Jatla Is Not a Shithole: A Fantasy Online Novella
Author: Harmon Cooper
Date: 2018-01-02 08:00:00+00:00
Description: A goblin. His proof of manhood. The bad hombre who wants it. What starts as an innocent game of three cards with an ink shadow quickly escalates into Hiccup (the goblin, not the bodily function) stupidly betting his proof of manhood. To save himself from possible castration, Hiccup has less than twenty-four hours to put on a parade, arrange a sensual massage, get a table at a Michelin star restaurant, and book a night at the most expensive hotel in Jatla, all with the hopes of appeasing the ink shadow (yes, the one whom he bet his penis to), and proving to the shadow that Jatla, the infamous g
Publisher: Boycott Books, LLC

Jatla is not a Shithole

A Story about Hiccup the Goblin

By Harmon Cooper

Copyright © 2017 by Harmon Cooper

Copyright © 2017 Boycott Books

Edited by Andi Marlowe @ www.andromedaediting.com

www.harmoncooper.com
writer.harmoncooper@gmail.com

Twitter: @_HarmonCooper

All rights reserved. All rights preserved. All rights ficked. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

----Other works by Harmon Cooper---

The Feedback Loop – A LitRPG sci-fi series filled with action, humor, and cyberpunk musings.

Book One – The Feedback Loop

Book Two – Steampunk is Dead

Book Three – High Fantasy

Book Four – Reapers and Repercussions

Book Five – The Mechanical Heart

Book Six – Cyber Noir Redux

Book Seven – Proxima Riven

Three Book Box Set

Fantasy Online: Hyperborea – A LitRPG saga set in a fantasy world known as Tritania and Tokyo Japan. Get it here.

The Last Warrior of Unigaea: A LitRPG about a Player Killer and his big bad wolf.

Life is a Beautiful Thing – A hallucinatory cyberpunk series. Box Set

Dear NSA – A collection of 12 satirical stories about the troubled times we share.

The Zero Patient Trilogy – A literary dystopian thrill-ride that will keep you on the edge of your seat. Book One     Book Two

Boy versus Self – A psychological, coming of age thriller about an Austin,Texas artist struggling with inner demons.

Map of Hyperborea

Click to enlarge

Table of Contents

Map of Hyperborea

Table of Contents

Chapter 1: One Final Bet

Chapter 2: Spew Gorge’s Knitting Club

Chapter 3: The Boner Ointment

Chapter 4: Funeral Potatoes and Hot AzzBalls Dragon Wings

Chapter 5: Fright Knight at the Golden Swine

Chapter 6: A Typical Jatla Parade

Chapter 7: Botched Happy Ending

Chapter 8: Three Courses to the Finish Line

Back of the Book Content

Note to reader:

This book takes place one day before the start of the Fantasy Online series, which explain why Hiccup was sleeping rather than guarding the guild when Tamana was kidnapped.

Then again, he’s Hiccup, and he probably would have been gob-napping anyway.

Yours in sanity,

Harmon Cooper

Chapter 1: One Final Bet

“Double or nothing,” Hiccup growls. “No, make that triple, you fickered fick-faced squid shart!”

Barry the ink shadow, who sits in the back booth of a very dirty pub, laughs long and hard.

“Double or nothing, huh?” His voice is syrupy and high-pitched. He’s a younger shadow, noticeable in the way he holds his shoulders. “You’ve already lost twenty thousand rupees and all your fingernails, need I remind you?”

Hiccup snorts. “Remind me? No, you needn’t remind me, you dirty ficker! What fickin’ part of early onset Goblinheimer’s do you not understand? My fick, you’re worse than the tourists during the Jatla Theater Festival. Talk about a bunch of poofty snowflake donut hole fickers.”

“What do theater tourists have to do with our little game of Three Cards?”

“Little game? And tourists have everything to do with our little game, seeing as how you yourself are a fickin’ tourist, at least you claim to be.”

“I am.”

“But anyway, now that you’ve got me all fickin’ wired up, triple or nothing, mitherficker!”

Hiccup lifts one asscheek and lets out a squeaker, the sound of which wakes the hobgoblin sleeping at the bar.

The hobgoblin turns to them, scowls, and lays his head back on the counter.

Cards are scattered across the table separating Barry and Hiccup. Two knives stick out of the table, handles up, ready at a moment's notice.

While the scene may look incredibly tense to an outsider, and sure, there’s no love lost between Hiccup and Barry the ink shadow, the knives are actually part of the game they’ve been playing for the last thirty minutes called Three Cards.

Even your run-of-the-mill village idiot could understand a game of Three Cards.

First, get rid of all the even cards and the queens. Jacks count as eleven and kings as thirteen. The two jokers in a deck clear out all the cards currently in play. Shuffle, separate into stacks, and play the cards next to one another. If the numbers add up to a number divisible by three, stab the last card with your knife.

If you run out of cards, you lose. If you win all the cards, you win. If you lose a hand (an actual hand), you lose.

It’s really that easy.

“You have nothing else to bet me,” the ink shadow reminds Hiccup.

Hiccup throws back his pint of Horse Piss and slams it on the table. “I got something to bet, you filthy ficker, and it’s something octopus queefs such as yourself really seem to get off on.”

“Oh? And what is that, Hiccup?”

“Fick, fick, fick.” The goblin tears up. “I don’t want to fickin’ do this, but I’m about to win bigly here, so the risk is worth it. Fick me. You can do it, Hiccup. Shit, I’ve gone all third person here to control my emotions. My therapist said to do that. Fick him sideways. All right, Barry,” the goblin swallows hard, “I bet my chalupa.”

If the ink shadow had an eyebrow, it would raise as he asks, “Your what?”

Hiccup grabs his proof of goblinhood. “My fickin’ chalupa! If I win, I get everything; if you win, you get my chalupa. And we both know how much ink shadows like chalupas.”

Barry’s chin grows a few inches. He lifts a wispy hand to it, and rubs it as he considers the offer.

“I could use a goblin penis …”

“Couldn’t we all, buddy!” Hiccup laughs nervously. “Fick, what am I saying? Yes or no, Barry? If I lose, you get my chalupa, the twenty K, and my fingernails. If I win, I walk away scot free.”

“You’re on, goblin.”

Hiccup throws his hands in the air. “Again with my trigger word, huh? But you know what? I’m going to let it slide, this once, a gentleman’s gesture. Now, let me shuffle.”

“And let me cut?”

“Hello, sirs, would you care for another round?”

Hiccup nearly hops out of his seat at the sight of the poo fairy waitress that now hovers before them. Stinkerbells, as they are known colloquially, are fond of digging through shit in search of treasure.

When they can’t find treasure in turds, they usually take shifts at pubs.

“Dragon wings, lemon pepper, tell the chef – and boy fick am I being gracious by using that noun for him – to not skimp on the lemon pepper seasoning this time around. I know the shit is pricey, but if it’s on the menu, do it justice. Tell him to take pride in his work. It’s important. And of course we want another round. Now git, fairy!”

“You should be kinder to the wait staff,” Barry says after the poo fairy has sulked away.

“And you should keep your empathy to yourself and cut the deck.” Hiccup shuffles the cards once more and turns the deck to the ink shadow.

Once the deck is cut, the goblin distributes the cards. He arranges his small stack before him and focuses on one point, and one point only: the place where the cards will land.

Since Hiccup shuffled, the ink shadow begins. It isn’t long before they have a line of cards.

Slam!

The ink shadow drives his blade into the last card played and Hiccup scoffs. “That…that’s not divisible by three!”

“A jack, two threes, a one, a five, a seven, a king. That’s forty-five.”

“Fick!”

The ink shadow takes his cards, and the two continue to play until Hiccup inevitably loses. Not for lack of trying – the ink shadow was just faster.

“And that, my friend, is how you win a goblin penis. Hell, I don’t even want the money or the fingernails, just the penis.”

“Fick me!” Hiccup grabs his toe knife and points it at Barry, tears in his eyes. “You aren’t taking my chalupa, you fickered kiddy ficker!”

Ink Shadow Level 20

HP: 2133/2133

ATK: 76

MANA: 219/219

DEF: 183

MATK: 139

MDF: 92

LUCK: 14

“What was that?” the ink shadow snarls.

The ink shadow is level twenty, Hiccup a paltry level eight. It’d be a pretty one-sided fight.

“A bet is bet,” says Barry, his form growing until he dwarfs the goblin.

(.)(.)

They’re lucky the pub is empty.

Aside from a hobgoblin with his head on the counter, the waitress, and a bartender, there’s no one around to see the ink shadow balloon in size, his menacing maw forming razor sharp teeth.

“You’ll … you’ll take my goddamn chalupa over my fickin’ dead body,” Hiccup hisses as he tightens his grip on his toe knife.

“You really want to die in Jatla?”

“Fick you!” he huffs.

The ink shadow laughs. “I suppose dying in Jatla is not such a bad thing. That said, it is quite a shithole.”

“What!? Jatla is absolutely not a shithole!”

The ink shadow laughs even harder this time, his form wavering. “Not a shithole? Damn, goblin, have you even been outside the doors of this pub?”

“Fick yes, I’ve been outside. I’ve lived in Jatla most of my life, work here too.”

“You? Work?” Barry’s form decompresses. “Out of curiosity, what kind of work would a portly goblin–”

“–Goblins are naturally robust, everyone knows that. Only the goblins that live out in Bawa Outpost are thin, and that’s because those malnourished mitherfickers don’t get enough food. Fick. I’m hungry. Where the hell is that waitress with my dragon wings?”

“You never said what line of work you were in.”

“I’m a security guard at a guildhall for a yet-to-be-named guild. Ha! You should see the two kiddos I’m working for. Talk about some virgin panty wetters. The one kid shoots marbles. Seriously. The female has a big-ass sword that she barely knows how to use.” Hiccup looks down to his toe knife as his eyes glaze over. “What’d you do to make me point this knife at you?”

“Your penis is mine. Now take your pants off, or should I take them off for you?”

“The fick you just say? I’m not going to die without my chalupa!” Hiccup swipes his toe knife at Barry.

The ink shadow drops his head into his hand. “I’ve said it once already, and I’ll say it again, to die in Jatla is not such a bad thing. It is quite a shithole.”

Both Hiccup’s bushy eyebrows rise as an idea practically slugs him in the face.

“Why are you looking at me like that, goblin, like you’ve seen your own mother naked?”

“I have seen my own mother naked and I’m not ashamed to admit it. But that’s beside the point. So. you think Jatla is a real shithole, right?”

Barry nods. “The shittiest of shitholes. The word Jatla actually means shithole.”

“No, it means filthy, and this city,” Hiccup coughs, unable to keep his own bullshit down, “is not a shithole. It is anything but. With that in mind, you ready to make one final bet?”

“Another bet?” Barry’s form relaxes even more.

“If I can prove to you that Jatla isn’t the shithole you say it is, I get to keep my chalupa.”

“What do I get out of this bet again, aside from the penis you already owe me?”

“Pfft! You get to have one of the best days of your life out of this bet. Even if you don’t agree, you’ll still, um…” Hiccup bites his lip as he swiftly considers his options. “You’ll still have the pleasure of enjoying a parade, going to an award-winning spa, eating at a fickin’ Michelin star restaurant, and staying at an all-inclusive resort. Just imagine it with me now: you’ll be treated like the Empress’s favorite fickin’ cousin, and you’ll still be able to make a decision as to if,” he gulps, “you’ll keep my chalupa or not.”

The ink shadow considers this.

“Come on, Barry, it’s a win-win if you ask me, for you anyway.”

“I’ll admit, it is an interesting proposition. And how long would it take for you to put this together?”

“A day, tops. No, fick that, by tomorrow morning. We’ll begin at a parade, hit a spa, go to a nice restaurant, and then you can stay in the best hotel in Jatla.”

“And I don’t have to stay in the room with you, do I?”

“What the hell kind of question is that? Of course we’re staying in the suite together! It’s my job to fickin’ entertain you, isn’t it? And no, before you get any sicko ideas, I’m not talking about blowing bubbles into your starfish or shaving your taint. Nope, I’m talking about good ol’ fashioned goblin entertainment. The, ahem, nighttime variety.”

“You are suggesting to get prostitutes as well?”

“Fick yes I am, and if I can’t impress you, you can have my chalupa.” Hiccup bites his lip. “So, that’s the bet.”

A hand forms from Barry’s murky mass. “Fine.”

“So, it’s a bet then?” Hiccup asks as he extends his own hand.

“It’s a bet.”

The two shake hands, Barry’s form solidifying for the moment it takes for their hands to lock and agree.

The waitress appears with the dragon wings on a tiny silver platter. As soon as she places the platter on the table, the platter magically grows to its normal size.

“I thought I told you these were to go,” Hiccup tells the waitress.

“I don’t recall–”

“–And another fickin’ thing, you forgot our pints. Make mine to go as well, and leave the bill with the ink shadow. I’ll join you at the bar. See you tomorrow, Barry.”

With that, Hiccup hops down from his high chair and gets as far away from the ink shadow as he possibly can.

Chapter 2: Spew Gorge’s Knitting Club

Hiccup is in a hurry when he gets back to the guildhall he’s supposed to be protecting. It’s a shitty little place, and he’s lucky his two employers are out leveling up, or possibly in the Jatla Woods somewhere doing some heavy petting.

“Those two fickers.” It’s clear the two, who he calls Marbles and Tammy, are meant for each other, but the Marbles guy is just about the biggest pussy he’s ever seen, and Hiccup has seen a giant pussy, so that’s pretty big. Tammy, on the other hand, seems to have a bit more confidence, but if she’s like any chick Hiccup has ever met, she’ll wait for the guy to make the first move, or at least pay her.

“Maybe Marbles should offer to pay her,” he thinks as he places his to-go items on the table in the center of the room. “Fick, focus, Hiccup!”

He quickly throws back his to-go pint of Horse Piss, and tears into the soggy sack of dragon wings. The wings go down, and as soon as he finishes the last one, he releases ructus from his nether cheeks that shakes the floorboard.

“Fick!” Hiccup checks his britches, and once he’s sure he hasn’t shit himself, or at least hasn’t shit himself that much, Hiccup waddles over to his personal belongings, which he keeps in a large chest by the door.

The goblin finds what he’s looking for in the form of a small, leather bound book. He flips it open to find Spew Gorge’s address on the third page.

Not able to come to grips with the fact that he has started to forget things – damn early onset Goblinheimer’s – Hiccup keeps a journal with the contact details of the people he knows, or better, the people who owe him a favor.

“Same fickin’ address as last time,” Hiccup mumbles to himself as he heads out the door. He thinks about leaving a note about why he’s not guarding the place, but there’s no time, and he has less than twenty-four hours to show Barry the ink shadow the time of his life.

Hiccup turns right, heading towards a residential district known as Venom Spur, named after a particularly famous goblin.

“Get your cat tails here,” a gobliness calls out. She pushes a blue cart with three wooden wheels. Hiccup stops, his nostrils flaring as he takes in the smell of the barbeque cat tails covered in tartar sauce.

“Fick,” he licks his lips. “Nope, no time.”

It takes Hiccup all of twenty minutes to navigate through the crowded, filthy streets of Jatla.

As he enters Venom Spur, garbage lines both sides of the narrow road he has taken, most of it due to striking city workers. Trash collecting goblins are some of the best paid municipal employees in Hyperborea, but they go on strike as often as not.

“Here it is,” Hiccup says he stops in front of a two story Georgian style building.

“Fick!”

Hiccup recognizes Spew Gorge’s voice as the door to the building flies open. A bandit, an orc twice Hiccup’s height, spills out into the street.

