to grow into teenhood and save the world and shit.

    And so, Cabaret survived their first monoalien invasion, that left a death toll in the dozens and a heartbroken goth Capybara in its wake.

 V2 Chapter 31: Topping Intent

    The Kalon-beatings continued as his days of training went by. Bit by bit the boy began learning to anticipate and block the attacks of the Bodiceattva, to flow between them like planes through towers. Jagger mastered his consumption of mosquitoed water, got tired of the beverage, swore off it, and then returned with the tail between the legs, asking forgiveness like a cheating husband who got caught.

    In the same span of a couple months, Samari learned to repair Aunara¡¯s statue and improved her martial arts whilst she figured out how to use more and more covenants. Most people have time equivalent to 24 hours minus their need for sleep, 6 to 9 hours in most cases. Samari had 24 hours plus caffeine, 6 to 9 grams on most days. She built a fort out of cans of energy drinks in her spare time. She boiled her vegetables in black coffee, steamed them with espresso, or fried them in coffee bean oil. She got a high after getting a small cut on her finger and suckling on the dark blood that came out. Her heart outpaced a hummingbird on her calmest moments¡­ and she had never felt better.

    Suddenly, her heart stopped, and she checked her pulse calmly.

    ¡°What¡¯s the matter?¡± Aunara¡¯s statue asked, still adopting a defensive position in the middle of the dojo.

    ¡°I am having a heart attack.¡± Samari said, and then shrugged as if nothing happened. ¡°My blood is so caffeinated it keeps running anyway. I will let the heart rest a while.¡±

    The eyes of the statue became thin lines. ¡°Samari, this is serious. Lay on the floor and I will try to restart your heart.¡±

    Samari Vaulted Backwards to add a flair of drama to the situation. ¡°No. I am fine. Just¡­ clinically dead for the time being. Perfect time to take a job from the Archives.¡±

    The girl flip-flopped her way out of Aunara¡¯s Vault, with the statue following her halfway out of the pocket dimension before giving up and shouting. ¡°Just remember to do it before you go to sleep!¡±

    ¡°There¡¯s no such thing as sleep!¡±

    <hr>

    From under a pile of other people¡¯s wives and husbands the cultivator got startled awake. He climbed his way out of the lustful mountain of bodies and checked the alarm clock in his Jade nightstand.

    It was almost time to wake up anyway. He placed the clock back on Jade¡¯s back, slapped her butt cheek playfully, and told her she was being a good nightstand for daddy Cutbastra.

    Sweat glistened on his pecs and abs as he made his way through the labyrinthine halls of his home, towards Oracle¡¯s terrarium. His friend had a whole room for himself, with more mealworms than he would eat in his whole immortal life.

    His manly soles touched the untarnished soil covering the terrarium¡¯s ground after he opened the door, and the humid atmosphere calmly caressed his perfect skin. ¡°I had a revelation. In a dream. About how to become more powerful.¡±

    Oracle regarded Cutbastra with pursed jaws, not bothering coming out of his little puddle of warm water or taking the cucumber slices out of his eyes. ¡°The gift of prophecy allows me to notice your nudity, friend. Get dressed."

    ¡°It¡¯s my home and in my home I wear the amount of clothes I want to. Which is zero.¡±

    ¡°Fine, but I am not taking the cucumber outta my beautiful lizard eyes. I need my mascara to run its course.¡±

    Cutbastra interlaced his fingers, and then extended the middle and index ones upwards in front of his mouth. ¡°Do you know keto diet?¡±

    ¡°Is this another plot for me to endorse your sudden need to become a thrall of the Crossfit gods?¡±

    Cutbastra¡¯s hands exploded in movement as he denied energetically. ¡°No, no, never. That darkness left my soul long ago. But do you know like, people in the keto diet cook their food, right?¡±

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    ¡°I don¡¯t like where this is going but yes, they are not that far gone to eat raw flesh.¡±

    Cutbastra strode up to his blindfolded friend, and looked down at him. ¡°Then what if I create a new diet, where I cuck the food. The Neto Diet!¡±

    ¡°Dear heavens, it was worse than I expected.¡± The cucumbers shuddered in fear and fell off the eyes of their host. ¡°Oh heavens no! you even shaved!¡± Oracle turned 180 degrees, and sunk his head in the puddle as he licked one of his eyes obsessively. The image wouldn¡¯t wash off his precious retina. Bubbling sounds followed as he cursed underwater, scouring his eye in vain.

    Legend tells Oracle went blind right there. Legend fucking sucks and needs to be fact-checked.

    <hr>

    Memories. They assaulted him relentlessly and without motorbikes as he ascended towards the shore. His system stoked the fires of Lino¡¯s nearly inexistent will, and while his feet sunk in the sand, he pushed onwards.

    March onwards, my soldier, for world domination awaits!

    No, it doesn¡¯t.

    ¡°I want a ticket to see Madonna,¡± the seedfern spoke in a soft needy voice.

    Madonna doesn¡¯t exist.

    ¡°And do you think I do?¡± The Nothoracopteris hurled the question with an amount of poison unwarranted for anything that dares exist outside of Australia.

    Lino¡¯s mind sighed. Every waking moment those two were bickering, bickering, and bickering. They had even started to bother him, which was quite concerning, as it meant he was regaining his humanity little by little. And humanity with those two¡­ he wouldn¡¯t wish that to his worst enemy.

    Hi quickened his step, and soon enough his head emerged above ¡ª Knowing the Author¡¯s track record, it is important to note that this ocean here abides by most laws of physics ¡ª the water, his eyes graced by the barely trashed beach.

    And then tainted by a glorious image sitting upon a stone washed by eons, water, salt, petroleum, fish poop, the drool of neglected-and-drowning children, the sexual fluids of those inconsiderate enough to have sex in the water, like most mysticeti. If they can breathe air, they can come out to do the dirty deeds. Find a motel. If they can live in a mountain with a bar upon their back, they can come out to the beach to fuck. Traumatize the human children. Maybe they will stop harpooning your fucking descendants that way.

    But I digress. Where was I? ah, yes. Fuck whales.

    No, no, before that.

    Ah, right, the image sitting on the rock. The image for Lino. The imagine chosen specifically to make an Emperor¡¯s New Groove reference out of the blue. Lino¡¯s image.

