All through her, or his, or shmerm, or shmism, or fleur, or de lis, or who or whom or whatever’s (there were a lot of fantasy pronouns, some quite useful, some a bit oudated, some young scrappy and hungry, some more apt to refer to a country, and others completely contrived), well, all through their journey with Broderica to find Jeffrey with a G, Lady Krumbumbum was imagining what it would be like to see a godfight.
She, or rather the he within the she, that is the esteemed wizard, Dr. Krumbunculus, had read much of the brazen, blistery sport of godfighting. The shining retractable blades clasped around the thicc wrinkly legs of the gods, shooting out in attack and slicing the enemy god in a fervor of blood. The gods raising their wings and flapping them in anger, writhing like shimmering serpentine blankets through the air then striking with lightning precision. The thunder of the earth under their clawed feet as they tore through the mud below them. The jeering of the bloodthirsty crowd. The sheer insanity of it all.
Also, Lady Krumbumbum was absolutely dying to see a god breathe fire. She’d read so much of the soul melting inferno that coiled wider and wider out, nearly or sometimes entirely burning your face off.
“I need to flutter my muffins,” whispered Broderica to the bloodshot-eyed cyclops.
“Oh cluck you you clucking nincompoop! I ought to brine you like a shrimp and crinkle your fiddlesticks!”
Lady Krumbumbum was wide eyed. Not everybody would just shout a bunch of slurs at you.
They moved on through the tedious process of reaching the correct entrance to the godfight by twirling around on point, fondling the invisible wall, grinding up against the wall, slithered down three steps, listened to a man screaming ‘cock’, gyrated through the ground and walls, and before they could even finish they were inside the arena.
The arena smelled like a genie’s locker room. And genies spent all their time locked up in lamps.
The arena was tinged with a moldy, greenish hue. Lady Krumbumbum had always imagined brilliant red lighting for godfights, not because she ever read that godfights were often lit by a distinct red hue but because she found it oddly compelling, for whatever reason. The gods were contained in a large half dome of magically electric fencing.
The arena made it very difficult to see the gods, regardless of the fact that even the smallest of gods easily towered thirty fantasy feet high. Instead of simply one level, where pretty much everyone could see the gods loom over them, there were six floors of flat ‘viewing areas’ at progessively higher altitudes. It was almost like being in a stone mason’s version of a fantasy apartment building, except each floor was an entire studio apartment that was missing a fourth wall. Most people on each floor could barely see the gods because the ceiling cut off their view. Only the most connected, most successful, and most gettingist-readyist-theist-earliest-andist-quickest of godfight patrons made it to the front. Even then, they were in the nosebleed section unless they were fortunate enough to get the top floor.
The arena was as a result as much if not more a place for listening to the godfight and talking to others about the godfight as it was witnessing the godfight. And if one was to talk to others at the godfight then of course the first subject that would come up would be the godfight itself. This made it difficult for those who enjoyed expressing their opinions to others about the godfight to move to the next step, and talk about literally anything other than the godfight. Lady Krumbumbum witnessed such a spectacle promptly as a few inhebriated spectators slurred at eachother (not that kind of slurred):
“This is so clucked up! Clearly nobody here knows anything about gods!”
“Maybe you’re the one who doethn’t know anything about godth! Godth fight eachother! It’th what they clucking do, and it’th what they’d clucking do if we never even ekthithted and it wath jutht them, even if they were the only creatureth on thith thpeck of lint wobbling around in inner thpace! Thith ith life! Thith ith their true nature! Would you rather they be confined to live their liveth in tiny cageth in the dark like our meat godth live, thittinh their anutheth out, bathing in their own ekthcrement and being played by metal hotheth like a vuvuthela?”
“Man cluck you. You’re annoying as hen. Who cares about their true nature anyway we’re all just here because we want to watch them cluck eachother up.”
“Do you even give a shit about these poor creatures of the chickens? I mean, hood cock, what’s wrong with all of you? These brilliant, mosaic souls are being spread thin like bagel shmear and all you do is watch them tear eachother apart!”
“Well, uh, of course, I mean, why the cluck else would we be here?”
“Clearly you must be some sort of ignorant bean refrier.”
“Cluck off, you don’t know shit you little turd.”
“Actually, I used to be a member of God Husbandry Anonymous. The GHA. Ever heard of them?”
“Yes, of course, we all clucking have! Everyone hates your stupid infomercials and nobody gives a cluck about your patented god feed.”
“What the cluck did you just clucking say to me, you little barnacle sucker? I’ll have you know I’ve been raising gods my whole clucking life, and I got a five star ribbon at the Caldonian National God Rearing and Skirmishing Fair! That’s the CNGRSF if you’re unaware.”
“You’re so full of shit with all your fancy ass acronyms! Who the cluck do you think you are anyway? A member of the Royal Gourd sneaking in here to royally cluck us up when we’re least expecting it?”
Lady Krumbumbum looked around to see Broderica parting the crowd like the translucent sea, making her way to the nosebleed section. Krumbumbum tried to follow Broderica but immediately found herself closed out by stinky idiots on all sides.
