The suns were lower in the sky now, and sooner rather than later it would start getting dark. With nowhere to go, Dr. Krumbunculus reached deep into his subconscious, calling to mind an old transmutation spell he learned when he was but fifteen — thankfully, he was at least twenty one now, so he’d still be able to perform it.

Krumbunculus grabbed a handful of mud and rocks off the side of the street and blinked at them ferociously with intent. He felt a tingle at the top of his head, and when he opened his fist, what it contained was apparently fifty pieces of chickensfeed. Excellent.

The closest fantasy hotel was five blocks due EastWest, but that one was staffed by awful tentacle-clad creatures known as Jalabgars, and Dr. Krumbunculus figured if he had fifty chickensfeed to spend anyways he’d rather go ten or so blocks to the NorthernSouth, where he’d find a Choose-Your-Own-Adventure Hotel. He’d often found them quite charming, and figured it might lift his mood a bit.

Of course, the only problem with this decision, other than the general shame of choosing to go to a Choose-Your-Own-Adventure Hotel, which was often considered quite juvenile, was that Dr. Krumbunculus had to walk down three blocks of what was oft knows as ‘Sleazy Street,’ and for hood reason.

Fortunately, there was still light outside, so Sleazy Street had not necessarily come completely to life, but it was well on its way. The neon signs were lit, and the rank smell of piss and shit flooded Dr. Krumbunculus’ nostrils the moment he stepped on the block. In fact, at that same moment, a sharp pain shot through his left leg. He pulled up his left foot to notice a thicc shard of glass embedded deep in the sole, which was regrettably not covered in bunions, nor was it calloused.

“Oh, cockhamnit.”

So much for the ‘feet of incredible hardness’ spell he’d cast decades ago, apparently this curse had rendered it useless. He pulled the shard out with a wince, tossed it asunder, and cast a quick succession of low-level healing spells. Some of the only spells his terribly young body was capable of.

As Dr. Krumbunculus walked cautiously down Sleazy Street, he found that he was attracting a lot more attention than when he’d gone down Sleazy Street in the past with the intention of debauchery. Indeed, he got a couple pairs of panties and one g-string tossed at his face within five or so minutes, which was a little off-putting but not necessarily disappointing. However, the constant, jeering comments on the well-toned shape of his posterior quickly made Dr. Krumbunculus felt quite examined and uncomfortable.

This was not helped by the many large, bombastic elves walking around ringing bells, shouting things about ‘Hot Singles’ in Dr. Krumbunculus’ ‘Area,’ a common scam or service, depending on how one looked at it.

Essentially, the elves would supposedly sell you their clairvoyant abilities to determine whether anyone nearby wanted to fool around with you, thereby eschewing any need for social tact. The problem with this was that usually the type of people who considered paying an elf to tell them whether anyone wanted to do anything sexual with them did not often have a rich well of people waiting to copulate, and even if they did, the knowledge that said person would need to pay an elf to tell them that had a bit of a nasty side effect of lessening said attraction to an extreme degree. Still, they were always out and about on Sleazy Street, so they must have kept getting customers.

“LOOKS LIKE THERE’S A LOT OF ASS AND TITTIES HERE AT THIS STRIP JOINT. LOOKS LIKE IF YOU COME IN HERE, YOU’LL SEE SOME PRIME SHIT. LOOKS LIKE I MIGHT HAVE BEEN SLIGHTLY MISLEADING, WE DON’T DO STUFF WITH SHIT OR ANYTHING, LIKE LITERAL SHIT, I WAS TALKING ABOUT PRIME SHIT IN A FIGURATIVE SENSE, AS IN THE ASS AND TITTIES WE’VE GOT GOING ON IN HERE.”

Krumbunculus looked to see a stumpy warlock (he was obviously a warlock, you could just tell) with a well-oversized mouth shouting into oblivion.

“LOOKS LIKE SOME HOT YOUNG DUDE WON’T STOP STARING AT ME. LOOKS LIKE MY LATENT BISEXUALITY IS COMING OUT AGAIN. LOOKS LIKE CONVERSION THERAPY WASN’T VERY EFFECTIVE. LOOKS LIKE THE CHICKENS ARE GOING TO BE DEATHLY ASHAMED OF ME.”

“Hey, um,” Dr. Krumbunculus walked over to the warlock and winced, “Could you, uh, maybe not shout all that stuff about me so loud? I understand this is your job, or whatever, but it’s kinda freaking me out.”

