I swear by all the filthy perversions of Khyber, these mouth-breathers are going to get me killed.
It’s not enough that they’re all pretty much useless waterheads that don’t understand which end of a weapon is the business end. They all run around like a bunch of spastic cankerblossoms at the drop of a hat, and have no concept of making a plan and sticking to it.
Points in case:
One of the damned dog-faces can’t keep from getting knocked up and has to go “clutch” every other day. I want to “clutch” her throat and slowly throttle her promiscuous yark-yarking ass. At the rate she’s pumping out dog-faces we’re either going to be overrun in a less than a generation, or eating kobold is going to become a popular dining experience. I’m hoping for the later…
The half-dork is a gut-griping coxcomb. I swear I saw him having unholy congress with that demonic badger of his. Or maybe it was that yark-yarking maggot pie, it was kinda dark. Maybe he’s the one that’s causing her to “clutch” so much.
The gypsy is a beslubbering twat who can’t figure out if she’s a codpiece tease or just a dizzy-eyed, mouth-breathing drooler. She’s all gypsy pride with “my people this” and “my people that”. Trust me honey, your people are a bunch of sticky-fingered, thieving, child-stealing molesters. Just because you don’t remember it doesn’t mean that you haven’t blocked out the memories. Probably one to many jipzzy shots to the face, iffn you know what I mean…
Oh, and we found a bush of “special” berries for the twitchy fucking hophead back at Otto’s. As I’m picking them to take back, trying to help out and minding my own business, a swarm of vicious back-biting spiders attack me. Now I’m not bothered by spiders, but the gypsy flirtgill starts beating ME in an attempt to kill them. She’s causing more damage than they are, and I’m getting pissed off.
Knowing that most animals have a fear of fire, I fumble my way to the cart, upend a bottle of lamp oil, take a deep breath, close my eyes, and spark my flint and steel. Needless-to-say, I go up like the proverbial torch. The gypsy starts running around like a boil-brained goose, the Sovereign Host child’s eyes roll up in her head and she faints. The dog-faces jump up and down, yark-yarking with excitement.
And the spiders flee. Did any of the others help? Like maybe throwing some water on me? Or wrapping me in a blanket to smother the fire?
No. They didn’t. Useless bunch of bum felchers…
A couple of seconds later the fire burns out, and aside from a couple of burned patches of skin, a couple of missing inches off my beard (the greatest tragedy mind you!), and the stink of burning hair, everything is fine.
Only everyone is staring at me like I’m crazy.
Well, maybe I am. I certainly have to have some sort of insanity for staying around these craven, elf-skinned clotpoles.
I hate them.