Technology is weird where I come from.
Despite having been one of those Medieval Stasis type worlds where magic just does so much (and civilizations keep wrecking one another's shit) for most of its existance, upon being sucked into the Void and stuck to Tatheon like a continent-sized Band Aid the Empire of Blood has managed to acquire a great deal of technology.
It took awhile to figure out how to work most of it, and just as long to determine that the resident god of nature hates mass production, and the light of her particular sun rapidly speeds the breakdown of anything that wasn't hand made.
But anything portable tends to come with its own carrying case, protecting it from the degenerating light of our luddite sun. If you have a steady supply of machines you don't mind having taken apart, broken, and exploded (not always in that order) you can toss them into a room full of dwarves and gnomes and end up having the principles that the things work on pretty well understood.
And the thing with dwarves is that they live underground, well away from nasty technology-hating solar goddesses, so if you can bring something out of the Urban Wasteland and get it to a Dwarfhold, you've got a pretty good chance of keeping you perfectly functional piece of technology.
Provided the gnomes don't get hold of it.
While we lacked the capacity for incredibly minute detail and automation, being able to make the laws of physics your bitch by a judicial application of magic allows you to cheat somewhat. So the simple stuff could be produced.
But the more complex you try and make something with magic, the more likely it is for something to blow up in your face. And torso. And limbs. And the room around you. And the building. And maybe a goodly portion of the town.
But if you had a few thousand gold pieces kicking around you could buy a little handheld device based off of a crystal ball that functioned pretty much like a cell phone, except that you needed line of sight to the great big eight faceted crystal nestled at the center of the hole of our donut-shaped world.
But all you could do with it was make calls to other crystal balls and crystal phones. You couldn't take pictures, record video, tell the time, compute math problems, type a report, or unwind by flinging avians at poorly constructed porcine domiciles.
Using something so precious as an actual, functional computer for mere recreation was looked upon as an excess of the most severe kind. So even now two years into my accidental exile from my home world, I still got an illicit little thrill from playing silly little minigames on a cell phone I'd purchased from a fraction of the proceeds of selling a single gold piece for its mineral content.
I was occasionally accused of being the draconic equivalent of a crazy cat lady. Both in me being a dragon, and the fact that instead of hoarding gold, I instead seemed to hoard other dragons. I did have a Muse, a Familiar, a Bonded Companion, and a Mighty Steed that were all draconic in nature, shared my headspace with a multi-headed dragon goddess, and managed to make a dragon-blooded minion at home in my spare time, so on one hand I could kind of see the point. But on the other they were my friends (well, except for the cannibalistic dragon goddess I referred to as Miss Hissy and Eleanor Rigby) and you didn't go around telling humans with a bunch of human friends that they were a bunch of human hoarders.
Well, unless you were one of those creepy Quiverfull families.
But on an itty bitty screen, contained in bits and bytes hidden from prying eyes I did in fact have a hoard of dragons. Little bitty pixelated minions that fought other pixelated minions, who grew in power, leveled up, gained new abilities, and the like.
I was probably singlehanded putting somebody's kids through college with my in app purchases.
I couldn't help it. There were so many critters to collect, and the more one hand the more variations one could utilize in making teams to fight other bands of critters. The way things worked in some of these games reminded me a great deal of home. Though Pokemon was exceptionally weird in its elemental alignments.
Grass, fire, water, good. Then you get Flying, which honestly ought to be Air type as it's the only one of the classical four elements missing. And then it goes batshit off the rails with Bug type. I don't want to ever visit the Elemental Plane of Bug. Or see it. Or even think about it.
However this world's beetle-obsessed god would probably be in heaven. Well, more than he already supposedly is, anyway.
"I will eat ALL your pokemons!" booms a demonic voice from behind me.
"Hello, Claudia." I say rather flatly, having known she was there and that she was probably going to use her creepy demonic voice thingy. It's only recently that she's managed to do it at will, and she has taken a great deal of delight in doing so.