    The Cultivator was shaken to his core by the beauty sitting there, on their plutonic throne, with a smug smile and even smugger abs. Lino wasn¡¯t moved by the subject¡¯s beautiful pink hair, delicate facial features, strategically remarked swimsuit bulge, or the fact their most likely radioactive makeup withstood the onslaught of saltpee ¡ª there were too many minors splashing around the place to call the liquid ¡°Water¡±, despite the fact that I did early, because, hey, artistic licenses ¡ª without showing the slightest flaw. No, what made Lino¡¯s heart do a 720¡ã Christ Air and graced his ears with the sound of his own gulp was the nefarious aura the femboy dripped. His topping intent was encroaching, it begayed the souls of every heterosexual being in a thirty-four feet range, even algae. The opaline skeleton of diatoms and even radiolarians took in the colors of tolerance and post-diluvial whoopsie-daisies, forever betraying that moment in time with a characteristic biostratigraphic marker of incredible accuracy, defining the rocks of the brief geochronological period to be known as the Pridenyan ¡ª the femboy wore a headband with cat ears and geologists of the future will be able to easily infer these things ¡ª the only time lapse in the story of Cabaret whose chronostratigraphic units were branded with a golden dildo instead of a spike[1]</a>.

    Lino turned like a vampire exposed to a garlic cross , wading away with warranted desperation. His defenses where high, but a battle of wills with the ominous homosexual was beyond his capabilities. Yet, approaching the beach, he noticed everyone over the sand was sleeping, and soon enough felt the oppressing presence of a being even more determined than the femboy.

    And how loudly it snored! It was a saint Bernard, and his drowsy intent welled from within the dog like blood from a wound discovering she had stopped being a girl and was now a woman. It came in pulses, one every few seconds, and it rose the melatonin levels of everyone exposed to it. Lino¡¯s pupils constricted as a particularly powerful pulse of sleeping intent savaged the local populations of wakefulness.

    Slowly he stepped back, submerging his head back into the sea.

    I see world domination will have to start elsewhere.

    Lino nodded at his system, and the seedfern of his soul let out a wistful sight for better days. Oh, how she missed mass extinctions!

    <hr>

    [1]</a> Author¡¯s note: Google GSSP, related to geology. We basically define the ¡°Perfect¡± rock bodies to mark an age by inserting big ass golden nails on them. For example, the Golden Spike for the Ediacaran period is found in Australia, in the Flinders Ranges.

 v2 Chapter 32: Samaris Hustle

    The most prolific nine-year-old hitwoman the world had ever seen flip-flopped down the brown-floored halls of a well-lit apartment complex. Her short dark hair glistened, slick with gel, and the business suit fit her like a globe. As in, push your measuring child into a volcano or oceanic rift to get an idea of it. She carried a box full of cookies baked by the girls that survived the daunting task of being scouts in Ilure city, the ones that didn¡¯t step on an anti-cultivator landmine, being promoted from explorers to exploders.

    Brunhilda, in all her inexistence, followed, full of herself.

    Samari had prepared the necessary covenants. She had downed a coffee. She had loaded her intricate trap. She had downed a coffee. She had managed to look somewhat unlike a midget cop in drag. She had restarted her heart. She had downed a coffee. She had accrued seven potential felonies for shouting racially charged slurs against a couple of black batteries. Double A, if anyone asks. Black, like she liked her coffees.

    One would expect her to have carried a crowbar on her person for such a job, but she had decided against it. As an implement it was too heavy, it screamed murder, and drunk corvids were a hell of a clientele to deal with. Her methods were subtler, if as traumatic.

    She licked her finger and proceeded to abuse the doorbell. She didn¡¯t ask for consent before making the little button shriek in panic. It was a dead ringer of her last victim.

    The bulky wooden door got opened by an animated, dusty, dark grimoire that hung in the air as it held the handle and tried to read Samari¡¯s face.

    Samari checked the direction she had noted on a piece of paper. ¡°Uh, sir, is this the house of the pedophile?¡±

    The book parted its pages as if they were lips to speak. ¡°No. We are all traditionalist here. ¡®Cept my youngest son. The poor thing was born an EPUB.¡±

    Samari took initiative and pulled the door shut on the face of the living book. Hoew many apartments 3B could a complex contain?

    At least one per mass extinction in the Phanerozoic, it seemed. Ordovician-Silurian, Late Devonian, Permian-Triassic, Triassic-Jurassic, and the big non-avian-dinosaur-monstergirl genocide at the end of the Cretaceous. That¡¯s at least four, people, learn to count.

    She shuffled her bunny flip-flops to another door marked 3B. Sixth time had to be the charm.

    Brunhilda prayed this wasn¡¯t the time where it meant three bees, that, knowing Cabaret, had to come eventually.

    Samari licked her whole hand this time, and then dedicated a vile grin at the helpless doorbell. She laughed like the sort of men you don¡¯t want your children to associate with as she triggered the mechanism. She wasn¡¯t a wicked person per se. To begin with, she had spent several hours as a clinically dead entity. That is a surefire way to accumulate bad bureaucratic karma. Harbinger of a tribulation that would make The Decolonized One proud.

    In a faraway heaven that looked much like a nearby office building, Tribulations spat his decaf aberration of a drink all over files nobody ever bothered to check or organize. His face scrunched up in offence. ¡°I still have part of my colon!¡±

    You said it, pal. Part. And shut up if you want to keep it.

    Back with Brunhilda and her pet, the doorbell rang out in despair. After several seconds of uniterupted torture, the jiggling sound of keys came to its rescue, and Samari relented her attack as she stepped back and put on her best scout girl smile. The fact she was donning a smoking wasn¡¯t meant to break the illusion of her being a scout girl selling cookies.

    What opened the door was a wide creature, once a man, now dehaired. His lower eyelids twitched in the light, his stained t-shirt depicting an ostensible hominid of nocturnal habits and Japanese heritage, judging by the exorbitant size of its eyes and the apparent lack of a nose. ¡°What do you want, boy?¡±

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    Samari wished she lacked a nose too, and as her cheeks tugged at her lips and strained to keep her smile, she began talking. This had to be her quarry.

    ¡°Hello sir, I am selling cookies and¡­ Did you call me boy?¡±

    ¡°Hohoho! Little man, I appreciate you wanted to be all ggrown up and doin¡­¡± His sausage-like fingers described greasy circles in the air. ¡°Business, but¡­¡±

    ¡°I am a girl, you disgusting child molester!¡± Samari crossed her arms as she let the box of cookies fall. Yeah, her hair was short, but she was clearly a young miss.

