Book of Q: Mars, Chapter 2, Quaddle's Cut
The Fluffy Pillow Inn was a derelict,
squalorous, shambling hulk of its former, merely dirty and broken glory. The
vermin was mostly unionized and challenged guests for even the most basic of
privileges. The rats had taken to cooking and most nights you would have to
endure a family BBQ, hoping everyone would start returning to their own holes
after midnight. But no. Let's play popular bardic industrial music until 3 AM,
because it isn't like I wouldn't like to be anywhere else but trapped in the
lone surviving accommodation in North Side Villages. The front desk was
"managed" by a lecherous concierge who would negotiate people into
press gangs and adult films for cash on the side. Tory Kirksbottom was as mean
and opportunistic a creature as was ever created in the known realms. The night
shift was a lonely gig, peppered with desperation, deception, and lust. On this
particular night things got interesting around 2 AM, when a leggy overly-tall
coal black brunette walked in sporting a tasteful bag, massive sunglasses, and
an indecently vivid v-necked open backed gown/weapon. She wore her costume
armor like liquid diamond.
"How much for a room in this trash
heap?" she asked.
Tory was taken aback, but not unwilling to
play ball.
"300 dollars." said Tory,
"We're really booked up."
The lady laughed out loud.
"Does the room come with a brace of
pistols and a pound of drugs? No no, I didn't know it was comedy hour. For
reals, what's up here?" asked the lady, looking into her bag for
something.
Tory laughed.
"Well, madam, The Fluffy Pillow Inn is
not only the finest temporary residence in this fair subdivision, but it is
also the only." Tory turned the guest book around, "Monopoly has
privileges."
She knew he would die soon, anyhow, so let
him win this little battle. She signed and Tory turned the book around with
intense curiosity.
"Mrs. Chickendiaper?" asked Tory,
"Q.P. Chickendiaper?"
"My people are in poultry. Key."
It was all business. She took the key and
went to her room. Once safely locked inside, the lady removed a complex box
that bathed the room in an unnaturally pleasant light. Safe from prying eyes,
Quaddle removed his ring of illusion and returned to looking like a tragically
old, one eyed, one handed, broke and broken pan-dimensional space pirate. He
opened his bag of holding and removed his pipe and his Smoking Jacket of
Greater Lice Resistance.
The room, though bathed in a healing/protective
light, was still a horror show of tacky roughing up unhygienic. People had died
in this room. And created. And every dirty and terrible act in between. He
wished he would have brought his proper bag of holding but he was unwilling to risk
losing that much power into the worlds. He was just here for one day, to get
his cut, and then it was off to Earth, the Bahamas, and his singularly
fantastic retirement ship. If the numbers fell out as he was told they would,
he would be a multi trillionaire. He was glad to be done with it all. The
universe was falling apart and fighting to keep it clambering farther and
farther away from itself was tiring and tragic.
He had saved the known universe at least twice now and he was due a big fat check. He didn't mind that no one would ever know that he saved everyone once, let alone the second long shot he had pulled off. He didn't mind the personal things he had sacrificed, his health, his love, his sanity, leg, and eye. He didn't mind that his entire society was so stepped and entrenched with obscurity and secrecy that even his closest friend would gladly murder him for enough money, or sex, or drugs, or amusement. It was that kind of universe. There were constants between the verses, that created a universe out of the infinite multiverses. One of the sadder truths he had found was that life was cheap everywhere. The glory of crawling from the primordial ooze is short lived, and somehow a predator has evolved before you, and most are eaten at the start line. Everyone gets eaten by something. Some are enlightened enough to realize that ending up as tygre poop is just part of a larger and more important system and that no one thing could possibly understand (much less appreciate) it. Most people develop weapons and kill all the wildlife. Another sad and damning constant. Everywhere people were shitty to one another and largely trying to survive. Everywhere they tried to distance themselves from the animals they had come to dominate. Everywhere eating, breeding, and pooping was an equally gross and disgusting process. Consumption was all the same and the only thing that changes is what to consume? The hallmark of a great society is the quality and quantity of drug they produce, and how people enjoy them. Quaddle loved Earth, because all of the laws were insane. The larger formula read something like; if you are rich, you can afford to create a unique chemical to do whatever you like such as making you happy or getting rid of toenail fungus, and it can kill you, or give you a stroke, or eat your brain away, and this is fine. He had once taken a pill to help him sleep and woken up at the controls of a passenger jet. Thank Gods for co-pilots and fly by wire navigation. Another time he had been on a world called Zoth and their rules for drugs were very clear. They were: Do a lot of them and then do fun things. He had spent an entire decade dung painting a kind of buffalo that roamed their plains. Life was weird and short. Another two constants that bridge the many habitable and somewhat civilized worlds.
Northside was not a civilized place. The
runoff population from the infamous Southside School For Heroes meant that the
area was a broken wreck of sad, failed, cruel despots, running rough shod over
the impoverished indigenous folk that the land had been expropriated from. The
school churned out one of two things: a hero or a normal. The life of a normal
is predictable. When the school tells you there is nothing within you, nor the
ability to train away the lack of talent, you are done for. The trajectory of
your life is terminal. Most simply kill themselves in fun and interesting ways.
