Zune bowed before the largest and most enthusiastic audience he had ever seen, grateful for what was undoubtedly a gift from the divine. Not only had Guy Blanco blesed him with the ratings he so desired, but they were cheering him with the traditional kobold honorifics: “Mince meat” “pathetic” and “already dead” and “pathetic” (yes, twice) and “ripe for the slaughter.”

Tonight is destined to be a great show. I will have to pull out the most powerful of jokes for my opening monologue. Zune thought, before going off-script.

“What’s the deal with airline food?” Zune asked the rowdy audience. No one laughed.

Strange. Guy Blanco got many laughs with that one. Perhaps I have misunderstood his teachings?

A little more nervous now, Zune returned to script.

“So yesterday I was walking through town, and I didn’t mugged.” Zune gave a little chuckle at the end of the (what he thought was) an expertly-crafted joke.

The audience was silent. Backstage, Father Milton, Crowhead, Ragnar Son of the Mad Titan Uroskyne and the Twelve Harpies of Winter, Langley Pinkerton, and Cleopatra Bingley all cringed in worry.

Conveniently, for the narrator, they all thought the same thing at the same time.

If Zune can’t ge the audience on his side, will he be able to defuse Real Galadhorn’s murderous intent? What if the audience stays dead? Are we all doomed? Also why is Real Galadhorn’s sword nearly ten feet long now?

Dramatic tension flowed from the group, over Zune’s head, into the cursed blade. The cursed blade, desiring even more, puppeted Galladhorn’s head to peak from behind the unpainted canvas set backdrop, and gave a threatening cough and a throat-slitting motion to the audience.

“Laugh dammit.” the orc’s body croaked, unwillingly.

The audience burst into forced laughter. And so, while the quintet of Father Milton, Crowhead, Ragnar, Langley, and Cleopatra were gripped by fear and leaking excessive dramatic tension, any sort of fear and nervousness immediately left Zune’s body, since he was now under the illusion that he had gained the sincere support of the audience.

The reality of the situation, however, was very different than Zune thought. Only Darryl, who I will try to never mention again because he is a very boring idiot, was legitimately enthralled in Zune’s show. The rest were just very drunk and held in a terrible fear of Real Galadhorn’s violent wrath…and a lustfully violent desire to see the orc murder the pathetic kobold. Many were simply attending because The Slightly-Late Show was a “free” show, and most entertainment in Eden usually came at the cost of an extremity (if you weren’t careful. Which no one in Eden was).

And so, a after few “jokes” and not-so-subtle threats towards the audience made by Killter-throatslitter-taxevasion-littering (via Galadhorn), the stage was set for the interview. The dramatic tension was flowing off of the quintent of the five back stage protagaonists and the audience like a fine wine. The audience, through their strained laughter, thirsted for the inevitable violence that Galadhorn was about to deliver (and fearing for the possibility of their own lives being taken). Even the narrator and Brestmylc could not help but to leak a little dramatic tension. What if Killer-throatslitter-taxevasion-littering won? What if Zune died?

“Ladies and Gentlemen, we have a very special guest tonight. Please welcome the fearsome warrior, non-criminal, and fiercely accomplished harbinger of violence: Real Galadhorn.”

The audience burst into fearful cheering as Kller-throatslitter-taxevasion-littering puppeted the unwilling orc onto the stage. The sword, which was now about 11 feet long, was dragging on the orc’s side, scraping the stage’s wooden floor. It made a screech so horrible that it tugged and snapped several of the threads of destiny. So terrible was this sound, that to describe it directly would inevitably cause death, so therefore I will use a rather colorful metaphor about the worst-possible-sound:

To imagine the horridness of the noise that Killter-throatslitter-taxevasion-littering made while it was dragged upon the stage, you will first need to imagine you have been assaulted by the white noise trans-Atlantic flight for the past twelve hours, and a baby has been screaming for the past three hours while a particularly bad garageband full of teenagers whose voices are still breaking are attempting to rehearse Queen’s hit song Bohemian Rhapsody, while you are sitting next to your future Mother-in-Law Doreen and she can’t stop asking you “When are you two going to settle down have kids?” The next step is that you then must imagine all of this is happening while you haven’t slept for 36 hours, and you have a migraine.

Now, for the final step, imagine a sound so awful, that you would rather experience the above scenario, because it would be incredibly pleasant by comparison. That sound, then, was the sound that Killer-throatslitter-taxevasion-littering made as he was dragged upon the wooden stage floor of The Slightly-Late Show, and then rudely threw Real Galadhorn’s nearly-soulless body upon the sofa.

Zune, somehow, did not notice the terrible sound, so he began the interview unphased.

“It’s good to have you on the show Galadhorn. A pleasure!”

“Thank you. The pleasure is all mine.” Real Galadhorn’s body said as the large sword (which was stabbing through the sofa) shuddered with the power of dramatic tension of the implied threat (which Zune did not detect, but everyone else did.)

“And so, how many people did you kill on the way here?” Zune tried to joke. The audience gave a bit of a pity chuckle.

“Eighty seven.” The orc grinned a devilishly-evil grin, not joking. The audience did not laugh.

“No, really,” Zune laughed and slapped the table “eighty seven sounds too high! You couldn’t have killed that many people.”

