Darkness, contentedness and pacificity swirled around in a calming, unconscious miasma.

“Xavier you shitbrained buffoon I ought to clucking murder you!” screeched a nails on chalkboard voice as

KSSHHHKKKK

PSHHHKKKSPHKKKK

“Cluck’s sake you’re going to trash this place!”

Sir Broderick’s eyes flitted open as the muffled screams and sounds of property damage jarred him further from his slumber. To think he’d been dreaming about eating some expensive cheese with his beloved ass while attending a gala at none other than the Caldonian Kennel Club Exclusive Wine and Dining Hall, telling all the rich snobs that he and his ass were actually far superior to them despite the fact that neither of them had bathed or been bathed in months, and now here he was awake on the rock hard mattress of Biscuit Pisser’s mistress’ wife’s guest bedroom with a ferret named Trash Heap sleeping in the corner on a pile of newspapers.

BRRRKFT

The door broke open as Biscuit Pisser slammed into it and then with it into the wall. Sir Broderick leaned over to see his old friend crumpled in a heap, eyes full of agony and terror as poorly aimed high heel shoes shot through the entrance to the room in a mind-bending flurry.

“Shitface you’ve got to help me,” sobbed Biscuit Pisser, twitching his head a little, “S-She’s going to kill me.”

“I don’t doubt that,” whispered Sir Broderick as he cowered under the tattered sheets and gingerly sipped on some rum from a flask, “But I’m not sure it’s really my place to interfere.”

“I swear to cock if I ever see you in this house again, you clucking bass turd, I’ll paint the walls with your blood!”

WHHWWHHWHHH SHK

A huge butcher knife stuck into the wall an eyelash away from Biscuit Pisser’s neck.

“Holy shit,” snorted Sir Broderick, trying and failing to hold back laughter.

“Don’t laugh at me Shitface this is serious—” Biscuit Pisser was silenced mid sentence as a rotisserie chicken smacked him in the face.

“I’m not laughing,” Sir Broderick said with a giggle.

The thud thud thud of angry boots shook the floor as the lady, brandishing a fondue skewer, stormed into the bedroom and spat on Biscuit Pisser’s face over and over again until she was out of saliva.

“Look, this is all a big misunderstanding, dear, really, I mean—” Biscuit Pisser’s voice croaked as she squeezed and then lifted him in the air by his neck, two veins in her own neck popping quite noticeably in the process.

“You listen to me and you listen to me hood you disgrossting excuse for a human being. Ah! Don’t raise your clucking finger unless you want me to tear it off! You are scum! You are trash! You’re not just trash, you’re a clucking trash heap is what you are!”

“Hey, lady, have some sensitivity,” interjected Sir Broderick with a liquor filled burp as he gestured at Trash Heap, whose feelings appeared hurt.

“Why is there a clucking ferret in my house?” growled the lady as she released Biscuit Pisser to fall in a jumble and stormed over to inspect Trash Heap, “It smells awful! Wait—who are you? You smell awful, too,” she turned to Sir Broderick and scowled.

“I? Who am I?” Sir Broderick stood up on the bed and posed as if he were standing on a mountainside after just slaying a foul beast, the pillow at his foot acting as its head and the copious flasks he had emptied down his throat over the last five minutes acting as boulders or something, “Why, missirrah, I am Sir Broderick the Shitfaced!”

“Apparently. But why are you wearing those disgrossting clucking boots in my guest bed?!”

Against all odds Biscuit Pisser leapt to his feet to block the lady from attacking Sir Broderick.

“Give him a break, he hasn’t slept in a bed in a long time.”

“What?!” spouted Sir Broderick, “What on Gurth are you talking about? Why I sleep in bleds all the time, I do!”

“What did you just call it?” the lady squinted.

Biscuit Pisser looked at Sir Broderick, looked at the lady and shook his head.

