“Fick you, Hiccup, don’t talk about my mother!”
“Irene is a good gobliness, don’t get me wrong, kid, but courting her is like courting a Thulean princess or some shit.”
Spew’s face goes red. “What the fick are you saying about my mother? How would you know about courting her!?”
“It’s common fickin’ knowledge, Spewy, everyone in the family knows.”
“Fick you, Hiccup. Why do you always have to be so fickin’ confrontational?”
“Fick me? No, fick you, Spewy, if you aren’t going to be helpful, take your dandy candy ass back to your little group of emo knitters and get working on tomorrow’s parade. I don’t have fickin’ time for quitters! And you’re the one who is confrontational!”
“Fine, but you’d better be fickin’ nicer tomorrow.” With that, Spew Gorge spins on his heels and takes off down the street.
Hiccup catches up to the sexy drow with the badunkadunk. “He’s a good kid, really, but he’s misguided,” the goblin says without introducing himself or tell her who he is referring to. “He did save my ass back there though, but that’s the goblin code. If you’re part of a lie, you stay part of that lie. Feel me?”
“Yeah, yeah, mista, whateva you say. Two hundred rupees for a feel, seven hundred for a handie, fourteen hundred for a blow, two thousand five hundred for sex and a blow. Anything else, sweety, just ask me, but no backdoor business.”
Hiccup stops for a moment and looks the drow over. He doesn’t want to admit how broke he is – last he checked he had three hundred rupees, and that’s not counting the ten thousand he lost to Barry the ink shadow. Or did Barry forgive the debt? He can’t remember.
Still, three hundred is enough for something.
“How about a half handie and a feel for three hundred?” Hiccup asks.
The drow goes from flirty to fierce faster than it takes him to squeeze out a fart of terror.
-56 HP!
She slaps the living hell out of him, and once he’s down, she brings her foot back and gives him a hard kick in the chalupa.
“Yooooooooy!”
-231 HP! Critical hit!
“Get the fuck outta here, you cheap ass!”
“Fick me,” he whispers as she storms off. Once he can feel his legs again, Hiccup rolls over to his side, the bottom of his belly now sticking out of his stained tunic. He reaches for a passing goblin and the goblin shrieks.
“Relax,” Hiccup says, slowly gaining his composure. “Fickin’ drow got me in the chalupa.”
The goblin stops and turns to Hiccup. “Ahem, a drow you say? Which drow was it?” he asks, a note of mischief to his voice.
“Fick if I know,” Hiccup says. “She had a fat ass though. Probably not far from here. Yoy!” He rolls all the way and sees the drow sashaying across the street now. “That’s her, pal.”
“Thanks!”
The other goblin quickly crosses the street, talks to the drow for a moment, and together, they dip into a dark alley. It’s a few minutes later when Hiccup hears the goblin cry “Yoy!” from the dark alley.
“What a sick fick,” he mumbles as he gets to his feet.
(.)(.)
Hiccup looks at his little leather book and back at the sign in front of him. “Wild Cherry Oriental Massage,” he reads aloud. His notebook claims that Dougbug’s spa should be named White Cherry, but maybe he wrote it down wrong.
Without further ado, Hiccup kicks open the door to find the next guy that owes him a favor. Dougbug, a goblin with a frizzy Kaepernick fro, rheumy eyes, and cherry red cheeks, looks up from the latest issue of Wet Goblin Holes: Ponytail Edition.
“Hiccup, is that you?” he asks, peering down at the goblin from his perch on a high stool.
“Fick yes it’s me, Dougbug, and I’m here to collect!”
The two share a laugh as Dougbug walks over to him. “You ain’t got nothing to collect, Hiccup!”
“Yeah, you’re right about that,” he says after they shake hands. “But it’s nice to see you, old pal.”
“It sure as fick is. So, what brings you around here?” Dougbug asks. “You hungry?”
“Fick yeah, I’m hungry! I also just got kicked in the gonads not long ago. Got any ice?”
“Can’t help you there, but I do have some fried dragon skin, if you’re interested. This is the good stuff too. Gluten-free, though. I’ve been off the gluten for a few weeks now. Feeling fickin’ great!”
