“You’ve got yourself a chode!” Spewy cackles. “That’s the funniest thing I’ve heard all day!”
“Fick you, Spewy!”
The two goblins hold each other's gaze for a moment. Spew Gorge is the first to look away.
“Let’s get to the parade,” Hiccup tells Barry. “Sure, I’m tired as fick, but this is your day.”
“So it begins!”
The ink shadow’s face is suddenly visible under his paranormal flesh. He’s a thin man with a happy smile. A bit toothy. Much to Hiccup’s surprise, he seems genuinely excited to see the parade.
“And keep a low profile,” Hiccup tells the ink shadow, “at least until we get to the parade. Goblins hate shadows.”
“I’m well aware, that’s why I have this handy disguise.”
The ink shadow places a hat and a mustache on the space where his head should theoretically be.
“You’re fickin’ with me.”
Spew Gorge laughs nervously.
“What? It worked on the way over here. Goblins are stupid.”
While Hiccup would normally take offence to this type of racism, he’d much rather get the day over with.
“Let’s go then, fickers.”
Spew Gorge in his fresh purple tunic, Hiccup in the duds he wore yesterday and his belly hanging over his belt, the ink shadow in a very unconvincing mustache and hat – it isn’t a stretch to say that the three stand out like sore thumbs in Jatla, but not as much as one would think.
Jatla is, after all, a shithole, and people in shitholes tend not to judge others that share their shitholes with them.
So, if a few of the goblins, trolls, commoners, drows, NPCs, RPCs, poo fairies, rogues, scoundrels, warlocks, sexy witches, ballistic mages, ugly orcs, and the occasional faun are at all shocked to see two goblins and an ink shadow making their way down the street, they don’t show it.
Aside from a catcall – which was either aimed at Spew Gorge or the ink shadow, Hiccup couldn’t tell – the walk from the Guild District to the start of the Garment District is relatively pain-free.
It’s when Hiccup’s big ears hear men and women chanting that a smile creeps across his face, a smile indicating everything is going to plan.
“The avs go marching one by one, hurrah, hurrah, the avs go marching one by one, hurrah, hurrah!”
“Avs?” Barry yells over the chanting.
“Short for avatars,” Spew Gorge says. “I came up with that!”
About fifteen marchers approach, the first two holding a banner with the Empress’s name written in yellow Thulean.
Hiccup can’t help but laugh at the losers from the knitting meetup, but at the same time, he appreciates their effort. A real catch twenty-two, to scorn and mock or to appreciate and champion.
“The avs go marching one by one, hurrah, hurrah, the avs go marching one by one, hurrah, hurrah!”
Toad, the knight in shining armor, has painted his armor to make himself look like the sun. The goblinette, Licious, is wearing a pair of very unflattering boy shorts as she twirls a baton, which upon closer examination, looks to be a human femur.
The two emo rogues have sashes across their bodies made of yellow yarn. The ogre, Ugly, still has his rash, but at least he’s tried to clean up. Besides, most of his body is blocked by the bass drum hooked over his chest.
“Fick me,” Hiccup says when he notices the drow and the two elves, who have taken parade to mean ‘wear lingerie in public.’ And sure, he’d love to take a gander, but now is not the time and place, and besides, why do elves and drows always need to show off the fact that they are tall and lean?
“Reverse fat-shaming, am I right?” he says to Spew.
“What are you going on about? Check out the parade my friends have put on! It’s great!”
Barry, Hiccup and Spew step to the side of the street as the parade passes. The warlock with the heavy skull necklace now rocks three skulls, each of which are painted yellow, a clear thematic element of the parade.
Hiccup glances nervously to the ink shadow, not sure if he’s buying it.
“It’s wonderful!” The ink shadow claps as the weretiger approaches. “I love it!”
Hiccup gives Simba the weretiger, who is still in his Thriller-esque leather jacket, the okay sign. The weretiger, who is playing a pair of cymbals, ignores Hiccup as he drops into a battle position, pulls one of the cymbals back, and hurls it at the ink shadow.
“Everyone attack!”
(.)(.)
“Fick! Simba, no, you fickin’ dumbass!” Hiccup shouts as the parade turns against Barry, each knitter equipping a weapon.