“LOOKS LIKE SOME HOT YOUNG DUDE WANTS ME TO STOP YELLING ABOUT HIM. Which, I guess I can do,” the warlock winked, “Wanna get drinks?”

“I’m hood, thanks,” Krumbunculus groaned, scrgtching the back of his neck, “It’s just, you know, I’m not—”

“Yea, yea, sure, whatever. Hownowsabout you pop in to my club? There’s lots of ass and titties for you in here.”

Dr. Krumbunculus wasn’t sure why this warlock had to waggle his eyebrows so much when he said the phrase ‘pop in,’ but he decided to ignore that fact and consider that he did indeed kind of feel like looking at ass and titties. So, with a shrug, Dr. Krumbunculus walked forward.

“Wait a second!” the warlock held out a greasy hand, “That’ll be five chickensfeed. Cover charge.”

Dr. Krumbunculus thanked cock that he’d pickpocketed someone a couple blocks ago after getting a bit of a wild hair and handed the warlock his money.

“Excellent. Follow me. Would you like a cigar, sirrah?”

Dr. Krumbunculus pondered this. Not that he was a cigar man, he surely wasn’t, and couldn’t remember the last time he’d had one. And yet, it seemed strangely enticing.

“Sure, what the hen?”

“Excellent,” the warlock held out his hand.

“What?”

“That’ll be two chickensfeed.”

Dr. Krumbunculus sighed and paid begrudgingly as the warlock smiled and placed a torpedo-shaped cigar in his hand.

“Need a light?” the warlock’s eyes gleamed.

“Uh, will it cost me extra?”

“For you? On the house.”

Dr. Krumbunculus felt a little sick to his stomache via the warlock’s ‘for you’ treatment but was happy enough to not have to pay. The warlock whipped out a small magic match and flicked it in the air, igniting it brilliantly. He drew the match up to the cigar, which he’d placed commandingly in Krumbunculus’ mouth only moments before.

“Okay, take a few puffs.”

Krumbunculus did so. It tasted abysmal.

“Perfect,” the warlock smiled, shook the flame off the magic match and slid it back into his front shirt pocket, “Might I say, sirrah, you look mighty hood sucking a cigar.”

Dr. Krumbunculus suddenly felt flush and nauseous, and not entirely because of the cigar. He had to do something to salvedge his confidence, and his apparently damaged masculinity, “Um. Could you direct me to the ass and titties, please?”

“Ah, yes, the ass and titties. Right this way, sirrah.”

The warlock lead Krumbunculus through a maze of curtains and tent tunnels until he finally sat at a lopsided, wooden table stained with blood and old beer. He was directly in front of a dimly lit stage, dimly being an understatement. There was a single, dingy, brass stripper pole in the center. It had clearly over time decayed, for it was more speckled green than any other color. The stripper was short and skinny and paler than the moon, but not a luscious, tantalizing paleness the likes of which Krumbunculus had experienced only hours earlier at the Witches’ Guild, which he was starting to dearly miss. No, the stripper had a bit of a sickly paleness, the paleness of malnourishment, and possibly disease.

Dr. Krumbunculus was not much of a strip club man, but he had been to a few, and none of them had been indeed this offputting or disappointing. It felt wrong, especially considering her and ass her titties were generally not much on display, which wouldn’t have been a huge problem had it not been what the warlock had lead with.

“Um,” Krumbunculus cleared his throat as the lady wrapped her legs around the pole as if they were not human appendages at all but instead two long, floppy fish, “Excrete me, but, well, can I make a request?”

“Huh?” the lady’s eyes flitted about, looking grey and somewhat empty. Something seemed wrong.

“Um, missirrah? Are you okay?”

“Oh, uh, yes, yes, I’m doing very hood today, very—” she suddenly leaned over and retched. After a pause, she held up a finger. Dr. Krumbunculus was getting very anxious. She retched agin, this time a little spittle got out on the stage.

“Missirrah, I’m getting a little concerned—”

Before Krumbunculus could finish his thought, she sprayed a torrent of vomit across the stage, her face going flush and her stomach muscles tightening. After the quick geyser of her expellation was spent, she wiped her mouth off and tried to give Dr. Krumbunculus a halffarted smile.

“LOOKS LIKE SOMEONE NEEDS TO KEEP DANCING!” shouted the wicked warlock from afar.

Dr. Krumbunculus was starting to get real sick of this guy, and not just because the lady had just gotten sick. He got up out of his chair and stormed around, marching through curtains and walkways til he stood right behind that horrible, horrible warlock.