“Um, excrete me?” she hacked as her newly opened mouth met the tepid air.
No one paid any attention to her, and their conversations quickly shifted from arguments to the unbearably mundane.
“Man this godfight is boring as hen. I should’ve just stayed home and done my fantasy taxes.”
“That’s okay, I’m actually a fantasy CPA. I twerk with Gigglesberg, Wigglestein, Figglesfeld, and Sons and Uncles and Other Men of Minor and/or No Relation. I could whip your taxes up right here at the godfight! You’ll get a discount since we’re both committing a crime by coming here.”
“Sounds hood to me. However, eh, I don’t exactly have any papertwerk with me.”
“Oh, that’s quite alright, nothing to break any more of a sweat than you already are being in this arena about, chuppsie. I’ll just forge you some new ones at an additional price that will be offset by your criminal discount.”
“Thanks! Who knew committing crimes was this simple, fun, and easy to understand? I ought to do this more often.”
“That’s what I’m here for.”
Lady Krumbumbum stumbled away from the spectators as they forged tax documents, stepping in a couple of puddles in the process. Then she bumped into a large gut and a putrid odor. As Lady Krumbumbum was actually the esteemed wizard Dr. Krumbunculus, she immediately recognized this as an elf.
“Hi. I’m Carl.”
“Blistering elves. No crimping manners.”
“How unladylike. I’d be surprised, Lady Krumbumbum, if I didn’t know you weren’t really a lady.”
“I’d be surprised if I didn’t know you weren’t really a lady! Hoo hoo hoo look at me I’m a stinky old elf blah blah blah! I can read your mind! Cluck off.”
“Did I hit a nerve there, chup?”
“Don’t you call me chup, chup!” Lady Krumbumbum was getting flushed.
“Then don’t you call me chup, either. Chup.”
“Call me chup again, chup, and I’ll show you, chup, whether we’re really chups or not. Chup.”
Carl sneered. “Chup.”
“That’s it you snarky little shortcake! I’m gonna cluck you up!”
Lady Krumbumbum launched herself like a cat made out of toothpicks at Carl, who stood still and punched her straight in the face.
WWWWHKK
She tumbled on her side. Some onlookers turned around. A short, stumpy man of dubious origin and certain inhebriation latched on.
“Feathery shit! It’s a fight! Fight! Fight! FIGHT!”
Before either of them knew it, even with Carl’s mild clarivoyance, the pair was surrounded by a jeering crowd, not unlike the crowd Lady Krumbumbum had imagined she would witness at a godfight.
All through her, or his, or shmerm, or shmism, or fleur, or de lis, or who or whom or whatever’s (there were a lot of fantasy pronouns, some quite useful, some a bit oudated, some young scrappy and hungry, some more apt to refer to a country, and others completely contrived), well, all through their journey with Broderica to find Jeffrey with a G, Lady Krumbumbum was imagining what it would be like to see a godfight.
She, or rather the he within the she, that is the esteemed wizard, Dr. Krumbunculus, had read much of the brazen, blistery sport of godfighting. The shining retractable blades clasped around the thicc wrinkly legs of the gods, shooting out in attack and slicing the enemy god in a fervor of blood. The gods raising their wings and flapping them in anger, writhing like shimmering serpentine blankets through the air then striking with lightning precision. The thunder of the earth under their clawed feet as they tore through the mud below them. The jeering of the bloodthirsty crowd. The sheer insanity of it all.
Also, Lady Krumbumbum was absolutely dying to see a god breathe fire. She’d read so much of the soul melting inferno that coiled wider and wider out, nearly or sometimes entirely burning your face off.
“I need to flutter my muffins,” whispered Broderica to the bloodshot-eyed cyclops.
“Oh cluck you you clucking nincompoop! I ought to brine you like a shrimp and crinkle your fiddlesticks!”
Lady Krumbumbum was wide eyed. Not everybody would just shout a bunch of slurs at you.
They moved on through the tedious process of reaching the correct entrance to the godfight by twirling around on point, fondling the invisible wall, grinding up against the wall, slithered down three steps, listened to a man screaming ‘cock’, gyrated through the ground and walls, and before they could even finish they were inside the arena.
The arena smelled like a genie’s locker room. And genies spent all their time locked up in lamps.
The arena was tinged with a moldy, greenish hue. Lady Krumbumbum had always imagined brilliant red lighting for godfights, not because she ever read that godfights were often lit by a distinct red hue but because she found it oddly compelling, for whatever reason. The gods were contained in a large half dome of magically electric fencing.
The arena made it very difficult to see the gods, regardless of the fact that even the smallest of gods easily towered thirty fantasy feet high. Instead of simply one level, where pretty much everyone could see the gods loom over them, there were six floors of flat ‘viewing areas’ at progessively higher altitudes. It was almost like being in a stone mason’s version of a fantasy apartment building, except each floor was an entire studio apartment that was missing a fourth wall. Most people on each floor could barely see the gods because the ceiling cut off their view. Only the most connected, most successful, and most gettingist-readyist-theist-earliest-andist-quickest of godfight patrons made it to the front. Even then, they were in the nosebleed section unless they were fortunate enough to get the top floor.