She's decidedly not helping the next generation develop a friendly relationship with clowns. Well, aside from the ones that are going to be utterly terrified by a creepy voiced, sexy clown and then develop a fetish.
I hear that's how ULW's Tim May started down the path that eventually lead to ULW's news article and fan submission page having no content for months, as he used the hosting space to stash his illicit collection of clown-based pornography.
"Heya boss." Claudia says, happily and pleasantly, leaping over the back of my chair (custom built to suit my frame and sporting a hole in the back for my tail to stick through). She sits herself down on the armrest and snuggles up to me like a cat wanting to be fed.
Exactly like a cat wanting to be fed. With live mice.
"What do you need, minion?" I say with a fake baddie snarl.
"Oh great and powerful overlord, I wish to feast upon the unborn!" the clown-dragon says, happily and full of sweetness. Because that is definitely something that sounds MORE terrifying when you say it all pleasant and cutesy.
"Get eggs when I'm at the store next, got it." living with Spark in my head for all my life has made me an expert at translating the babble of weird and demented persons.
"So actually I've been thinking…"
Uh oh.
There is seldom anything good that can follow that phrase from either one's dread servitors, insane clowns, and human (well, formally human) women from this world.
"And I'm wondering if you need a bunch of magical energy to open a portal between worlds and get home, why you don't just, you know, go out and do it."
She holds up her hands in a "hold on" gesture.
"Not like drain the planet dry by sucking the life force out of every man, woman, child, and bacterium like some kind of sentai show monster of the week. But like just taking a piece here and a piece there.
"I'm pretty sure someone's made mention of the fact that draining a tenth of a healthy living being's life force every week makes them tired until they go to sleep, but then they basically recharge and go over their maximum, as it were.
"And over time that actually expands their cap and makes them stronger and healthier! So I don't see why you're insistent on seizing a wrestling title belt, in order to convert the stored devotion of the fanbase into raw mana."
Claudia's got bits and pieces of memory from basically everything that's connected to me and my soul. As mentioned, I've got an obnoxiously large amount of soulbound beings connected to me. Add a necromantic artifact and a magical sword, both sentient, to to aforementioned list of hoarded dragon-like critters.
I've been described as the adventurer equivalent to an aircraft carrier.
So she's probably drawing from some magic lesson from Spark, or the Hand of Arimus, or my procedure and safety briefing tapes that I was made to watch as a certified Maintenance Necrotechnician. That's basically a handyman with a goodly amount of necromancy stapled to it. Well, probably stitched, with big, thick threads while a theremin plays in the background.
"Because stealing life force and making sure it doesn't hurt somebody is something that has to be done on an individual basis. It takes twenty minutes and gets you about a…" oh gods, math and unit conversion. Ick, ick, ick.
"Um… I don't think you know the Maladictine Scale for spell power. Let's see, the ten percent is about a week's worth of life force, which is enough to fully animate an equivalent sized mindless undead of the most basic type. Or you can fling a ball of fire twice as far. Three weeks worth will let you double the effective area of the exploding ball of flames. One Mal is about 10,000 minutes worth of human life.
The Maladictine Scale was so named because the Benedictine School of magic, the one that was generally on the side of the Light, tended to not measure things in the equivalent of a sentient life. There had to be a unit of measurement used by the stereotypically "good" guys, but it would probably be like the Imperial system to the Maladictine Scale's Metric system.
I'd bet money it was something obnoxious like the power for one cantrip equals a baby's smile, or a Magic Missile equivalent an angel's fart or something nauseating like that.
"Let's be exceptionally conservative and say UWA has an audience of 1 million people. Your typical title match is about fifteen minutes long, though with skillful promotion, recapping, and a drawn out feud half an hour on a PPV is a good estimate for the amount of time given to a title belt.
"The process isn't a perfect 1:1 transfer, and devotion doesn't scale directly with life force. But suffice to say one midcard title wrestling match seen by a million people all emotionally invested in the struggle? That's about 100 Mals."
