“They’re not…decaying! I paid…extra…for the non-decayable…corpses! I know…what I’m doing! Do you not…think…I know what…I’m doing or…something?”
“Some of these…corpses…are totally…decaying…do you have…anosmia…or something? Because…there’s a spell…for that…I mean…the odor is…oppressive! I can barely…smell myself think…with all of these decaying…corpses…I think you got…swindled…by whoever…sold you these…things…”
“Maybe…you…have anosmia…I don’t have…anosmia…what an affront…to my molemanishness…to assert that I…have anosmia…it is clearly the scent…of sewage…that pervades through…these chambers…though for what reason…I am unsure…”
“Oh…now that you…mention it…yes…you are correct…the smell…of sewage indeed…my sincerest apologies…and to think…I was about…to kick your teeth…in…”
“It’s okay…my hood chup…we all…make…mis…take…s…”
BOFF
The moleman who had apologized had then reeled back a fist and sucker punched the other moleman, sending him staggering back, spitting blood.
“You…bass…turd…I’ll kill you!” growled the dizzied moleman, charging towards the other like a wild boar.
The other moleman simply chuckled, grabbing a corpse from a nearby body pile and slinging it around like a fleshy back, knocking the charging moleman to the ground and then continuously beating him over the head with it.
“Cluck…you…cluck…you…cluck…you…cluck…y…o…u…!…!…!”
Werthers was reminded of the old saying ‘To be a moleman beating a moleman to near death with a dead human,’ which of course meant to belabor a point to such a degree as to be absurd. Clearly, it was also something that actually happened.
The crumpled moleman on the ground was at least unconscious. The victory tossed his weaponized corpse aside, brushed the sweat off his brow, turned around in an attempted strut, and immediately slipped and fell backward, hitting the back of his neck sharply on an ill placed rock.
“Feathery shit!” cackled the voice of Biscuit Pisser. “We didn’t even have to do anything!”
From the shadows, Shitface, Biscuit Pisser, and the flat chested woman whose name was evading Werthers emerged, gawking at the molemen limp on the ground.
“Alright Krumbumbum go ahead and grope them. Get it out of your system,” jeered Shitface.
“Vitch I will slap you.”
“Not before you grope those molemen you won’t.”
Suddenly, the ground under them shook fiercely, like some great beasts were thrashing around in a nearby chamberroom.
“What the cluck was that?” Shitface grabbed her boobs to arrest their jellylike jiggling.
“Methinketh,” Biscuit Pisser cackled, “that the gods have gotten up off their lazy asses and started fighting eachother!”
“What in the cluck did you just say?” growled Shitface, jittering like a boiling sponge. “Did I just clucking hear what I think I just clucking heard?”
Biscuit Pisser turned to Krumbumbum and whispered, “Okay seriously what did I say I’m so confused.”
Krumbumbum mouthed ‘ASSES.’
“What?” shouted Biscuit Pisser. “Sasparilla? Armadillo? Rutabagas? I didn’t say any of those words all I said was the gods had gotten up off their lazy asses—”
“ASSES!” blurted Shitface. “Asses you said asses don’t bring asses up to me just don’t clucking do it!!”
“Cock hamn okay sorry…may I ask why?”
“No you may not ask why!”
“Don’t make fun of me.”
“His donkey was ass-napped by skyrates, Biscuit Pisser.”
Shitface and Biscuit Pisser, ravenous with anger, turned to Krumbumbum.
“What the clucking cluck was that shit, Krumbumbum?”
“Really what the cluck I ought to tear you a new one Krumbumbum.”
“Yea me too I mean really what the cluck is wrong with you Krumbumbum!”
“I clucking hate you Krumbumbum you’re the clucking worst!”
“Yea Krumbumbum you’re a loser and your stupid magic doesn’t even twerk in here so you better watch your clucking step or we’ll cluck you up!”
A different rumbling shook the halls of the chamber. A coupled of corpses tumbled over. And then, the gurgling and rushing of some sort of uncockly foaming liquid echoed around them.