Orc Level 4

HP: 340/340

ATK: 28

DEF: 38

MATK: 0

MDF: 35

LUCK: 1

Hiccup equips a tomahawk and a small, dinner plate-sized shield. “I got him, Spewy!” He bashes his tomahawk against the front of his shield.

“Hiccup?” a voice calls out from the open window. “Fick you!”

“Out of the way, goblin,” the orc says, baring his sharp fangs.

“Like fick I’ll get out of the way.” Hiccup slaps his tomahawk against his shield again. “Bring it, you ficker!”

The orc unsheathes a short sword. He places his sack full of loot on the ground, and brings his weapon to the ready.

“Get ready to die, goblin!”

“Son of ficklord.” Hiccup bristles, gains his confidence again, and moves in for an attack.

Better at playing defense, Hiccup brings his shield up to meet the orc’s first swipe. The big bastard brings his blade down hard, the sound of metal on metal ricocheting down an alley.

“Get the fick out of here, Hiccup!” Spew Gorge shouts, now at the window.

Hiccup’s cousin and quite possibly his son – it’s a long story – have been at odds since Spewy hit his rebellious years.

“I’m trying to save your ass!” Hiccup blocks another strike. An opening presents itself; he smashes his tomahawk into the side of the orc’s thigh.

“Arrgh!”

-45 HP!

“Fick yeah!” Hiccup’s celebration is short lived when the orc brings his free fist up and down onto the goblin’s bald head.

-62 HP!

Seeing stars now, Hiccup stumbles backwards. The orc is injured, clear in the way he’s dragging his leg, and his attack goes wide, yet again giving Hiccup an opening.

The cantankerous goblin equips a great axe he won in a game called Natty Dread. His head still spinning, the goblin leaps towards the orc, his great axe overhead.

-156 HP! Critical hit!

The orc’s arm and weapon go flying and the towering bastard falls to the ground, kicking up a cloud of dirt and debris.

Huffing now, Hiccup gives the orc the Robespierre treatment.

Instakill!

Blood squirts from the orc’s neck as his head rolls sideways. Hiccup immediately inventories his weapon and shield, and comes back with a healing potion.

“Fick, that’s the good stuff,” he says as he throws the potion back, wincing as soon as his heartburn sets in.

(.)(.)

Hiccup tosses the potion over his shoulder and burps.

“What, Spewy?”

His cousin glares at him from the window as Hiccup makes his way over to the loot bag.

“Let’s see what you got here, Spewy.”

“Fick you, Hiccup! That’s my shit!”

“I just saved all of your fickin’ junk, and this is how you repay me?” He bends over, cringing at the pain in his lower back as he picks up the bag.

“Get the fick out of that bag!”

“The fick is this?” Hiccup takes a metal wand out and examines it for a moment. He notices it has grooves along its shaft, and it only takes him a moment longer to realize the wand’s hidden ability. “A telescoping wand, huh? Ha! Not unlike a fickin’ chalupa.”

He extends the wand to its full capacity, about half a meter, when an idea comes to him.

“That’s the good stuff,” he says as he uses the wand to scratch his lower back and, inevitably, his ass.

“That’s my fickin’ stuff!” Now outside the apartment, Spewy approaches Hiccup with a small club in hand. “Now drop it!”

“Not so fast, Spewy, and if you so much as lift that club, I’ll put my smallest tomahawk where the sun don’t shine. Here’s your loot.” Hiccup kicks the bag over. “The wand is my payment for fickin’ saving your dandy candy ass.”

“Dandy candy ass? I was fickin’ sleeping when that orc broke into my house and stole all my shit!”

“Pfft! Sleeping is for pussies, Spewy, gob-napping is for goblins. But, semantics. Fick you, Spewy, I’ve got a real problem here, and that problem is soon to become our problem. So, take back the rest of your loot, but the wand is mine.”

Hiccup retracts the wand and sticks it in his pocket. Spew Gorge growls at him for a moment, they hold eye contact, and Spew eventually looks away.

Spew Gorge is smaller than Hiccup, his tunic cleaner, his head full of hair, and his eyes large. Basically, everything his older cousin is not.

“What’s your fickin’ problem anyway?”

“In life or in general?” asks Hiccup.

“Why are you here, dammit!”

“Fick you, Spewy, don’t make me call your mother.” Hiccup licks his lips. “Although I haven’t talked to Irene in a while.”

“Don’t you dare bring her into this!”

“Relax, Spewy, you’re causing a scene.” Hiccup waves his hand at the streets around them. No one really gives a shit that the two goblins are arguing next to the body of a decapitated orc. It is Jatla, after all. “This involves our family. Our extended family, all fifty of our other cousins, uncles, aunts, you get the picture, Spewy.”

“What involves our family?”

“An ink shadow threatened to kill off my entire fickin’ family, which means you too, Spewy,” Hiccup lies.

The smaller goblin’s eyes go wide. “An ink shadow? Fick me, I hate those things.”

“If Tritania ever had diarrhea stains that could walk, talk, and gamble, they’d be known as ink shadows. Wait, we do have those. Fick it, you know what I’m trying to say, and I’m fickin’ in agreement with you there, Spewy, ink shadows are no laughing matter. That’s why I came to warn you.”

Spew Gorge shudders. “Is … is there anything we can do to stop it?”

“Well,” Hiccup bites his lip for a moment, knowing all too well that it will add some tension. “There is one thing.”

“Fick me, Hiccup, what is it? I hate ink shadows!” Spew Gorge starts to bite his nails. “Fick!”

“Relax, Spewy, if we can somehow get a parade together, the ink shadow will leave our lineage alone.”

“A parade?” Spew eyes him suspiciously for a moment.

“Yeah, Spewy, a fickin’ parade. You know, people marching, maybe a float. Fick me, I don’t know. This isn’t rocket science. Ink shadows are big time poofters. You know this, I know this. Don’t know what kind of poofter would come up with wanting to have a parade in exchange for sparing a goblin family, but that’s the cards we were dealt. Not the only thing he wants either. He wants a day at the spa, a nice dinner, and a nice hotel stay. But you don’t have to help me with that.”

Spew Gorge’s eyes shoot sparks. “Wait a fickin’ minute, did you say cards? Did you fickin’ lose a bet with the ink shadow?”

Hiccup takes a step back. “A bet? Fick all that is holy and then some, Spewy, how dare you accuse me of gambling with an ink shadow! Do you, ahem, think I want to lose my chalupa or something?”

Spew Gorge considers this. “It is true, they do love chalupas.”

“Real fickers. So a parade, any ideas? And don’t act like you don’t owe me a favor anyway.” Hiccup retrieves his small, leather bound book. “I’ve written down all the favors people owe me in here. Addresses too.”

“A favor? I don’t owe you shit!”

Hiccup licks his fingers and opens the book, flipping through the pages until he lands on Spewy’s name. He snaps it shut immediately.

“What?”

“My book says you owe me a favor, so consider this that favor.”

“What fickin’ favor?” Spew protests. “You didn’t do fick all for me!”

“You just don’t remember, Spewy, you were drunk. But you know what, that’s all beside the point. We need to get a fickin’ parade together. Any ideas?”

Spew Gorge sighs. “Fine, fick you, but just this once, and only because the ink shadow is after me too.”

(.)(.)

“A meetup? That’s the pooftiest fickin’ thing I’ve heard all day,” Hiccup says as he and Spew navigate the cluttered streets of Jatla’s garment district. The sound of rickshaws, sewing machines, frying meat, and young goblins yelling out fabric specials all play their part in the overwhelming nature of Jatla’s Garment District.

“Meetups aren’t poofty! They’re great places to meet people and make new friends.”

“New friends? Fick me to tears, Spewy, you’re approaching middle age. You don’t need friends, you need a family! And you can’t start a family by hiding your chalupa in a young boy goblin’s starfish. Get me here, kid?”

“Shut the fick up about my personal life, and I’m not into young boys, you fickin’ sicko!” Spewy turns to him, his fists clenched at his sides. “Not everyone wants a family and … you know what, fick you. That’s what!”

“Ha! Fick you too!” a passing goblin says.

“Fick you, buddy!” Hiccup shouts back at him. The goblin gives Hiccup the one finger salute as he disappears into the crowd. “Okay, fine, whatever, Spewy, I’ll quit giving you a hard time. Meetups aren’t for snowflakes, especially if you think we can recruit for the parade here. But why the fick is it in the Garment District?”

“I already told you.”

“Well, tell me again, dammit.”

“Because our meetup group is a knitting meetup group.”

Hiccup rolls his eyes. “You’ve got to be fickin’ kidding me, Spewy.”

“What’s wrong with knitting? Remember that sweater I gave you on the Empress’s birthday celebration twenty years ago?”

“Has it been twenty years?” Hiccup asks, recalling the warm sweater with the Thulean word for “manly” stitched on the back.

“I knitted that.”

“Fick me, Spewy, that was a high-quality sweater!”

“Exactly, now be nice to my friends; otherwise, they won’t help you.”

“If they don’t help me, our entire family dies. Simple as that,” Hiccup lies as the two enter into a cluttered den. “Don’t forget that.”

(.)(.)

Hiccup takes another look at the nine people attending the knitting meetup. Their meeting den is shitty, the walls bare and the ceiling covered in water stains.

“Damn, Spewy, you got yourself some real fickboys here, and what the fick is with the ogre with the rash on his neck? Someone needs to see a dermatologist, am I right?”

“Fick you, Hiccup!” Spewy turns to the older goblin and lifts his fist.

“I can hear you, you know,” the ogre growls, his bottom teeth jutting out of his mouth to the point that they’ve made permanent scars on his upper lip. In his beefy hands are a pair of knitting needles.

“Just let me handle this,” Hiccup stage whispers to Spewy. “Okay, fickers, I’m in charge here. So everyone sit down and shut the fick up. Spewy, get me a fickin’ chair, no, a stool! That’ll be better.”

“Hiccup, I’m no one’s little fickin’ bitch. Now if you want my help, you’d better be nicer to me!”

Hiccup places an arm on Spewy’s shoulder. “Sure, kid, you’re no one’s bitch, keep telling yourself that. Now get me something to sit on before I share embarrassing details of your childhood with your friends here.”

Spew Gorge throws his hands in the air and goes to the back of the small den to find a stool.

“Listen up, everyone!” Hiccup takes yet another look at the gathered knitters and sighs miserably. There’s the ogre with the underbite, two elves, a drow, a knight in shining armor, a female goblin with curly whiskers hanging from her chin, a boyfriend-girlfriend pair of rogues, a warlock with a heavy skull necklace, and a weretiger wearing a leather jacket.

“We’re listening,” says the ogre, who has gone back to knitting a maroon scarf.

“Okay, fickers, your liddle knitting meetup is over. We have some real important shit to do tomorrow, and I have it on good authority that you nine are the best Jatla has to offer.” Hiccup’s stomach grumbles and his ass responds. The female goblin’s nostrils flare as she considers the smell.

“What kind of important shit, goblin?” asks the ogre.

“Listen, Ugly, if you and I are going to fickin’ get along, you’re going to need to understand the proper way to address me. The name is Hiccup, short for Hiccupanaratapana. We clear?”

“My name isn’t Ugly.” The ogre stands, easily twice the size of Hiccup.

Ogre Level 12

HP: 579/579

ATK: 112

DEF: 206

MATK: 0

MDF: 213

LUCK: 4

Hiccup rolls his eyes. “Please, sit your stupid ass down. Trust me, Ugly, you don’t want it with me. I’m fickin’ psycho!” Hiccup equips a mallet and a shield. He slams the mallet against the shield to make his point. “Now sit the fick down before someone gets hurt.”

“We can just log out, you know,” says one of the elves, who has just about the bitchiest voice Hiccup has ever heard.

“And miss the chance to earn fifteen thousand EXP?”

Spewy, at the back of the room and approaching the front with a chair, raises an eyebrow at Hiccup. The older goblin doesn’t even need to blink at Spewy – goblins know better than to break the goblin Code of Ethics.

“Fifteen thousand? Any rupees involved here?” asks the gobliness with her sultry voice and whiskered chin.

“That’s right…”

“Licious, call me Licious.”

“That’s right, Licious. Fifteen thousand EXP and an equivalent number of rupees.”

Spew Gorge places the stool next to Hiccup and the elderly goblin takes a seat, crossing his arms over his chest.

“I’m in!” says the drow. The two elves agree and the others start reluctantly to accept the quest.

Only the weretiger in the leather jacket is suspicious. He eyes Hiccup as he asks, “Why, goblin, have I not received a prompt?”

“For the love of all that is fickin’ holy, why is it so hard to pronounce my name. Hiccup. Hi-cup. You know what, Simba, fick you. That’s what. Spewy, get this fickin’ hairball out of here.”

The weretiger tightens his fists and his claws pop out.

Hiccup laughs. “Go ahead, Simba, make my fickin’ day. Now git. I never liked were-anythings, especially fickin’ tigers. Get the fick out of here!”

The weretiger approaches Hiccup and the goblin remains sitting.

“You and I aren’t finished,” he snarls.

“Like fick we aren’t. For fick’s sake, Spewy, get this poofty tiger banger out of my fickin’ meeting. And what’s with the leather jacket? Auditioning for Grease later? Git!”

“This isn’t your fickin’ meeting, Hiccup!”

“Fick, relax, Spewy. Sheesh. Okay, Simba, cool your kitty nuts. Look, you’re in, but that’s if you can keep your claws, your bad attitude, and your leather jacket to yourself.”

“I don’t need this.” With that, the weretiger exits the room, slamming the door on the way out.

“Fick, glad he’s gone, am I right?” Hiccup asks the eight knitters. No one says anything; the ogre returns to knitting his scarf. “Someone smelled like cat piss, and I’d bet good rupees that it was that guy. Okay, so the plan. Listen everyone, I didn’t want to tell you outright because I knew that some of you would start spreading rumors, but seeing as how that damn weretiger stirred up the animosity in the room, I’ll go ahead and say it: the Empress is coming tomorrow, and I need you fickers to put on a parade.”

The female goblin cackles. “The Empress coming to fickin’ Jatla?”

“What’s so funny about that?”

“Did you say a parade?” the poofter elf asks.

“Fick yeah I said a parade. Look, you guys clearly have social anxiety issues, and I’m not just talking about the rogues and the drow. Even though that is the case, a parade is a great way to show the Empress you support her and...” Hiccup’s eyes dart left and right as he tries to remember what he was about to say.

Spew Gorge steps in. “And a great way to show her that you support her efforts in Polynya and Tritania as a whole.”

“What? Spewy, what the hell are you going on about? And why the fick are we hanging out with a bunch of...” Hiccup suddenly realizes why he is in the spacious den. “That’s right! So, who’s in? Final headcount. All of you?”

The ogre shrugs.

“Good, I’ll see you fickers in the morning then.”

Chapter 3: The Boner Ointment

“I can’t believe they all agreed,” Spew says as soon as they’ve left the Garment District.

Hiccup waves his cousin’s concern away. “All it takes is a little confidence, and a whole lot of lies. You’d be amazed at what you can accomplish if you just turn up the bullshit by a fickin’ hair. And thanks for saving my ass back there. Goblinheimer’s. It ain’t nothing to joke about.”

“How are you going to get them the rupees and the EXP?” Spew Gorge asks as they pass under an archway that leads to Jatla’s Red Lamp District.

Just about anything one could imagine goes down in the Red Lamp District, but that’s not why Hiccup has come here (not that he wouldn’t partake if his younger cousin offered to cover the bill).

“I’m not giving those fickers anything,” Hiccup chortles. “What? You really thought I was going to give that crowd of sewing snowflakes a single rupee?”