    The pedophile scratched his balding head.¡± Listen, I may be an abuser of young lasses, but whoever told you you are a girl is worse than me. If you were born with a weenie, you are boy, and you should embrace your nature,¡± he placed one of his big hands on Samari¡¯ now blemished shoulder.

    ¡°I was born a female. My birth certificate says I can be somebody¡¯s Selective-serotonin-reuptake-inhibitors-addicted wife someday. I have ovaries. I have a womb. I have higher chances of breast cancer.¡±

    The pedophile pulled back in revulsion, like a dog tasting a lemon. ¡°you mean you are a girl, for real?¡±

    Samari nodded. ¡°For real.¡±

    The disgusted man scratched his chin. ¡°Well, I don¡¯t feel like abusing you. You are too ugly for a girl. Have you considered transitioning to a boy? I have friends that could¡­ enjoy you that way,¡± he offered in the very casual way only somebody with a completely stunted social intelligence could.

    Something non-physical broke inside Samari. It¡¯s one thing to be in danger to be a rape victim. Part and parcel of being a young female, her mother had once said. It was another one, completely different, to be considered too ugly to abuse. It was weirdly relieving and insulting at the same time.

    She then looked at the predator straight in his bulging eyes. ¡°You are courting death.¡±

    ¡°Yes, I¡¯d prefer to have a romp with the Grim Reaper before touching you, lil aberration. No offense meant. ¡±

    ¡°I can see the future. You are going to die of an iron overdose,¡± Samari pointed with a wiggling finger. ¡°Brain damage caused by it as the main cause of death.¡±

    ¡°Oh, great, you are one of those nefarious spirits that curse you if you don¡¯t violate them, aren¡¯t you? But¡­ no, death is preferable to touching you. Really. Don¡¯t you have any cute friends?¡±

    Samari glanced sideways as she wondered if Kalon could be considered cute. ¡°Maybe, but you would have to settle for a boy with a spherical family tree.¡±

    The fat man grunted, his fingers pressing against the boder of the door, threatening to dig on the wood ¡°Female friends.¡±

    ¡°Brunhilda. But she¡¯s a bitch. Literal. Rottweiler.¡±

    ¡°You know what, here, have some spare change and leave me alone,¡± The man begun digging on his pocket for a couple low-denomination bills to give Samari.

    Samari showcased her empty palms, and from them rose twin Inner Control Incunabulas, the dancing nets of spirit imitating little fires. ¡°The Archives pay me better for your head.¡±

    Realization dawned on the man¡¯s face and he tensed the mistreated muscles of his flabby arm to slam the door with all his might, but the sudden kvetching noise above his head distracted him. just for long enough.

    Then a thoroughly-drooled and biled anvil appeared midair, failing straight on the man¡¯s head, unceremoniously crushing it against the floor. Blood splattered all over Samari¡¯s suit, and flip-flops, and she kicked her off, revealing a clean, white pair of the same footwear waiting underneath. Then she disembarrassed herself form her suit and pants, throwing it to a side, revealing¡­ yes, the exact same clothes underneath. She had prepared a covenant that provided her infinitely replacing clothes for an hour, no matter what. A safety measure against rapists that may try to denude her, but apparently not as good as the face she had been born with.

    With dead eyes she regarded the dead man and the hole in the floor that the anvil had left. Breaking through the roof of the lower apartment and continuing its way down undeterred. ¡°Good job, Brunbrun, now get rid of the body.¡±

    The void-based dog began sucking the decapitated cadaver by the feet, slowly making it disappear into thin, but chomping and salivating, air.

    Once the scene of the crime had been licked mostly clean ¡ª save for the anvil that was now in a better place mostly devoid of gravitational potential energy ¡ª Samari¡¯s face remained with a frown. The scum of Cabaret had called her too ugly. Ugly beyond abuse. And she knew this piece of information was an advantage to be leveraged. But her ego, was still hurt, and that was unacceptable. A fragile ego was Aunara¡¯s thing. Not hers. She couldn¡¯t be like her mother. No!

    Besides, her mother wasn¡¯t ugly. What had gone wrong with her face? Why was she too ugly for the bald, fat, unbathed lolicons of the world? ¡°Let¡¯s go, Brunhilda. I need a bath to stop feeling this dirty. And a compliment. From an old grandma. And cookies. Unpoisoned. From the same kind old grandma, if possible.¡±

 V2 Chapter 33: Jaggers wishes.

    Jagger lingered behind, staying in the treasure barn of the Sect of Many Guts while Kalon enjoyed a thorough training session with the Bodiceattva. Kind chatter drifted in through the broken window, whose glass had shattered in pattern that reminded Jagger of a hedgehog, or maybe to a grumpy Rottweiler puppy.

    ¡°Release of the Forgotten Phocid: Arsemageddon!¡±

    A splattering sound. A blood curling scream. An annoyed yet accepting ¡°Guh, my arm!¡±

    ¡°You will grow another one!¡±

    Jagger yawned. Kalon losing an extremity during training was hitherto unheard of, but nevertheless an often theorized possibility. It was high time for the boy to suffer an amputation, as it was said to build character[1]</a>. Mainly in Mary Shelley novels; or, in modern starfish fiction. Yes, the punctuation is part of the joke.

    Jagger stretched his neck to take in his surroundings. Glass shards under his paws. Blood on his fur, familiar. And the glass cases with valuable relics all around him. Whoever had decided to build the bases of the vitrines with dung had been a visionary, and most likely not an olfactionary. The closest vitrine, one of the numerous cases that lined the left wall, contained the Sacred Bullshoes of Helium Hooves. Forged in times gone by people in possession of bones, these artifacts where rumored to allow their bearer to levitate. Jagger knew it because he was able to read the paper label attached to the pedestal of baked shit.

    The pup began checking every vitrine. One contained a cloud that fed on methane. He wouldn¡¯t touch that one.  One contained a pair of googles that allowed cultivators to see Muay Thai. Sacrilegious, he decided. And one contained a lamp with a purported genie. He raised upon his hind legs and scratched the base of the case, removing pieces of dry dung until he reached the lamp.

    He gave three ceremonious licks to the golden tea implement, and from its beak a white miasma began pouring out. It piled to a side, revealing a hunched figure, and then coalescing into a mirthful, legless man of the plump persuasion. He had chair breaking hips, and a face so round that it scared flat-cabaretters.  He used these stereotypical genie drapes that flowed around his body like smoke, including baggy pants (slung over his shoulder) and some horrible bracelets. Somebody had sacrificed one of their wishes to make sure this man was a crime against fashion, and Jagger respected that.