"Err… couldn't you blow up the world with that, if 3 Mals can double the size of an explosion?"
"Things tend to work exponentially. Spells tend to be divided into ten classes, with a Class I spell using 1 Mal, a Class II using 2, a Class III using 4, all the way up to a Class X at 512. You can go beyond that, but trying to focus and shape that much power tends to make you explode if you don't do it long and drawn out through a ritual.
"Piercing the veil between one universe and another, and being able to safely move between them is probably another three or four exponents beyond that. So I'd need to spend every waking moment for the next year or so gently pruning people's life force.
"Or I could go full dark side and spent a week ripping it out of people and leave a trail of about a thousand corpses in my wake, which would be about three to four times the body count of the worst serial killer in human history, twice the confirmed kills of the world's best sniper, or the death toll caused by boredom from your typical Lilith Evans promo."
"Well when you put it like that the course of action is obvious!" Claudia says pleasantly.
"Glad you think so. My best shot at getting home is snagging myself a prestigious title with a known history, a long lineage, and matches that are excellent in quality that don't draw the loathing of the fans for being sucky."
"Good thing this isn't the 1980's, boss, with all the run ins, DQ's, count outs, and all that bullshit you'd wouldn't be able to light a lightbulb with the amount of power held in a belt.
"But you don't need to win a title."
I raise a brow "Oh?
She grins, "Yeah. You're problem is that you're basing your calculations on draining the life force from human beings. What would happen if you reached your straw across the room, and started drinking the demonic milkshakes? "
"I swear to the goddess, Claudia, if any of the next hundred words out of your mouth are "boys to the yard" I'm going to get Spark out here to regale you about his DotA 2 exploits."
"Aiiiiyeeeeee!" Claudia screams in absolute horror. "No, I literally mean what I said. I would think immortal beings have a lot more Mals in 'em than your typical one century and done human being."
"It depends on how old the entity is. Your typical demon trash would scarcely net 15 Mals, while something on par with a Pit Lord from back home could net 2k. But something big and nasty enough to be notable to the point where it could be tracked down would likely clock in at 100 or so." I say with a shrug.
"So if you'd started draining demons when you got here and bagged yourself a big baddie once a week, you'd be home by now!"
"I think folks would frown on me assaulting my coworkers and attempting to devour their demons. Hell, at this point I wouldn't be surprised if half of them are just meat suits being run by demonic pilots. In which case the demon'd be my coworker."
"So don't pick off Sinistry goons! Let's go out into the world, see the sights, beat up the nasty beasites, save the peoples, murder some demons, and get you enough juicy juice to go back home!"
I groan.
That sounds an awful lot like adventuring.
I hate adventuring.
-o-
So last week went pretty much as expected. Myra Lynwood with all her tradition hating ways dragged pro wrestling back kicking and screaming to the bygone days of the 1980's where a clean finish was like a majestic sparkling unicorn. A complete and utter non-existent creature.
Because unicorns aren't majestic. They're nasty, garden-ruining abominations who are only into virgins because they think they're easy. They're the douchebag frat bros with popped collars and a red Solo cup permanently affixed to their hands that leave the frat house by swimming through a vat of Axe body spray.
So the spree of poorly trained referees continue, though rather than hurling themselves in front of the 400 pound falling dragoness, instead this one was shoved by my opponent directly into my path.
Myra put her hands on the referee first and I think he was just bitter about getting punted in the face and DQed me because I was the one that did the damage, rather than the one who put him in the position to be hurt in the first place.
Fine. Whatever. It's exactly what I expect from some past her prime, bitter veteran with delusions of grandeur who has discovered that while she was a big fish in a small pond before, the pond is now a lake, and the fish are a hell of a lot bigger. And also bluer. And occasionally firebreathing.