“Those are my friends!”

“The goblinita, sure, I’d make friends with her.” Hiccup licks his lips. “But the rest? Talk about some fickin’ losers, especially Simba the weretiger and his leather jacket. Look, Spewy, if you want reliable poof-cakey friends, you should come on over to the guildhall I’m working security for nowadays.”

Spew Gorge stops and places his hands on his waist.

“I’m not turning back to see you with your hands on your waist, Spewy.”

“Hiccup, you’d better make good on your promise. Those are my fickin’ friends!”

Hiccup rolls his eyes as he turns to his cousin. “Fine, Spewy, I’ll be sure to give them all the EXP and rupees I promised.”

“Really?”

“Sure, you have my word. Now let’s get on with it.”

“What’s next on your fickin’ agenda again?”

“Now that I’m one step closer to chalupa retention, next is securing a massage, then some grub, then a room at the Golden Swine.”

“Gee fick, Hiccup, you’re really going all out!”

A tall drow in boy shorts with a cottage cheese ass struts in front of the goblins. Hiccup traces her melty hourglass body with each sultry step she takes.

“Never been with a drow,” he says under his breath to Spewy.

“I don’t support prostitution,” Spew Gorge informs him.

Now it’s Hiccup’s turn to get offended. “You don’t support prostitution? That’s like saying you don’t support ponytail races! How the hell do you think your mom got pregnant without prostitution?”

“Fick you, Hiccup, don’t talk about my mother!”

“Irene is a good gobliness, don’t get me wrong, kid, but courting her is like courting a Thulean princess or some shit.”

Spew’s face goes red. “What the fick are you saying about my mother? How would you know about courting her!?”

“It’s common fickin’ knowledge, Spewy, everyone in the family knows.”

“Fick you, Hiccup. Why do you always have to be so fickin’ confrontational?”

“Fick me? No, fick you, Spewy, if you aren’t going to be helpful, take your dandy candy ass back to your little group of emo knitters and get working on tomorrow’s parade. I don’t have fickin’ time for quitters! And you’re the one who is confrontational!”

“Fine, but you’d better be fickin’ nicer tomorrow.” With that, Spew Gorge spins on his heels and takes off down the street.

Hiccup catches up to the sexy drow with the badunkadunk. “He’s a good kid, really, but he’s misguided,” the goblin says without introducing himself or tell her who he is referring to. “He did save my ass back there though, but that’s the goblin code. If you’re part of a lie, you stay part of that lie. Feel me?”

“Yeah, yeah, mista, whateva you say. Two hundred rupees for a feel, seven hundred for a handie, fourteen hundred for a blow, two thousand five hundred for sex and a blow. Anything else, sweety, just ask me, but no backdoor business.”

Hiccup stops for a moment and looks the drow over. He doesn’t want to admit how broke he is – last he checked he had three hundred rupees, and that’s not counting the ten thousand he lost to Barry the ink shadow. Or did Barry forgive the debt? He can’t remember.

Still, three hundred is enough for something.

“How about a half handie and a feel for three hundred?” Hiccup asks.

The drow goes from flirty to fierce faster than it takes him to squeeze out a fart of terror.

-56 HP!

She slaps the living hell out of him, and once he’s down, she brings her foot back and gives him a hard kick in the chalupa.

“Yooooooooy!”

-231 HP! Critical hit!

“Get the fuck outta here, you cheap ass!”

“Fick me,” he whispers as she storms off. Once he can feel his legs again, Hiccup rolls over to his side, the bottom of his belly now sticking out of his stained tunic. He reaches for a passing goblin and the goblin shrieks.

“Relax,” Hiccup says, slowly gaining his composure. “Fickin’ drow got me in the chalupa.”

The goblin stops and turns to Hiccup. “Ahem, a drow you say? Which drow was it?” he asks, a note of mischief to his voice.

“Fick if I know,” Hiccup says. “She had a fat ass though. Probably not far from here. Yoy!” He rolls all the way and sees the drow sashaying across the street now. “That’s her, pal.”

“Thanks!”

The other goblin quickly crosses the street, talks to the drow for a moment, and together, they dip into a dark alley. It’s a few minutes later when Hiccup hears the goblin cry “Yoy!” from the dark alley.

“What a sick fick,” he mumbles as he gets to his feet.

(.)(.)

Hiccup looks at his little leather book and back at the sign in front of him. “Wild Cherry Oriental Massage,” he reads aloud. His notebook claims that Dougbug’s spa should be named White Cherry, but maybe he wrote it down wrong.

Without further ado, Hiccup kicks open the door to find the next guy that owes him a favor. Dougbug, a goblin with a frizzy Kaepernick fro, rheumy eyes, and cherry red cheeks, looks up from the latest issue of Wet Goblin Holes: Ponytail Edition.

“Hiccup, is that you?” he asks, peering down at the goblin from his perch on a high stool.

“Fick yes it’s me, Dougbug, and I’m here to collect!”

The two share a laugh as Dougbug walks over to him. “You ain’t got nothing to collect, Hiccup!”

“Yeah, you’re right about that,” he says after they shake hands. “But it’s nice to see you, old pal.”

“It sure as fick is. So, what brings you around here?” Dougbug asks. “You hungry?”

“Fick yeah, I’m hungry! I also just got kicked in the gonads not long ago. Got any ice?”

“Can’t help you there, but I do have some fried dragon skin, if you’re interested. This is the good stuff too. Gluten-free, though. I’ve been off the gluten for a few weeks now. Feeling fickin’ great!”

Hiccup nods at his old college roommate. “You look great, for a one hundred fifty-year-old goblin that is. So look, enough about the gluten-free bullshit. No offense, but I’m going to cut right to the chase.”

Dougbug offers him some fried, gluten-free dragon skin and Hiccup greedily starts crunching on it. “By all means.”

“I need a favor.”

“Don’t we all.”

“This one is serious, Dougy. I got a fickin’ ink shadow after my chalupa, and I’ve promised to show him a damn good time.”

The color drains from Dougbug’s cherry cheeks. “An ink shadow? Sorry, Hiccup, you know how I fickin’ feel about those things. Ick!”

“You and me both, buddy, especially when they start taking goblin parts and wearing them as fickin’ jewelry. As you can see, I’m in a bind.”

“And what is it you need from me exactly?”

Hiccup finishes chewing the gluten-free fried dragon skin and swallows hard. “Don’t give me that look, Dougy. Who the fick was there when you got your chalupa caught in a peephole and were too afraid to call anyone else for help?”

“That was twenty years ago! Besides, I loaned you five hundred rupees you never paid back.”

“I donated those rupees to charity. Fick me, have you met Spewy, my cousin, well, possibly my son. Definitely my son.”

“I know he’s your son!”

“Well, he’s a fickin’ charity case if there ever was one, and those rupees went to his private school fees. You’d think they’d actually teach something besides finger painting and Kumbaya My Lord at the Montessori school in the Richman District, but them’s the ropes. And what the fick is up with assigning pictures instead of letter grades? Hey! Don’t hog the fickin’ skins. You offered, I eat.”

Hiccup grabs the bowl of dragon skins from his friend and slams more down his gullet.

“It was a loan, not a charitable donation.”

“You should have written that off for charity. Like I said, charity case.”

Dougbug rolls his eyes. “You know, Hiccup…”

“Don’t you ‘you know’ me, Dougy, I’m in a fickin’ bind here, and seriously, all I’m asking for is a massage.”

“That’s it?” His friend claps his hands together. “Done. I’ll comp you a massage this evening.”

Hiccup shake his head. “Not for me, although who doesn’t like having their chalupa squeezed, for him.”

“Him?”

“Barry the ink shadow!”

“Fick no, Hiccup, no fickin’ ink shadows. Especially not with my gal being the number one masseuse in the place.”

“Sheesh! You have become fickin’ sensitive in your old age. Snowflake alert! Snowflake alert! And you’re dating staff members now? Someone call HR!”

“Pipe down, Hiccup.” Dougbug’s face goes from upset to sly.

“What’s that look you’re giving me?”

“Let’s talk business here, asshole.”

“Let’s.”

“You want a free massage for an ink shadow, and I want something too,” Dougbug says matter-of-factly.

“Wait a minute, I’m the one asking for a favor, not you.”

“My how the tables have turned.” Dougbug points to a crate with a few of the boards pried off its top. “Here’s the deal, Hiccup. You see that crate over there?”

“What the fick is that stuff, Dougy?”

“It’s what you are going to sell for me in thirty minutes when a supplier drops by. It’s an ointment, and you always were good at selling shit, so now is your chance to sell it.”

“What kind of supplier?”

“A gnome.”

“Fick me,” Hiccup groans. “They’re too damn short. I feel like I’m talking to a kid whenever I deal with them.”

Dougbug laughs. “Says the guy who is under a meter tall.”

“I’m fickin’ over a meter, if you can’t tell.”

“You’re wearing boots with big heels.”

“What!? Fick you, Dougy, I realize now why we don’t hang out anymore.”

“As do I. Now, if you can sell this ointment to the supplier so I don’t have to – because really, it has been a long day – I’ll help you out with your little ink shadow problem.”

“Deal,” Hiccup grumbles. “What kind of ointment are talking about here?”

“That’s the problem,” says Dougy as he moves over to the crate. “It has a pretty strange side effect.”

(.)(.)

The gnome enters with the requisite cone hat and a beard that splits into two points at the end. He’s in a mustard colored tunic, a leather vest, and matching leather boots, polished, with shiny gold buckles.

“The name is Nate,” the gnome says, greeting Hiccup with a small, curt nod.

“Nate, Hiccup, and that over there is Dougbug.”

Dougbug stands on the opposite end of the room reading an old copy of Goblin Holes. He looks up at Nate and smiles.

“Fresh meat?” Nate asks, a sinister note in his otherwise high-pitched voice.

“Pfft! I’ll show you fresh meat, pal. Fick! Kidding, sure, I’m the new guy.” Hiccup clears his throat and smooths his hands over the uniform Dougbug asked him to wear, which consists of a tight apron with the words Wild Cherry in cursive across its breast.

“Hi, new guy.”

“Enough small talk, I’m here to show you one thing, and one thing only.”

“I only came for the nuru gel,” Nate says. “And you know that, Dougbug. I do like your forwardness, though.”

Dougbug waves the gnome’s concern away. “Just let him pitch it, Nate, company requirements. If you want it, fine, if not, that’s fine too. You’ll get your nuru gel.”

Hiccup glares at Dougbug.

“Fine,” Nate sighs, “but hurry up.”

“Ahem, you said you needed nuru gel, right?” asks Hiccup, an idea formulating in his goblin brain of adequate size.

“I did.”

“And I’m going to assume that you have some fickin’ chippies, or maybe some drows, hell, could be centaurs for all I know – wait a fickin’ minute, scratch that last one, can’t see how that would work out. Where the fick was I?”

Nate’s bushy eyebrows furrow. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Fick no, I’m not kidding. I really got lost there for a moment. Listen, gnome man, let’s bring it down a notch, so it’s just you and me. Come closer.”

“You smell like dragon wings.”

“I didn’t fart, and no I don’t.” Hiccup takes a step towards the gnome.

“No one said you farted.”

“Well, I did, and I’m not proud of it. I have a fickin’ gastrointestinal problem, something about an imbalance of bacteria in my gut. No fickin’ healthcare to cover it. But that’s beside the point. Nuru gel is used to do some slip and slide on clients’ bodies, correct?”

“That is … a good interpretation of what my masseuses do with the gel,” says Nate, his face now steeped in skepticism.

“Got any old clients?”

“I do.”

“Do they ever have problems getting it up?” Hiccup flicks his finger out to make a point.

“That is a problem for a few of them, yes.”

“Well in that case, I want to show you what this ointment can do then.” Hiccup rolls up his sleeve and places a glove on his hand. “First, I’ll show you what it is designed to do.”

With the gloved hand, Hiccup squirts some of the ointment on his flabby bicep. As soon as he does, his bicep perks up and increases in size, a bulging vein appearing. Once he’s finished, it looks like he’s just hit the gym.

“It makes you instantly grow muscle mass?”

Hiccup flexes his arm, showcasing the closest he’ll ever get to a bodybuilder physique. “Pretty fickin’ stacked, eh?”

“This is of no use to me.”

“Isn’t it?” Hiccup looks from the gnome to the gnome’s junk.

“You can…put it there?”

“Fick yeah, you can put it on your chalupa! I tried earlier and it totally works. Now, I’m 154 years old, so relatively young, but you put this on an old fart’s chalupa and I’m talking instant tent pitching. So, what do you say? Are you going to buy this box, or are you going to let me sell this stuff to the spa across from yours? Would you like to test it first?”

“Is there a rupee back guarantee?”

“There is now,” Hiccup says, shooting Dougbug a shit-eating grin.

Nate slowly nods. “Fine, you got me. Sold. Add it to my bill.”

(.)(.)

“You didn’t tell me you were in the bathroom whacking off,” Dougbug says as soon as Nate leaves with his crate of boner ointment and the nuru gel. Hiccup’s arm has started to deflate, but the bulging vein is still visible.

“Well, you told me to work on my sales pitch, so I went in there to see for myself what the stuff did, one thing led to another, and well, fick, I sold it.”

“You jerked it to your own muscled image?”

“Fick no, I’m no fruit bat! I just happened to touch my chalupa to piss, and boom, it was huge. Dunno how long it’ll last, but that dog will hunt, if you get my drift.”

“Fick me.”

“Fick you is right.” Hiccup rustles around in his pocket for a tube of the ointment. “Took some for myself too. My fick, Dougy, you got to try this shit on your chalupa. Fick, it’s good! I haven’t had that much girth in years! Years. You said you were tagging the help, right? Well throw some of this on next time.”

Dougbug considers this for a moment. “I hadn’t thought of putting it there. Fick! You should have taken a tube for me too.”

Hiccup cracks a grin. “I had a feeling you’d say that.”

The cantankerous goblin fishes around in his front pocket, returns with another tube, and tosses it to his old classmate.

“Thanks, Hiccup!” Dougbug comes in for a hug. “I take back everything bad I’ve ever said about you.”

“That isn’t necessary – what is necessary is that you give the damn octopus fart ink shadow the time of his life tomorrow. First the parade, then a massage.” Hiccup looks up, his eyes filled with light. “After that, a wonderful dinner, and after that, a night at the Golden Swine.”

“The Golden fickin’ Swine? How the hell did you manage that?”

“I haven’t yet. That’s the last stop for this evening. The first stop is my buddy Og Lemon’s restaurant. The parade is covered, the massage, now on to some fine dining.”

Dougbug shakes his head. “You know that damn orclin?”

“Know him? Og and me go way back, and that ficker owes me a goddamn favor!” Hiccup turns to the door. “Tomorrow, Dougy – I’ll be here by the Hour of the Morning Wood.”

“We’ll be ready.”

Chapter 4: Funeral Potatoes and Hot AzzBalls Dragon Wings

It takes Hiccup a good hour and a half to walk his ass from Dougbug’s massage parlor to a restaurant called GobTree. Set in the Richman District, the famous restaurant is between an Aramis Investments management company and a pop up Morla’s Tea shop, in an old house with gorgeous windows.

“All it takes is a little confidence and a whole lot of lies,” Hiccup mumbles to himself as he passes a goblin in a designer tunic. The goblin holds his nose up high when he sees Hiccup, aware of their differences in class. “Yeah, I’m a fickin’ security guard, but I’m also your youngest sister’s part time G-Spot locator, you fickered fickhat.”

“The fick you just say about my sister?” The wealthy goblin turns to Hiccup and starts to roll up his sleeves.

