Wednesday, 4 April 2012

Another Dumb Fantasy Story: Part II "When Dark Night Falls And Blackness And Stuff" by Justin Bostian

I'm going to quickly preface the new chapter by saying this is the funniest fucking thing I've ever read. And also, nothing has ever more so convinced me that Justin Bostian is a bad person. Enjoy!

Chapter II

The blinding pain behind my eyes slowly passed as the sun rose, casting a long beam of light directly onto my face. I rolled off the small, foul-smelling couch that was soaked in what I hope was urine and tried to place myself. A quaint little cottage with a dome ceiling, low-hanging lamps burning orange, a dead goat-man in the corner. Shit, there we go, a goat-man.
“What’s up?” I said, crawling my way over to the prone smelly man-thing. He gurgled at me.
“Hey,” I said, poking him in the belly with my foot, “try not to swallow your own vomit like that.” Amateurs.
He gurgled until I picked him up and leaned him against a wall.
“So, seriously, where am I? I don’t really remember anything before a few days ago, when I started celebrating half-Veterans Day.”
The goat-man stopped dry heaving for a moment and gave me a strange look with his dirty goat-man eyes.
“That’s when I get drunk in honor of veterans that didn’t really do enough to matter on the real Veteran’s Day.”
He resumed dry-heaving.
“You know, like male nurses or anyone who was on a boat.”
As the goat slowly regained his composure and licked the vomit from his fur, I strolled around the cramped home, rooting through boxes of dusty bottles and magic-looking shit. I found a tall blue glass with a cork stopper, blew the dust off and proceeded to drink the shit out of whatever it was.
“Where’s this place?” I asked, kicking the goat-man in his stupid leg.
“Stop hitting me! This is my home!”
“Why is that, do you think you’re better than me? Is that it?” Whatever was in that bottle was fucking awesome.
“What? No! Are you drunk already?”
“Yeah, you wish you was like that.”
The goat-man stood to his hooves and shook his head. “You…you’re not making any sense. And great spirits, you smell like a mass grave!”
I took a swig from the bottle and laughed in the goat-man’s face.
“Where are the children?” he asked, looking around the small shitty goatpartment.
“What chilluns? You talkin’ about my wife? Are you?”
He was running around now, looking under blankets and tables, pushing over piles of books and scrolls and magic swords and other fantasy shit.
“The children you came here with! The ones you were watching when you all came through the wardrobe!”
I stopped flipping through an old, worn book that illustrated all sorts of crazy sexual intercourse between humans and strange sexy creatures. “I’m not following you,” I said, and resumed ogling an ogre-man-ogre threesome.
“You were supposed to be protecting them! We were going to consult Fandaragron, the Tree Wizard, about how to save the world, but then you…,” he paused and scratched his head, recalling last night as if through a thick, awesomely-drunken fog. “…you made us all shotgun three beers and—and—oh dear god, they’re gone!”
I tucked the dirty little book into my back pocket and lit up a joint that I rolled from some ground-up plant laying on goat-erson’s table.
“Look, man, I don’t really care about those kids. I don’t even think we’re related. Just by, like, marriage or something. Second cousins, maybe.”
“They could be anywhere! They could be in the hands of The White Queen!”
“Tall bitch with white hair? Cold blue eyes?”
The goat-man nodded his head and looked puzzled. “You know her?”
“Yeah, she’s got the kids. I’m sorta…I’m looking at them right now. Like, in a misty blue haze through time and space, I think.” I took another hit from the joint. “This is some killer grass.”
The goat-man slapped the joint out of my hand.
“Fool! You know not what you do!”
“I know exactly what I do,” I said, swinging my fist at his face but somehow missing and evaporating the misty-blue cloud where I saw the tall hot white chick with the three kids that were apparently my responsibility. Whatever.
“If you can see them, they can see you! You never know who’s watching!”
“Look, I don’t know how to make this any clearer: I don’t fucking care. Let’s go find that tree wizard you were talking about.” That would seem like a constructive decision, but I really just wanted to get the hell out of this guy’s house. It smelled like a wet dog got stuck in a microwave that was stuck inside of a septic tank.
“Yes of course!” the goat man shouted. “Fandaragron will know precisely what to do!”
“Sure, great, Fandargrar, swell.” I grabbed a leather bag that was sitting on the floor and pushed in an armful of vials—powders, liquids, herbs and glowing shit—because fuck yeah, free stuff.