    ¡°Salutations, mortal, you have released me from the lamp, and in exchange, I shall grant you three wishes. No more, no less. Three. Before making your first wish, do you need me to state the rules?¡±

    ¡°I am a talking puppy,¡± Jagger informed, confused at the fact that the genie had made no comment about it.

    ¡°Yes, so it seems. Do you need me to explain the rules?¡±

    ¡°Please do.¡±

    The genie crossed his arms over his ethereal manboobs and nodded. ¡°Rule 1: no wishing for more wishes. Rule two: no wishing for more genies. Rule III: no commenting on the numbering of the rules. Rule cuatro: no wish may result in the direct or indirect death of any sentient creature. Rule 5: No wishing to lay me. Rule six: No wishing for a bucket of mercury, seventy chickens, superglue and three accountants.  Rule seven: no wishing to know why the previous rules were instated.  Rule eight: No wishing for me to sit on your face, nor wishing for you to sit on my face.  Rule nine: no wishing anyone to fall in love or hate. Rule ten: no wishing Pok¨¦mon or knockoffs thereof to be real and legally non-animals. Rule eleven: No wishing for an honest politician. Rule twelve: No wishing for me to repeat the rules more than once. Rule Thirteen: No wishing for me to go to therapy again. Rule fourteen: no wishing for libertarian or communist utopias. Rule fifteen: no wishing for more rules.  Rule sixteen: No wishing to fuck the rules, neither literally nor metaphorically. Rule seventeen: No wishing to sate the hunger of any Labrador. Rule eighteen: no wishing for less rules. Rule nineteen: no wishing for a girlfriend, a boyfriend, or any variation thereof.  Rule twenty: No wishing for twenty-five hour days. Rule twenty-one: no wishing for a shorter November. Rule twenty-two: No wishing to erase progressive speed metal from existence. Rule twenty-three: No wishing for me to shut up about the rules. Rule twenty-four: No wishing for me to get bad reviews on YourRulesomeDjinndotcom. Rule twenty-five: To be added. Rule twenty-six: No wishing for an invisibility coat and a dimension made solely of women toilets.  Rule twenty-seven: no wishing for me to get cancer. Rule 28: No wishing to bring back the dead. Understood?¡±This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

    ¡°Not even crab-shaped cancer?¡± Jagger asked, eyes big and begging.

    ¡°No.¡±

    ¡°Intercourse!¡±

    Jagger massaged his head with both paws as he brained a way to screw the genie over. ¡°Okay, first, I wish that any human or bovine that wants to be granted wishes by your person is required to have intercourse with you.¡±

    The genie¡¯s smile turned to a frown as he rubbed his fat hands. ¡°¡­Why do I feel you will be the fifth creature making the list of motherfuckers that I had to add rules for?¡±

    ¡°Because I am determined to¡ª wait, only fifth?¡±

    ¡°Never underestimate the amount of bullshit some degenerates are able to cram into a single wish.¡±

    ¡°You know what? Screw my original plan, I want to change my first wish. For a pretty alyrical one.¡±

    The genie scratched a chin. It was Jagger¡¯s. ¡°Okay, this will probably benefit me, so shoot, puppy.¡±

    ¡°I want to erase anticonvulsants from existence.¡±

    ¡°Why? I can cure you from allergies to the drugs if need be.¡±

    Jagger¡¯s little paw shoot forward, stiff as a cadaver. ¡°I just hate them irrationally, do it!¡±

    A blood curling scream entered the room, pulled an invisible chair, and sat by Jagger. ¡°Is this yelps anonymous?¡± It asked.

    Jagger shook his head, and the genie did the same.

    The scream put on his hat once more and left by the same window he had come in.

    The Genie snapped his finger, and millions got deprived of the drug they needed to face their chronic pains and/or epileptic crises.

    ¡°Done. Something else just as evil, little canid cunt?¡±

    Jagger smiled with all his little teeth as he stared into the Genies eyes and nodded. The legless magical entity took a step back.

    ¡°I wish you to get fibromyalgia,¡± said the little Rottweiler.

    Kalon¡¯s amputated and crushed arm flew in through the window and landed upon a frail scroll, destroying a thousand years of carefully recorded cow history.¡±Great, dinner is served.¡±

    Jagger stopped paying attention to the Genie and ran to fetch the mangled extremity.

    ¡°Wait, what¡¯s your third wish?¡±

    ¡°I have no third wish, keep the change,¡± The little dog winked, and the genie reluctantly snapped his fingers. Immediately the demons of fatigue, back pain, and tender spots descended upon him, chewing on his ethereal body, making him almost wish to be dead. ¡°I¡¯ll have my revenge, Jagger.¡±

    Jagger swallowed a ribbon of flesh like a Velociraptor from Jurassic Park.

    ¡°You, and what anticonvulsant?¡±

    The Genie¡¯s hand cupped his mouth as he thought. ¡°You son of a bitch.¡±

    Jagger blinked twice. ¡°Aha. Yes. Correct.¡± And then he kept on eating like there was no tomorrow.

    And that was how the genie learned the true meaning of Christmas: excruciating, constant pain, sleeping troubles, and a really weird refusal of specialists to diagnose him because he was male and males ¡°do not get fibro¡±. A happy ending for him, pinned on a wheel of eternal torment¡­ and also inside a lamp.

    <hr>

    [1]</a> For the love of the God I don¡¯t believe in, please, I have written this sentence THRICE due to power outages. PLEASE STAY. DON¡¯T JUMP, LITTLE LEVER OF DOOM.

 V2 Chapter 34: The Return of CT.

    Let¡¯s put it like this: Kalon. Open wound. Clostridium tetani. An Explosive combo that would often result in some hitherto seen exciting stories. This time it resulted in a very funny scene: Kalon. A hay bed. Three nurse cows dressed as cows, so nude. But with hats. With flowers in them, mind you. Different flowers. One of them an orchid. That¡¯s class, people.

    He lay there like he was made of pain, wire and a table without a leg.  Opistothonos was harder to keep balanced with an arm out of service, and the cows lacked a pit stop for people and/or Valelikevalians.

    ¡°If he dies, I have phoenix Down¡¯s ready,¡± claimed one of the cows, a longhorn that had lost her horns in a bet.