Affluent Goblin Level 30

HP: 2073/2073

ATK: 157

DEF: 78

MATK: 0

MDF: 115

LUCK: 23

“I didn’t say anything, I swear! I think it was that ficker over there.” Hiccup points to a goblin valet parking a small horse and trolley. “You know,” he says as he lifts his hand to the side of his mouth so he can ‘share a secret’ with the wealthy goblin. “Some of these fickers love throwing their voices. I’ve seen them do it all the fickin’ time. Hey! Yeah you, we hear what you’re saying over there?”

The goblin valet points at himself.

“Yeah you, keep your fickin’ mouth shut!”

The valet points at his chest.

“Yes, you, fick me, who else would I be talking to? There’s you, me, and this one percenter here. Only three of us, you stupid fickhole!”

“I don’t have time for this,” the wealthy goblin says.

Once he’s gone, Hiccup struts into the GobTree Restaurant, ignores the maître d’, and pushes into the kitchen to find Og Lemon frying up a batter of dragon wings.

“Boy, did I come at the right time!” Hiccup’s nostrils flare and his mouth waters. He can almost taste the wings, the way they crunch when he tears into their flesh, the satisfying burp and the requisite indigestion to follow.

Og Lemon’s father is an orc, his mother a goblin, which makes Og an orclin. Orclins generally have similar facial features to goblins, but they are much taller, more muscular, and their nails are sharper.

They are damn good cooks too, for some odd reason.

Og offers Hiccup a thin smile. “He’s fine to stay,” he tells the maître d’, who has just rushed through the kitchen door after Hiccup with a troubled look on her face.

“Fick yeah I’m fine to say. Shit, Og, you’re doing well for yourself.”

The chef laughs. “It’s been a good year.”

“You even have a few writeups in various goblin publications. I can tell by your shiny new chef duds that the fickin’ success has gone to your head. Kidding, Og, what the fick is up? How you been, ol’ pal?”

“Ol’ pal, huh?”

Hiccup takes another whiff of the frying dragon wings. “Fick me twice and call me Sally, damn, Og, that shit smells fickin’ delicious.”

“It should. Our wings have been rated the top wings in Jatla two years in a row. In fact, our deconstructed dragon wings, Dragon as Lore, have even been served to the Empress.”

“I’d like to serve her, if you know what I mean.” Hiccup winks at Og as he takes his little leather book from his back pocket. The goblin feels some gas coming on and lets it go. It’s not like anyone is going to smell it with all the spices in this kitchen.

“Did you come back here to insult the Empress or to fart?” Og tells one of his staffers to fry a Chiup hog chop. The assistant chef bows slightly and gets to work.

“Fart? You’ve got the wrong guy, Og, and I must say: you sure are running a fickin’ tight ship around here! Love it. But I’m not interested in working in a kitchen. Can’t lie, Og, I got a pretty kush position right now babysitting a pair of commoner twinkies, a fickboy and his curvaceous wet dream. Beside the point, I know, but I thought I’d share.”

Og’s smile fades even further. “You weren’t being offered a job. In fact, I’m wondering why you came here.”

“Need a favor.” Hiccup licks his fingers and flips through his book. “And yep, according to this, you owe me one.”

“I owe you a favor? What for?”

“Remember that time I helped you get home after a night of Horse Piss and ponytail races?”

“Yeah, and I remember you crashing on my couch, shitting in my kitchen sink, eating all the food in my house, barfing in my rain boots, kicking my Thulean Pomeranian, and leaving a sweat stain on my couch that I was never able to get out. Had to get rid of that damn couch. I loved that damn couch.”

“I plead the fifth to all that, especially the sweating. I’m not a particular sweaty goblin.”

“Plead the what?”

“Never fickin’ mind. Look, Og, aside from all that, I got you home. Who knows how your puckered starfish or your perfectly-shaped mouth would have felt if I didn’t help you get home that night. This is Jatla. Jatla is a shithole. Things that shouldn’t happen – such as waking up in an alley with a crusted over dirty Sanchez or getting an STI in your armpit of all places – happen all the time. They are happening right now, as we shoot the shit. You get my point.”

“No, I don’t,” Og says over the sound of the frying wings.

“I’ll break it down for you: an ink shadow named Barry is after my chalupa, and I’ve promised him a good time tomorrow and dinner at a Michelin star restaurant.”

“GobTree isn’t a Michelin star restaurant. It was in the running this year.”

“You think that ficker will know the difference?” Hiccup offers the chef his best puppy dog eyes. “Please, Og, I need your help. My chalupa and the future ability to get said chalupa wet depends on it.”

Og takes some sauce from the front of his apron and squeezes it into the frying pan. A great ball of fire lifts off the pan, forming a mushroom cloud as it dissipates.

“Holy fick! What was that?”

Og’s smile returns. “Impressive, huh? It’s my new sauce, Hot AzzBalls, named after my girlfriend, Holly AzBallat.”

“First, fickin’ love that name, the former, not the latter. Second, gimme, gimme, gimme!”

“Anyone ever tell you that you were overly demanding?”

“No one has ever told me something I haven’t heard before.” Hiccup pauses. “Think hard about what I just said. Anyway, chop, chop, Og, I walked my ass all the way over here from the Red Lamp District. I’m fickin’ starved.”

“You sure are an ass.” Og finishes frying up the dragon wings. He procures a plate with paper placed on it to soak up all the excess oil. The especially spicy wings go on the plate, and within seconds of reaching Hiccup’s vicinity, the first wing goes in his mouth.

His eyes water immediately. “Holy fick!” Hiccup burps and produces a ball of fire which nearly scorches the nearby assistant chef.

“Fick!” the goblin chef screams.

“Fick!” Hiccup replies, another ball of flames coming from his lips. “Water! Fick me!” Every word that comes out of his mouth is accented by flames.

Og is by his side moments later, laughing his ass off.

“What the fick did you do to me!?” Hiccup asks as he gulps down water, his throat on fire.

“Hot AzzBalls, am I right?”

“Fick you, Og!” Hiccup lifts his fist to punch the orclin, but decides otherwise when he sees the giant butcher knife in Og’s hand.

“Cool it, Hiccup,” Og says, “and let’s talk about this little favor I owe you.”

“That’s right, you owe me a fickin’ favor,” he says as he wipes his lips. “And I probably should put down that you owe me two after feeding me that damn wing.” The angry look on Hiccup’s face changes and his eyes light up. “Actually, that ain’t half bad. Wow, Og! I mean, the fire is bad, but fick, it leaves a damn good taste in your mouth!”

“Ha! Glad you liked it, it’s part of my goal of deconstructing a dragon wing, this time through the medium of a spicy hot wing. You want to talk about rare, this little bottle…”

Og places his knife on the stainless-steel countertop. He digs in his apron for the hot sauce, which he has placed in the bottle of an empty Apollos Cherry healing potion.

“That’s the stuff, huh?”

“It sure is. Let’s just say this little bottle contains ingredients one can only get on Unigaea, and Unigaea is an extinct world, you get what I’m saying here.”

“Smuggled in the buttocks of a fickin’ ImmiNPC most likely.”

“Who knows?” Og asks as he sets the bottle on the countertop. “All I know is that ingesting it allows someone to temporarily breathe fire. So my idea is this: serve customers a single Hot AzzBalls dragon wing along with a raw, 12-ounce land dragon steak. They eat the wing, and with their fiery breath, they cook the steak. It’ll be brilliant.”

Hiccup nods, impressed and secretly wishing he could have another wing. “Okay, so favors…”

“Yes, favors, indeed. I’ll scratch your back if you scratch mine. I need a rare ingredient. You get that rare ingredient, and I’ll make your ink shadow a meal he’ll never forget.”

“What ingredient is that?”

“It shouldn’t be too hard to find. You familiar with the Bodyville Cemetery?”

Hiccup shudders as soon as the thought of a haunted graveyard comes to him. He clears his throat. “Got a cousin buried there.”

“In about twenty minutes, funeral potatoes will sprout from the ground. These only come out once a month, and I’m too busy cooking today to go and collect some.”

“But it is getting dark outside,” Hiccup says.

“Are you scared?”

“Fick no. I’m nobody’s little fruitcake!”

“Good, funeral potatoes only come out at night, at dusk to be exact. So that’s what I need. Bring me back a sack, and the meal is yours.”

(.)(.)

“Fickery,” Hiccup laments as he leaves GobTree through the back entrance and heads north. “All I’m ever dealt in life is fickery.”

Pissed that he is simply trying to collect on favors owed to him yet everyone keeps turning the tables and somehow getting him to do a favor for them, Hiccup angrily kicks a bag of trash. The bag spills open; a rat the size of a well-fed raccoon runs out of the shadows to see what Hiccup has uncovered.

The cantankerous goblin watches for a moment as the rat goes to town.

“Fick you too,” he says after the rat hisses at him.

Hiccup hates the Bodyville Cemetery.

It’s eerie, dirty, and if there is any place in Jatla that would be a breeding ground for ghosts, ghouls, and goth fickers, it would be the cemetery. Even odder is its location, set between the Richman District and the Goblin Riviera. One would expect a cemetery to be on the outskirts of a city, not in its more wealthy and influential district.

Hiccup knows all too well his ass will never be buried at Bodyville, so there’s definitely some jealousy involved in his distaste for the cemetery. Plots start at 600,000 rupees for a single plot in a less desirable part of the cemetery. If you want something elaborate, and Hiccup obviously wants something elaborate, the bill can run upwards of two million rupees.

“Let’s get this over with.”

A burlap sack flung over his shoulder, Hiccup waddles up the winding lane that leads to the cemetery’s entrance. Big goblin oaks have been planted outside the cemetery, their leafless limbs reaching towards the entryway, giving the crotchety goblin the heebie jeebies.

“Who’s there?”

Hiccup spins around, takes a deep breath, and is just about to enter the cemetery when he’s struck from behind.

“Yooooy!”

He rolls forward and slams into the Bodyville sign. His big ears perk up when he hears the snarl of a tiger. Hiccup gets to his feet, his toe knife in hand, and turns to find the weretiger in the leather jacket standing with claws at the ready.

“I had a feeling we’d fickin’ meet again,” Hiccup growls.

“You embarrassed me at the knitting meetup.”

“Yeah?” Hiccup takes a healing potion, his second to last one, from his list and throws a little back. He feels a burp coming on and lets it out, a small fireball shooting from his lips.

“Fick!”

The weretiger jumps back just in time; the fireball hits the ground and ignites a patch of grass.

“So that’s how it’s going to be, huh?”

The weretiger’s stats come up and Hiccup gulps bigly.

Weretiger Level 15

HP: 654/654

ATK: 132

DEF: 86

MATK: 10

MDF: 65

LUCK: 4

Hiccup’s eyes start to water as the weretiger approaches.

“What are you … planning to do?” he asks as he chokes back a sob.

“I’m planning to make you regret that you ever spoke to me in the first place.”

The weretiger lifts a clawed hand and Hiccup springs into action, his action being one of complete capitulation.

“Please, Mr. Simba, please don’t fickin’ kill me!” He throws himself at the weretiger’s feet and sobs loudly as he pleads with him. “I was trying to save my family! Fick! My family is at risk here, please, please find it in your little kitty heart to PLEASE let me go.”

“Hey!” The weretiger tries to take a step back but Hiccup only latches on even harder to his feet.

“Please, spare my life, for my family, my fickin’ family!”

“Relax.” Even though nobody is around, the weretiger glances left and right, clearly embarrassed for Hiccup. “What’s this about your family?”

He drops his paw onto Hiccup’s shoulder and helps the sniveling goblin up.

“It’s racism, I tells ya, plain and simple. A hate crime, apartheid. Yeah, goblin apartheid. I’ll be fickin’ honest with you, as honest as I’ve ever been with someone of the feline persuasion.” Hiccup sniffs. “I lied back there at the meetup. This isn’t about a parade for the Empress, it’s really for a fickin’ ink shadow that has threatened to kill my entire family, fickin’ Spewy too – and he’s so young!”

“Spew Gorge, too? Why does he want to kill your family?”

“This ink shadow, goes by the name of Barry, got caught in a lie. Plain and simple. It’s a long story that involves, um, a threesome with this ficked up goblin named Dougbug and an orclin named Og. Yeah, that’s it. The ink shadow, well let’s just say he was the pig in a spit roast, Dougbug in front, Og in back. Some real dirty shit. Well, I just so happened to walk in on this ficked up little scene. I promised Barry I wouldn’t tell, but he said he’d kill my whole family anyway. Can you believe that!?”

“And what does this have to do with a parade?”

Hiccup wipes a fake tear away. “Fick me, Simba, I’m getting to that!”

“My name is Todd.”

Hiccup eyes him for a minute. “Wasn’t that the name of the knight in shining armor at the meetup?”

“It was.”

“Okay, then he’s Toad, you’re Simba, easier that way. Now back to the parade. You’ll never believe this, but I swear on the Empress’s mound of eternal fertility and her womb of graciousness that it’s true. The ink shadow fickin’ told me that if I threw a parade for him, he’d let me off the hook. Can you fickin’ believe that? I mean, I’m a rich goblin here, and I can pay him anything he wants, but the ficker wants a fruity puff parade. Talk about vanity!”

“Then I will help you with your parade!” The weretiger points his finger in the air.

“Easy, Simba, let’s not get too excited here,” Hiccup says, looking around as if they are standing in a busy cafe filled with hipsters all of whom are judging them.

The weretiger pumps his fist. “I will always take quests in the name of justice!”

Hiccup considers this for a moment as he looks the weretiger over. The beast man’s angry visage is long gone, replaced by the face of stupid altruism. An idea comes and Hiccup runs with it. “Well, that’s fickin’ good to know,” he finally says, “because there’s another part of this little dilemma.”

“What’s that?”

“I need some funeral potatoes, that’s why I’m here at Bodyville, actually. I fickin’ hate ghosts. Hell, the mention of anything paranormal will have me with wet britches faster than you can say ‘orc tits,’ believe you me.”

“And you need my help to get them?” the weretiger asks, a hint of suspicion now in his voice.

“That’s the other thing the ink shadow wanted – he wanted a five-star dinner, so I went to the restaurant that belongs to a friend of mine and he said he’d do it, if I brought him a sack of potatoes.” Hiccup shows the weretiger the sack.

“He’s your friend and he wouldn’t help you out?”

“Fick no, Simba. Just in case you don’t have a map, it’s Jatla, nobody helps nobody out if they can help it.”

“I see, then I will get the funeral potatoes for you!”

“Shit, you’ll need this shovel too.” Hiccup equips a hand shovel with a black metal tip.

The weretiger takes the bag and the shovel. “You said you were scared of ghosts, correct?”

“Correct as fick, my man. Phasmophobia runs in my family, a family I would like to keep, I might add!”

The weretiger nods stoically. “Then stay here and rest. I’ll have these funeral potatoes for you as soon as I can!”

“Before you go, I have just one more request...”

Chapter 5: Fright Knight at the Golden Swine

Hiccup laughs again. “Fick me, you should have seen that weretiger digging for funeral potatoes!” he tells Og Lemon the chef. “Well, I couldn’t see him exactly, but I could hear him, and while I’m sitting there enjoying a healing potion I suckered out of him, that ficker is getting filthy as a Chiup hog breeder. Ha!”

Og laughs as he shakes his head. The founder of the world famous GobTree restaurant is still in his chef’s apron, the front of which is splashed with red and orange stains.

Hiccup spots Og’s bottle of Hot AzzBalls sauce on the countertop and licks his lips.