She thinks she's the greatest wrestler in the world, and in the old federations she used to compete in there wasn't really anybody that was skilled enough to dissuade her of the notion. But the moment she decided to step up onto the big stage? She's hopelessly outclassed and has to resort to other means because she can't get the job done.
Just look at the match we had. I've started giving my opponents free reign to do whatever they want to me in the opening minutes of a match. I want them to throw everything they have at me, and grin in glee at the look in their eyes when they realize that it's not going to be enough. That it's never going to be enough.
Myra got to wail on me for a few minutes with a motherfucking sledgehammer. And what did it get her?
Nothing.
The only reason she won the match is because the referee luckily decided to disqualify me instead of her.
For all of her vaunted crusade against rules and tradition, those rules sure saved her skinny white ass, didn't they?
After all, were it no disqualification sh'ed have been forced to submit. Or worse. After all, in a no DQ match I would get to bring out all my fun little toys as well, hmm?
And speaking of fun little toys, it looks like Silencer finally died of a shattered pelvis, or rectal bleeding, of supreme sexual exhaustion, or he went like Mr. Hands did and died, only in his case the horse cock was made of rubber.
'Cause Dante has emerged from his sex dungeon once more and the gimp masked motherfucker is interfering in my matches again.
Habit, maybe?
Or maybe he's just immensely jealous, thinking to himself "How dare this woman interject herself into the special bond that Brandon Vow and I had! A marriage is between one man, locked into a casket and set on fire by another man, how dare a woman interject herself into such a sacred institution, attempting to make a polygamist of my dear fire-husbando Brandon."
While the wannabe Jason Voorhees' return is unexpected, having the Sinistry Junior Varsity Glee Club sicked on me once again was not.
That went exactly as planned. Let the ineffectual mooks hit their weak, feeble, flailing little blows, pretend to be mildly pained by the ordeal, only to wait until they're all lured in close, and then take advantage of their position and inability to escape before I start throwing around minion bodies.
It was raining henchmen in the O2, and the Brits were rather confused since there was something aside from fog and a light drizzle falling from the heavens.
It was fun. If y'all would like to come and have the fuck beat out of you again, you know exactly where and when to find me.
And hell, you're probably going to attempt to jump on me backstage, smack me with a few weapons, and deliver one of those ineffectual "This is what you get for saying bad things about our beloved and feared evil overlords, peace be upon them!" type speeches.
Fair warning, though, I have a lot of experience with the whole on my knees, henchman holding on to each arm, quirky miniboss master leaning down getting face to face to deliver the message up close and personal.
Yeah. Don't do that.
The last guy that did that lost his nose. It was a zone of necromantic empowerment, so it immediately reanimated. I think it's happily bouncing around in a jar somewhere with potpourri in it. It's in my coat pockets somewhere.
That's the trouble with having portal dimensions with seemingly infinite storage space. Sometimes you just absentmindedly stick things in your pockets and forget about them. Or forget where you put them.
Come to think of it, next time my own hench-clown misbehaves, I think I'll have her start taking inventory and organizing my coat pockets.
I'm sure that'll teach her to stop chewing on random passersby and the occasional enhancement talent.
So I'm pretty sure by now everybody's on edge going "Wait a minute, Kalinda sounds happy and contented here. She isn't rage-y and pissed off that she lost and match and had a bunch of batshit-snorting goobers assault her. What exactly is going on here?"
And I'm glad you asked, random inquisitive person that I just made up!
It's because I've started to get the hang of the ins and outs of professional wrestling, the flow of things, the overarching structure, the little bits of story and narrative that pop up again and again.
Because reality, ladies and gentlemen, is a lazy bitch.
Everybody is the hero of their own story, they say, but reality likes to just copy/paste a chunk of text and find/replace to have the names changed to protect the flatulent.
I talked awhile back about this sort of thing the last time I was scheduled to share a ring with one Lilith Evans.
About how in my world we have scenarios that pop up time and time again in the lives of so many different heroes and villains that we actually codify and have names for them.
