“Can’t see much of anything,” replied Carl, embarassed. Carl was an elf, which apart from accounting for his swarthy, repulsive exterior, of which included a near gangrenous odor, meant that he could not read. And it was not for lack of education—everyone knew all elves, disgrossting and strange creatures as they were, were truthfully unable to even see writing on paper, magic or otherwise, whether it be drawings or writing.
“Oh. Right. Sorry about that,” Dorma halfassedly pitched.
“Not a problem,” said the broken souled voice of someone who had had this exact conversation with so many people over the long course of their life that the response was automatic, as if they were an automaton, though all the same it was definitely still a bit of a problem.
That was another curious thing about elves. Somehow everyone always managed to forget they were elves and what all that entailed. Science wizads ascertained that it could be an actual property of the elf species to make people forget they are elves subconsciously in order to make it easier for others to socialize with them without immediately ostracizing them—and indeed if that was the case it twerked. Despite their faults elves were generally accepted as normal, even if they did tower over everyone, even Dorma, even if they did not fit into any doors, and even as their stench would permeate even a high level destinkification spell.
Carl was just here at the Belligerent Bar-D doing his job. His job was to get the Gourd’s law enforcement the hen away from the Belligerent Bar-D at all cost. But he could tell this Pamela was going to be a bit of a problem. Not only from context clues, but because elves were also partially clairvoyant.
Some science wizards had theorized that maybe the minor clairvoyant abilites of elves were what made them so awful to behold, but after lengthy discourse, experimentation and inhebriation they all agreed it was actually just a coincidence. And indeed it was, which they would have already known if they had read the mental books that the elves had mentally written up in their clarivoyant neural nettwerk, but obviously elves were the only ones able to access that stuff because nobody else was clairvoyant, and wizards who used spells to do so were just poseurs anyways.
“So which is it?” Carl asked pungently, “Are ye takin’ it, or are you givin’ it?”
Pamela perked up, and decided to attempt to pursuade Carl over to her side. “Can’t we all do a little bit of both? Maybe a balanced give and take? It might be more rewarding for all three of us.”
Dorma rolled her eyes.
“No,” Carl grunted, gruff as a goat.
“Pamela, let’s take a walk,” Dorma sighed, swinging her arm around Pamela and near incapacitating her in the process. Dorma nodded to Carl and trudged off near the Wayword Woods, paying no attention to the warning sign that she had so markedly pointed out earlier. Of course Carl would not have needed the sign because with his clairvoyance it was already obvious that the woods were deadly but he was in fact so peeved with Dorma despite her helping him do his job that he kept a tight lip, though it was hard not to smirk as they stepped closer and closer to danger.
“D-Dorma! Dorma!” With Dorma’s weighty arm around Pamela’s neck she could barely move on her own, much less croak out a warning.
“You’ll shut it and listen to me, Pamela. I’ve had enough of you talking out of turn,” growled Dorma, taking another trudge closer to the border of the Wayword Woods and to the mouth of a gigantic invisible martian human trap.
“Dorma. Please. Listen to me,” Pamela crackled, scarcely loud as a whisper.
“No, you’ll listen to me, young lady! I’ve had enough of your insolence!”
Two steps away from the border of the Wayword Woods.
“When I am conducting an investigation, what I say goes! I am your superior, and if you are to ever learn anything about being a member of the Royal Gourd,”
One step away from the mouth of a gigantic invisible martian human trap.
“Then you will have to start truly paying attention, not only attention to me, Pamela, but to your surroundings! You’re so aloof! You never pay attention to what’s going on around you and instead of doing your job the right way you come up with ridiculous imaginary muleshit!”
Half a step. Fog was swirling around out of the Wayword Woods, blurring Dorma’s vision. If Dorma had been listening closely she might have heard a foreboding sound.
CRRRRR
“If you don’t twerk on your awareness and get your head out of the clouds Pamela then you won’t be Pamela the Not Quite Entirely Aware of Anything or Pamela the Queer or even just Pamela! You’ll be Pamela the Dead!”