“SHIT!” cried Biscuit Pisser, looking off in the distance. The three if them quit squabbling and scurried off together like headless divine entities.
“And as long as we keep that in mind, Werthenhauffen, then neither of us will be doomed,” stated ‘Herald’ matter-of-factly.
Werthers, prespiring heavily for someone who was supposed to be dead, realized that ‘Herald’ had this entire time been telling him something in great detail.
“Say, Werthenspiel, is that a muffin in your pocket or are you just happy to see me and also have oddly shaped genetalia?”
“It’s a muffin.”
“Can I look at it?”
Werthers sighed, producing the muffin from his pocket.
“Ooh! Purple! My favorite flavor! You shouldn’t have!” he giggled with glee, snatching the muffin and scarfing it down in a blink.
Werthers stomache cried out, mourning the lost meal. And then, Werthers found out why Biscuit Pisser and co. had scurried away when he cried out ‘SHIT.’
***
On the second floor of the godfighting arena, two well dressed members of the Church of Present Day Saints of Duck, Duck, and Goose were canvasing for new converts.
Before the arena had descended into chaos and the gods actually started fighting, Gilbert and Jarvish had been able to introduce a couple of chickens-shit heathens to the bright-as-a-bleached-whale glory of their one true savior with nary a pomp, frock or circumstance other than their tight tucked shirts and donut-glazed eyes.
Now that there was actually ducks forbid a fight, these goose-fearing Quackers had to find a new way to wet their beaks. Fortunately, they’d already prepared something that would surely fit the bill. From their rucksacks they pulled out two large canvas banners and waved them around on sticks, sometimes bumping into each other and almost falling over.
“Shame! Shame on all of you, and your mother, and your uncle’s brother, and your great grandfather, and your nieces!” prostrated Gilbert.
“The chickens are nothing but foul tricksters!” nasaled Jarvish.
“Do you not see how these gods fight like the mortals they are? Truly if the celestial power of the chickens courses through their veins then we would see the hood golden goose’s glory rain from the heavens!”
No sooner did Gilbert bellow this than did a thicc fountain of foul liquid break out from the floor above them, pelting them both in sewage.
“You’ve got to be quacking with me!” Jarvish whined, spitting on the back head of a large, burly elf that he had scarcely noticed was there.
“Hey. What the cluck is wrong with you?” growled the elf.
“N-nothing I didn’t m-mean to do anything!” Jarvish cowered like a puppy.
“Well duh, I’m an elf, I already know that. But you should be more considerate. Also, I clucking hate Quackers. Your group roped my little brother in and he’s never been the same.”
“Hey now, sirrah,” butted in Gilbert, pushing Jarvish aside, “you leave my dabbler out of this. Your behavior paints you as a heathen.”
“Well your behavior paints you as an asshole.”
The argument built and built, as leaks in the ceiling sprung quicker and quicker. The arena rumbled with something more than the wild thrashing of the gods. It almost felt like they were inside a bubbling volcano, or it would have felt like that, if they weren’t so forcibly arguing with eachother.
“I bet you’re so stupid that if I told you the true power of the golden goose, you wouldn’t even comprehend it!”
“I bet you’re so stupid that if I made a wooden decoy of one of you and set it out in a lake you’d fornicate with it.”
“You take that quack!”
“Stop saying quack in place of other words it’s clucking dumb as hen!”
CCCKKKK FSHHHHH
The fourth floor crumbled under the foul weight of the shit.
CCCCKCKCKK FFFSSHHHH
The third floor crumbled under the fould weight of the shit, drowning the argument in a flurry.
CCCCCCCCCKCKCKK FFFFFFFFSSSSSHHHHHHHHH
The second floor crumbled, and the mass of shit and wriggling wormlike audience members were flushed into a nasty melting pot, swirling around the metal dome containing the gods like they were orbiting a planet, some bits of it even leaking inside and mucking up the fighting grounds.
Somewhere in the arena a loud, angry voice abrasively squealed,
“EUUUSTAAAAAAACE!”