Lilith Evans is running the Pitiful Thrall, a distressed servant of a dark and sinister power whose situation is unpleasant, though not deadly. She is put through miseries by those of higher rank and of greater power than she, all in order to serve the greater purpose of darkness.
The valiant hero sees her situation, feels sorry for her, attempts to redeem her. Only the thing is that his attempts to turn her away from the dark side, insert your own obscene phone call breathing effect here, are not only known, but they are planned for.
The entire idea is to lure the hero into trusting the poor, feeble, abused Thrall to the Darkness, leaving him open to have a knife stuck in his back at the worst possible moment.
It's a ploy that I've seen done time and time again, and for good reason. After all, all the misery and punishment you're putting her through is real. She's being punished because she's incapable of living up to the Evil Overlord's expectations. So instead of going "You have failed me for the last time," snapping her neck, throwing her into a pit, and putting her corpse to good use as part of an Undead Horde, the Overlord instead uses her ineffectiveness for his own purposes.
After all, if the ploy succeeds they have a shot at not only offing the hero, but even if he only comes away with minor injuries there's going to be scars left on his soul. A little seed of doubt planted that will just wait until the water of distrust is sprinkled upon it, and a little root comes out that says "Are you going to betray me too?"
A tiny little seed can blossom into a thriving tree of madness and paranoia that will bear a hardy crop of fruit for the Darkness. The hero may break bonds with his allies, lash out against them, or in a fit of despair proclaim "You are all against me," facilitating a turn to the Darkness of their own.
So much to gain and so little to lose.
After all, if the Pitiful Thrall does in fact decide that she wants to be saved, that she wants to be redeemed, that she wants to walk on the path of the Light, what difference is it going to make to the Overlord?
All it costs him is an underling that wasn't capable of performing her assignments in a satisfactory way, necessitating her punishment that invokes compassion in the hero's eyes in the first place.
It might even be a desired outcome. After all, the Thrall is most certainly weaker than the hero, and the natural heroic urges and tendencies will be to attempt to shield her from further harm, pain, and suffering even if the hero has to take the blows meant for the Thrall in her place.
In acting with compassion towards the Pitiful Thrall, the hero in fact puts himself in a position of weakness. He opens himself to betrayal, and even in the case of a true defection, will have to protect the turncoat against the Dark. He gains an ally, yes, but he also gains an albatross around his neck.
I've said time and time again, ladies and gentlemen, that I am not a hero. And that it sickens me that there are so many scummy, shitty people in pro wrestling that I look like a shining paragon of virtue in comparison.
I am frequently pleasant, often silly, and do not take the world with such excessive seriousness that I look upon each and every moment of misfortune as a personal slap in the face from the dick of destiny.
And because of this I'm thought of as this starry-eyed dreamer with unrealistic expectations for reality when she sees "One on one match, Willow Wilkes vs. Kalinda Kriegsdottir," and is upset when that becomes Kalinda versus Willow and Lenore Price-Mason, or Willow and Dante, or Willow wearing Dante's mask and riding on his shoulders, chicken fight style.
I'm now picturing Dante and Willow as Master Blaster from Beyond Thunderdome. And now you are too.
Unlike SOME PEOPLE I could mention who throw fits about how unfair it is that "me and my opponent in a cage" remained "me and my opponent in a cage" when myself and others saw fit to make sure that the playing field was nice, even, and fair.
And honestly, I get it. I understand it. I'm a foot or two taller than most of the UWA roster. I weigh in at two to three times the amount of your average wrestler here in the UWA. I'm big, I'm scary, I'm different.
I'm not just another douchebag with an over-inflated ego screaming "I'M IMPORTANT, PAY ATTENTION TO ME WORLD!"
You come into work expecting more of the same, and when you find something radically different than what you're used to, you lash out.
You go "How dare this person be different than me! How dare she be unique! How dare she not fit perfectly right into my comfort zone!"