    ¡°That has a one in a million chance of reviving someone, Registered Sister Bronzebell,¡± Said the cow with the orchid, a Holstein that stared the grim reaper in the face with every breath.  ¡°Else it just sets everything on fire or prevents everything from being set on fire.¡±

    ¡°I know, Registered Hermana Bronceamorr¨®n. But The Bodiceattva sees promise in him. He may be strong enough to return if tetanus takes his life.¡±

    ¡°Are you strong if you lose against dumb bacteria?¡±

    The cows stared long at each other, ruminated a bit on the subject, and forgot it completely. Then one dropped a cow pie and stank up the tent where they were tending to the injured and ill Kalon, which caused all bovinnel to vaca-te the place.

    A bull broke in. He was black and wore a badge that said BLACK, which wasn¡¯t his name, but supposedly helped colorblind patients. ¡°So let me get this straight, Kalon¡­¡±

    The bull proceeded to stomp on the boy¡¯s chest and tummy, breaking through the muscle tension and setting him a bit more like a proper line. ¡°Mooch better.¡±

    ¡°G-Uh,¡± Kalon pontificated.

    In a rocky cliff he landed after flying on wings made of vines. Plant vines, not the viral videos. This is a serious story, people, get it together.  In the darkened night, inland, the thousand lights of a town danced and waited for some serial murderer to come and disturb the tranquil life of the inhabitants. The Labradorca took in the waft of a fish pie placed onto a particular windowsill that would be the first victim, three kilometers away from their opposition. She didn¡¯t smell it ¡ª she couldn¡¯t possibly. But her hunger for ¡­well, food, was stronger than her lack of olfactory nerves, and so she echolocated the particular fragrance, making the God of Physics check on the noose he tended to daily, and that, someday soon, planned on using as the God of Nooses, Suicide and Public Romantic Declarations intended.

    A lovely little town hanging from a thread of life next to the maw of the sea. Will you raise a Tsunami to swallow them?

    ¡°I will try conquest. Maybe it makes me feel something. I don¡¯t yearn to¡­ but it could be nice for a change of pace.¡±

    Oh, you are bored. Wonderful.

    ¡°No. But the man I was would be. And you know what would animate him?¡±

    Don¡¯t say it, do not, Lino. Do not!

    ¡°A musical,¡± He announced with his beyond-good-and-evil monotone. ¡°How¡¯s the town called?¡±

    Legrand: as you can see from the abandoned sections surrounding the heart of the settlement, it used to be ¡­ bigger.

    Lino began walking downslope, inland, and at his applause a thousand creeping ferns manifested all around and behind him. A veritable post-extinction landscape had in a second formed from the mist of his soul, from his vital energy: The Sorus (the vital energy).

    ¡°It¡¯s showtime,¡± He sentenced with the emotion of a rock on the bottom of a particularly very cold and frozen and ice-filled lake who likes being redundant and repeating itself.

    Lino¡¯s gaze drifted slightly to the right, half past twelve.

    The ferns started whistling a happy tune as he walked downtown, where the abandoned, wooden skeletons of once homes had the peace to rot without giving it a second thought.If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

    Under a romantic embrace of crumbling posts he walked, found a dead, malnourished pig, and began singing:

    ¡°And I am watching a late sow grow flat all alone¡­¡±

    Oh dear. No. I refuse. Lino, don¡¯t.

    ¡°Lino do!¡± echoed the voice of the Nothoracopteris inside his mind.

    Lino¡¯s child erupted from his shoulder, began biting into his neck and eventually dug down his throat. He didn¡¯t mind: he was used to it, and it barely tickled his tortured body.

    ¡°How I loathe to spend energy on a frond¡­¡±

    He turned to this left, towards a wall-less room with a single windown, beyond which a pair of men that looked rather feminine and wore brown-leaves patterned shirts seemed to engage in¡­ suction related acts.

    ¡°Autumn twinks!¡± he pointed at them, and the one whose dick was being sucked turned his head, his skin going pale at the sight of the man and his army of ferns.. ¡°Blowing beyond that window as I stalk around the gloom. And it cannot make me depressed to see this room¡­¡±

    ¡°Oh no.¡± The hard-working twink said, abandoning his station as Lino¡¯s plants advanced and tore through the ruined farmhouse where they hid. ¡°A gay eldritch paleobotanist!¡±

    Lino would have been impressed, had he been able to, but he didn¡¯t comment on it.

    The immortalized man took his hands to his chest, around the green veins that bulged out where his heart had to be. ¡°There¡¯s not a soul in here. No one will hear your prayers¡­¡±

    Gods, I know I have not been a [system] of faith but¡­

    Lino stepped up a platform made from a tangle of adventitious roots, trilete spores, and polycyclic-dyctiosteled stems. Because that last datum gives tons of information to the average reader, I am sure. ¡°Gimme, gimme, gimme a town after Mirtha.¡±

    Literally nobody in this universe knows Mirtha Legrand, fool!

    The plants curled around the extremities of the fear-paralyzed men and began controlling them

    ¡°Won¡¯t somebody help me cast these faggots away?¡±

    ¡°Hey, that¡¯s a slur! aren¡¯t you gay too?¡± The twink that did not need a mint candy complained.

    Lino shrugged. ¡°I underwent conversion therapy. Otherworldly, not Mormon, if you were wondering.¡± He harrumphed and kept on singing as he marched into the heart of the settlement, frightened people running, a single guard screeching in pleasure for being taken by a creeping hell of ferns was his fetish, ¡°Gimme, gimme, gimme a town after Mirtha!¡±

    Jagger entered the Barn where they had wheelbarrowed Kalon with quick step, and let the cloth covered, high domed item he carried rest over the hay scattered across the floor. The caretaking bull, Sweet Potato, muscled his way down to Jagger, the waft of protein escaping from his predatory body as if he wasn¡¯t made of it. ¡°What did you bring, Jagger? Will it help Kalon?¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s a friend, He¡¯s a visionary!¡± Jagger bit down on the cloth and pulled, revealing a neat parcel of air inside a cage.

    ¡°The cage is empty.¡±

    ¡°No, he¡¯s a visionary, he told me so!¡± Jagger stared intently at a yellow bird only he could see.

    ¡°I am a side effect of your excessive consumption of tramadol, Jagger.¡± Didn¡¯t say the Visionary.