Hiccup nods at his old college roommate. “You look great, for a one hundred fifty-year-old goblin that is. So look, enough about the gluten-free bullshit. No offense, but I’m going to cut right to the chase.”
Dougbug offers him some fried, gluten-free dragon skin and Hiccup greedily starts crunching on it. “By all means.”
“I need a favor.”
“Don’t we all.”
“This one is serious, Dougy. I got a fickin’ ink shadow after my chalupa, and I’ve promised to show him a damn good time.”
The color drains from Dougbug’s cherry cheeks. “An ink shadow? Sorry, Hiccup, you know how I fickin’ feel about those things. Ick!”
“You and me both, buddy, especially when they start taking goblin parts and wearing them as fickin’ jewelry. As you can see, I’m in a bind.”
“And what is it you need from me exactly?”
Hiccup finishes chewing the gluten-free fried dragon skin and swallows hard. “Don’t give me that look, Dougy. Who the fick was there when you got your chalupa caught in a peephole and were too afraid to call anyone else for help?”
“That was twenty years ago! Besides, I loaned you five hundred rupees you never paid back.”
“I donated those rupees to charity. Fick me, have you met Spewy, my cousin, well, possibly my son. Definitely my son.”
“I know he’s your son!”
“Well, he’s a fickin’ charity case if there ever was one, and those rupees went to his private school fees. You’d think they’d actually teach something besides finger painting and Kumbaya My Lord at the Montessori school in the Richman District, but them’s the ropes. And what the fick is up with assigning pictures instead of letter grades? Hey! Don’t hog the fickin’ skins. You offered, I eat.”
Hiccup grabs the bowl of dragon skins from his friend and slams more down his gullet.
“It was a loan, not a charitable donation.”
“You should have written that off for charity. Like I said, charity case.”
Dougbug rolls his eyes. “You know, Hiccup…”
“Don’t you ‘you know’ me, Dougy, I’m in a fickin’ bind here, and seriously, all I’m asking for is a massage.”
“That’s it?” His friend claps his hands together. “Done. I’ll comp you a massage this evening.”
Hiccup shake his head. “Not for me, although who doesn’t like having their chalupa squeezed, for him.”
“Him?”
“Barry the ink shadow!”
“Fick no, Hiccup, no fickin’ ink shadows. Especially not with my gal being the number one masseuse in the place.”
“Sheesh! You have become fickin’ sensitive in your old age. Snowflake alert! Snowflake alert! And you’re dating staff members now? Someone call HR!”
“Pipe down, Hiccup.” Dougbug’s face goes from upset to sly.
“What’s that look you’re giving me?”
“Let’s talk business here, asshole.”
“Let’s.”
“You want a free massage for an ink shadow, and I want something too,” Dougbug says matter-of-factly.
“Wait a minute, I’m the one asking for a favor, not you.”
“My how the tables have turned.” Dougbug points to a crate with a few of the boards pried off its top. “Here’s the deal, Hiccup. You see that crate over there?”
“What the fick is that stuff, Dougy?”
“It’s what you are going to sell for me in thirty minutes when a supplier drops by. It’s an ointment, and you always were good at selling shit, so now
is your chance to sell it.”
“What kind of supplier?”
“A gnome.”
“Fick me,” Hiccup groans. “They’re too damn short. I feel like I’m talking to a kid whenever I deal with them.”
Dougbug laughs. “Says the guy who is under a meter tall.”
“I’m fickin’ over a meter, if you can’t tell.”
“You’re wearing boots with big heels.”
“What!? Fick you, Dougy, I realize now why we don’t hang out anymore.”
“As do I. Now, if you can sell this ointment to the supplier so I don’t have to – because really, it has been a long day – I’ll help you out with your little ink shadow problem.”
“Deal,” Hiccup grumbles. “What kind of ointment are talking about here?”
“That’s the problem,” says Dougy as he moves over to the crate. “It has a pretty strange side effect.”
(.)(.)
The gnome enters with the requisite cone hat and a beard that splits into two points at the end. He’s in a mustard colored tunic, a leather vest, and matching leather boots, polished, with shiny gold buckles.