So the cheating happens. The mass attacks happen.
I've said it before and I'll say it again, this sport looks like somebody went and grabbed the local mental health facility on Bring Your Narcissist to Work Day, tipped it over, and dumped it into a box marked "professional wrestling."
If you sit down and start counting the number of people on this roster without some sort of obvious and blatant personality disorder, you're not even going to need both hands. Do that for the number of wrestlers who at the very least ought to be on some kind of medication or ought to be outright institutionalized?
Time to break out the scientific notation.
People look at me, then they look at the rest of the roster, and they go "Wow. However could somebody possibly stand up to her in a fair fight?"
And the answer is that they can't. So no one will ever give me a fair fight.
Put me in the ring with Willow Wilkes on the first night of the company's new life separate from the IWC? Yeah, there's going to be interference there.
Every single match I've ever had with Willow Wilkes has had somebody butt in on her behalf.
No surprises there.
Show number two? Put together a nice tournament bracket to get yourself a pair of number one contenders to the World Championship? Oh, I know, let's pair up all the people who have held world titles in the past and those on the cusp of competing for such a prestigious title on their own.
Okay, we've done all that, got ourselves some nice, pretty pairings. Now, who do we have left? Oh, it's that fucking blue dragon lady. Jesus, she looks like she could pick up half the roster without even trying, and use it to bludgeon the other half of the roster to death.
We can't have that freak of nature ruining our nice, clean, perfectly normal human title tournament. Let's stick her with Lilith Evans.
Lilith Evans, the little Sinistry henchwoman who has done her job so poorly that her Evil Overlord has heaped punishment on her time and time again for her repeated failures.
She's never, ever going to qualify for a World title shot on her own. We make her the weak link so that we can get this huge blue thing out of the damned tournament immediately. I mean what's she going to do? Make herself look like a selfish bitch by wrestling the entire fucking match on her own?
When was the last time you saw a real and proper tag team match happen where one of the participants didn't even get tagged in? Off the top of my head, I can remember exactly two that happened on Pay Per View in the past 30 years.
Doing that makes you look like a cripple or a complete and utter scumbag.
And last week? Last week I wasn't pinned, I didn't submit, I wasn't counted out. I lost because some minuscule white tart who is starting her midlife crisis ten years early realized that I was going to kick her pretty little head into the second balcony and shoved the referee in the way to save herself.
That's something that can happen to anybody.
So my UWA record is 0 and 2, and it looks like shit.
But the thing is, I've lost matches, but I haven't been beaten.
In fact you go and you look at every match I've ever had.
You'll find that every single loss I've ever had required somebody to cheat, somebody on the outside to help, some incompetent referee to ruin the match for me and for the fans watching me.
I lose matches, ladies and gentlemen.
But I don't lose fights.
I told you that I'm not a nice person, and that's going to be made evident in this match.
Lilith Evans robbed me of my World Title shot by being the weaker link in our team. The Pitiful Thrall is going to be made all the more pitiful when I inflict pain and punishment upon her that makes the disciplinary beatings the Sinistry gave her for her failure seem like a luxurious massage.
And of course that's not going to stand for Darko.
He's put so much work in trying to save her from the Sinistry, and from herself, that he's going to take exception to me trying to twist off her head like a pop top.
I'm being put in this match because everybody knows that nobody can stand up to me one on one. So they're not going to give me one opponent. They're going to give me three.
Two men and one woman, thrown in my way to bar my progress, to keep me away from the important parts of the United Wrestling Alliance. They're counting on the fact that my opponents are not stupid, and that I'm the most dangerous threat in this elimination match, so it would be in their best interest to gang up on me and get me out of the way first.
On the bright side the winner of this match gets contendership for the X-Limits Title, held by one Alana Starr, whom I last recall as one of an endless series of black-eyed, demon infested, frankenhookers in the IWC.