SSSSHNAPPK
“AAAAAAGH!” screamed Dorma as both her legs exploded in a flash of snapping bone and spurting blood. Pamela pushed herself out of Dorma’s grasp and dashed away from the woods, staring in awe as Dorma flopped face first onto the blood muddied ground.
“What the hen did you just do to me you little twerp? I’ll kill you!” growled Dorma, using her arms to crawl and charge at Pamela like a zombie.
“It wasn’t me Dorma! You’re in the—”
HOOOOOWOOOOO
Three teeth gnashing human eating eight legged bear wolves pounced on Dorma, ripping at her flesh. She howled in a similar cadence as they dragged her deeper and deeper into the Wayword Woods.
“OH COCK OH COCK THE PAIN THE PAIN THE TERRIBLE PAIN OH COCK WHY ME WHYYYYY” were the last words Pamela heard Dorma cry before all that was left of her was a trail of blood into thicc foresty shadows.
“—the Wayword Woods,” Pamela finished her sentence to herself, shivering. She wasn’t sure how to magic. It was a bit of a relief to be rid of Dorma. And Pamela was quite glad she herself hadn’t been eaten. But that didn’t mean she didn’t magic bad for Dorma, and felt guilty about the fact that she was now the commanding officer. Then again, if she was the commanding officer, that meant she only needed her own clearance to decide not to give it or to take it but instead to pursue that dastardly skyrate and make him answer for what he’d done. Justice.
It turns out that in a way Pamela knew exactly how she felt. She could scarcely keep herself from jumping for joy save for the fact that she felt a little bad about how hood she felt about Dorma’s undoubtedly torturous and gory demise.
“Yea, that Dorma was a real vitch, huh?” chuckled Carl.
Pamela shuddered. It was as if Carl had read her mind. Then she remembered that Carl was an elf, and that of course he read her mind, it was just hard for her to remember he was an elf because he was an elf, of course. She figured she might say something to that fact, but then realized Carl probably heard that all the time. But then again, seeing as he was an elf, he probably already knew she thought that so maybe she ought to say something anyway. Then again what was the point of saying anything if he knew what it was she had to say?
“You nailed it, lady,” Carl chuckled.
***
Sir Broderick the Shitfaced stoked the flames of the fire while the small venomous cipmunks he had caught for the esteemed wizard Dr. Krumbunculus and himself. It was nearly indigestion, also known as midday.
“So is that about it then?”
“Just about,” crackled the wizard’s elderly vocal chords. He made a mental note to cast a spell on them later. “Now I’ll just need you to take my left foot in your hand.”
Sir Broderick the Shitfaced looked at the spaghettilike knot of flesh that was the esteemed wizard Dr. Krumbunculus. After tracing the path of his left leg wrapped around over and over again in knots like it was made of putty Sir Broderick the Shitfaced saw the left foot hanging next to Dr. Krumbunculus’ right ear. It did not look like something anyone would want to touch, so Sir Broderick then took one of the sticks he had collected for firewood and instead tapped the foot with it. It swayed in the air like a hangman.
“Come on now Broderick! Just give it a hood old grab!”
“I’d rather not,” he squirmed, tapping the foot again with his stick. “I’m quite sure that this is a satisfactory method of doing whatever the muddy hen you’re wanting me to do. It’s not as if you were to ask me to massage it!”
Dr. Krumbunculus magically concealed his disappointment that Sir Broderick would not give him a foot massage.
“Oh no not at all why would I want that? No no I just need you to lift it up over my head so I can untangle myself.”
“Right, right, excellent, excellent. Now I’ll just—” Sir Broderick struggled to lift the limp foot up over Dr. Krumbunculus’ head, accidentally poking him in the eye and then the nostril. “Oop. Oh dear. Almost got it. Almost got it. Oh. Oh! There we go there we go. Aha!”
The foot was vibrating heavily as Sir Broderick summoned all of the minor amount of strength in his arm to lift it up with the stick, and then the stick snapped in half.
“Cock hammit!”
“Just use your hand!”