    ¡°You are always so cryptic and wise.¡±

    A grey bull came stomping and leaped over Jagger, landed in front of the puppy raising a curtain of dust and foul-smelling aerosols, and spoke. ¡°Blubf, U bub ubbub!¡±

    ¡°Stop mewing while talking, bro.¡±

    The grey bull relaxed his tongue and lost his prominent, manly chin in an instant. ¡°Bloduf, I bubb bubuf!¡± It clarified.

    ¡°You said you brought someone?¡±

    The grey one shook his head up and down with an energy often unseen in beef.  ¡°Biobabbu, bobib¡±

    ¡°Oh, a visionary too? Let him in alright.¡±

    The colorful cane clanked against every item in the way of the shades-wearing old man. Including Jagger, that got poked and whacked relentlessly, as his torturer didn¡¯t see him worthy of mercy. ¡°Stop that, can¡¯t you see it hurts me?¡±

    ¡°As a matter of fact, I cannot,¡± said the blind man, before tripping on a bucket of shit, hitting his head and embracing the colorless world of blind unconsciousness.

    Jagger blinked twice, staring at the inexistent canary.

    ¡°Vision-nary,¡± explained the defeated but undefeated bird, who wasn¡¯t paid enough for this.

    ¡°Ha! Brilliant!¡± Jagger said, and then noticed how the bulls stared at him with concerned eyes. ¡°Be honest you trio of beefmounds: Am I hallucinating?¡±

    The two bulls shook their heads in unison. The rainbow colored one dispersed into a fine, shit colored mist.

    ¡°I may need to cut down on the opioids.¡±

    The ghost of pains past, a dachshund-sized pill of tramadol, manifested in front of Jagger. ¡°No, you don¡¯t. We make you invincible.¡±

    ¡°I thought it was my nature as a cultivator¡¯s chosen weapon that granted me that status.¡±

    ¡°NO!¡± The voice of the pill reverberated fauxly through the barn. ¡°It¡¯s the drugs! It¡¯s always the drugs! We are the one true path to power. Discipline and practice are nothing without painkillers.¡±

    ¡°You are so wise, master.¡± Jagger bowed, butt up, in front of the ethereal vision. The bulls proceeded to scratch each other¡¯s head with their horns. Kalon continued suffering in his exhausted sleep whilst his caretakers forgot they were meant to care for him.

    A gust of wind howled through the barn. The local veterinary, a man in his thirty-nines tired of dealing with the sick members of the sect, rushed in holding a syringe filled with pink juice, and, catching the mass of air by the tail, he caressed her trembling form. ¡°Shhhh, it¡¯s all over, that bad pollen-based rabies won¡¯t hurt you no more, shhhh¡­¡± he said as he put the wind down with a gracile injection, causing a small amount of damage to the sanity of everyone present in both body and mind: This is, excluding Kalon, who remained lost in cheap, imported fever dreams.

 A peek at another comedy project I may upload in the future: Parasite Farmer.

    If you are reading this, it¡¯s because, unlike you, poor sap, I got a pen. Silver lining: you are functionally illiterate at worst, and I can work with that. Please, don¡¯t take it personal and don¡¯t believe yourself special: I am an ass to everyone equally. And it is with the explicit intention to flaunt my amazing exploits that I write this book.

    Now, let¡¯s get real: Unless a miracle has happened, we live inside a demon, and thus life cannot but suck for us all. But the Gonzales. They seem happy with the whole dysfunctional-soul-family thing they have going on. And Clara. I despise Clara. She¡¯s a perfectly serviceable gal and a normal man would love to turn her into a wife. I¡¯d like to do so too: A wife of someone else who lives on the other end of the acid sea. I need to come up with a Mail-bride system to get rid of Clara¡­

    Where was I ¡ªah, yes. In case a miracle has happened and someone outside our lovely homeland is reading this: I am David Hasdiel Vera, farmer extraordinaire, and my soul got eaten by a demon, along many others whose importance is¡­ lesser. And I know what you may think: Motherfucker is named like angels and got swallowed by a demon. Yes, that¡¯s the current situation. Welcome to David¡¯s life in the coziest place in hell.

    Now, where do I truly begin the tale? Maybe when I woke up over a field of red, facing the white, sterile light of one of the firmament¡¯s bioluminescent streaks. That spares you hearing about the diminished grandeur of my life on Earth, where I was thrice a victim of cancer. One a melanoma from which I recovered. Two, a belligerent ex whose birthday was on the 3<sup>rd</sup> of July, and from which I didn¡¯t. Third, and most fatal, a pack of huge feral crabs. Which worked in tandem with Clara and her gangster boyfriend. Not the Clara I want to ship overseas. The Ex named Clara. The other Clara has not proven to be a murderous psychopath as of the current date.

    I¡­ may have a problem with females named Clara, regardless of their species. Worst Doctor companion, too. By far.

    That aside, I opened my eyes, and realized the landscape was a bit odd. A bit lacking in greenery, maybe a big spike of bone jutting out the ground a few meters from me, some weird shit flying by whose silhouettes weren¡¯t the ones of falcons or eagles or pterodactyls. Like, I think being sent back to the Jurassic would have been a good afterlife. Nice climate, cool fauna, absolute lack of people, can piss in future oil deposits. It¡¯s all bnefits until you meet some big ass archosaur. And then you die. And I guess you get sent further back to some cold ass glaciation or a ball-charring volcanic eruption. Where you die again. I wouldn¡¯t know, but I dig it, like paleontologists do. Well, not dig, sometimes they find it on walls and have to bore the things out, right?

    But I digress. Again.

    The point is, I woke up and my National Document of Identity wasn¡¯t in my pocket. The inside of my pocket wasn¡¯t in my pocket either. I had pants, but no pockets. Pockets are sold separately here. Naturally, after remembering my gruesome death, I jumped to conclusions before jumping to my feet.

    ¡°Have I been reincarnated as a woman?! No!¡±

    Checked the basement. All in order. Neither female nor Asian. I was clear to proceed and worry about more urgent matters. ¡°Where the hell I am?¡±

    ¡°That is, I could say, a very accurate description.¡± A voice that you could notice wasn¡¯t trying to sell me anything wafted from behind me, and made me turn my neck slowly, with an appropriate quota of disdain. There stood a pale man, nude except for a loincloth, a monocle, and a kneepad he wore like a bandana. His hair was the color of tar and, had I dared to touch it, probably just as oily. I could have gotten a jumpstart in this life, had I decided to exploit that rich-ass petroliferous basin that was his head.

