But the Bigbosomotron5000 showed no...

“Wait, so we're just going to call it that now? No debate, no discussion, just apathy that leads to a dubious naming convention at best?”

The narrator wishes to point out the hero referenced to a lady, albeit heavily modified, as 'it'. Perhaps not the wisest decision. Which would be very apt for the hero's actual intellectual level.

“You're repeating yourself old man. Let's put in a proper putdown like they had in the good old days. The narrator was a plain man as far as plain could go. Which often wasn't further than his own front door to pick up the daily newspaper that provided him with his daily opinions on which he could pontificate as long as he sat on a toilet seat. In case an idea, which was slightly more exciting than drinking a glass of warm milk, hit his cerebral cortex by accident. As ideas usually require a larger target to hit with any steady chance of success. His eyebrows had grown narrow after they had spent much time in the air during his youth, when education was his biggest struggle. Learning to write down not just the A, but also the B until he gave up midway around the letter K. As he deemed the rest of the alphabet to be beneath him. Or as he would call it, be_ea_h hi_. Lest this mediocre man of mediocre merit attempts his feeble handshaking hand at the multiplication tables. As there were simply too many numbers. And our dear narrator would never stand for such insolence, contenting himself to narrow every mathematical question down to a yes or no answer. A mediocre feat to say the least. A humble man who had much to be humble about. Not that he would ever notice or be aware of matters of the brain, no, our narrator was too busy holding his daily racist dialogue with someone who had been shipped from the colonies against his own will. To work diligently, and mostly under a lot of pressure, to provide this average man a life of unearned luxury.

Which was still only an extra mug of coffee and perhaps a slightly more crisp slice of bread every morning. Generously coated by previously mentioned ex-colony inhabitant with his own special sauce. Which our average narrator couldn't quite put his finger on as to what it's origin was, but not his tongue. No, that was firmly pressed against the earthly delight of his superior servant on, again, a daily basis.”

The group clapped and the narrator was slightly amused. Seems like the hero wishes to brawl. Let us indulge a little, shall we?

Now the hero was a less distinct man because a more distinct man would need something to be distinct about. Not just a nameplate with the word hero badly written on it while somehow also adding two W's in the mix. He's an existence that only comes round once every few thousand years because if it was any less, people might actually remember his awkward nature and die of embarrassment before being able to be saved from the big malicious threat. And that imaginary dragon's name being halitosis. Because less distinction doesn't always translate well to being less present. There will always be this apparent fine mist of incorrectly overused gym socks that pokes one's nostrils into an early grave from which no return is possible. Turning his immediate surroundings into a desolate place without flavour or hope. Then again, the same could more easily be accomplished by the hero's dress sense. Or lack thereof. If famous fashion designers scour the globe for new ways to impress the huddled masses, our hero does the opposite. Where he looks within his own home for the few bits and pieces of finely unthreaded garments he has left to conjure a look that evokes pity and suicidal tendencies in any age group above the age of two. Permitting toddlers the comfortable numb existence of manic depression instead. A faith worse than death or the hero's gym socks, but this narrator is simply repeating himself. In fact this organisation finds that the costs usually outweigh the good the hero does in the end. Letting his aroma cross the planet does indeed kill the enemies that were destroying this world. But it also ends all plant and human life in the process. Like a slow ooze that creeps across the surface from which there is no escape. People go mad when they behold the hero, for they know their end is near. They only pray it is quick too. Having not the willpower of essence of life to listen to one of his many monologues about the wastefulness of taking a bath every week and that matters couldn't possible smell this bad as everybody is saying right before they plunge a knife in their own chest to escape the pestilent flavourings our hero excretes.

Again, the crowd applauded. This time with a bit more vigour and enthusiasm. As if some great philosopher descended from heaven and only spoke of truth. To enlighten and enrich the commoner's mind beyond all endured misery.

“Ok, we both had our bit of fun now. Can we try and continue on the road? Maybe choose a different name for the woman. Let's just call her Maggy. I think everyone can agree on Maggy, right?”

“Point... you better not agree on Maggy, she's mine to agree on.”

“Get your overstimulated mind out of the gutter and out of Maggy's cleavage. We have a quest before us. The lord has comandeth it.”

“Point... he's commanded Maggy? Also, who is this lord giving commands for my women? I have the proof of ownership and everything. Don't need nobody to tell my property what to do.”

“You're going a bit rural there, William. You sure you're okay?”

“Point... I will be, as long as none of you bastards agree on my woman.”

“I promise you, I will never agree on any of your women, ever. Even if the woman in question doesn't even agree about being your woman, ever.”