“Anyway, I got the funeral potatoes, and the ficker agreed to take part in the parade tomorrow. Fick me, right? Best con I ever pulled,” the shady goblin says as he slowly moves towards the bottle of powerful hot sauce. “Say, what’s that you’re cooking over there?”

He nods to the oven and a tray of meat on a grill inside.

“That’s right!” Og says, a grin stretching across his face. He’s handsome for an orclin, especially when he smiles. When he gets angry, however, his more orcly features come out, such as his slight underbite and a series of stress lines on his forehead. “Seriously, Hiccup, you’ve got to try this before you leave.”

Og places his oven glove on, and as he takes the roast out of the oven, Hiccup pivots in front of the bottle of hot sauce.

“Don’t mind if I do,” he whispers. The crooked goblin places his hands behind his back, grabs the hot sauce, and tucks it deep into his back pocket.

“What’s that?” he asks Og.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Oh, must be hearing things. Damn auditory hallucinations, seems to come with the territory of getting older. But never mind me, son of a ficklord, Og, that smells great!”

Og slices some of the roast and places it on a plate for Hiccup. The goblin sucks it down, and wipes his big lips on the bottom of his tunic. “Well, that was ficktacular, Og, not gonna lie there. Oh, look at the time.” He glances down at a watch he isn’t wearing. “I need to get to the Golden Swine, before it gets too late. One more favor to collect on!”

“I’ll see you out.”

“No need, I know you’re busy, Og!” he says, back-stepping to the exit. “I’ll just fickin’ make my way out here. See you tomorrow.”

(.)(.)

Hiccup disappears into the thinning crowd walking along the lane that separates the Goblin Riviera from the Richman District. He sees the Bodyville Cemetery and can’t help but laugh. “What a ficker,” he mumbles, thinking of Simba the weretiger.

Once he’s about a quarter mile away from Og’s restaurant, Hiccup opens the bottle of Hot AzzBalls spicy sauce and sniffs it. “Whew!” He licks his lips and sniffs it again. “Not fickin’ bad.”

He sees the Golden Swine up the street.

The hotel was designed to look like a pig on a spit, the mouth of which is the entrance. It is golden, hence the name, and from what Hiccup has heard, it has about seventy rooms, most of which are booked on any given night due to the hotel’s notorious exclusivity, and its view of the only nice beach on the Goblin Riviera.

Hiccup wipes his hands on the front of his tunic, and walks up the carpeted red stairs that lead to the entrance. An orc in a tux steps in front of him, preventing his passage.

“Move it, pal, I’ve got business in this hotel,” Hiccup says.

“What’s your room number?”

“Probably the same one your mom and your sister are staying in. Look, Toothy, keep up the fickery and I’ll tell Curtis E. Flush that you were giving me shit.”

The orc straightens up. “You know Mr. Flush?”

“Fick yes I know Mr. Flush, as you call him. We go way back, way way back.”

“I will need to confirm this.”

“Then fickin’ confirm it, I don’t have all night. I got real problems over here. Tell him it’s Hiccup. He’ll fickin’ know who I am, dammit.”

The orc enters the lobby of the Golden Swine and returns a couple of minutes later, a mollified look on his face. “Please follow me, Mr. Hiccup.”

“That’s more like it,” he says as he enters the lobby. The goblin glances up at the bifurcated stairs in the center of the room, at the apex of which is a beautifully painted portrait of the Goblin Riviera. “I forget how fickin’ pretty this place is. Gotta love that ambiance. I should call in favors more often.”

“Please, this way.” The orc leads Hiccup past the check-in desk to an office with a thick door made of imported Astrilan wood. The orc knocks once, and is told to enter.

“There he fickin’ is,” says the goblin behind the desk as soon as he lays eyes on Hiccup. He’s a fit goblin in a cowboy hat made of leather, his muscular features visible under his matching leather vest over a pressed blue shirt. There’s a sheen to his face, likely because of work he’s had done, and his ears have been shortened so their tips are no longer pointed.

“Curtis!”

A cigar hanging out of the side of his mouth, Curtis comes around the desk and shakes Hiccup’s hand. He lets the orc know with a nod that he can let himself out.

“Fick your orc guards, by the way.”

Curtis chuckles. “I can’t say I disagree with you there, Hiccup, but they get the job done, and they’re big and mean, just like I like them. So, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

Hiccup takes a deep breath, thinks about lying, and decides to tell the truth for once.

“Fick me, I hate ink shadows,” Curtis says after Hiccup has finished telling him his sob story.

“Anyfickin’ hoo, that’s why I’m here, I need to collect on a favor.”

Curt takes another puff off his cigar. “Okay then, remind me again what favor I owe you.”

Hiccup takes out his little leather book, licks his finger, and flips through it.

“All those are favors owed to you?”

“Sure fickin’ are. Ah, here it is. The time I didn’t ask out your daughter, even though she clearly had it out for me. Fick, that took a lot of guts on my part, Curtis, especially when she started ovulating.”

“So, you’re saying I owe you a favor for not asking my daughter out?”

“Exactly. It took a lot of willpower.”

Curtis nods. “Yeah, I’ll have to agree on that willpower part, Ms. Gingerbread Flush has always been a looker. Why, if she wasn’t my daughter … Just joking. I’m not going to make that joke because it is crass, and I’m not a creepy ficker. What I will say is that she has a nice ass, as do all members of the Flush family, yours truly included.” Curtis spins to show Hiccup his rear.

Hiccup considers the goblin’s ass for a moment. “It’s a good ass, firm, and perfect for sitting.”

“That’s what I’m always fickin’ saying,” Curtis smiles. “Now as for that favor, you’re right, I do owe you, because I can’t have riffraff such as yourself dating my daughter.”

“Hey!”

“Take no offense, old pal. If you’re riffraff, I’m fickin’ gutter trash. Two peas in a pod if you get my drift. But let’s get down to brass tacks: you want to treat that ink shadow to a night at the Golden Swine, correct?”

“You get me, Curtis, you fickin’ get me. I seriously don’t want to lose my chalupa.”

“You know I get you, old pal, so here’s what I need from you, you know, as a friendly gesture and whatnot.”

Hiccup clenches his fists together. “I thought I was the one who was calling in a fickin’ favor.”

“You are,” Curtis says, biting his cigar. “Trust me there, but fick me I’m swamped at the moment, and I don’t have time to do this itty-bitty task. It’ll only take a minute, no sweat off anyone’s backs.”

“Swamped? Fick, Curtis, you’re smoking a cigar in your office! And I don’t have a sweaty back.”

“I’m trying to quit, dammit, Hiccup.” Curtis places the cigar in an ashtray. “Now, relax, it’s been a long day.”

“A long day? Pfft! Do you realize the fickery I’ve been through today?”

“You told me, and I believe you: putting together a parade, a massage, and a dinner is hard work. So, I wanted to keep it simple for you, and that’s why I thought you could stop at the apothecary on the way back to your quarters.”

“You don’t even know where my quarters are!”

“The Guildhall District, right?” Curtis opens a binder on his desk and stops on a page with Hiccup’s name on it. “I believe you’ve taken a position with a new guild as their security guard.”

“Gee fick, Curtis, you keeping tabs on me?”

“I keep tabs on everyone in town, part of my business.”

“Like fick it is.”

Curtis nods. “I’m glad we agree. Now, I need you to pick up some nightmare powder from a guy named J.J. Pickle.”

“What kind of poofty ass fruit flake name is J.J. fickin’ Pickle?”

“It’s just J.J. Pickle, and seriously, Hiccup, I’m your old pal, right? This will be a simple task, five minutes tops.”

“If you fickin’ say so.” Hiccup throws his beefy hands in the air. “But I’m getting tired, and when I get tired, I fickin’ let people know about it. What am I picking up, anyway?”

“As I said, it’s called nightmare powder.”

“Yoy! That sounds scary.”

Curtis picks up his cigar again and places it in his mouth. “It is scary, and I don’t support what my heirs are doing, but I do support the income it brings in.”

“What the fick are you talking about?”

“They started it two years ago, it’s called Fright Knight, and it takes place over a long weekend here at the Golden Swine. Also, knight as in knight, not night as in night. I guess that doesn’t make sense said out loud. It is spelled knight with a ‘K.’”

“Never trusted that spelling, and in any event, I met one of those knights with a K today, at a knitting club. A real fickhat.”

“Fick knights.” Curtis grins, cigar between his teeth again. “So anyfick, during Fright Knight, we hire a ghoul to haunt the hallways of the Golden Swine. We sprinkle nightmare powder on our guests’ pillows to turn up the scare level.”

“The scare level? Who the fick thought of this?”

“Gingerbread and her husband, Jared. Like I said, it has proven to be quite popular. Who knew people would pay to get scared? Fick me, people are stupid.”

“Gingerbread’s husband’s name is Jared?”

“Yep, trust fund goblin from Bluwid,” Curtis says as he leans back in his chair and places his hands behind his head.

“Sounds like the name for a pussy. But anyway, fine, Curtis, I’ll get your goddamn nightmare powder, but that’s it, and this better not result in me getting my ass kicked.”

Curtis E. Flush laughs. “Ass kicked? Who said anything about you getting your ass kicked? It’s just a simple pickup. Grab the powder on your way home, and bring it to me tomorrow when your guest checks in.”

(.)(.)

It turns out that Hiccup’s hotel magnate friend Curtis was right that it would be a relatively easy pickup. What he didn’t tell the cantankerous goblin was how annoying J.J. Pickle the pharmacist would be, a gnome with a lisp that checked two big boxes for things Hiccup couldn’t stand. Three if you counted his size, and four if you counted the fact that the gnome was an immiNPC.

“It’th the beth nightmare powder in Jatla, nay, Hyperborea! Juth take a little of thith and you’ll be on your way to nightmareth, nightmareth, nightmareth! Yay nightmareth! I make the powder from frethth ink thadow tearth and a family recipe path down from generation to generation. Thee, I’m come from Unigaea, like moth gnometh in Tritania.”

“I don’t give a fick where you’re from, and unless you want me to start randomly murdering your customers, you’ll hurry up with my fickin’ prescription. It’s late! Nearly past the hour of the Faun. That means it’s my bedtime, and boy fick, Pickle, do I have a big day ahead of me tomorrow.”

J.J. Pickle, who stands on a stool behind a counter, glares down at Hiccup. The gnome wears a black cone hat and a matching tunic with the name Pickle embroidered in gold letters across one side of his chest. His hands work meticulously behind the counter, measuring ingredients, chopping various items, and bagging everything up as he makes the nightmare powder.

“Thereth a lot of goblinth in Jatla, but I haven’t met many ath rude ath you, mithter.”

“And you’ve been in Jatla how long?”

“Two yearth.”

“Look, Pickle, in case no one told you, Jatla is a shithole. Hell, even the one percenter district pales in comparison to a city like Aramis, or – fick me for even saying this but it is fickin’ true – Kayi. Point is, if you haven’t met a goblin as rude as me, you haven’t been out much.”

“Too buthy here to go out! Buthineth ith really good.”

“Yeah, I fickin’ get it, nine-to-five keeping you down. You and me both, buddy. I mean, my nine-to-five is relatively easy, and the manchild running my guildhall is either ball-less, or his balls are so far up in his gut they’re tickling his tonsils. You get the picture. Fick, I make my own schedule.” Hiccup’s eyes glaze over as he stares up at the gnome. “Where in the fick am I?”

“I thee,” Pickle says as he finishes packing up Hiccup’s powder.

“See fickin’ what?”

“Here’s Curtith’ order. Now, about you, I thee that you are having thomthing like Early Onthet Goblinheimerth. I have a friend in Waringtla, a giant named Lothar, who now runth a bakery that doubleth ath a great library of forbidden texth, which he callth the Occult Bakery and Athenaeum. If you’re interested, I may be able to reach out to him to thee if there ith a Unigaean way to cure your illneth.”

“Not necessary, besideth – sheesh, you got me doing it too! – I fickin’ hate giants. Too big.” The wizard behind Hiccup coughs to remind him he’s waiting to place his order.

“Keep your fickin’ witch hat on,” Hiccup barks, “or I’ll shove it up your ass.”

“Pleathe!” Pickle narrows his eyes at the goblin. “Do not thpeak to my cuthomerth that way!”

“Fick everyone in Tritania who isn’t me.”

Hiccup swipes the bag off the counter and hits the exit.

(.)(.)

Hiccup slows down once he’s a few blocks away, his lower back and thighs hurting from so much walking. His guildhall isn’t far, just a couple of blocks. As he waddles in that direction, he prays that there will be nothing to deal with when he arrives home.

Smoke has settled over the Guildhall District; the air is crisp with the scent of coal smoke.

“I didn’t get my gobnap in,” he reminds anyone who will listen, which is no one. And when he sees a muscular ogre turn the corner with a menacing look on his face, Hiccup shoulders past, ignoring the fact that the ogre is clearly looking for a fight.

“Ogres are always looking for fickin’ fights,” he mumbles as he reaches the door to his guildhall. Not feeling like lifting his hands, Hiccup kicks the door open, and steps inside to find Tamana sitting at the table, cleaning her ironing board of a sword.

Tamana Nakamura Level 2 White Warrior

HP: 85/138

MANA: 68/79

ATK: 52

DEF: 19

MATK: 12

MDF: 38

LUCK: 3

“Easy on the door, please.”

Tamana is in noob armor, her long white hair pulled back into a sexy tight ponytail. She sits on a chair with her legs open – yes, Hiccup checks twice to see if he can get a peek, he can’t – her buster sword between her thighs, the bottom stabbed into a floorboard.

“Where’s Marbles, Tammy?”

“Ryuk logged out for the night.”

“And here you are, polishing your sword, eh?”

“That’s exactly what I’m doing. I am still getting used to its weight. Ryuk and I are supposed to go after some mountain trolls tomorrow, a small quest, but hopefully we’ll get some EXP.”

“I’ll tell you what would give Marbles some EXP, as you call it.”

“What?”

“Never mind,” he snorts.

“What, Hiccup?”

“Tammy, as much as I’d like to watch you polish that big-ass sword, I’ve got to get my handsome tush to bed. If there was one word that described my day, it would be fickery. Too much fickery.”

“Fickery?”

Hiccup drops onto his dirty chaise and kicks his boots up.

Tamana, who has a strict rule of taking off one’s boots before entering, twitches when she sees Hiccup placing his soiled boots at the end of the chaise. He reaches down for a copy of the Polynian Times, and places the rolled scrollazine on his belly.

“Fickery,” he says again, ignoring Tamana for the time being. Normally, he’d watch the sexy white warrior polish a sword for days, but he’s pooped, and he’s done more since meeting Barry the ink shadow in the morning than he’s done in a week. A lot of walking, too.

“You were out all day?” Tamana asks.

“Yes, is there a problem with that, Tammy?”

“Well, you are the security guard here, at our guildhall.”

Hiccup turns to Tamana, his reading glasses now across the bridge of his nose. “Do you two fickers have any enemies yet?”

“No.”

“Frenemies?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“And do you have any rupees?”

“Not many.”

“Do you have anything valuable in this guildhall?” Hiccup looks around, from the map pinned to the wall to the table. About the only thing worth anything here are the drapes, which are made of Thulean silk.

“Not yet.”

“Then what needs guarding? Look, Tammy, I like you, but if you didn’t know, I’m a busy fickin’ man these days.”

“Doing what?”

“Charity work,” Hiccup lies.

Tamana laughs.

“Hey! I’m being serious here. First, I volunteered at an old people’s home for ink shadows. Those poor fickers. They get old and their nonexistent bone structures only makes things worse for them. After that, I helped my cousin, Spewy, who is in a bind.”

“A bind?”