“I don’t want to touch your clucking bunions I’ll have to burn my gloves!”
“Take off your gloves then!”
“Then I’ll have to amputate my cock ham hands!”
“Then use your feet!”
That was a novel idea. Sir Broderick figured he could handle putting his foot on Dr. Krumbunculus’ foot without burning or amputating anything. So Sir Broderick leaned back and lifted his right leg, then swung it towards Dr. Krumbunculus’ dangly left foot, kicking Dr. Krumbunculus square in the face and sending him tumbling backwards into a thicc bramble patch.
“Shit! What’ve you done to me you bastard?!” screeched Dr. Krumbunculus. It occurred to Sir Broderick that Dr. Krumbunculus’ voice would have seemed very fitting for a crusty old turtle.
Before Sir Broderick could squeak out a halfassed apology, Dr. Krumbunculus’ left foot fell back away from his head, and with that his entire body began levitating. Then his limbs all knotted together ran taught with an incredible jiggling and Dr. Krumbunculus in a breath went from a jumble of human noodles to a tall, spindly old man standing on two buiniony old feet. Sir Broderick thanked the chickens that somehow through the whole display Dr. Krumbunculus’ robe, covered in sparkling stars and moons, had continuously concealed his nether regions.
“Well look at that,” burped Sir Broderick.
“Thank you. I guess. It’s hood to be able to move again.”
“I’m sure it is. Though I find myself wondering why you had me go and catch us these venomous chipmunks and start a fire before you were physically able to do any of the twerk. And why I obliged.”
Dr. Krumbunculus tut-tutted and wiggled his right pointer finger. A large handle of grain alcohol appeared.
“ALCOHOL!” Boomed a deep echoing voice from cock knew where that popped Sir Broderick’s ears and shook loose the mucus in his sinuses. It also killed a couple birds.
Sir Broderick swaddled over and snatched the handle, popping it open and chugging it profusely.
“Oh yes, I guess it was alcohol, wasn’t it then,” he mumbled under gurgles of liquor, “Well, cheers, my old chup.”
“Can’t see much of anything,” replied Carl, embarassed. Carl was an elf, which apart from accounting for his swarthy, repulsive exterior, of which included a near gangrenous odor, meant that he could not read. And it was not for lack of education—everyone knew all elves, disgrossting and strange creatures as they were, were truthfully unable to even see writing on paper, magic or otherwise, whether it be drawings or writing.
“Oh. Right. Sorry about that,” Dorma halfassedly pitched.
“Not a problem,” said the broken souled voice of someone who had had this exact conversation with so many people over the long course of their life that the response was automatic, as if they were an automaton, though all the same it was definitely still a bit of a problem.
That was another curious thing about elves. Somehow everyone always managed to forget they were elves and what all that entailed. Science wizads ascertained that it could be an actual property of the elf species to make people forget they are elves subconsciously in order to make it easier for others to socialize with them without immediately ostracizing them—and indeed if that was the case it twerked. Despite their faults elves were generally accepted as normal, even if they did tower over everyone, even Dorma, even if they did not fit into any doors, and even as their stench would permeate even a high level destinkification spell.
Carl was just here at the Belligerent Bar-D doing his job. His job was to get the Gourd’s law enforcement the hen away from the Belligerent Bar-D at all cost. But he could tell this Pamela was going to be a bit of a problem. Not only from context clues, but because elves were also partially clairvoyant.
Some science wizards had theorized that maybe the minor clairvoyant abilites of elves were what made them so awful to behold, but after lengthy discourse, experimentation and inhebriation they all agreed it was actually just a coincidence. And indeed it was, which they would have already known if they had read the mental books that the elves had mentally written up in their clarivoyant neural nettwerk, but obviously elves were the only ones able to access that stuff because nobody else was clairvoyant, and wizards who used spells to do so were just poseurs anyways.
“So which is it?” Carl asked pungently, “Are ye takin’ it, or are you givin’ it?”
Pamela perked up, and decided to attempt to pursuade Carl over to her side. “Can’t we all do a little bit of both? Maybe a balanced give and take? It might be more rewarding for all three of us.”
