Deathkill McSatanman Fights the Doom Dragons of Fuckdeath Mountain

The bitchin’ sandpaper winds of this subspace wasteland are shitty as fuck, but Deathkill McSatanman doesn’t give a bitch about that. He has his hands full getting jugulars for his master’s jugular collection back at Castle X for Overlord Torment, who’s totally at least a million times better than Overlord Chaos, totally.

Deathkill swipes his hand across a battle jaguar of rapezone 5, separating its body from its jugular easily as the cat’s skin is quickly torn off from the powerful winds.

“Fuck you, bitch, easy,” Deathkill says laxly, flawlessly insulting the battle jaguar’s Battle-Cred by saying the word “easy” at the end.

“RAWRRRRR FUCK YOUUUUU I WAS OFF-GAAAAAME!” The jaguar roars as its body disintegrates into a bunch of stupid fucking bones and shit. Loser.

The sandstorm dies down, and Deathkill shoves the stupid jugular vein into his backpack filled with jugulars. He pulls up a magic chat stone, great for dissing the shit out of nerds and scrubs dimensions away.

“Yo,” he says into the stone.

“Heya there, amigo. How’s it goin’?” An alright voice from the stone responds.

“Got at least a hundred more jugulars for your collection.”

“Sweet. No damn way Chaos’ll compete with that. He’ll be like, ‘Oh, look at my vast collection of exotic teas and magic spells!’ And I’ll be all ‘Well check out these jugulars, ya’ biiiiitch!’ Yeah, hehe, it’ll be rad. So there’s one more target for you to hit, and then I think we’ll be goodto move on to the anus collection.”

Deathkill rubs his manly stubble as he surveys the savage wilderness around him; there’s a great black mountain sprawling in front of him, spewing sick amounts of lava and heavy metal guitars. “What’s that?”

“Check out that mountain in front of you. Locals call it ‘Fuckdeath Mountain’, because you’re fucked and then you die if you go there.”

Deathkill cranes back in suspicion. “Whoa, like getting fucked, or fucked up?”

“Whoa whoa whoa! Sorry man, yeah, definitely fucked up. This isn’t that part of Subspace.”

Deathkill scoffs coolly. “Good, cuz’ I was gonna’ say-”

“Yeah, we’re not doing that shit man, sorry again I wasn’t totally clear on that.”

Deathkill looks over the far-off mountain, hoping to find an easy route up. “Alright, so what am I killing?”

“Right back to business, I like that,” Overlord Torment says with an impressed tone. “I need you to kill all the Doom Dragons of Fuckdeath Mountain.”

“…You said only one jugular.”

“Did I say one? I meant one.., ty.”

There’s a slight pause while Deathkill takes a breath. “… Onety?”

“Ten, Deathkill. Ten jugulars. There’s ten dragons up there, I want you to take a jugular from each.”

Deathkill nods. Not what was expected, but he doesn’t give a single bitch. “Alright, sounds cool.”

“Rodger dodger, my amigo. See ya’.”

“Deathkill out.” He stuffs the stone back into its place on his person. Without a thought or a word, Deathkill starts through the dunes toward the shadowing mass of Fuckdeath Mountain.

It’s at the base of the mountain when The Subspace Orchestra plays a sick folk-industrial tune from a super niche band, warning Deathkill that something’s nearby, and it’s probably a badass. Deathkill, however, has no bitches to give about badasses running around at the base of what is now his mountain, so he only gives it minimal heed.

Suddenly, an ambush.

Deathkill’s not a giant fucking pussy, so he doesn’t move his head from the black-iron bolt’s path, allowing the projectile to attempt to imbed itself into his skull. The bolt shatters against his skin, fortified with what seems like an eternity of training.

“Weeel weeel weeeel. Wut ‘eev we got ‘eeer’?” A voice emerges from behind the rocks.

Deathkill slowly turns his head to look over the assailant. It’s a drakeman, one of those dragonkin bastard bitches, who fail at being both human and dragon, so usually just fuck about pillaging and being cunts to everyone. If Deathkill gave even one percent of a bitch about it, he’d murder any dragonkin he met, ‘cuz it was one of those fuckers that killed his mom, and only shitty people kill moms, unless those moms are spiders. Spider moms are creepy.

“Get the fuck out of my way,” Deathkill says, just as another bolt flies into his face, this time his eyeball. Again he decides not to dodge, and the bolt curls harmlessly against his fortress-like body.

“Yeeeer een dreeegen teeeritry, seeerender or yeeel know a feet werse then deth!”