The arena was as a result as much if not more a place for listening to the godfight and talking to others about the godfight as it was witnessing the godfight. And if one was to talk to others at the godfight then of course the first subject that would come up would be the godfight itself. This made it difficult for those who enjoyed expressing their opinions to others about the godfight to move to the next step, and talk about literally anything other than the godfight. Lady Krumbumbum witnessed such a spectacle promptly as a few inhebriated spectators slurred at eachother (not that kind of slurred):
“This is so clucked up! Clearly nobody here knows anything about gods!”
“Maybe you’re the one who doethn’t know anything about godth! Godth fight eachother! It’th what they clucking do, and it’th what they’d clucking do if we never even ekthithted and it wath jutht them, even if they were the only creatureth on thith thpeck of lint wobbling around in inner thpace! Thith ith life! Thith ith their true nature! Would you rather they be confined to live their liveth in tiny cageth in the dark like our meat godth live, thittinh their anutheth out, bathing in their own ekthcrement and being played by metal hotheth like a vuvuthela?”
“Man cluck you. You’re annoying as hen. Who cares about their true nature anyway we’re all just here because we want to watch them cluck eachother up.”
“Do you even give a shit about these poor creatures of the chickens? I mean, hood cock, what’s wrong with all of you? These brilliant, mosaic souls are being spread thin like bagel shmear and all you do is watch them tear eachother apart!”
“Well, uh, of course, I mean, why the cluck else would we be here?”
“Clearly you must be some sort of ignorant bean refrier.”
“Cluck off, you don’t know shit you little turd.”
“Actually, I used to be a member of God Husbandry Anonymous. The GHA. Ever heard of them?”
“Yes, of course, we all clucking have! Everyone hates your stupid infomercials and nobody gives a cluck about your patented god feed.”
“What the cluck did you just clucking say to me, you little barnacle sucker? I’ll have you know I’ve been raising gods my whole clucking life, and I got a five star ribbon at the Caldonian National God Rearing and Skirmishing Fair! That’s the CNGRSF if you’re unaware.”
“You’re so full of shit with all your fancy ass acronyms! Who the cluck do you think you are anyway? A member of the Royal Gourd sneaking in here to royally cluck us up when we’re least expecting it?”
Lady Krumbumbum looked around to see Broderica parting the crowd like the translucent sea, making her way to the nosebleed section. Krumbumbum tried to follow Broderica but immediately found herself closed out by stinky idiots on all sides.
“Um, excrete me?” she hacked as her newly opened mouth met the tepid air.
No one paid any attention to her, and their conversations quickly shifted from arguments to the unbearably mundane.
“Man this godfight is boring as hen. I should’ve just stayed home and done my fantasy taxes.”
“That’s okay, I’m actually a fantasy CPA. I twerk with Gigglesberg, Wigglestein, Figglesfeld, and Sons and Uncles and Other Men of Minor and/or No Relation. I could whip your taxes up right here at the godfight! You’ll get a discount since we’re both committing a crime by coming here.”
“Sounds hood to me. However, eh, I don’t exactly have any papertwerk with me.”
“Oh, that’s quite alright, nothing to break any more of a sweat than you already are being in this arena about, chuppsie. I’ll just forge you some new ones at an additional price that will be offset by your criminal discount.”
“Thanks! Who knew committing crimes was this simple, fun, and easy to understand? I ought to do this more often.”
“That’s what I’m here for.”
Lady Krumbumbum stumbled away from the spectators as they forged tax documents, stepping in a couple of puddles in the process. Then she bumped into a large gut and a putrid odor. As Lady Krumbumbum was actually the esteemed wizard Dr. Krumbunculus, she immediately recognized this as an elf.
“Hi. I’m Carl.”
“Blistering elves. No crimping manners.”
“How unladylike. I’d be surprised, Lady Krumbumbum, if I didn’t know you weren’t really a lady.”
“I’d be surprised if I didn’t know you weren’t really a lady! Hoo hoo hoo look at me I’m a stinky old elf blah blah blah! I can read your mind! Cluck off.”
“Did I hit a nerve there, chup?”
“Don’t you call me chup, chup!” Lady Krumbumbum was getting flushed.
“Then don’t you call me chup, either. Chup.”
“Call me chup again, chup, and I’ll show you, chup, whether we’re really chups or not. Chup.”
Carl sneered. “Chup.”
“That’s it you snarky little shortcake! I’m gonna cluck you up!”
Lady Krumbumbum launched herself like a cat made out of toothpicks at Carl, who stood still and punched her straight in the face.
WWWWHKK
She tumbled on her side. Some onlookers turned around. A short, stumpy man of dubious origin and certain inhebriation latched on.
“Feathery shit! It’s a fight! Fight! Fight! FIGHT!”
Before either of them knew it, even with Carl’s mild clarivoyance, the pair was surrounded by a jeering crowd, not unlike the crowd Lady Krumbumbum had imagined she would witness at a godfight.