Dorma rolled her eyes.
“No,” Carl grunted, gruff as a goat.
“Pamela, let’s take a walk,” Dorma sighed, swinging her arm around Pamela and near incapacitating her in the process. Dorma nodded to Carl and trudged off near the Wayword Woods, paying no attention to the warning sign that she had so markedly pointed out earlier. Of course Carl would not have needed the sign because with his clairvoyance it was already obvious that the woods were deadly but he was in fact so peeved with Dorma despite her helping him do his job that he kept a tight lip, though it was hard not to smirk as they stepped closer and closer to danger.
“D-Dorma! Dorma!” With Dorma’s weighty arm around Pamela’s neck she could barely move on her own, much less croak out a warning.
“You’ll shut it and listen to me, Pamela. I’ve had enough of you talking out of turn,” growled Dorma, taking another trudge closer to the border of the Wayword Woods and to the mouth of a gigantic invisible martian human trap.
“Dorma. Please. Listen to me,” Pamela crackled, scarcely loud as a whisper.
“No, you’ll listen to me, young lady! I’ve had enough of your insolence!”
Two steps away from the border of the Wayword Woods.
“When I am conducting an investigation, what I say goes! I am your superior, and if you are to ever learn anything about being a member of the Royal Gourd,”
One step away from the mouth of a gigantic invisible martian human trap.
“Then you will have to start truly paying attention, not only attention to me, Pamela, but to your surroundings! You’re so aloof! You never pay attention to what’s going on around you and instead of doing your job the right way you come up with ridiculous imaginary muleshit!”
Half a step. Fog was swirling around out of the Wayword Woods, blurring Dorma’s vision. If Dorma had been listening closely she might have heard a foreboding sound.
CRRRRR
“If you don’t twerk on your awareness and get your head out of the clouds Pamela then you won’t be Pamela the Not Quite Entirely Aware of Anything or Pamela the Queer or even just Pamela! You’ll be Pamela the Dead!”
SSSSHNAPPK
“AAAAAAGH!” screamed Dorma as both her legs exploded in a flash of snapping bone and spurting blood. Pamela pushed herself out of Dorma’s grasp and dashed away from the woods, staring in awe as Dorma flopped face first onto the blood muddied ground.
“What the hen did you just do to me you little twerp? I’ll kill you!” growled Dorma, using her arms to crawl and charge at Pamela like a zombie.
“It wasn’t me Dorma! You’re in the—”
HOOOOOWOOOOO
Three teeth gnashing human eating eight legged bear wolves pounced on Dorma, ripping at her flesh. She howled in a similar cadence as they dragged her deeper and deeper into the Wayword Woods.
“OH COCK OH COCK THE PAIN THE PAIN THE TERRIBLE PAIN OH COCK WHY ME WHYYYYY” were the last words Pamela heard Dorma cry before all that was left of her was a trail of blood into thicc foresty shadows.
“—the Wayword Woods,” Pamela finished her sentence to herself, shivering. She wasn’t sure how to magic. It was a bit of a relief to be rid of Dorma. And Pamela was quite glad she herself hadn’t been eaten. But that didn’t mean she didn’t magic bad for Dorma, and felt guilty about the fact that she was now the commanding officer. Then again, if she was the commanding officer, that meant she only needed her own clearance to decide not to give it or to take it but instead to pursue that dastardly skyrate and make him answer for what he’d done. Justice.
It turns out that in a way Pamela knew exactly how she felt. She could scarcely keep herself from jumping for joy save for the fact that she felt a little bad about how hood she felt about Dorma’s undoubtedly torturous and gory demise.
“Yea, that Dorma was a real vitch, huh?” chuckled Carl.
Pamela shuddered. It was as if Carl had read her mind. Then she remembered that Carl was an elf, and that of course he read her mind, it was just hard for her to remember he was an elf because he was an elf, of course. She figured she might say something to that fact, but then realized Carl probably heard that all the time. But then again, seeing as he was an elf, he probably already knew she thought that so maybe she ought to say something anyway. Then again what was the point of saying anything if he knew what it was she had to say?