“Bye.” Deathkill walks on, and after another bolt’s shot at him, the dragonkin decides he’s too much of a pussy to back his shit up and runs off like a typical scrub.

Deathkill travels up the mountain, fending off the occasional ambush by not giving a bitch about it, until he reaches a dark, dank, 420 cave, emitting only the dankest of scents. Deathkill spitefully passes a smattering of posters for “socialist” democratic candidates, each old flavor of candidate covered by whoever’s fresh, though their ideas are still the same old shit.

“Hey maaaaaan,” comes a voice from the darkness, as a mystic flame alights deep in the cave. It’s a wise shithead stoner, posting something “deep and woke” on social media with one hand, while holding his cannabinoid vape set up to his mouth with his other hand.

“What?” Killdeath asks, almost giving one single fucking small bitch, just enough to answer the guy.

“I’m the wise keeper of the cave of trials! Only the worthiest of individuals may pass.”

“Sweet. Let me through.”

The wise monk holds his social media hand up in peace. “Let us test you…”

Dramatic music churns up by the Subspace Orchestra, enjoying this spectacle enough to drum out an anticipative piece.

A golden glow overtakes the room as a chalice emerges from the depths of the center pedestal, a mystical well probably used for some stupid shit that doesn’t matter.

“Behold, the cup of truth! You must drink this and see your inner being!”

Killdeath picks up the golden cup and smells the silvery liquid inside. It’s obviously poison, but he doesn’t give

One.

Single.

Bitch.

He chugs the cup, issuing a chuckle from the evil stoner.

“Now, tell me the truth, you’ve come here for the treasure of the dragons, haven’t you?!”

“Uh, no.”

“W-…” The stoner draws back in shock. The poison really does double as a truth serum, but it seems as though Killdeath is immune! “Well… then why are you here, man?!”

“I’m just here to tear out their jugulars. Let me through.”

The monk gasps and trembles; vape juice jars leap from his pockets to the floor and he almost drops his really-sweet eight-cylinder rig. “B-bro! You can’t fuckin’ do that! They’re like, immortal!”

“If you don’t open this door right the fuck now…”

The monk stumbles over himself as he hits the secret switch. “Man, whatever, just go!”

Killdeath steps through the open door of the cave into a dimly-lit stairwell.

“But don’t say I didn’t warn you, man! You’re gonna be more lit than me! Heh, get it?” The monk says as he inhales another puff.

Onward down into the deep, deadly stairwell, a slew of traps trigger and slam against Killdeath, but not one bitch is given. He moves through a dark chamber, filled with doomworms torn wriggling endlessly from Hell X, of which he also doesn’t give one damn bitch to.

Finally, he climbs up to the peak, a massive valley-like crater at the summit. All ten of the Doom Dragons rest in a ring around the crater as they stare down upon their massive treasure, containing riches far beyond puny human reckoning. The greatest of their kind raises its head in noble, pretentious disgust.

“And you, human, dare to steal away our great riches?” it reverberates with draconic majesty.

“Naw. I’m just here to kill you nerds.”

The dragons stare down with humored contempt, as if Deathkill were just a spider crawling across their table that they all are simply allowing to live for the moment solely for the entertainment of its pathetic, crawling existence.

“You surely must be the greatest fool to cross into our bounda-”

“Stop wasting my time and get down here, scale-fuckers.”

The ten Doom Dragons of Fuckdeath Mountain breath upon Deathkill, the heat of a molten core slung upon him. Deathkill leaps forward, his fists raised to tear the dragons’ skulls from their stupid fucking necks. Fuck them.

Ten minutes later, Deathkill says only one thing:

“Easy.”

That was an alright day for him, and Deathkill almost gave a single bitch, but he didn’t want to have to trade that for ten dragon jugulars, so he just got the jugulars and left without giving a bitch.

Not one single bitch, and they were all mighty proud of their brother.

“Say Deathkill,” Jaina says, one of Deathkill’s “bitches”.

“Yeah?” He grunts, carrying his heavy pack, now overflowing with jugulars.

“Can we get ice cream after this?”

“Ice cream, ice cream!” Little Yuu exclaims, hopping up and down cheerily.

Deathkill smiles. As annoying as they are, it’s nice to bring his sisters along every now and again on quests.

“Sure thing,” he says, agreeing to go buy himself and every one of his bitches some ice cream, not that he’d ever really mean that about the names or anything. Calling his sisters “bitches” would be incredibly rude and he loves them too much to hurt their feelings unless it were for the admirable reasons of their personal development or safety, as any good big brother should be willing to do.