“He’s more interested in male starfish than he is female chalupas, if you get my drift. There’s a conversion therapy camp in western Hyperborea, in Tlapa, run by some dirty Christian fickers from your world trying to turn Tritania to Jesus. Or is it God? Fick me, I can’t keep up any longer. Anyways, the proselytizers got a conversion camp, and I’d like Spewy to go.”

“You’re serious?”

“Not really, I don’t give a fick if he likes starfish or female chalupas. I just want him out of Jatla because he’s annoying, does things like joins a knitting club, then his mother, Irene – my ex, long story – hits me up and asks me all sorts of questions, wants me to check on him, yada yada yada. Fick, Tammy,” Hiccup yawns, “any more questions?”

“So a retirement home and then your cousin. Busy day.”

“And then I taught this guy named Dougbug how to give a proper happy ending, and this ficker named Og how to make an omelet. Also, somehow, through my good fortune I was able to collect a telescoping wand, a tube of boner ointment, a bottle of Hot AzzBalls, and something called nightmare powder. What the fick else do you want from me, Tammy?”

A genuine grin spreads across the white warrior’s face. Hiccup is almost placated by the grin, almost.

“Well?” he finally asks.

“You are quite the character.”

“That I am, that I am. Now, keep quiet with all your polishing. Fake news won’t fickin’ read itself.” Hiccup ruffles the Polynian Times as he opens to the personal ads.

Chapter 6: A Typical Jatla Parade

“Who the fick is it!?” Hiccup farts himself out of bed and is up on his feet in a matter of moments, his ax in his hand. He was having a dream about getting a very steamy massage from a trio of Tamanas until someone decided to wake him at the Hour of the Morning Pig.

Another loud knock and Hiccup is seething with anger.

“It’s me,” Spewy calls through the door. “Wake your ass up!”

“Fick me, Spewy, why the hell are you here so early?”

Hiccup opens the door and lets his younger cousin/secret son in.

“Take a seat wherever you’d like, just not the chaise. That’s my fickin’ seat.”

“Do you have any food?”

“Fick no, I don’t, Spewy,” Hiccup says as he rubs the sleep out of his eyes. “I thought you’d bring something.” He yawns. “Why are you here so early again?”

“The parade. We’re ready.”

“Shit, that’s right! Now that fickstain ink shadow just needs to show up.”

“You called?” Barry rises from the floor and both goblins scream like sissies. They leap into each other’s arms, hold tight, and then Hiccup pushes Spew Gorge away.

“Fick,” he says, his blood boiling now. “Barry, you could have fickin’ knocked! My fick, don’t ink shadows have any manners?”

“I did knock.”

“I thought that was Spewy!” Hiccup turns to his cousin.

“I thought it was a giant rat that lives under your guildhall.”

“If there was a giant rat living under my guildhall, we’d be eating breakfast, Spewy!”

The ink shadow laughs. “Two goblins, two penises of varying size.”

Spewy shrieks and just about jumps into Hiccup's arms.

“Easy, Spewy, I told you these fickers were bad news. And for the record, Barry, we all know my chalupa is the largest here, so let’s not embarrass Spewy.”

“Hey!”

The ink shadow laughs again. “If you are measuring size by girth, then yes, I agree.”

“You’ve got yourself a chode!” Spewy cackles. “That’s the funniest thing I’ve heard all day!”

“Fick you, Spewy!”

The two goblins hold each other's gaze for a moment. Spew Gorge is the first to look away.

“Let’s get to the parade,” Hiccup tells Barry. “Sure, I’m tired as fick, but this is your day.”

“So it begins!”

The ink shadow’s face is suddenly visible under his paranormal flesh. He’s a thin man with a happy smile. A bit toothy. Much to Hiccup’s surprise, he seems genuinely excited to see the parade.

“And keep a low profile,” Hiccup tells the ink shadow, “at least until we get to the parade. Goblins hate shadows.”

“I’m well aware, that’s why I have this handy disguise.”

The ink shadow places a hat and a mustache on the space where his head should theoretically be.

“You’re fickin’ with me.”

Spew Gorge laughs nervously.

“What? It worked on the way over here. Goblins are stupid.”

While Hiccup would normally take offence to this type of racism, he’d much rather get the day over with.

“Let’s go then, fickers.”

Spew Gorge in his fresh purple tunic, Hiccup in the duds he wore yesterday and his belly hanging over his belt, the ink shadow in a very unconvincing mustache and hat – it isn’t a stretch to say that the three stand out like sore thumbs in Jatla, but not as much as one would think.

Jatla is, after all, a shithole, and people in shitholes tend not to judge others that share their shitholes with them.

So, if a few of the goblins, trolls, commoners, drows, NPCs, RPCs, poo fairies, rogues, scoundrels, warlocks, sexy witches, ballistic mages, ugly orcs, and the occasional faun are at all shocked to see two goblins and an ink shadow making their way down the street, they don’t show it.

Aside from a catcall – which was either aimed at Spew Gorge or the ink shadow, Hiccup couldn’t tell – the walk from the Guild District to the start of the Garment District is relatively pain-free.

It’s when Hiccup’s big ears hear men and women chanting that a smile creeps across his face, a smile indicating everything is going to plan.

“The avs go marching one by one, hurrah, hurrah, the avs go marching one by one, hurrah, hurrah!”

“Avs?” Barry yells over the chanting.

“Short for avatars,” Spew Gorge says. “I came up with that!”

About fifteen marchers approach, the first two holding a banner with the Empress’s name written in yellow Thulean.

Hiccup can’t help but laugh at the losers from the knitting meetup, but at the same time, he appreciates their effort. A real catch twenty-two, to scorn and mock or to appreciate and champion.

“The avs go marching one by one, hurrah, hurrah, the avs go marching one by one, hurrah, hurrah!”

Toad, the knight in shining armor, has painted his armor to make himself look like the sun. The goblinette, Licious, is wearing a pair of very unflattering boy shorts as she twirls a baton, which upon closer examination, looks to be a human femur.

The two emo rogues have sashes across their bodies made of yellow yarn. The ogre, Ugly, still has his rash, but at least he’s tried to clean up. Besides, most of his body is blocked by the bass drum hooked over his chest.

“Fick me,” Hiccup says when he notices the drow and the two elves, who have taken parade to mean ‘wear lingerie in public.’ And sure, he’d love to take a gander, but now is not the time and place, and besides, why do elves and drows always need to show off the fact that they are tall and lean?

“Reverse fat-shaming, am I right?” he says to Spew.

“What are you going on about? Check out the parade my friends have put on! It’s great!”

Barry, Hiccup and Spew step to the side of the street as the parade passes. The warlock with the heavy skull necklace now rocks three skulls, each of which are painted yellow, a clear thematic element of the parade.

Hiccup glances nervously to the ink shadow, not sure if he’s buying it.

“It’s wonderful!” The ink shadow claps as the weretiger approaches. “I love it!”

Hiccup gives Simba the weretiger, who is still in his Thriller-esque leather jacket, the okay sign. The weretiger, who is playing a pair of cymbals, ignores Hiccup as he drops into a battle position, pulls one of the cymbals back, and hurls it at the ink shadow.

“Everyone attack!”

(.)(.)

“Fick! Simba, no, you fickin’ dumbass!” Hiccup shouts as the parade turns against Barry, each knitter equipping a weapon.

“What the bloody fick are they doing?” Spew Gorge shrieks.

“You’re not going to kill Hiccup’s family! Not on my watch!” Simba the weretiger bellows.

The ink shadow dodges another marching cymbal. “Kill his family? I wasn’t planning to...”

“Fick you, Simba!” Hiccup brandishes a small shield and a short ax.

Simba looks from Barry to Hiccup, utter confusion writ large on his tigrine face.

The cantankerous goblin smacks the front of his shield with his ax. “They’re trying to assassinate us. Let’s kick their asses, Barry!”

“What the fick are you going on about, Hiccup?” Spew Gorge asks.

“Fick you, Spewy, you planned this!”

The ink shadow, still in his disguise, glances from Hiccup to the pissed off mob of knitters. “You promised me a good time…”

Hiccup blinks rapidly as an idea formulates. “Yes, um, yes. Sure. This is a good time, Barry! All parades in Jatla end in a free-for-all. Now, let’s kick their fickin’ asses! Spewy, choose a side, and choose wisely.”

Spew Gorge lifts his nose into the air, lets loose a squeaker, and struts over to the members of his knitting club.

“Fick you, Hiccup,” he says with a snarl.

“Fick me? No, fick you!”

The two goblins collide, the resulting smack heard several blocks away. To the ground they go, where Hiccup eventually gets the upper hand.

-112 HP!

He brings the handle of his ax again onto Spew Gorge’s face.

-96 HP!

“Fick you!”

“No, fick you, Hiccup!” Spew shouts as he coldcocks his older cousin.

-139 HP! Critical hit!

“Yoooooooooy!” Hiccup flies backwards into a pile of trash. He sits up just in time to see the ink shadow engaging the rest of the knitters.

“Fick me,” he says, his head pounding, his heart thumping against the inside of his thick goblin chest.

The ink shadow’s form grows like a hot air balloon being inflated.

The rogues log out; the scantily clad gobliness screams and takes off towards the nearest alley; Toad the knight, Simba, the elves, the drow, the warlock, and Ugly the ogre stand their grounds.

Whoosh!

The knitters that remain are knocked backwards by a sweeping gust of magic from the ink shadow. The ghoulish creature lifts into the air and dives into the body of the warlock, whose eyes go completely black as he equips two magical swords.

The possessed warlock turns to his compatriots.

“Frenemy?” Hiccup shivers. “Fick! I hate Frenemy!”

“Fick you, Hiccup!”

-59 HP!

The swipe from Spew Gorge’s small blade sends a hunk of goblin arm flesh flying. It stings, and Hiccup is pissed because he hates getting scars, but at least Spew didn’t stab him in the side.

Hiccup tosses his ax at Spew, missing the younger goblin but giving him some space to get his bearings. Spew Gorge’s big-ass hammer appears in his paws; Hiccup equips an equally sized tomahawk.

“You … you ficker! Whatever happened to the goblin code, Spewy? What in the actual fick? You side with the fickboys over your own flesh and blood?”

“Fick you, Hiccup!”

Spew Gorge comes in for an attack, only to be knocked over by one of the elves, presumably tossed by the warlock possessed by Barry.

Seeing a chance to get rid of a future opponent, Hiccup brings his tomahawk down onto the drow’s sexy back. The sound that follows is sickening, but the job is done after two more chops.

Instakill!

“Fick, you killed Annie!” Spew Gorge cries out. “Damn you, Hiccup!”

“Had to do it, Spewy. Me and Barry are getting out of this shit alive!”

The younger goblin gets to his feet, his eyes red with fury.

They charge. Spew’s rage forces him to make a sloppy parry. Hiccup kicks his legs out from beneath his cousin and brings his tomahawk into the side of Spewy’s head.

Instakill!

The older goblin drops to Spew Gorge’s side, out of breath but glad the little battle is over. “Sorry, kid, but you had it coming.” With that, he starts rummaging through Spew’s pockets for loot. Hiccup finds what he was looking for – a healing potion – and tosses it back.

+198 HP!

“Fick, generic, but still good.”

He wipes his lips, and throws the healing potion over his shoulder.

Hiccup turns to the battle, his tomahawk at the ready.

The ink shadow, still in the warlock’s body, has killed the elves but is having trouble with the ogre, the knight, and the weretiger.

The often-argumentative goblin considers his options. He decides to help the ink shadow, but not before checking his cousin one more time for loot. Hiccup gets back to his knees, groans at the pain in his back, and eventually finds two hundred rupees stuffed in Spew Gorge’s boots.

“Poor ficker,” he mumbles as he stands again.

Hiccup surveys the fight again and decides to go for Simba the weretiger, not because he’ll be easier, but because it was the damn weretiger that set off the chain of events that led to this disaster of a parade.

Keeping low, Hiccup creeps around to the side, wincing at the sound of the ink-shadow-cum-warlock’s swords meeting the knight’s armor. Lots of cringeworthy sounds, as with any battle in which metal is the primary source of combat and defense.

Once Hiccup is around the back of the fight, he gives his inventory list a quick scroll and settles on a curved ax he picked up at a flea market. He tracks his target, and when he sees his opening, the goblin launches into the air.

“Fick!”

The weretiger, much more agile than Hiccup, senses the goblin and dodges the attack.

-86 HP!

“Yoooy!” Hiccup screams as the weretiger’s claws dig into his back.

As he stumbles forward, the weretiger performs an aerial spin kick that connects with the back of Hiccup’s skull.

-231 HP! Critical hit!

Hiccup goes down hard, but the buoyancy of his oversized belly pops him right back up, and by sheer luck, he happens to pop right into the weretiger. Both men go down, the goblin on top, which knocks the breath out of the weretiger.

-143 HP!

“Fuck you, goblin!”

“Yoy, yoy, yoy!” Hiccup shrieks as the weretiger claws at his sides.

-12 HP! - 23 HP! -20 HP! -9 HP!

Still on top of the weretiger, Hiccup’s natural reaction is to unleash a fury of elbows.

He lays into the weretiger until he is out of breath, and the weretiger has stopped clawing at him. Hiccup rolls over to find that one of his elbows connected with the weretiger’s face; the beastkin is out cold.

He drives his toe knife into Simba’s chest. The weretiger spasms and dies.

Instakill!

“Fick yeah,” he coughs. The very lucky goblin rolls onto his back, and listens as the ink shadow finishes up with the remaining knitters. Sure, he could try to get up, but that would require effort, and besides that, “playing dead” is a very functional part of a goblin’s battle repertoire.

It isn’t long before Barry stands over Hiccup, offering him a hand.

“I thought you were playing dead.”

As much as he hates to oblige, Hiccup reaches up and the ink shadow helps him to his feet.

“Yeah, just catching my fickin’ breath. Okay, ahem, that’s a typical Jatla parade for you, hope you enjoyed it.”

The ink shadow places his mustache and his hat over his face. “Well, that’s not what I was expecting.”

“Yeah, you and me both, pal.”

“I thought you said that was normal.”

“It is! I mean, the weretiger in the leather jacket. What a fickin’ fruit puff, am I right? Say, do you think that leather jacket would fit me?”

“No.”

“Well, fick, Barry, you don’t have to fat shame me about it.”

The ink shadow huffs. “What’s next?”

“Next is a fickin’ massage!”

Barry triples in size and bears down upon Hiccup.

“Hey! What the fick are you doing?”

“You’ve yet to convince me that Jatla is anything but a shithole. The massage better be good,” he says menacingly.

“Fick!” Hiccup laughs nervously. “Relax, Barry, I got you booked at the best massage parlor in Jatla. It’ll be a treat!”

Chapter 7: Botched Happy Ending

“Wild Cherry Oriental Massage?” Barry looks up at the sign, his mustache dropping into a frown. He has grown progressively grumpier over their walk from the failed parade to the Red Lamp District.

Now that Hiccup has taken a second look at Dougbug’s establishment, he senses where Barry’s concern may lie. The building is dilapidated, the sign crooked, one of the windows broken, the door handle is greasy, there’s a bucket of a curious liquid sitting on the front step, and the towels hung out to dry all have ass stains on them.

“It’s way better than it looks from the outside. Now, let’s get in there and get your ghosty ass a rub down!”

Hiccup kicks open the door to find Dougbug asleep at the counter.

“Fick!” Dougbug shrieks as he wakes. “Oh, it’s you, whew! I thought it was someone else.”

“Who the fick else is coming to get a massage at the Hour of the Morning Wood?”

“Good point, and you must be Barry,” Dougbug says, standing. “I’d shake your hand but, um, never mind.”