    ¡°Hello there, scourge of deodorants. I have no spare change,¡± I said, dusting off my new clothes, a simple t-shirt and some pocketless shorts.

    The man strode to my side, and I remember considering he had overdone it with how long his legs and arms were, compared to their ricketiness. He stood there, facing the light that slithered down from the streak on the firmament. ¡°Billy,¡± I thought he said, a bang of black hair sticking to his face.

    ¡°Mine¡¯s David.¡±

    ¡°No, no, what you have under your feet, this red ¡®grass¡¯. Villi. With V.¡±

    ¡°Pardon me?¡±

    ¡°Do not freak out, David, all of us here lived full-fledged lives in other planes. Mostly on Earth. All of our souls were unworthy enough to end up devoured by a giant demon,¡± he explained with an enviable calm. ¡°We are inside the demon now, and this that looks like grass is equivalent to your intestinal lining. Name¡¯s Random, by the way.¡±

    ¡°Random? Like decided by luck?¡±

    ¡°I tried to have fun with the system and it said ¡®your name cannot be a Random assortments of letters¡¯. I got a Random assortment of letters alright.¡±

    You should have seen my face, the rictus of horror at what he had just said.

    ¡°I know it¡¯s hard to process that we have been devoured by a demon and¡­¡±

    ¡°System? Is this a shitty gamefied reality?¡± I asked the most urgent of questions. ¡°Turn based?¡±

    ¡°Yes. No. You have no problem with being inside a demon?¡± He crossed his arms, his hand dangling over the cradle of his elbow like a deceased baby.

    ¡°Fuck! Is the demon male?¡± Once again I demonstrated my superior logical mindset at stablishing priorities.

    ¡°Sort of hermaphrodite, as far as we know. It has like seven different sexes.¡±

    ¡°Good, it¡¯s not as gay as it could. No, I don¡¯t mind.¡±

    Random blinked slowly. Then he winked like a gecko who¡¯s considering if you are enough of a cockroach to be tasty. ¡°It¡¯s okay to panic. You don¡¯t have to be strong here.¡±

    I managed to sidestep his arching arm just in time to avoid one of those awkward half-assed hugs people do by slinging their limbs over your neck like a scarf. ¡°What sort of videogame world are we talking. Respawn mechanics? JRPG? Grindy or not? Will I eventually ascend to practical godhood and seduce some girls of questionable age?¡±

    ¡°Have you played Doom?¡± he asked so casually, shoving a hand between his hip and the sling of his loincloth.

    ¡°No, but I obviously know it. I was no good at shooters. I may have to take a spoonful of concrete.¡± I shrugged and stared wistfully at the lack of sky. ¡°How do you guys measure days?¡±

    ¡°Stardew Valley?¡± He Olympically ignored my question.

    ¡°Oh crap. Oh sweet fuck. No. No!¡± I fell on my knees over the slimy¡­ grass¡­ wait, this is a system world, so [Grass?] ¡°The shell of my mother!¡±Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

    ¡°The¡­ what of your what? I think the universal translator is acting funny again. What language are we speaking from your point of view?¡±

    Realizing this was a drunk babel fish situation, I saw a chance to appear interesting. ¡°Castilian.¡± I said, hoping it translated literally and not to the S word.

    ¡°Okay. I never heard of that one. Where did you live?¡±

    ¡°In a poor country north of Antarctica. A pretty insular territory until recently. We got some sweet marsupials, even. Many got extinct due to invasive species.¡±

    ¡°Ah, so you are from one of Oceania¡¯s islands?¡±

    ¡°Not quite, but don¡¯t bother trying to guess. It¡¯s all water under the bridge.¡±

    He nodded effusively and put on a nervous smile. ¡°We do have those here. Bridges.¡±

    ¡°What about water?¡± I stood as fast as I could and grabbed him from his slick shoulders. ¡°Do you have water here?¡±

    ¡°The rich do. The rest of us generally don¡¯t bother distilling it from the wallmilk.¡±

    I refrained from asking ¡°the what¡± and let him go. Dusted off my hands to avoid weeping them in my clothes out of reflex. For all I knew, the man could rape me. Or kill me, but when you are freshly reincarnated death kind of loses its punch, you know? Death¡¯s whole shtick is that it is final. You die, leave everything behind and stop existing, which often improves your worth as a human being vastly. But if there are lives after deaths it¡¯s just like moving to another country. A shitty one in my case, but, hey, maybe they didn¡¯t have corruption or taxes or mosquitos, and that was a plus in my book. Before branching out again, I¡¯ll conclude the thought: death without finality is merely paperwork.

    ¡°So¡­days?¡± I prodded once more.

    ¡°We have clocks and kind of winged a standard measurement of time that has to do with the cycles of nature all around us.¡±

    An explosion in the distance made me whip my head around, but Random just giggled and patted me on the shoulder. ¡°That was in the pustule fields. Don¡¯t worry. It happens often.¡±

    ¡°Okay¡­ we are standing here, in this¡­ hill of villi.¡± I took the time to gesture at the grandiose gutscape around us. ¡°And you name-dropped a farm simulator and a fps. How do they combine to create this reality?¡±

    ¡°You can be either a hunter bringing resources back to town, which enjoys a low life expectancy but a handsome wage, or farm some¡­ unusual crops as a poor sap and forage resources around the safer areas. Choice of yours. Farmers sometimes go out to hunt too and hunters can do whatever in their private property as long as it complies with the law.¡±

    Scratching my chin, I asked the question I guessed Random, being a sort of guide of this underworld ¡ªor so I assumed¡ª had probably heard a million times. ¡°Are there monster girls? Can I ranch monster girls?¡±

    ¡°Why?¡± I could see the defeat in his face. He thought he had avoided the bullet, just to be met with the galena breath of the canon right in front of his face. Ha. ¡°Why should everyone make either that question or¡­ the bachelorette one. There are no bachelorettes, we are not NPCs we are full-fledged people, and it will be frowned upon if you go around marrying people just to turn the resulting children into birds. Which cannot be done, so psychos just sub it for infanticide.¡±

    Meanwhile, I had stopped paying attention to him midway through his rant. ¡°Inventory.¡± I called out. Nothing. ¡°Bag.¡± Again, nothing.