She's apparently married fuckin' Porno Lad since I left that infernal shitheap of a wrestling federation, so I don't know if that'd be considered a step up or a step down. I'd honestly have to think about that one.
On one hand, searing flames of perdition endlessly scorching your flesh.
On the other hand, having to have sex with Ethan von Aaron. I mean that guy's got a personality so unpleasant he has to slip himself the date rape drug to jerk off.
Fine.
When the UWA fucks around with me they at least have the common courtesy to put on a rubber, lube me up, and give me the occasional reach around. ULW wouldn't even let me get my pants off before they brought out the spiked dildo on the end of a jackhammer.
All I want is a fair fight. All I want to do is prove myself to the world by taking apart any and every professional wrestler that gets in the way between me and the World Heavyweight Championship.
But no one will let me.
I have to fight in tag teams.
I have to put up with incompetent referees and cheating girls with big hammers and even bigger daddy issues.
I have to compete against three other wrestlers, who would have to be mentally fucking deficient if they didn't all gang up and eliminate me first.
Fine.
I'll do that.
Maybe if I brutalize three members of the UWA roster in the same match and eliminate them by throwing them all in a big pile in the middle of the ring it'll earn me some respect around here.
But I fucking doubt it.
Anyway! So, Gavin Taylor, you may be sitting there wondering "What about me? When are you going to get to the good part and talk about me?"
You're not on my shitlist yet, Gavin. So thus far you're the person in this match I like the most, and even though you're basically the human equivalent of a sparkling, decidedly non-majestic unicorn.
I don't like Evans because she cost me a world title match by being moderately "the suck."
I don't like Darko because he's got a bit of a hero complex and has been trying to save Evans, and is going to get in the way when I beat the fuck out of her for screwing up my World title shot.
That is unless you also decide to be an unoriginal motherfucker and make it three for three with the gods-damned Game of Thrones references.
Fuck off with your Game of Thrones bullshit. Those aren't dragons. Those are fucking wyverns. They're motherfucking snakes with motherfucking delusions of grandeur. They can fuck right off with their wings as forelimbs and their two legs.
Dragons have four legs. Wyverns have two. Wyrms have none.
I know you don't actually have any of the damned things around to helpfully incinerate your bastions of higher learning when a fumble fingered professor screws up the nomenclature, but for fuck's sake the information's out there.
Read a book, read a book, read a motherfucking book!
Brush your teeth, brush your teeth, brush your goddamned teeth!
So, Gavin, ol buddy, ol pal, you can just sit nicely on the turnbuckle in the corner and watch me beat the fuck out of Lilith Evans by swinging Danny Darko around by the legs, using him as a dark and mysterious meat-bludgeon.
That is unless you decide you want to join the Too Stupid To Know What a Dragon Is club and bring up that one goddamn show!
Does HBO send a guy around with a check to tongue your buttholes every time you mouth-breathing bags of boogers mention their show, huh?
And if you want to keep your eyeballs in your head, Taylor, don't fucking mention Lord of the Rings.
BECAUSE THAT'S A FUCKING WYVERN TOO!
And the first one of you that goes "Oh, Kalinda, you're not a dragon, you don't have wings!"
VIRGIN MARY AND HER OVERUSED CLOCKWORK MOTHERFUCKING VIBRATOR!
I haven't fully gone through draconic puberty yet! OF COURSE I DON'T FUCKING HAVE WINGS!
Not a word out of you on the matter, Taylor. Not a single fucking word.
It'd be like looking at a three year old and going "Well it doesn't have knockers the size of its head! It must be a boy, a dur hur hur!"
I will rip off Lilith Evans' tits and attach them with hot glue and motherfucking staples to any ignorant piece of shit that ever so much as HINTS at that particular argument.
Do we have a fucking understanding here?
Good.
Oh, and Gavin? You're going to asphyxiate on your own severed dick if you come into my garden and eat my tomatoes.
Fuckin' popped collar Axe body spray unicorn frat boy motherfuckers.
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