“Sure,” Sir Broderick lifted his saucepan from the nightstand, strapped it on his head and sipped from yet another flask, spilling trickles of whiskey on the bedsheets and many other flasks below him, “I am often known to take naps on assback, as it were, or other times on the floor, or in the booth of a rather friendly bar or inn or tavern, whilst I am out on what one might call a quest or possibly more prudently a bender. However, missirrah, I will have you know I am well acquainted with these luxurious, cloudlike laying contraptions which we all call, as I said before and shall doubtlessly say again…bleds.”

Biscuit Pisser and the lady both burst in raucuous laught, both of them almost toppling over like oily piles of stacked walruses as their guffaws further bewitched them. They drew closer together and started to embrace before the lady regained her senses and headbutted Biscuit Pisser expertly, only slightly reddening her own forehead while sending him careening on his back like a wet wood plank.

“Well then,” Sir Broderick hopped off the ‘bled,’ collected Trash Heap from the corner and sneezed up alcohol out his nostrils before tipping his saucepan as if it were a ten gallon hat and addressing the lady with an unwanted hand on the shoulder, “I do believe it is time for us to take a leavening of this palace of yours, missirrah.”

She responded to his invasion of her space by backhanding Sir Broderick across the face.

“Touche. Come on, Biscuit Pisser, let’s beat ourselves off.”

Biscuit Pisser hobbled to his feet, flinching all the while in fear that the lady would do something to him, anything.

“I think you mean be ourselves off, Shitface.”

“Um, that’s what I said. So let’s get a grip and get to it.”

And so they quickly filed out of the room, away from the lady’s seething wrath and into the kitchen where they both stole more than a few cookies. Even Trash Heap had some. Satisfied, they left out the side door of the kitchen before they could get yelled and threatened again and clambered down the janky, woodrot-filled, deathtrap-esque fire escape of the creaky five story housing development to the jagged, manure covered mud pile that was the streets of the fantasy middle-poor neighborhood.

“Cluck’s sake, Biscuit Pisser old chup. That’s one hen of a mistress you’ve got there. Guess you’re into that degradation stuff, eh?”

“Heh. That, em, that wasn’t my mistress. It was her wife. We, eh, we hadn’t met.”

“Ohhhh, I see,” sighed Sir Broderick, “Well you know those lesbonians are a fiesty bunch, makes plenty sense you waited so long to introduce yourself. Not that it seems to have helped you much per se. Really though Biscuit Pisser it actually confuses me as to why lesbonians seek out life partners when they can all reproduce asexually. Why go through all that twerk, you know what I mean?”

Though many different peoples existed in this glittery world of fantasy, some of them indeed with the ability to reproduce asexually, lesbonians were not one of them.

“Shitface, did you hit your head recently?”

“What? Why would you ask that?”

“I, just…and normally I’d chalk it up to the alcohol but seeing as you’ve essentially been drinking continuously since I ran into you I’m guessing maybe that doesn’t have too much to do with it, but—”

“Hood cock man, say what you’ve got to say if you’re going to say it at all!”

“What the cluck did you just say to me?” a random person walking past them suddenly whipped around and glared at them. It was the prettiest creature anybody could possibly ever encounter in a fantasy world. An orc. Sir Broderick could’ve sworn a bunch of butterflies were continuously pouring out of the orc’s long flowing hair and exploding into rainbows to form a halo around the orc’s face, and that’s because they were.

“I, um, I mean, I wasn’t, I didn’t say, but I mean, I, if I were to, I mean, if I did say, or, if I had anything to—”

“Ugh. Men,” muttered the sexless, nippleless, genitalless orc as they floated away on a pink cloud that hovered half an inch above the ground, shaking their head and tsking all the while.

“What’s an orc doing here anyways?”

“Oi Oi, what are any of us doing here indeed, my dearest Biss Piss?”

Biscuit Pisser rolled his eyes, and were Sir Broderick paying attention to anything but his own words as they spewed forth from the fount of his face he might have noted that Biscuit Pisser seemed to be questioning whether he should continue to subject himself to such abbhorrent diatribes or whether he ought to just go on his merry way back to whatever life had in store for him that didn’t have anything to do with old friends nicknamed Shitface. Of course he wasn’t so instead he just kept on talking incoherently.