“What the bloody fick are they doing?” Spew Gorge shrieks.
“You’re not going to kill Hiccup’s family! Not on my watch!” Simba the weretiger bellows.
The ink shadow dodges another marching cymbal. “Kill his family? I wasn’t planning to...”
“Fick you, Simba!” Hiccup brandishes a small shield and a short ax.
Simba looks from Barry to Hiccup, utter confusion writ large on his tigrine face.
The cantankerous goblin smacks the front of his shield with his ax. “They’re trying to assassinate us. Let’s kick their asses, Barry!”
“What the fick are you going on about, Hiccup?” Spew Gorge asks.
“Fick you, Spewy, you planned this!”
The ink shadow, still in his disguise, glances from Hiccup to the pissed off mob of knitters. “You promised me a good time…”
Hiccup blinks rapidly as an idea formulates. “Yes, um, yes. Sure. This is a good time, Barry! All parades in Jatla end in a free-for-all. Now, let’s kick their fickin’ asses! Spewy, choose a side, and choose wisely.”
Spew Gorge lifts his nose into the air, lets loose a squeaker, and struts over to the members of his knitting club.
“Fick you, Hiccup,” he says with a snarl.
“Fick me? No, fick you!”
The two goblins collide, the resulting smack heard several blocks away. To the ground they go, where Hiccup eventually gets the upper hand.
-112 HP!
He brings the handle of his ax again onto Spew Gorge’s face.
-96 HP!
“Fick you!”
“No, fick you, Hiccup!” Spew shouts as he coldcocks his older cousin.
-139 HP! Critical hit!
“Yoooooooooy!” Hiccup flies backwards into a pile of trash. He sits up just in time to see the ink shadow engaging the rest of the knitters.
“Fick me,” he says, his head pounding, his heart thumping against the inside of his thick goblin chest.
The ink shadow’s form grows like a hot air balloon being inflated.
The rogues log out; the scantily clad gobliness screams and takes off towards the nearest alley; Toad the knight, Simba, the elves, the drow, the warlock, and Ugly the ogre stand their grounds.
Whoosh!
The knitters that remain are knocked backwards by a sweeping gust of magic from the ink shadow. The ghoulish creature lifts into the air and dives into the body of the warlock, whose eyes go completely black as he equips two magical swords.
The possessed warlock turns to his compatriots.
“Frenemy?” Hiccup shivers. “Fick! I hate Frenemy!”
“Fick you, Hiccup!”
-59 HP!
The swipe from Spew Gorge’s small blade sends a hunk of goblin arm flesh flying. It stings, and Hiccup is pissed because he hates getting scars, but at least Spew didn’t stab him in the side.
Hiccup tosses his ax at Spew, missing the younger goblin but giving him some space to get his bearings. Spew Gorge’s big-ass hammer appears in his paws; Hiccup equips an equally sized tomahawk.
“You … you ficker! Whatever happened to the goblin code, Spewy? What in the actual fick? You side with the fickboys over your own flesh and blood?”
“Fick you, Hiccup!”
Spew Gorge comes in for an attack, only to be knocked over by one of the elves, presumably tossed by the warlock p
ossessed by Barry.
Seeing a chance to get rid of a future opponent, Hiccup brings his tomahawk down onto the drow’s sexy back. The sound that follows is sickening, but the job is done after two more chops.
Instakill!
“Fick, you killed Annie!” Spew Gorge cries out. “Damn you, Hiccup!”
“Had to do it, Spewy. Me and Barry are getting out of this shit alive!”
The younger goblin gets to his feet, his eyes red with fury.
They charge. Spew’s rage forces him to make a sloppy parry. Hiccup kicks his legs out from beneath his cousin and brings his tomahawk into the side of Spewy’s head.
Instakill!
The older goblin drops to Spew Gorge’s side, out of breath but glad the little battle is over. “Sorry, kid, but you had it coming.” With that, he starts rummaging through Spew’s pockets for loot. Hiccup finds what he was looking for – a healing potion – and tosses it back.
+198 HP!
“Fick, generic, but still good.”
He wipes his lips, and throws the healing potion over his shoulder.
Hiccup turns to the battle, his tomahawk at the ready.
The ink shadow, still in the warlock’s body, has killed the elves but is having trouble with the ogre, the knight, and the weretiger.