“You nailed it, lady,” Carl chuckled.
***
Sir Broderick the Shitfaced stoked the flames of the fire while the small venomous cipmunks he had caught for the esteemed wizard Dr. Krumbunculus and himself. It was nearly indigestion, also known as midday.
“So is that about it then?”
“Just about,” crackled the wizard’s elderly vocal chords. He made a mental note to cast a spell on them later. “Now I’ll just need you to take my left foot in your hand.”
Sir Broderick the Shitfaced looked at the spaghettilike knot of flesh that was the esteemed wizard Dr. Krumbunculus. After tracing the path of his left leg wrapped around over and over again in knots like it was made of putty Sir Broderick the Shitfaced saw the left foot hanging next to Dr. Krumbunculus’ right ear. It did not look like something anyone would want to touch, so Sir Broderick then took one of the sticks he had collected for firewood and instead tapped the foot with it. It swayed in the air like a hangman.
“Come on now Broderick! Just give it a hood old grab!”
“I’d rather not,” he squirmed, tapping the foot again with his stick. “I’m quite sure that this is a satisfactory method of doing whatever the muddy hen you’re wanting me to do. It’s not as if you were to ask me to massage it!”
Dr. Krumbunculus magically concealed his disappointment that Sir Broderick would not give him a foot massage.
“Oh no not at all why would I want that? No no I just need you to lift it up over my head so I can untangle myself.”
“Right, right, excellent, excellent. Now I’ll just—” Sir Broderick struggled to lift the limp foot up over Dr. Krumbunculus’ head, accidentally poking him in the eye and then the nostril. “Oop. Oh dear. Almost got it. Almost got it. Oh. Oh! There we go there we go. Aha!”
The foot was vibrating heavily as Sir Broderick summoned all of the minor amount of strength in his arm to lift it up with the stick, and then the stick snapped in half.
“Cock hammit!”
“Just use your hand!”
“I don’t want to touch your clucking bunions I’ll have to burn my gloves!”
“Take off your gloves then!”
“Then I’ll have to amputate my cock ham hands!”
“Then use your feet!”
That was a novel idea. Sir Broderick figured he could handle putting his foot on Dr. Krumbunculus’ foot without burning or amputating anything. So Sir Broderick leaned back and lifted his right leg, then swung it towards Dr. Krumbunculus’ dangly left foot, kicking Dr. Krumbunculus square in the face and sending him tumbling backwards into a thicc bramble patch.
“Shit! What’ve you done to me you bastard?!” screeched Dr. Krumbunculus. It occurred to Sir Broderick that Dr. Krumbunculus’ voice would have seemed very fitting for a crusty old turtle.
Before Sir Broderick could squeak out a halfassed apology, Dr. Krumbunculus’ left foot fell back away from his head, and with that his entire body began levitating. Then his limbs all knotted together ran taught with an incredible jiggling and Dr. Krumbunculus in a breath went from a jumble of human noodles to a tall, spindly old man standing on two buiniony old feet. Sir Broderick thanked the chickens that somehow through the whole display Dr. Krumbunculus’ robe, covered in sparkling stars and moons, had continuously concealed his nether regions.
“Well look at that,” burped Sir Broderick.
“Thank you. I guess. It’s hood to be able to move again.”
“I’m sure it is. Though I find myself wondering why you had me go and catch us these venomous chipmunks and start a fire before you were physically able to do any of the twerk. And why I obliged.”
Dr. Krumbunculus tut-tutted and wiggled his right pointer finger. A large handle of grain alcohol appeared.
“ALCOHOL!” Boomed a deep echoing voice from cock knew where that popped Sir Broderick’s ears and shook loose the mucus in his sinuses. It also killed a couple birds.
Sir Broderick swaddled over and snatched the handle, popping it open and chugging it profusely.
“Oh yes, I guess it was alcohol, wasn’t it then,” he mumbled under gurgles of liquor, “Well, cheers, my old chup.”
