I, Buttplug

Brandishing a stolen saber high above my head and screaming bloody murder all the way, I charged down the hill into the outskirts of the town, which is where I first encountered the slums of the working serfs. They were some mellow cats (or perhaps just sleepy from working so much) and asked me to tone down all the yelling, and maybe sit down by the south well for a few minutes and take it easy. Although I had begun the hour with no intention in my heart except to lay waste to the refuge of mine enemies, I felt compelled to obey the counsel of these chillin' villains, though rarely have I taken orders gladly from anyone so conspicuously idle, the only obvious tension in any of their bodies confined to the grip the fattest one brought to bear on the bucket of fried chicken under his arm. The tall one next to him asked if I was cool, and if there was anything I'd wanted to drink whilst I hung out. I attempted to answer him, but my retort was lost in a coughing fit, brought on by both the fast I had been keeping since before the day of battle (which precluded the quenching of my thirst with any liquid but the blood of mine enemies,) as well as the fistfuls of dirt I was inhaling - the clouds kicked up were a result of my exciting entrance. In retrospect, all the hollering didn't do me much good, either. Brought out of their homes and alleyways by the cacophony of my tracheal trauma, a gaggle of swervy chicks showed up with wineskins and pitchers, which they dipped in the well and brought to my lips, perchance to calm my breathing. Not all of the ladies smelled so good, but they all stank like Heaven.

Regaining my breath, I spat out a long, winding trail of unconnected words, alternately loosing ransom obscenities and the names of bodyparts, which, rather than repulsing my erstwhile nursemaids, only caused them to hold me closer. Milking this for all it was worth, I elected to deceive them into thinking that I'd passed out. The ultimate reward of this subterfuge, however, was to be carried off by the men who had previously been surrounding the chicken bucket, and let down onto a cozy featherbed, which ran alongside several others, some with strange symbols embroidered onto them. Unsure of my next move, but assured that I was sufficiently sheltered, I rolled over and dozed off.

Since then, I've slept on that same featherbed over a thousand times, and my roommates helped me get a job with the gatherers, which is cool since you don't have to wake up at the buttcrack like those dudes on the farm. Farming's decent work, I guess, but I'm not wired for it. I sold my sword to make my first month's rent (before the gathering gig kicked in,) and I've been planning a hike back up the hill for months now, but I haven't gotten around to it. Whenever I talk about the trip, Ralph picks up a stick and waves it over his head, which he combines with a girly impression of me screaming, but I've seen him do it so often by now, I'm just like 'Whatever.'

I guess I'd like to go back to being all glorious and shit, but hey, who am I kidding? Those other assholes I was adventuring with are probably still lost in the Brown Hills somewhere, threatening some rube who lives under a flappybush with nut-loss if he doesn't help them figure out how this map works. If I do ever see them again, I've planned to respond by looking the dirtiest one straight in the eye and grabbing my titty at him, combined with the "thbbbbppt" sound. Really, what do you say back to that? Nothing. Not a God-Damn thing.