The often-argumentative goblin considers his options. He decides to help the ink shadow, but not before checking his cousin one more time for loot. Hiccup gets back to his knees, groans at the pain in his back, and eventually finds two hundred rupees stuffed in Spew Gorge’s boots.
“Poor ficker,” he mumbles as he stands again.
Hiccup surveys the fight again and decides to go for Simba the weretiger, not because he’ll be easier, but because it was the damn weretiger that set off the chain of events that led to this disaster of a parade.
Keeping low, Hiccup creeps around to the side, wincing at the sound of the ink-shadow-cum-warlock’s swords meeting the knight’s armor. Lots of cringeworthy sounds, as with any battle in which metal is the primary source of combat and defense.
Once Hiccup is around the back of the fight, he gives his inventory list a quick scroll and settles on a curved ax he picked up at a flea market. He tracks his target, and when he sees his opening, the goblin launches into the air.
“Fick!”
The weretiger, much more agile than Hiccup, senses the goblin and dodges the attack.
-86 HP!
“Yoooy!” Hiccup screams as the weretiger’s claws dig into his back.
As he stumbles forward, the weretiger performs an aerial spin kick that connects with the back of Hiccup’s skull.
-231 HP! Critical hit!
Hiccup goes down hard, but the buoyancy of his oversized belly pops him right back up, and by sheer luck, he happens to pop right into the weretiger. Both men go down, the goblin on top, which knocks the breath out of the weretiger.
-143 HP!
“Fuck you, goblin!”
“Yoy, yoy, yoy!” Hiccup shrieks as the weretiger claws at his sides.
-12 HP! - 23 HP! -20 HP! -9 HP!
Still on top of the weretiger, Hiccup’s natural reaction is to unleash a fury of elbows.
He lays into the weretiger until he is out of breath, and the weretiger has stopped clawing at him. Hiccup rolls over to find that one of his elbows connected with the weretiger’s face; the beastkin is out cold.
He drives his toe knife into Simba’s chest. The weretiger spasms and dies.
Instakill!
“Fick yeah,” he coughs. The very lucky goblin rolls onto his back, and listens as the ink shadow finishes up with the remaining knitters. Sure, he could try to get up, but that would require effort, and besides that, “playing dead” is a very functional part of a goblin’s battle repertoire.
It isn’t long before Barry stands over Hiccup, offering him a hand.
“I thought you were playing dead.”
As much as he hates to oblige, Hiccup reaches up and the ink shadow helps him to his feet.
“Yeah, just catching my fickin’ breath. Okay, ahem, that’s a typical Jatla parade for you, hope you enjoyed it.”
The ink shadow places his mustache and his hat over his face. “Well, that’s not what I was expecting.”
“Yeah, you and me both, pal.”
“I thought you said that was normal.”
“It is! I mean, the weretiger in the leather jacket. What a fickin’ fruit puff, am I right? Say, do you think that leather jacket would fit me?”
“No.”
“Well, fick, Barry, you don’t have to fat shame me about it.”
The ink shadow huffs. “What’s next?”
“Next is a fickin’ massage!”
Barry triples in size and bears down upon Hiccup.
“Hey! What the fick are you doing?”
“You’ve yet to convince me that Jatla is anything but a shithole. The massage better be good,” he says menacingly.
“Fick!” Hiccup laughs nervously. “Relax, Barry, I got you booked at the best massage parlor in Jatla. It’ll be a treat!”
Chapter 7: Botched Happy Ending
“Wild Cherry Oriental Massage?” Barry looks up at the sign, his mustache dropping into a frown. He has grown progressively grumpier over their walk from the failed parade to the Red Lamp District.
Now that Hiccup has taken a second look at Dougbug’s establishment, he senses where Barry’s concern may lie. The building is dilapidated, the sign crooked, one of the windows broken, the door handle is greasy, there’s a bucket of a curious liquid sitting on the front step, and the towels hung out to dry all have ass stains on them.
“It’s way better than it looks from the outside. Now, let’s get in there and get your ghosty ass a rub down!”
Hiccup kicks open the door to find Dougbug asleep at the counter.
“Fick!” Dougbug shrieks as he wakes. “Oh, it’s you, whew! I thought it was someone else.”
“Who the fick else is coming to get a massage at the Hour of the Morning Wood?”
“Good point, and you must be Barry,” Dougbug says, standing. “I’d shake your hand but, um, never mind.”
“Pleasure to meet you, goblin,” Barry says with a respectful bow.
“Dougbug, the name is Dougbug.”
“Your name is short for Dougbugaruganugapak, correct?”
“Fick yeah, you’re right. It means ‘a claw that is neither sharp nor dull.’”
Hiccup clears his throat. “Hey fellas, I’d fickin’ love to sit around all day and discuss goblin names, but we have shit to do. So let’s get this massage a rolling, if you get my drift.”
Dougbug rubs his hands together. “You will get the trifecta today, Mr. Barry, the fickin’ holy trinity of massages. It will begin with your classic hot stone massage, then you’ll move to an exotic Thulean Four Hand Massage, and finally, to top it off, you’ll finish up with Wild Cherry’s patented Climax Builder Massage. The set will last three hours, the satisfaction you feel afterwards for days, nay, weeks!”
Hiccup licks his big lips. “Fick, Dougy, that sounds ficktacular.”
Dougbug doffs a hat he isn’t wearing. “Jatla’s best for our admirable guest. That’s our motto here! Come, Mr. Barry, I’ll take you to your room.”
Dougbug leads the ink shadow down the hallway, and stops at the first room. The ink shadow enters, Dougbug shuts the door, and then he snaps his fingers at an orc behind a red velvet curtain.
Just about the sexiest orc gal Hiccup has ever seen steps out, her rolls held in tight by a one-piece bathing suit with a thong. She giggles as she enters the room, a towel in one hand and a bucket full of hot rocks in the other.
“My fick, Dougy,” Hiccup says as soon as his friend has returned, “you didn’t tell me you had some real hotties up in here! I mean, sure, masseuses can be fine, but that one, boy fick she’s a goddamn princess! I’d definitely let her poach my eggs while I tossed her salad, and that would just be the appetizer. Shit, I’d conver
t to Islam for that one, start doing charitable work and volunteering at the community garden, become a Jatla Big Brother, go back to med school to become a pediatrician, take up Pilates, practice good hygiene – you name it!”
Dougbug’s smile thins. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t talk about my girlfriend like that. And what the hell is Islam?”
Hiccup nearly falls over laughing. “That one? She’s your girlfriend? Fick me, Dougy, but she’s way out of your league. You’re way too short! And regarding Islam, read a fickin’ book, Dougy. You have more time than a clock over here, sitting on your ass and waiting for your massages to finish.”
Dougbug’s fists clench up. He has always been shorter than Hiccup by only a hair, but shortness in the goblin community is a hot button topic.
“You’re a real asshole, you know that?” He takes a seat on a stool and turns to Hiccup, his arms crossed over his chest.
“I’m just saying, Dougy, throw your old pal a fickin’ bone here. You could have any girl in the Red Lamp District; your place is famous! That said, and I’m only telling you this because I’m your pal, the outside of the establishment has seen better days. It looks like one of those Wizardous houses out in the Favela. You need to invest in the property a bit, is what I’m saying.”
“The Favela?”
“It’s a new name some fat cat city politician cooked up for the Jatla Slums. Shit, when in doubt, doublespeak, am I right? Ha!”
The shorter goblin lets out a grumpy sigh. “What are you rambling about?”
“Fick, Dougy, keep up. I’m rambling about your sexy ass girlfriend, and why you should totally introduce us.”
“She’s not your type, believe me there.” Dougbug laughs long and hard.
“What the fick is that supposed to mean? Are you telling me she wouldn’t like a moderately handsome goblin who makes an honest living and who is slightly robust, but solid muscle beneath a layer of Grade A goblin fat?”
Hiccup drums his fingers on his belly to make his point.
“You’re an idiot. But enough bickering, we have three hours to kill, and I figure we could kill it by drinking drorikh, eating some gluten-free sour cream and chive fried dragon skins, and fickin’ taking a nap.” Dougbug points at a pair of rolled up mats in the corner. “Just like old times. One caveat: talk about my bae is off limits.”
Jatla is not a Shithole Page 6