“They’re not…decaying! I paid…extra…for the non-decayable…corpses! I know…what I’m doing! Do you not…think…I know what…I’m doing or…something?”
“Some of these…corpses…are totally…decaying…do you have…anosmia…or something? Because…there’s a spell…for that…I mean…the odor is…oppressive! I can barely…smell myself think…with all of these decaying…corpses…I think you got…swindled…by whoever…sold you these…things…”
“Maybe…you…have anosmia…I don’t have…anosmia…what an affront…to my molemanishness…to assert that I…have anosmia…it is clearly the scent…of sewage…that pervades through…these chambers…though for what reason…I am unsure…”
“Oh…now that you…mention it…yes…you are correct…the smell…of sewage indeed…my sincerest apologies…and to think…I was about…to kick your teeth…in…”
“It’s okay…my hood chup…we all…make…mis…take…s…”
BOFF
The moleman who had apologized had then reeled back a fist and sucker punched the other moleman, sending him staggering back, spitting blood.
“You…bass…turd…I’ll kill you!” growled the dizzied moleman, charging towards the other like a wild boar.
The other moleman simply chuckled, grabbing a corpse from a nearby body pile and slinging it around like a fleshy back, knocking the charging moleman to the ground and then continuously beating him over the head with it.
“Cluck…you…cluck…you…cluck…you…cluck…y…o…u…!…!…!”
Werthers was reminded of the old saying ‘To be a moleman beating a moleman to near death with a dead human,’ which of course meant to belabor a point to such a degree as to be absurd. Clearly, it was also something that actually happened.
The crumpled moleman on the ground was at least unconscious. The victory tossed his weaponized corpse aside, brushed the sweat off his brow, turned around in an attempted strut, and immediately slipped and fell backward, hitting the back of his neck sharply on an ill placed rock.
“Feathery shit!” cackled the voice of Biscuit Pisser. “We didn’t even have to do anything!”
From the shadows, Shitface, Biscuit Pisser, and the flat chested woman whose name was evading Werthers emerged, gawking at the molemen limp on the ground.
“Alright Krumbumbum go ahead and grope them. Get it out of your system,” jeered Shitface.
“Vitch I will slap you.”
“Not before you grope those molemen you won’t.”
Suddenly, the ground under them shook fiercely, like some great beasts were thrashing around in a nearby chamberroom.
“What the cluck was that?” Shitface grabbed her boobs to arrest their jellylike jiggling.
“Methinketh,” Biscuit Pisser cackled, “that the gods have gotten up off their lazy asses and started fighting eachother!”
“What in the cluck did you just say?” growled Shitface, jittering like a boiling sponge. “Did I just clucking hear what I think I just clucking heard?”
Biscuit Pisser turned to Krumbumbum and whispered, “Okay seriously what did I say I’m so confused.”
Krumbumbum mouthed ‘ASSES.’
“What?” shouted Biscuit Pisser. “Sasparilla? Armadillo? Rutabagas? I didn’t say any of those words all I said was the gods had gotten up off their lazy asses—”
“ASSES!” blurted Shitface. “Asses you said asses don’t bring asses up to me just don’t clucking do it!!”
“Cock hamn okay sorry…may I ask why?”
“No you may not ask why!”
“Don’t make fun of me.”
“His donkey was ass-napped by skyrates, Biscuit Pisser.”
Shitface and Biscuit Pisser, ravenous with anger, turned to Krumbumbum.
“What the clucking cluck was that shit, Krumbumbum?”
“Really what the cluck I ought to tear you a new one Krumbumbum.”
“Yea me too I mean really what the cluck is wrong with you Krumbumbum!”
“I clucking hate you Krumbumbum you’re the clucking worst!”
“Yea Krumbumbum you’re a loser and your stupid magic doesn’t even twerk in here so you better watch your clucking step or we’ll cluck you up!”
A different rumbling shook the halls of the chamber. A coupled of corpses tumbled over. And then, the gurgling and rushing of some sort of uncockly foaming liquid echoed around them.