    ¡°You don¡¯t have access to the system until you choose Farmer or¡ª¡±

    ¡°Farmer. Fame and glory sound amazing, but limited in scope. I am going for the sandbox option and finding my own way in it.¡±

    ¡°This isn¡¯t a game, David.¡±

    ¡°You mean I cannot create a lucrative flatworm farm and use the funds to make the lives of my fellow humans harder?¡±

    Random¡¯s eyes rolled away from my gaze as he smiled awkwardly. I should have had a ¡°oh no¡± moment, but, sincerely, I couldn¡¯t be bothered. ¡°¡­We are a moneyless society.¡±

    My pupils went the size of your brains. I felt the veins on my head quivering, my heart pumping in savage fashion, the mouth drier than turkey. Chicken? Superior. Armadillo? Heavenly. Capybara? Angers the Japanese, ergo transcendental. ¡°You are fucking goddamned endoparasitic hippies?¡±

    Random exploded in laugher, letting himself fall over the cushioned mat of villi as he grabbed his stomach with one hand and pointed ¡ªwith a healthy dose of Parkinsonism¡ª at my face with the other. ¡°Oh man, I knew that would make you react. Credits, we have credits!¡±

    ¡°I am sincerely baffled: this is like the bastard child of Fantasy, Sci-Fi and someone¡¯s fetish. And it isn¡¯t mine!¡± The latter was absolutely a complaint born out of offense, don¡¯t mistake it for anything else.

    Random incorporated faster than I ever thought a man with an aching belly would be able to, peeled off a smile, and pointed behind me. ¡°Come with me, David. I¡¯ll show you your plot. It¡¯s over there, a few kilometers.¡±

    ¡°Of land, of story, or of breast enhancement?¡± I asked just ¡®cause I had to ask. Absolutely had to ask.

    Random blinked thrice. Recalculating. ¡°Pardon me?¡±

    ¡°Will I get terrain, painful character development, or a big pair of silicone implants?¡±

    ¡°A¡­ parcel of gutground where you will be able to plant parasite seeds and grow them. Like you would turnips.¡±

    I rolled my shoulders as we walked downhill, side by side, three meters apart. Ah well, a good farm house and a bit of manual labor is not a bad afterlife.¡±

    Random stopped in his tracks and glanced at me like a pit bull overdosed on speed. ¡°No. You don¡¯t get it, David. You get the plot. Only the plot.¡±

    I crossed my arms. ¡°So where will I live?¡±

    ¡°We have an inn. Alternatively, that¡¯s for you to figure out: we have people you can pay to build you a neat house,¡± he said, rubbing his fingers together to emphasize the fact he was speaking with a dispossessed motherfucker sunken in the most abject poverty, woe was me.

    I rubbed the dorsal of my metacarpal region, massaging my hairy flesh in a nervous fashion. ¡°Is healthcare public?¡±

    ¡°Yes, we charge people only if they are above a certain level of wealth. Don¡¯t worry about pre-existing conditions, you are not likely to have it there. Your body is not the same you ahd on Earth. It¡¯s more like a fleshification of the soul, if you want to call it somehow. Your soul now bleeds, your soul now¡ª¡±

    ¡°Cums!¡±

    One could see the light leaving Random¡¯s eyes candela by candela. ¡°Yes¡­ that too.¡± Not even an hour in this world and I had already murdered a man inside. And it gave no XP. Shame. ¡°The point being, don¡¯t die because your very soul gets digested by the demon, obliterated, poof. No more David anywhere in the universe.¡± He gestured exaggeratedly as he spoke, hands nearly flailing around as we resumed our walk downhill.

    ¡°Natural death. Possible?¡±

    ¡°We don¡¯t age. It is an afterlife of sorts. But we are still inside a demon.¡±

    ¡°Does the demon age?¡± I asked, looking him in the eyes, and he laid a hand on my shoulder, silence reigning in the villi-ridden hills. Then I understood that was the question everybody forbade themselves from asking. ¡°I asked if the demon fucking ages.¡±

    ¡°Read the room pal. Please, get used to reading the room.¡±

    ¡°I am room-literate. In time you will learn that me being able to read a warning often leads to me doing exactly what it is trying to discourage.¡±

    The hand shriveled off my shoulder like tree leaves in autumn. Near Chernobyl. ¡°That attitude is not going to help you thrive in our community.¡±

    This elicited an awe-inspiring shrug from my person. ¡°So long as I can make everyone a bit more miserable.¡±

    ¡°Are you one of those pathologically contrarian people?¡± His eyes bore into mine, and the pity could be seen in them.

    ¡°Maybe.¡± I answered, because he expected me to say ¡°No¡±. Or perhaps to gloat and be proud of it. But I¡¯ll let everyone know I am not that kind of man. I pick my battles. Only the easily winnable ones. Mostly the easily winnable ones.

    Okay, I may be a bit terrible at picking some battles, but they are good pretenders. Mischievous fae of a strife, see? They like, parade around as easy ones. They are the abusive ¡°pick-me¡±s of battles. I am a martyr. I am definitively a martyr, exile any doubt about it.

    Where was I? Ah yes, walking downhill besides Randy, good ol¡¯ Randy.

    I hated him back then. I never stopped hating him. It¡¯s kind of my thing, hating. But in that moment, traipsing towards my fate, under the changing lights that came from the bioluminescent stripes on the ceiling of the Town chamber, we were just a couple dudes facing an unknown, mysterious, slimy world, and probably wondering: Is it worth it trying to dig a hole to dick the ground under our feet?

    My head got jerked out of the gutter by small white structures appearing on the horizon. They sprouted from the ground in conical or rectangular shapes, somethimes something more cylindrical or squared sprinkled around. ¡°What¡¯s that?¡±

    ¡°The town. We build with lumberbone. Truly, it¡¯s bone with only few of the characteristics of wood, but it does the job and someone named it that and¡­ I don¡¯t know, I am not a bonemason.¡±

    ¡°There are bone trees?¡±

    ¡°Uh¡­ yes¡­ more or less. Whole forests of them,¡± Random said, scratching the back of his neck. ¡°Some people are full-time bonejacks. Farmers, mostly, but hunters sometimes want a more peaceful life and only go on obligatory hunts, so they need side hustles to pay the bills.¡±

    The hills unrolled until we arrived to the plains, the town rising taller as we got closer. Because physics.

    ¡°Listen David, I¡¯ll introduce you to the higher ups and you will get your plot assigned. Please. ¡°He joined his hands as in prayer. ¡°Please be normal. For the sake of both of us.¡±

    Then Random motioned for me to follow him, and following a winding path of white tiles we intruded the unusual town.