“The name is Nate,” the gnome says, greeting Hiccup with a small, curt nod.
“Nate, Hiccup, and that over there is Dougbug.”
Dougbug stands on the opposite end of the room reading an old copy of Goblin Holes. He looks up at Nate and smiles.
“Fresh meat?” Nate asks, a sinister note in his otherwise high-pitched voice.
“Pfft! I’ll show you fresh meat, pal. Fick! Kidding, sure, I’m the new guy.” Hiccup clears his throat and smooths his hands over the uniform Dougbug asked him to wear, which consists of a tight apron with the words Wild Cherry in cursive across its breast.
“Hi, new guy.”
“Enough small talk, I’m here to show you one thing, and one thing only.”
“I only came for the nuru gel,” Nate says. “And you know that, Dougbug. I do like your forwardness, though.”
Dougbug waves the gnome’s concern away. “Just let him pitch it, Nate, company requirements. If you want it, fine, if not, that’s fine too. You’ll get your nuru gel.”
Hiccup glares at Dougbug.
“Fine,” Nate sighs, “but hurry up.”
“Ahem, you said you needed nuru gel, right?” asks Hiccup, an idea formulating in his goblin brain of adequate size.
“I did.”
“And I’m going to assume that you have some fickin’ chippies, or maybe some drows, hell, could be centaurs for all I know – wait a fickin’ minute, scratch that last one, can’t see how that would work out. Where the fick was I?”
Nate’s bushy eyebrows furrow. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Fick no, I’m not kidding. I really got lost there for a moment. Listen, gnome man, let’s bring it down a notch, so it’s just you and me. Come closer.”
“You smell like dragon wings.”
“I didn’t fart, and no I don’t.” Hiccup takes a step towards the gnome.
“No one said you farted.”
“Well, I did, and I’m not proud of it. I have a fickin’ gastrointestinal problem, something about an imbalance of bacteria in my gut. No fickin’ healthcare to cover it. But that’s beside the point. Nuru gel is used to do some slip and slide on clients’ bodies, correct?”
“That is … a good interpretation of what my masseuses do with the gel,” says Nate, his face now steeped in skepticism.
“Got any old clients?”
“I do.”
“Do they ever have problems getting it up?” Hiccup flicks his finger out to make a point.
“That is a problem for a few of them, yes.”
“Well in that case, I want to show you what this ointment can do then.” Hiccup rolls up his sleeve and places a glove on his hand. “First, I’ll show you what it is designed to do.”
With the gloved hand, Hiccup squirts some of the ointment on his flabby bicep. As soon as he does, his bicep perks up and increases in size, a bulging vein appearing. Once he’s finished, it looks like he’s just hit the gym.
“It makes you instantly grow muscle mass?”
Hiccup flexes his arm, showcasing the closest he’ll ever get to a bodybuilder physique. “Pretty fickin’ stacked, eh?”
“This is of no use to me.”
“Isn’t it?” Hiccup looks from the gnome to the gnome’s junk.
“You can…put it there?”
“Fick yeah, you can put it on your chalupa! I tried earlier and it totally works. Now, I’m 154 years old, so relatively young, but you put this on an old fart’s chalupa and I’m talking instant tent pitching. So, what do you say? Are you going to buy this box, or are you going to let me sell this stuff to the spa across from yours? Would you like to test it first?”
“Is there a rupee back guarantee?”
“There is now,” Hiccup says, shooting Dougbug a shit-eating grin.
Nate slowly nods. “Fine, you got me. Sold. Add it to my bill.”
(.)(.)
“You didn’t tell me you were in the bathroom whacking off,” Dougbug says as soon as Nate leaves with his crate of boner ointment and the nuru gel. Hiccup’s arm has started to deflate, but the bulging vein is still visible.
“Well, you told me to work on my sales pitch, so I went in there to see for myself what the stuff did, one thing led to another, and well, fick, I sold it.”
“You jerked it to your own muscled image?”
“Fick no, I’m no fruit bat! I just happened to touch my chalupa to piss, and boom, it was huge. Dunno how long it’ll last, but that dog will hunt, if you get my drift.”
“Fick me.”