“SHIT!” cried Biscuit Pisser, looking off in the distance. The three if them quit squabbling and scurried off together like headless divine entities.
“And as long as we keep that in mind, Werthenhauffen, then neither of us will be doomed,” stated ‘Herald’ matter-of-factly.
Werthers, prespiring heavily for someone who was supposed to be dead, realized that ‘Herald’ had this entire time been telling him something in great detail.
“Say, Werthenspiel, is that a muffin in your pocket or are you just happy to see me and also have oddly shaped genetalia?”
“It’s a muffin.”
“Can I look at it?”
Werthers sighed, producing the muffin from his pocket.
“Ooh! Purple! My favorite flavor! You shouldn’t have!” he giggled with glee, snatching the muffin and scarfing it down in a blink.
Werthers stomache cried out, mourning the lost meal. And then, Werthers found out why Biscuit Pisser and co. had scurried away when he cried out ‘SHIT.’
***
On the second floor of the godfighting arena, two well dressed members of the Church of Present Day Saints of Duck, Duck, and Goose were canvasing for new converts.
Before the arena had descended into chaos and the gods actually started fighting, Gilbert and Jarvish had been able to introduce a couple of chickens-shit heathens to the bright-as-a-bleached-whale glory of their one true savior with nary a pomp, frock or circumstance other than their tight tucked shirts and donut-glazed eyes.
Now that there was actually ducks forbid a fight, these goose-fearing Quackers had to find a new way to wet their beaks. Fortunately, they’d already prepared something that would surely fit the bill. From their rucksacks they pulled out two large canvas banners and waved them around on sticks, sometimes bumping into each other and almost falling over.
“Shame! Shame on all of you, and your mother, and your uncle’s brother, and your great grandfather, and your nieces!” prostrated Gilbert.
“The chickens are nothing but foul tricksters!” nasaled Jarvish.
“Do you not see how these gods fight like the mortals they are? Truly if the celestial power of the chickens courses through their veins then we would see the hood golden goose’s glory rain from the heavens!”
No sooner did Gilbert bellow this than did a thicc fountain of foul liquid break out from the floor above them, pelting them both in sewage.
“You’ve got to be quacking with me!” Jarvish whined, spitting on the back head of a large, burly elf that he had scarcely noticed was there.
“Hey. What the cluck is wrong with you?” growled the elf.
“N-nothing I didn’t m-mean to do anything!” Jarvish cowered like a puppy.
“Well duh, I’m an elf, I already know that. But you should be more considerate. Also, I clucking hate Quackers. Your group roped my little brother in and he’s never been the same.”
“Hey now, sirrah,” butted in Gilbert, pushing Jarvish aside, “you leave my dabbler out of this. Your behavior paints you as a heathen.”
“Well your behavior paints you as an asshole.”
The argument built and built, as leaks in the ceiling sprung quicker and quicker. The arena rumbled with something more than the wild thrashing of the gods. It almost felt like they were inside a bubbling volcano, or it would have felt like that, if they weren’t so forcibly arguing with eachother.
“I bet you’re so stupid that if I told you the true power of the golden goose, you wouldn’t even comprehend it!”
“I bet you’re so stupid that if I made a wooden decoy of one of you and set it out in a lake you’d fornicate with it.”
“You take that quack!”
“Stop saying quack in place of other words it’s clucking dumb as hen!”
CCCKKKK FSHHHHH
The fourth floor crumbled under the foul weight of the shit.
CCCCKCKCKK FFFSSHHHH
The third floor crumbled under the fould weight of the shit, drowning the argument in a flurry.
CCCCCCCCCKCKCKK FFFFFFFFSSSSSHHHHHHHHH
The second floor crumbled, and the mass of shit and wriggling wormlike audience members were flushed into a nasty melting pot, swirling around the metal dome containing the gods like they were orbiting a planet, some bits of it even leaking inside and mucking up the fighting grounds.
Somewhere in the arena a loud, angry voice abrasively squealed,
“EUUUSTAAAAAAACE!”