Falingrad’s place was deep in some woods, a dense little circle of trees surrounding a pleasant meadow. Bisecting the green plot of land was a river, crystal blue and fast moving. It was ten feet deep, maybe, and twice that across, and it stretched off into the distance both ways. The old man sat in a rocking chair in the middle of the circle, smoking some dank from a long wooden pipe, mumbling softly beneath his flowing white beard.
“That’s him,” the goat-man whispered. “The guardian of the sacred river. It flows all the way from the northern mountains into The White Queen’s capitol.”
“That’s convenient,” I said.
As we entered the circle of trees, the goat-man bent low. “Good eve, wise Fandaragron, keeper of secrets. We seek your counsel.”
The old man flicked his eyes up and glanced at the goat-man, then at me, before he lowered his gaze and continued to mumble, rocking slightly in his chair.
“Please, oh venerable one—“
“Lemme handle this, fool.” I stood in front of the old man and fished out a baggie of some purple herb that I swiped from the goat’s table. I dumped it into the end of the pipe and lit the old man up. He took a monster hit and exhaled a series of perfect rings, then a boat of smoke that sailed through the hoops, then a tiny smoke missile that followed quickly after, turning the whole thing into a smoky ball of smoke-explosion.
“That’s some solid shit, old man,” I said, pulling the pipe away from the mouth that I assume rested beneath the wicked ‘stache. “You help me, I help you.” I took a hit and the goat-man rushed over, tugging on the wizard’s sleeve.
“Please, Fandaragron, we desperately need your help! The world is in peril! The White Queen—”
“BITCH!” The old man leapt from his seat and thundered at the quivering, stinky little dick. “DON’T TOUCH MY MOTHERFUCKIN’ ROBES! PUNK-ASS GOAT!”
He threw the goat-man to the ground and yelled about his new sandals. “ALL SCUFFED UP AND SHIT FROM YOUR BITCH-ASS HOOVES AND SHIT! I’M A GODDAMN TREE WIZARD! I DO NOT NEED THIS SHIT!”
“Whatever, Voldemort, we lost some kids to some bitch and we have to get them back, I guess.”
He turned his rage toward me.
“Not my problem, Dumpledore.” The old man was getting pretty agitated. “Just get us a giant eagle or an invincible sword or something, I don’t know. I’m hungry and this place sucks, chop chop.”
The wizard took a step towards me and sucked in a deep breath.
“Dude, stop fucking yelling, I’m right here. And I don’t give a shit, just help us out and we’ll leave. Look, take the goat-guy, I’ll trade you.”
“You…you can’t do that!” the goat-man squeaked.
“Sure I can’t. Whattaya say, you give me some magical powers or forty virgins, I give you…” I glanced at the shaking, pitiful goat-thing, “…one virgin. Deal?”
The old man looked the goat up and down, hunger in his eyes. He licked his lips and slipped one crusty old hand inside his robe, vigorously rubbing his old tree-wizard crotch.
“Deal,” he said.
“Haha, gross. Alright, give me something cool.”
The tree wizard dug through the pockets of his robe and pulled out a wand. It was long and supple, made of dark wood with a gold end-cap.
“This,” he said, waving it about in the air, leaving a glowing red trail of light, “is a very good wand. It has a heart of unicorn-leg-tendon, very powerful, very old.”
“That’s coo—wait, unicorn leg-tendon? That’s…that’s pretty fucked up, man. Like, did they have to kill the unicorn to get the tendon?”
“What? Oh, yeah, probably. But the wand is—”
“No, man, I don’t want that thing. First off, it’s super gay. Like, c’mon, a wand? What am I, Harry Potter? Second, that’s fucking cruel. Maybe if I killed the unicorn myself, used every part of it…but not like this, man.”
“Just keep fishing around in that dress, Merlin.”
The old wizard dug around some more and offered me a gold pocket-watch that could control time.
“Gay,” I said.
A scarf that would change my voice to mimic anyone’s when I wore it over my mouth.
A ring that would make me invisible.
“Copyright infringement. And also gay.”
“Lower your voice and give me some magical hotness, Gargamel, or you can kiss your twisted goat-man fantasies goodbye.”
The old man licked his lips again, undressing the goat-man with his eyes, and said, “Okay, okay, here.” He produced a long walking stick, light knobby wood with a leather strap criss-crossing its length. “This,” he said, “is a very special walking stick.”
“Do tell,” I said, expecting it to turn all the world’s sadness into kitten breaths or give me the power to grow plants on rocks, something gay.
“Simply dip the end into any liquid and it will become…alcohol. The finest ambrosia ever tasted, the drink of the gods themselves.”
“Finally, some good news.” I snatched the stick and immediately made for the fast-flowing river.
“Wait!” the tree wizard yelled. “You can use it only once! It is very powerful! Very dangerous!”
“Yeah, sure,” I said, still walking towards the river.
“Any liquid it touches will be turned! And liquid the ambrosia touches will become ambrosia!”
“Yeah, well, it’s my stick now, so I say it becomes Justin Bostian’s Amazing Wonder Liquor And Super Boner Elixir.” I chucked the stick into the river and immediately the water around the ripples turned a deep caramel, amber, flowing honey.
“NO!” the wizard yelled.
Fish were already starting to float to the surface, belly-up. I chuckled, grabbed the goat-man and dove into the river.
“DAMN YOU, DRUNKARD!” the wizard yelled. “THIEF! THIEF!”
I laughed and floated down the wonderful 100-proof river using the undoubtedly-alcohol-poisoned goat-man as a furry raft. I drank the sweet water and finally, fucking finally, blacked out.

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