“Fick you is right.” Hiccup rustles around in his pocket for a tube of the ointment. “Took some for myself too. My fick, Dougy, you got to try this shit on your chalupa. Fick, it’s good! I haven’t had that much girth in years! Years. You said you were tagging the help, right? Well throw some of this on next time.”
Dougbug considers this for a moment. “I hadn’t thought of putting it there. Fick! You should have taken a tube for me too.”
Hiccup cracks a grin. “I had a feeling you’d say that.”
The cantankerous goblin fishes around in his front pocket, returns with another tube, and tosses it to his old classmate.
“Thanks, Hiccup!” Dougbug comes in for a hug. “I take back everything bad I’ve ever said about you.”
“That isn’t necessary – what is necessary is that you give the damn octopus fart ink shadow the time of his life tomorrow. First the parade, then a massage.” Hiccup looks up, his eyes filled with light. “After that, a wonderful dinner, and after that, a night at the Golden Swine.”
“The Golden fickin’ Swine? How the hell did you manage that?”
“I haven’t yet. That’s the last stop for this evening. The first stop is my buddy Og Lemon’s restaurant. The parade is covered, the massage, now on to some fine dining.”
Dougbug shakes his head. “You know that damn orclin?”
“Know him? Og and me go way back, and that ficker owes me a goddamn favor!” Hiccup turns to the door. “Tomorrow, Dougy – I’ll be here by the Hour of the Morning Wood.”
“We’ll be ready.”
Chapter 4: Funeral Potatoes and Hot AzzBalls Dragon Wings
It takes Hiccup a good hour and a half to walk his ass from Dougbug’s massage parlor to a restaurant called GobTree. Set in the Richman District, the famous restaurant is between an Aramis Investments management company and a pop up Morla’s Tea shop, in an old house with gorgeous windows.
“All it takes is a little confidence and a whole lot of lies,” Hiccup mumbles to himself as he passes a goblin in a designer tunic. The goblin holds his nose up high when he sees Hiccup, aware of their differences in class. “Yeah, I’m a fickin’ security guard, but I’m also your youngest sister’s part time G-Spot locator, you fickered fickhat.”
“The fick you just say about my sister?” The wealthy goblin turns
to Hiccup and starts to roll up his sleeves.
Affluent Goblin Level 30
HP: 2073/2073
ATK: 157
DEF: 78
MATK: 0
MDF: 115
LUCK: 23
“I didn’t say anything, I swear! I think it was that ficker over there.” Hiccup points to a goblin valet parking a small horse and trolley. “You know,” he says as he lifts his hand to the side of his mouth so he can ‘share a secret’ with the wealthy goblin. “Some of these fickers love throwing their voices. I’ve seen them do it all the fickin’ time. Hey! Yeah you, we hear what you’re saying over there?”
The goblin valet points at himself.
“Yeah you, keep your fickin’ mouth shut!”
The valet points at his chest.
“Yes, you, fick me, who else would I be talking to? There’s you, me, and this one percenter here. Only three of us, you stupid fickhole!”
“I don’t have time for this,” the wealthy goblin says.
Once he’s gone, Hiccup struts into the GobTree Restaurant, ignores the maître d’, and pushes into the kitchen to find Og Lemon frying up a batter of dragon wings.
“Boy, did I come at the right time!” Hiccup’s nostrils flare and his mouth waters. He can almost taste the wings, the way they crunch when he tears into their flesh, the satisfying burp and the requisite indigestion to follow.
Og Lemon’s father is an orc, his mother a goblin, which makes Og an orclin. Orclins generally have similar facial features to goblins, but they are much taller, more muscular, and their nails are sharper.
They are damn good cooks too, for some odd reason.
Og offers Hiccup a thin smile. “He’s fine to stay,” he tells the maître d’, who has just rushed through the kitchen door after Hiccup with a troubled look on her face.
“Fick yeah I’m fine to say. Shit, Og, you’re doing well for yourself.”
The chef laughs. “It’s been a good year.”
“You even have a few writeups in various goblin publications. I can tell by your shiny new chef duds that the fickin’ success has gone to your head. Kidding, Og, what the fick is up? How you been, ol’ pal?”
Jatla is not a Shithole Page 3