“Pleasure to meet you, goblin,” Barry says with a respectful bow.

“Dougbug, the name is Dougbug.”

“Your name is short for Dougbugaruganugapak, correct?”

“Fick yeah, you’re right. It means ‘a claw that is neither sharp nor dull.’”

Hiccup clears his throat. “Hey fellas, I’d fickin’ love to sit around all day and discuss goblin names, but we have shit to do. So let’s get this massage a rolling, if you get my drift.”

Dougbug rubs his hands together. “You will get the trifecta today, Mr. Barry, the fickin’ holy trinity of massages. It will begin with your classic hot stone massage, then you’ll move to an exotic Thulean Four Hand Massage, and finally, to top it off, you’ll finish up with Wild Cherry’s patented Climax Builder Massage. The set will last three hours, the satisfaction you feel afterwards for days, nay, weeks!”

Hiccup licks his big lips. “Fick, Dougy, that sounds ficktacular.”

Dougbug doffs a hat he isn’t wearing. “Jatla’s best for our admirable guest. That’s our motto here! Come, Mr. Barry, I’ll take you to your room.”

Dougbug leads the ink shadow down the hallway, and stops at the first room. The ink shadow enters, Dougbug shuts the door, and then he snaps his fingers at an orc behind a red velvet curtain.

Just about the sexiest orc gal Hiccup has ever seen steps out, her rolls held in tight by a one-piece bathing suit with a thong. She giggles as she enters the room, a towel in one hand and a bucket full of hot rocks in the other.

“My fick, Dougy,” Hiccup says as soon as his friend has returned, “you didn’t tell me you had some real hotties up in here! I mean, sure, masseuses can be fine, but that one, boy fick she’s a goddamn princess! I’d definitely let her poach my eggs while I tossed her salad, and that would just be the appetizer. Shit, I’d convert to Islam for that one, start doing charitable work and volunteering at the community garden, become a Jatla Big Brother, go back to med school to become a pediatrician, take up Pilates, practice good hygiene – you name it!”

Dougbug’s smile thins. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t talk about my girlfriend like that. And what the hell is Islam?”

Hiccup nearly falls over laughing. “That one? She’s your girlfriend? Fick me, Dougy, but she’s way out of your league. You’re way too short! And regarding Islam, read a fickin’ book, Dougy. You have more time than a clock over here, sitting on your ass and waiting for your massages to finish.”

Dougbug’s fists clench up. He has always been shorter than Hiccup by only a hair, but shortness in the goblin community is a hot button topic.

“You’re a real asshole, you know that?” He takes a seat on a stool and turns to Hiccup, his arms crossed over his chest.

“I’m just saying, Dougy, throw your old pal a fickin’ bone here. You could have any girl in the Red Lamp District; your place is famous! That said, and I’m only telling you this because I’m your pal, the outside of the establishment has seen better days. It looks like one of those Wizardous houses out in the Favela. You need to invest in the property a bit, is what I’m saying.”

“The Favela?”

“It’s a new name some fat cat city politician cooked up for the Jatla Slums. Shit, when in doubt, doublespeak, am I right? Ha!”

The shorter goblin lets out a grumpy sigh. “What are you rambling about?”

“Fick, Dougy, keep up. I’m rambling about your sexy ass girlfriend, and why you should totally introduce us.”

“She’s not your type, believe me there.” Dougbug laughs long and hard.

“What the fick is that supposed to mean? Are you telling me she wouldn’t like a moderately handsome goblin who makes an honest living and who is slightly robust, but solid muscle beneath a layer of Grade A goblin fat?”

Hiccup drums his fingers on his belly to make his point.

“You’re an idiot. But enough bickering, we have three hours to kill, and I figure we could kill it by drinking drorikh, eating some gluten-free sour cream and chive fried dragon skins, and fickin’ taking a nap.” Dougbug points at a pair of rolled up mats in the corner. “Just like old times. One caveat: talk about my bae is off limits.”

“Your bae? Fick me to tears, Dougy, you’re at the bae stage?”

“That’s what we call each other, yes.”

“Fick, that’s such a goddamn stupid word. But I’ll quit busting your balls. If you want to get drunk and take a little gobnap, you know I’m fickin’ game.”

“That’s what I wanted to hear!” Dougbug stands from the stool and walks over to the door. He places a carved sign that says CLOSED on the outside of the door and locks it. “Now, let’s get ficked up!”

(.)(.)

Hiccup wakes hours later with an extremely dry mouth likely from the dragon skins. His head pounds, his body aches with each movement. Drorikh, the Thulean word for fermented dragon’s milk, can be pretty salty, and this isn’t the first time Hiccup has woken up with dry mouth and a slight hangover.

He pushes Dougbug off him and gets to his feet.

“The poofter.”

This also isn’t the first time the two goblins have gotten wasted in the morning and Hiccup has woken up to find Dougbug cuddling him. He gets the notion to kick the shorter goblin, but refrains when he hears a scream from the ink shadow’s room.

“What in the actual fick?” Hiccup goes for his toe knife just as Dougbug wakes.

“Who the fick is screaming? That’s bad for business!”

“Fick, Dougy, get ready. Some trouble is going down with the ink shadow.”

“You’ve got to be fickin’ kidding me,” Dougbug says and he gets to his feet. He rubs the side of his head, winces, and lets out a small, odorous fart. “Sorry.”

“Your secret is safe with me, Dougy.”

Another scream and the massage room door kicks open. The orc masseuse comes tearing out, a towel to her chest and the ink shadow’s tendrils not far behind. The towel whips away and her breasts flop out.

So focused is he on her mammaries Hiccup fails to shriek, as he normally would when witnessing an ink shadow attack. The lady orc kicks into another room just as the ink shadow’s tendrils disappear.

“Fick!” Dougbug takes off to the spare room to comfort his employee/girlfriend.

The ink shadow seeps from the ground behind Hiccup. “Let’s go,” he says, a note of sadness in his voice.

“Fick!” Hiccup spins around, his toe knife at the ready. “Don’t sneak up on me like that. And what the fick happened in there?”

“She wouldn’t give me what I wanted.”

Hiccup shakes his head bitterly. “I told you, orc chippies are for later, at the hotel. This was a simple massage.”

“And a happy ending, no?”

“Well, fick, I thought all massages had happy endings. At least they do in Jatla.”

“Out, both of you!” Dougbug comes out of the spare room wielding a club wrapped in razor wire.

“What the fick did I do?” Hiccup asks, genuinely hurt.

“Your ink shadow put his…his chalupa in her ear! We don’t do Ear Busters here, goddammit! And fick you, Hiccup, now she wants to take a break from our relationship. She’s traumatized! Fick you both. Get the fick out and don’t come back!”

“We got places to be,” Hiccup says just as Barry starts to bubble with anger. “It’ll be worth it, trust me.”

“If you say so,” the ink shadow grumbles.

They hit the streets, and once they are away from Wild Cherry’s, Barry starts in on Hiccup.

“The parade turned into a battle royal, and now I have the worst case of ink balls I believe my kind has ever had.”

“Ink balls? Just relax, you’ll get yours later. Save that stamina, and next time, if you’re into some freaky shit, fickin’ tell the lady before you go putting things in holes that they don’t belong in! Ear Buster? Really, Barry?”

“Ear Busters are quite common at ink shadow massage parlors.”

Hiccup shudders. “You see what I mean when I say your species is ficked in the head? You want goblin chalupas, our fingernails, you get off by blasting sticky hot loads into each other’s ear canals, you’re creepy as fick. The list goes on. I like you, Barry, but my biases and racist undertones against you and your kind are fickin’ justified.”

They pass a goblin defecating in the street. He sees the ink shadow, lets out a little yelp, and swiftly finishes pinching off his loaf.

Barry shakes his head. “You think ink shadows are uncivilized; have you seen your own kind?”

“Pfft! Who hasn’t taken a fickin’ deuce in the street? It’s hard to find a bathroom around here. A commoner once told me Jatla is like New York in that regard, and there are no McStarbucks here, so no free restroom. There are the public urinals, but most goblins have the decency not to dooky in one of those.”

“Whatever. Two down, two to go, Hiccup. I’m still not convinced that Jatla is anything but a mahoosive shithole. The goblin we just witnessed defecating in the streets only furthers my point.”

“At least he didn’t jam his chalupa into someone’s ear,” Hiccup says under his breath.

“What was that?”

He offers Barry a shit-eating grin. “Just relax, Barry, the day is young, our fun has just begun, and lunch is up next. It’s going to be ficktacular, believe you me. This guy can cook!”

“It better be good. Two down, two to go.”

Chapter 8: Three Courses to the Finish Line

“The best Jatla has to offer, like I fickin’ promised.” Hiccup and Barry, still in his disguise, stand at the entrance to the GobTree restaurant. Set in an old house, the restaurant is unassuming during the day. But once the night crowd comes, and their purse strings loosen, it becomes a lively establishment, famous for celebrity sightings and visiting dignitaries.

“Ah, we were expecting you, Mr. Hiccup,” the maître d’ says as she opens the door. She’s in a three-piece tux, her hair clipped short and braided behind her ears.

“That’s right,” Hiccup tells the ink shadow, “Mr. Hiccup. They have manners here, Barry, big league.”

“I can see that” A jet black tongue slips out of the space Barry’s mouth should be and flickers across his face. “I’m famished over here.”

“You and me both, buck-o. Oh, wow!” Hiccup sees the single table set up in the center of the room. All the other tables are gone, and surrounding the single candlelit table are five waiters, each in cummerbunds.

“Please sit!” the orclin named Og Lemon says as he exits the kitchen. He wears the requisite chef hat, but has turned things up a notch with the cravat tucked into the front of his white, double-breasted jacket. “I will personally bring your first dish.” With that, he spins back into the kitchen, a tight smile on his face.

The ink shadow sits at one end of the long table, Hiccup at the other.

“Make it snappy,” Hiccup growls to the waiter with the bottle of wine. The young waiter rushes to the cranky goblin’s side and fills his cup.

“This is wonderful, a beautiful layout if I’ve ever seen one,” the ink shadow says as he swirls the wine in his glass. “And to think I was going to take your chalupa after this!”

“What!?” Hiccup nearly spits some of his wine out.

“Relax, goblin.”

“Hiccup.”

“As I said, Hiccup, relax. If the food is half as good as this presentation, you’ll be moving towards the clear.”

“Fick me,” the goblin whispers.

Og Lemon approaches the table with two chefs behind him, each holding a silver platter.

“Our first course,” he says, again with that tight grin on his face, “is my newest recipe, deconstructed dragon wings marinated in tardigrade liver oil and garnished with boiled Kayi virgin wheat.”

The chefs take away the tops of the platters and Hiccup starts to sob.

“What is it?” the ink shadow asks as he lifts his fork and pokes at the snowman-shaped mush on his plate.

“It’s fickin’ beautiful. Just look at it.”

“The presentation is exquisite, I agree.”

With Og watching intently, Hiccup takes his first bite. “Fick me, it’s so fickin’ good. Homerun! Fick me twice and take me out to dinner, this is amazing, Og!”

“Thank you,” says Og.

The ink shadow swallows his bite down and clears his throat. If he’s impressed, he isn’t showing it.

“I’ll be right back with the second course, sit tight.”

As soon as Og and his assistant chefs have turned back to the kitchen, Hiccup places both hands on the platter, lifts it, and shovels the lump of mush into his mouth. “So fickin’ good! See, Barry, this is first class living, the type of living you’ll only get in Jatla!”

The ink shadow clears his throat. “We’ll see,” he says as he pushes his plate aside.

Before Hiccup can ask for Barry’s leftovers, a waiter takes away the plate and Og and his chefs return from the kitchen, this time holding platters with stone bowls on top.

Og again smiles at Hiccup. “I give you my world famous griffin egg drop soup with a side of honey-glazed turtle shell and a dash of non-narcotic Wizardous.”

“Non-narcotic?” Hiccup snorts. “Why the fick would anyone want non-narcotic Wizardous?”

“For the flavor,” Og says, his smile firm. “Now sprinkle it on top of your soup and enjoy.”

As soon as the platters are down and Og is gone, Hiccup dips the nail of his pinky finger into the non-narcotic Wizardous, lifts some of the white power to his left nostril, and snorts it up.

“Yep, he’s right, non-narcotic,” he laments as the ink shadow sprinkles the Wizardous over his soup. Hiccup follows suit, and as soon as the soup hits his mouth, he sighs orgasmically. “Holy ficker-roo, that’s the, fick me, Barry, that’s the best goddamn fickin’ soup I’ve ever tasted! So robust and hearty, so warm in my belly. My fick!”

Hiccup shovels more of the soup into his mouth. He cracks the turtle shell, dips it in the soup, and uses it to scoop even more into his waiting maw.

“Well?” he asks once he’s finished, his lips and cheeks covered in food debris.

“Let’s just see what the next course is,” Barry says, his mood waning.

“What the fick has gotten into you, pal?”

But before Barry can say anything, his bowl is whisked away and Og appears from the kitchen with two more platters. The assistant chefs place the two large platters before Barry and Hiccup as Og explains the contents.

“For our third course, I give you land dragon skulls, the brains of which have been boiled in a soup made of Chiup marrowbone, fried funeral potatoes, and fresh morning drorikh flown in via griffin from Porthos.”

“Sounds wonderful,” Barry says as the top of the platter is removed. With Og watching, the ink shadow sticks a fork into the land dragon’s skull, gets a good piece of brain, and brings it to his lips.

His expression sours and he chews it.

“What is it?” Og asks.

The ink shadow takes a deep breath. “There, ahem, is no flavor to this. In fact, and I’m sorry to offend you, it tastes like shit smells, if that is at all possible. So I guess it has a flavor, the flavor of feces.”

“What in the fick is wrong with you?” Hiccup asks, already well into his fourth bite of brain. “Mine is fickin’ delicious.”

Hiccup’s eyes jump from the ink shadow to Og.

“Wait a damn minute, what the fick is going on here?”

Og glares at the goblin. “I don’t know, Hiccup, maybe you could add some fucking seasoning. Gee, how about something spicy?”

The ink shadow crosses his arms over his chest. “I don’t know what is going on between you, but…”

“What the fick are you accusing me of, Og? Stealing your hot sauce?”

The chef points a finger at Hiccup. “I know it was you, Hiccup!”

“Fick you!” the goblin says as he stands from his chair, his hand hovering over his toe knife. “I didn’t steal shit!”

The ink shadow clears his throat.

“You’re really fucked in the head, Hiccup. Here I was trying to help you…”

“What part of ‘I didn’t steal shit’ do you fail to understand? It was probably one of the fickin’ kitchen staff members. I saw you had an immiNPC in there, can’t trust them, and I’m not saying we should deport them, only that we shouldn’t trust them with nice things.”

“Dammit!” Barry flips the table, and points an inky black finger at Hiccup. “Your chalupa is mine!”

“Fick!”

Like a cannonball out of hell, Hiccup leaps through the front window of the establishment and rolls into a garden.

-68 HP!

Once he’s on his feet, and paying no attention to the flecks of glass covering his body now, he bolts out of the garden and into the streets.

“Fick!” he screams, as he looks over his shoulder to see the ink shadow closing in, Barry’s black form slinking as he pursues the goblin. “Everyone out of the way, fick!”

(.)(.)

Hiccup waddle-runs, cursing Og Lemon for doing him dirty back at the restaurant. He was going to give the hot sauce back, he just wanted another taste. That’s all. Og didn’t need to spike the ink shadow’s food and sabotage the meal.

“The ficker!” he huffs.

