“Behind the curtain huh? I take it your yellow bricked road is more narrow, slightly whiter and sold in metric units, rather than imperial measurements?”

The narrator taps his nose out of habit to show the hero was on the money, or at least as on the money as a broke person can be, but forgot what he had just done and let out a deep snort as blood dripped down his nostril.

The OSHA dragon, alerted by a person in need, went to perform the Friedrich manoeuvre but found no physical body to administer fatal crushing to.

« Ah, I see. So every German name that sounds slightly similar now becomes a way to squeeze people to death ? »

DING, HERO HAS LEARNED THE FRIEDRICH UBER CRUSH.

“I think that’s stepping into dangerous territory there. Why don’t we select Caspar Friedrich instead of the other moustache guy. Add a bit of art in our lives, rather than a vicious circle that ends up with yet another well-intentioned genocide.”

The hero prefers a more artful genocide instead?

“Yes, but without the genocide part. Just more artful if possible. »

That sounds like heresy dear hero. The church will never allow for it.

“What church? I never heard about any church.”

The church of heresy specializes in, well, heresy. So anyone that dares to trespass on their territory is seen as stealing their techniques and industry secrets. The main villain created it after several other demon-lords stood up and tried to claim his position. They’re a ravenous cult of murdering lunatics with bright red robes nicknames ‘the periods’.

“Eww. And no doubt that nobody ever expects the periods to come?”

Hardly. Their order goes forth into the general populace at least once a month. Handing out pamphlets made out of extra absorbent paper on how to handle the arrival of your local period. How to present yourself for inspection and how…

"I have a weird vision going though my head of an endless parade of people, naked from the waist down, raising their asses in the air as the local period inspects it. Very closely. Making sure not to damage the merchandise."

Oh, the hero should have said he had first hand experience with this most holy of processes.

"You know, if you always expect the worst to happen and always end up being right, it doesn't mean you're a visionary. It just means you live in a very shitty world and need to get the fuck out.

"POINT, no kidding. Even in my world this type of debauchery isn't afforded that easily. You'd need a private island and lots of blackmail material involving important politicians before you can have the type of fun that you lucky bastards get here for free."

"Wait... weren't you dead? Crushed and all that? I'm fairly certain I saw very thin outline that looked physically and mentally weak in the dirt a few moments ago."

"POINT, I just regenerated. I injected nanobots right into my veins back in the real world. So I'm basically immortal. Sadly, couldn't do anything about the weak physique. Only reduce the amount of time it took to recombine."

"So you're like a regenerating shield that can absorb one attack for me every minute?"

"POINT, exactly... wait... no. That would be unsuitable for a man of my intellectual prowess."

"Unsuitable, but not impossible. This is great. I found myself a temporary tank. Now I just need DPS and a healer."

“POINT, and in this capable triumvirate of strength that will face down our enemies you will obviously be a porter of sorts? Mixer of drinks? Runner of aways?”

“Hm, now that you mention it, I could make a pretty mean daiquiri. Especially now that I've got my new vibrating mixing stick.“

Just a gentle reminder that putting any type of energy weapon, especially used by an elderly queen who hasn't had a husband in more than a decade, in close contact with a volatile substance, might be more... let's say cataclysmic? than intended.

“Everyone's a critic. Fine, you try making a daiquiri then. See if you do any better.”

The narrator taps a freshly brought in barrel of brown material and indicates that nobody should ever drink something that has an ABV below their own age. As that would technically be classified as a soft drink meant for nursing children.

“You know, that does add to the explanation of how this world acquired the mental equivalence to a six year old with depression as a standard. If you force your developing braincells into facing one another in a battle royale induced by alcohol from the age of one. All of you are playing a game of highlander, where only the strongest braincell will remain in the end. Hence why multi-tasking is impossible here.”

The narrator takes a bottle in both hands and drinks from both at the same time while mentally giving the hero two middle fingers. Showing ample proof that quad tasking is very much possible for a superior lifeform.

“Can one of those quad tasks be you putting a handle on the back of William so I can use him as a disposable meatshield?”

“POINT, I'll have you know that that is harassment. And I will send a strongly, STRONGLY worded letter to your author letting him know about this.”

“I have a feeling he already knows and is laughing at you too?”

“POINT, how so?”

“Well, you start every sentence with the word POINT, even though we decided we no longer need an identifying aspect to every sentence. Mostly because it reminds him of a cartoon series he watched as a kid.”

“POINT, ah, you mean last year. POINT.”

“Wouldn't piss him off too much. Because too much haha, pretty soon turns into more POINT's. Maybe your entire sentence structure turns into versions of low and high pitched POINT's where you turn into a low-rent version of Kenny from southpark who dies every few minutes.”

“POINT, point taken. POINT”

“Exactly my point.”

“POINT”