The audience gave a laugh at what they thought was a genuine joke.

“Yes really!” the orc said.

“Oh.” Zune gulped nervously. The audience thought the kobold was playing along with Galadhorn, and so they laughed.

No quitting. Quitting is for Jimmy Fallon. Just maintain control of the interview. Guy Blanco will guide you to the questions of power.

Zune took in a deep breath, and grasped his Zune™ which was set on a table under his desk for good luck.

Let the power of Guy Blanco flow through you.

And so, Zune did just that. He channeled the energy of Late Night Television as he sought the question that would get to the core of Real Galadhorn’s being. Years passed in Zune’s mind, yet mere miliseconds to the audience. And there it was, the question that would defuse the violent orc’s murderous intent. Certainly, such a convenient question would have to work immediately.

“What hobbies do you have…besides killing of course.” Zune asked. The audience laughed as they slipped ever-so-slightly from the control of Killer-throat-slitter-taxevasion-littering.

***

Back stage, Father Milton gave a grin of approval.

“By Brestmylc, he’s doing it. I was worried there, for a second, that he might not have control of this interview, and things might go very-very-wrong.” The holy father spoke to his gathered friends.

The other members of the backtage quintet all agreed as well. It was a good question. It seemed as though Zune might tame Real Galadhorn and his nasty-looking sword afterall.

“Kobold has special knack for stage.” said Ragnar, in his recently-acquired Russian-like accent.

“Crowhead, you’re in for a special treat. This little kobold’s show is fascinating. I promise you’ll have seen nothing like it before.” Cleopatra said.

Crowhead nodded, although he had his private doubts, of which only the incredibly attractive narrator knew. The I’mo knew (vaguely) what the cursed blade was capable of, the lives it had taken, of the threat it could pose. And worse, he knew the blade was in its element. Inadvertantly, Crowhead leaked a potent amount of dramatic tension that drifted towards the blade.

***

As Zune waited for the orc to answer the question, he saw a streak of black-grey-red energy flow through the air and directly into Real Galadhorn’s blade. The sword then seemed to shudder with an odd sort of pleasure.

Odd. I’ve never seen that before.

“Paint-” the orc croaked, as if the answer had been forced through a wood chipper.

“Really! Did anyone here know that Real Galadhorn liked to paint? Cause I sure didn’t. What do you like to paint?”

The audience and the quintet were stunned. Zune had gotten Real Galadhorn to not talk about killing or thoat-slitting. The orc sat there stupified, not talking, as if he had just been struck by lightning. Then, all of the sudden, his complexion paled and his demeanor shifted to that of one that only belonged to violent and cruel beings and [redacted].

“Painting the wall with your blood!” the orc shouted. The audience, fearing for their lives at the violent hands of “Galadhorn,” laughed as loud and rowdily as they could as Killer-throatslitter took control of the audience once more.

Zune was stumped. Where had the question gone wrong? Had Guy Blanco misled him? How could he get control of the audience once more? Zune pushed away the fear that this interview might be a bust, that he might die.

No. Hold faith. Guy Blanco will provide.’

Zune watched as dramatic tension leaked from his soul, and flowed into the giant sword once again.

***

Thank you, pathetic kobold. Oh do I love to see that look of fear in your eyes. You were a fool. Father Milton was a fool. Brestmylc’s power has no hold here. Not on the stage. Not where the power of dramatic tension is so potent. You were not born on the stage, built for drama. No. I was forged three thousand years ago by some guy, and this is my purpose.

Paint. Real Galadhorn’s soul begged.

Yes, we’ll paint them red with blood. Galadhorn.

No. Paint paint. Galadhorn’s groveled before me. How pathetic. How useless. PAINT. Maybe without the “T” it would be an useful word. I could add “pain” to my name after this performance. Yes, after all of this dramatic tension, I could add quite a few words to my name. Expand my power. And then, Brestmylc would never be able to stop me.

And I had this little pathetic kobold to thank for it. It is a mild shame I will have to kill him, and then you, Galadhorn. The little wyrm holds similar power within him that could have proved challenging for me if he were stronger. More experienced. Born for the stage.

Zune. Your death will be delicious. I can’t wait to watch the fear slip from your eyes. It will be the ultimate feast. This interview will serve as delectable pretense to the ultimate bloodshed.

***

The powerful and incredibly-sexy narrator pried control of the narration back from Killer-throatslitter-taxevasion-littering.

The interview was dragging. Zune was losing control, and I was the only one who could help.

Killter-throatslitter-taxevasion-littering interrupted my chapter again, like an asshole.

The fucking sword was right, unfortunately. If I jumped too far away, Zune would die before I got back to delay things. Brestmylc couldn’t intervene. The Fates were ”busy” and Emma was far too traumatized to actually do anything. How would she travel over 500 miles to get back to Eden, let alone do it willingly?

There was one perspective I could explore. But would it work? And what if the perspective was boring, and negatively impacted my annual review? I exuded dramatic tension as I paused time to think through the matter.

Fuck it. I have no idea if this is going to work. Annual review be damned. But it’s all I got. The rest is on you, Zune.

Reaching to the depths of his narrative power, the strong, incredibly good-looking, humble, and vastly intelligent narrator jumped to the new perspective, and prayed for a miracle.