With no idea where he should go, and fear that the ink shadow will find him anyway, the goblin’s decently-sized brain kicks into overdrive, going over what he knows about ink shadows, which is little aside from the fact goblins generally dislike them.

They don’t die, he knows that, or at least he’s heard that.

“Fick, I don’t want to lose my chalupa!” Hiccup cries as he pushes through a crowd on the outside street of a residential area.

He finds out very quickly what the crowd has gathered around – a procession of striking garbage collectors has taken to the streets, signs in hand and shouts in unison, protesting a recent wage cut for overtime work.

“I will catch you, goblin!” he hears Barry yell. A couple of goblins in the vicinity shriek when they see the approaching ink shadow. They tumble over each other to get out of the way.

His path anything but clear, Hiccup bursts through the crowd into the center of the striking garbage collectors.

“Counter-protester, stop him!” a burly goblin screams.

A goblin garbage collector with a boily infection running up both arms swings his club, clipping Hiccup in the shoulder.

-97 HP!

“Yoooooooy!”

The visual of a fight taking place and an approaching ink shadow whips the crowd into a frenzy.

A mosh pit of goblin flesh with hidden shanks, sharp claws, yellow biting teeth, squeals and shrieks, and the abundant shouts of the word “fick” gives Hiccup just the distraction he needs to escape.

And this is before the ink shadow shows up, which whips the goblins into a fick-laced frenzy as they all fight for the nearest exit.

“Ink shadow! Fick!”

“Fick!”

“Holy fick!”

“Fick, fick, fick!”

“Fick you, you t-bagging fick-faced bumblefick!”

Hiccup presses out of the madness, even with a big bruise forming where the goblin garbage collector struck him. His hope now is to lose the shadow in the nearby residential district known as Ular Simp, which features a mixture of two story homes enjoyed by Jatla’s middle class.

He runs as fast as his short legs will carry him, the taste of blood rising in his throat from the pace of his breathing, the ink shadow engaged by the crowd but not far off Hiccup’s heels. A door painted red catches the irascible goblin’s attention and he waddle-runs over to it.

“Let me in! Let me in!” He bangs on the door with his beefy paw. “Fick, let me in!”

A slit on the door opens and a pair of eyes look out. “What the fick do you want?” a male goblin asks.

“An ink shadow is after me!” Hiccup tells the eyes as he tries to catch his breath. “He’s the one causing that clusterfick back there. Fick, let me in, pal! I’m rich, I’ll give you whatever you’d like.”

“Like fick you’re rich!”

An idea comes to Hiccup. “Let me in or...or…”

“Or what, you stuttering fickwit?”

“I’ll use my magic!”

The retractable wand Hiccup stole from Spew Gorge appears in one hand, his bottle of Hot AzzBalls in the other.

“I’m warning you!” he bellows, looking over his shoulder at the swelling mob, which has spilled out into the lane that wraps into the Ular Simp District. “I’m magic, you fick!”

With a flick of his wrist, Hiccup’s wand doubles in size. He turns his head, takes a huge swig from the bottle of hot sauce, and points the wand at the door.

“Fick you!” Hiccup spits a huge ball at the mangled bush directly next to the entrance.

The bush ignites; without saying a word, Hiccup points his wand at the eyes peeking out of the door.

The male goblin gets the hint. “Fick, fick! I’ll let you in. Don’t burn down my fickpad!”

Hiccup nods, feels a burp coming on, and once he’s sure no one is next to him, he belches another fireball into the street. A young girl goblin looking at him from the window across the street yells “fick!” and pulls her blinds shut.

The door pops open revealing a goblin smaller than Dougbug with a shaved head, a nose turned up at the end, a roll of fat around his neck, man tits each jutting out at the sides like chameleon eyes, and a short pair of bow legs tucked into dirty house slippers with white soles.

Hiccup burps again and produces another fireball.

“Fick! I thought you said you’d stop!” the short goblin shrieks, hopping back to miss the tiny fireball.

Hiccup pounds his chest with his fist. “Heartburn, you don’t fickin’ want it, kid, trust me. Now, enough chatter, we have an ink shadow on our asses and we need to get inside.”

“We?” the short goblin asks.

“Yeah, ‘we’ as in you and me, as in that fickin’ ink shadow will take your chalupa too if we don’t act fast.”

“Fick! Come in, come in!”

The goblin’s home is dingy, as all goblin homes should be. The walls are painted salmon, the loose wooden floors, moldy ceiling, and cracked doorframes a clear indication that the home has seen better days.

“Shit, he’s going to be here any second...” Hiccup’s mind stumbles over itself as he tries to think of a way to combat the ink shadow. He won’t beat him in a fight; he’s not stupid enough to assume that, and he probably won’t be able to weasel his way out of this one.

“Well, what the fick are we going to do?” the shorter goblin asks.

Hiccup snaps his fingers. “The nightmare powder and the boner ointment!”

“The fick you just say?”

“Quick, spread this ointment all over my body.” Hiccup pries his sticky wet tunic off. “Save a little of the shit, though; if I make it out alive, I’d like to use it one last time.”

“What in the fick are you talking about!?”

“What’s your name?” Hiccup asks the goblin as he hands him the tube of boner ointment and his sweaty shirt.

“Valet.” The goblin drops the shirt on the floor but holds tight to the bottle of ointment.

“That’s a lady goblin’s name.”

“Don’t judge me, it’s fickin’ complicated!”

“I’ll bet. Listen, Valet, grab that rag over there and squeeze the ointment onto the rag. Then rub it all over my body. You don’t want this shit getting on your skin, believe you me.”

Valet returns with the rag and squeezes some ointment on it. “Are you sure about this?”

“Fick yes I’m sure! Hurry, hurry, hurry!”

Valet spreads the lotion over Hiccup’s chest and arms. “How does it feel?”

“What kind of poofty snow cake fruit basket question is that? Wax on, wax off, Valet, spread that shit!”

“Got it, fick!”

As soon as the shorter goblin finishes, Hiccup’s body starts to bulge and quiver. Muscles form, big juicy muscles that would have Hiccup on the cover of Male Goblin’s Fitness in no time flat.

“Holy moly,” Valet whispers as he takes in Hiccup’s new physique.

“Holy fick is right,” says Hiccup, flexing his muscles.

“And this is going to scare the ink shadow?”

“Wouldn’t you be scared of a buff-ass goblin like Yours Truly?”

Hiccup’s neck muscles twitch.

“No, I’d just run.”

“That’s because you’re a pussy, Valet.”

“Hey!”

“No time to discuss that, though, I’m not your therapist, and if I were, I’d tell you to kill yourself and get it over with. Here’s what I want you to do: get on top of the bookshelf. There should be enough room for you to squeeze in up there. Once the ink shadow enters, I’ll momentarily distract him with my new physique. Your job is easy: I want you to blow this powder on him. That’s it, and be careful not to inhale this stuff. Hold out your hand. Scratch that. This shit is dangerous. Climb into position first.”

“Okay, how’s this?”

After Valet is in position, Hiccup sprinkles a quarter of the nightmare powder in his palm. “Now, let’s fickin’ do this!”

(.)(.)

It doesn’t take long for Barry to figure out which house Hiccup is holed up in, and like he did back at the guildhall, Barry seeps up from the floor, poised to strike.

“You’ve changed!” the ink shadow says, floating a step back as soon as he sees the goblin musclehead.

“That’s right, you dirty chalupa stealing mitherficker! Plenty more magic where this came from.” Hiccup flexes his muscles. His bottle of hot sauce in his hand, he takes a swig and burps a spicy fireball at the wall to his right.

The wall catches fire almost immediately.

“Hey!” Valet screeches.

“Now, you ficker!”

The ink shadow turns to the bookcase just in time to get a big faceful of nightmare powder.

Hiccup belches, zipping another fireball across the room to the bedroom wall. His muscles start to convulse, the effects of the boner ointment wearing off, just as the ink shadow lets out a scream of terror the likes of which Hiccup has never heard before.

Barry shrieks and shrieks, his form growing and shrinking in size.

“Fick! Fick!” cries Valet.

The smaller goblin falls from the bookshelf and lands at Barry’s inky feet.

Half the small home on fire now, and Barry and Valet struggling in the center of the room, Hiccup realizes there’s only one thing he can possibly do, one chance of escape.

The surly goblin bolts to the front door, another fire belch coming as he cannonballs through the entrance and spills out into the streets.

“Yoooy!” He turns just in time and spits another ball of fire at the red door, which only adds to the flames that have engulfed the home.

A crowd has gathered by this point, and while the Jatlan authorities don’t normally investigate arson, the fact that there are people around may increase the chance the fuzz will show.

Hiccup hears two distinct screams inside the burning home, one from the ink shadow and the other from Valet.

“The poor ficker.” He shoulders into the crowd, as his muscles warp and bulge on his body.

A hand lands on his shoulder and spins him around.

“What’s your name?” An orclin with a neckbeard asks. “What happened in there?”

“Hands off, ficker, unless you want to lose that neckbeard!”

“Your name!?”

The orclin squeezes harder, Hiccup’s artificially inflated muscle shrinking even more under the pressure.

“Spew Gorge! My name is Spew Gorge!” he calls out. With his other hand, Hiccup jabs his toe knife into the orclin’s side, bringing the towering man to the ground.

-133 HP! Critical hit!

A fight erupts, but Hiccup is long gone before anyone can realize he’s left.

(.)(.)

The dastardly goblin navigates the back alleys of Jatla like a London cab driver, their entry points and pathways engraved on his psyche mainly from a long career of ripping people off and getting away with it.

He sees a freshly washed tunic hanging from a clothesline and puts it on. Sure, it is two sizes too small, but the material is nice and while the puffy sleeves were in fashion years ago, they’re making a comeback.

His destination clear, it isn’t long before Hiccup finds himself in the Richman District, the Golden Swine visible on the horizon.

He licks his lips and catches his breath.

A new haven has presented itself, a temporary haven but a haven nonetheless. His throat scorched from the Hot AzzBalls sauce, the sauciest goblin this side of the Bawa Outpost gets a rare second wind, and travels even faster for a spell.

Like all running goblins, Hiccup eventually goes down, but not before reaching the polished steps of the Golden Swine.

The orc from yesterday runs down the stairs and helps him to his feet.

“I’m here to check-in,” Hiccup says, clearing his throat. “Fick, am I thirsty.”

“Right this way, sir, we have cucumber water in the lobby.”

“Fick yeah, you do. I’ll have two.”

The orc helps Hiccup inside, and once he has had two glasses of cucumber water and has relaxed for a moment, the goblin slowly walks over to the check-in desk.

“I have a room reserved for tonight,” he says, “under the name Hiccup.”

The hotel clerk, a thin goblinita with a short bob and big hoop earrings, looks through a series of index cards. “Ah, here you are. And will a, um, Mr. Barry be joining you?” she asks as she hole-punches the top of the card.

“No, he fickin’ won’t. We, um, need some space. So it’s just me.”

“I see,” she says, batting her lashes as she reads the information on the card. “Mr. Flush has two orc escorts scheduled for the Hour of the Mana. Shall I cancel them as well?”

“What?” Hiccup cries out. “No, you shall not!”

“Very well, sir,” the clerk says as she prepares the other items he’ll need, such as the room key and a list of hotel rules and procedures. “You will have complimentary dinner service in an hour; please choose what you’d like from this menu.”

She hands him a crisp menu card, the entrees handwritten in beautiful cursive lettering that Hiccup finds hard to read.

Hiccup gives the menu back to her without looking at it. “Since Barry isn’t joining me, do I get his complimentary meal as well?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Good, so two entries.” He licks his lips. “Okay, lemon pepper dragon wings and, fick, how about the land dragon steak. Do you have funeral potatoes?”

She nods. “We just got some in this morning.”

“Good, give me some of those as well, fried with Chiup bacon fat, caramelized, but not to stringy. Make the onions thick-cut, and if you’re going to use brown sugar, which you should, don’t use the store brand stuff. I prefer Chicago Don’s brown sugar, if you got it.”

“I’ll have to check, sir, but I believe it can be arranged.”

“Fick me,” Hiccup says as just about the biggest smile he’s had all month spreads across his face. “I got a feeling tonight is going to be one for the record books.”

The hotel clerk smiles. “I hope so, sir. Please enjoy your stay, Mr. Hiccup.”

He’s just about to turn to his room when a thought strikes him. “Any chance you can send the orc chippies up now, before dinner?”

“I believe that is possible, yes.”

“Fick yeah, do that.”

“Very well, sir. Would you like thirty minutes to get cleaned up?”

Hiccup sniffs his armpits. “Nah, I’m good. Send them now.” He waves goodbye to the hotel clerk, his boner ointment in hand. “Just give me a few minutes to get good and greased up.”

The fickin’ end.

Back of the Book Content

Reader,

I wrote this novella because someone had to do it. I have plenty more stories set in the Fantasy Online universe to come, and I need your help to reach more readers.

First, if you haven’t already, please leave a quick review for Jatla.

Second, if you really haven’t already (and it is super helpful if you do), please leave a review for Fantasy Online.

“Harmon, what is in it for me?”

Well, how about some free books? To get three free books set in the Proxima Galaxy, join my mailing list. Super easy sign up, and you’ll get a box set for doing so.

In this set, you’ll get: 1) The Feedback Loop book one; 2) The Last Warrior of Unigaea (which is directly related to Fantasy Online) and 3) Fantasy Online (which if you’ve already read is fine, hopefully you haven’t read the other two!)

If you have read all three or a good number of my works and have reviewed one or two of them, send me an email, writer.harmoncooper@gmail.com, and I’ll add you to my reading group, where you’ll get free books for life.

Wait, life?

Yep, life.

Finally, and even if you skip all the info I’ve just downloaded into your brain, join the Proxima Galaxy Readers Facebook group. I post a ton of content here and the readers get exclusive access to books, audiobooks, and other gifts from Yours Truly.

Now, you’ve been given your assignments. Much love, and thanks for letting me live in your mind space. – Harmon Cooper

Other Books by Harmon Cooper

I have written over thirty books. Here are some of the highlights!

My best-selling Superhero Harem Adventure about a sci-fi writer and the superpowered women who are trying to kill him. Fun content, adult read!

US: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07BGZHXV7

UK: https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B07BGZHXV7

Audible: https://adbl.co/2uR0voP

DE: https://www.amazon.de/dp/B07BGZHXV7

AU: https://www.amazon.com.au/dp/B07BGZHXV7

CA: https://www.amazon.ca/dp/B07BGZHXV7

A fantasy harem adventure inspired by Pokemon Go!, Scott Pilgrim vs. The World, and the Persona family of video games. Check out this Amazon best seller!

USA: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07CZM2MT6

UK: https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B07CZM2MT6

CA: https://www.amazon.ca/dp/B07CZM2MT6

AU: https://www.amazon.com.au/dp/B07CZM2MT6

DE: https://www.amazon.de/dp/B07CZM2MT6

Tokyo, Japan meets online fantasy gaming and South Park-styled humor. Yakuza, goblins, action, intrigue - add this book to your inventory list!

(This one is related to Monster Hunt NYC)

US - http://amzn.to/2pKN8zM

Audible - https://adbl.co/2vqSzY3

UK - http://amzn.to/2lDlfMa

Canada - http://amzn.to/2iRellt

Australia - http://amzn.to/2A7KhGA

Germany - http://amzn.to/2xIUc3u

Get connected with other LitRPG/GameLit readers

Yes, reader there is a place to catch up on Harmon Cooper books, meet other readers, and see exclusive previews (as well as being the FIRST to know about a new release). Join the Proxima Galaxy today!

Chat with other GameLit fans here: