“Haw, weirdo!”

Snapped out of no-doubt masturbatory weird thoughts as they related to the true nature of reality revealed to him, being so, via unconventional but also supernatural organ-appendages/attributes, once again he heard the building - it wasn't the building it was a person instead - “Haw, weirdo!” The person said, “Haw, weirdo!” again.

Art looked around and there was a gate and a guard, and it was him shouting, “Haw, weirdo!” at him again, and in fact he did say it again, which, he'd lost track, was a lot of times - but this process anyway had lasted long enough to tune out the Orach of Mending, at least to a limited extent. He sauntered over to him. The voice.

He had massive sammies on the side of his coupon which were sideburns on the side of his head. Remember that for later because he'll say that kind of thing again, if only in his head.

“Haw, weirdo!”

“- Take a short-sharp run towards the vicinity of a fuck, fuck-pal,” Art said, a species of hangover operating his talking organs, “I'm no weirdo - well I am, but I, and friends I know can say that - if I agree that that's fine, but you, you instead, aren't one of these type people; I don't know who you are, even, you seem to be a common guard, whereas I, on the other hand, am a warrior/hero of great renown. So jog toward the general vicinity of a fuck, and rub yourself on it. Titty boy. Titty.”

Art thought this sufficient to rehabilitate his self-respect, and the guard seemed to agree.

“Here for the quest are you?” Bells went off in his head, or organs.

Art told him his name.

“I've heard that name, can't remember where,” noticeably, if only momentarily, perplexed by this fact, “But I have.”

“Jouhns!” he called up, at a person called Jouhns, and the gate cranked upwards.

“Put your horse in there.” He indicated a small stables inside. “You see any bald men with wild, staring eyes tell them you're here for the quest, she'll – I mean her Majesty, she'll probably take you right in.”

For some reason he enjoyed the big sammied fellow – he'd taken an insult well, after all. - Art had called him titty boy. - He asked him his name. “It's Crannzzun.”

“Well thanka, Crannzzun.” He was feeling sarcastic today. A serious alchemical study was required on the various typologies of hangover. This was the only means by which he'd understand his identity/purpose/his soul's longing. A serious alchemical study on the various typologies of hangover. He took the horse through the little passage part behind the gate and handed the animal, Suzy he cried her, to a fat man with nasal hair down to his bottom lip.

He had to find, “any bald men with wild, staring eyes.”