Douse it with a pail-full

Seven small people went wandering in the city center, ignoring the signs and refusing to heed advice. They traveled in two columns, side-by-side, and they pressed straight through other groups rather than going around. At a distance, they looked menacing, and as they got closer, they appeared comical and harmless, until they were within feet of you, and by then they were utterly frightening. But by then your time was up, and they either shoved you off the path or stamped right over your fallen body. Luckily, they wore small shoes, and only left small bruises.

Down by the river, a trio of black bears took afternoon tea, each insisting that he was the rebirth of Jesus Christ on Earth, and that the others were a pair of poseurs. A nearby hot-dog vendor laughed quietly through his nose, since he understood that supernatural saviors always give themselves away through their fondness for pickle relish, and all three of the bears had instead requested extra mustard and extra napkins. An old woman passing by asked the time, and the bears pretended not to understand English. The old woman approached the largest of the group without fear, reached out and tapped on his wristwatch, and repeated her query in Spanish, since you never know anymore. Enraged, the bear responded by taking off the watch, walking over to the hot-dog vendor, and dropping it into the pickle relish. The old woman straightened her spine, went over to the pan of relish and stuck her face right in it, sucking down every stray bit of pickle, and the watch itself. Almost instantly, she hunched over and shat out a full-size grandfather clock, which struck 2:30 p.m. and chimed out the first half of Auld Lang Syne. Seeing this, the bears fell off their chairs and laid on their backs, giggling and kicking their legs in the air. The hot dog vendor wordlessly unlocked the brakes on his cart and moved a little further down the promenade, since he could see where this was heading.

Two blocks away, two police officers joined two more police officers and began discussing the disgusting things they would do in shopping mall restrooms if someone dared them, and it wasn't long before a juggling exhibition broke out. A pair of men in expensive ties walked past and one remarked loudly that juggling was invented by Communists, whom he had found to be very difficult companions since they refuse to believe in nipples. The officers stopped juggling suddenly and began feeling around inside each other's shirts, ending the inspection with relieved sighs and pats on the back all around. The passing men turned around and joined the police in their moment of relief, and during a new conversation, one of the officers mentioned that he'd read an article claiming that you should cover your religions in lipstick before heading down to the club. The cleverest of the group smacked himself on the head, and explained the mix-up slowly, with animated gestures, until each man understood what had taken place. This should have ended the impromptu meeting on a high note, and a round of handshakes seemed to indicate that all would end well. Nevertheless, the police concluded by delivering a savage beating, which happens least on Tuesdays, but not never on Tuesdays.

None of these groups met on that day because they had been given bad directions. It turns out that Fourth Street doesn't run all the way down to the river. Small mistakes like this keep many of us safe - for the moment.

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.