It’s the honorable thing to do. Suicide helmets are a commonplace, humane, and
perfectly fun way to safely jump off the world. Otherwise, it’s a matter of
killing yourself in other amusing ways. Studies conducted by Mudlander Academy
had found a reaction similar to "Fight versus Flight" but entirely
singular in motivation towards unbridled personal rejection they titled the
"Take Everyone Down With Me" effect. Notably failed alumni of the
school have melted nuns, slaughtered children's literature, and murder-suicided
entire towns in the wake of their tragic hubris. Better to end in comedy and
violence than to live forever bathed in the shame of normality.
Quaddle never applied to the school for
that very reason. He didn't need an academic behind a desk to tell him how to
live. Character Sheet. Leveling. It was all just a pyramid scheme that was
almost as bad as college. He had a bachelor of science in Theater Arts from a
no-name state college that he could do nothing with. Nothing but sing racist
operettas by Gilbert and Sullivan. And what was that worth? Community theater
didn't pay and the sea was soon to die. He lived as he wanted, but needed the
money to finish on a high note. He was tired of wandering around the worlds,
always looking for the next wish to be fulfilled. He was so sore, and tired,
and broken, but he still felt good (some days). He was gripped with existential
crisis knowing he had saved everyone only to watch them devour the remaining
goodness for sport. His ship was large enough to be an ark, built only for
himself and the few things that remained to him of value. Living out his days
among the whispering coconuts and the delicious mango.
The massive party next door made it
impossible to sleep. The Fluffy Pillow had really taken a dive. What a gross
dump of a place to have to spend a night. It was however (as the man had said)
the only place. All the power of the dimensions at his fingertips yet still
unwilling to use it as a convenience. It wasn't all fun and games, like in the
movies and cartoons he had seen on the subject. There was no bright door
spilling forth, or flash of light, or blur of vision. Space/time traveling
between worlds was like blasting between airlocks of spaceships locked in
combat. Changing dimensions was like a bird being released from a cage several
fathoms underwater. The unprepared die terribly, unable to comprehend the
ultimate dangers. There is a dimension of bees. Quaddle knew that The Gods were
crazy and no greater evidence had he seen proved it than the dimension of bees.
Not bee people, or bee society, but an endless sterile white infinity filled
with dense clouds of starving/angry immortal bees. No doubt a well thought out
hell for some maniac that murdered someone some time. He didn't want to know.
What he knew was that there were worse things than a gross hotel. Just then the
door opened and Tory, holding a camera, looked back at a gang of men, suddenly
confused. It became pretty obvious to any reasonable person what the game was.
It appeared that Tory had charged so much a head to incapacitate and run the train
on Mrs. Chickendiaper. But seeing an infuriated, drug smoking old person was
not what Tory had expected. Now there was the hallway of horny, coked up nazis
behind him, and the man with the-
"What THE!?" Tory exclaimed,
before grasping at the knife hilt deep in his chest.
"You die now and go to bee hell!"
said Quaddle, before seeing the hallway full of nazis. He threw Tory to the
ground and arterial blood erupted over the cheap carpet.
How to play it? Quaddle hated nazis most of
all. Refused to capitalize the vulgar word.
Unfortunately Hitler was just crazy enough
to get his hands on a dimension door and evacuated several key members of his
staff and himself before the fall. No bee hell for him; Hitler was still out
there somewhere, churning out this lost generation of idiot rapist that had to
be dealt with in no uncertain terms.
"Look, you sick fucks. You can all try
to rape me, but I'll kill every last one of you. You don't have to believe me
to understand me." Quaddle wished he had not smoked so many drugs before
having to deal with this shit. "Suffice to say that I travel with a sexy
lady illusion in order to get discounts at hotels, but this pig fucker
obviously doesn't play ball. So, you can all turn around and leave by the time
I count to three... or else."
No one moved. Quaddle looked a little
swarthy and nazis were the most idiotic of fanatics.
"Well, there you go." Quaddle
said, before dropping the armed grenade and slamming the door.
The door was blasted off the rusted hinges,
several holes were torn through the wall, and most importantly a whole lot of Nazis
were killed and maimed. Those who survived clutched unto stub limbs and coughed
up blood. He wished he had time to watch them die, but grenade blasts were sure
to bring down the heat sooner than later. He did take the time to put on the
ring of illusion and look sexy as hell before stepping over the dead and dying.
"You die and go to the hells, you
ignorant swine." said Quaddle, kicking someone in their stub leg.
There was a while when he had not killed
people. Swore it off for many years. He had believed that every life was a
sacrosanct bond with the universe. He even avoided killing insects (if at all
possible). He tried to maintain the sense of miraculous wonder that anything
should exist, let alone everything. He yearned to grasp the enlightened
mentality that claimed every being a God and every act divine. But it was hard,
because people were so terrible to one another and it wore on him. In his
pacifism apathy rose where tyranny once stood. Mediocrity became a virtue and
excellence a sin. Northside was as apt an example of the sickness he found in
the universe. Wandering the streets as an attractive woman drew slurs and
vulgarity of every kind. Those who reached out to grasp at him never got their
fingers back. Of the many magic rings he owned over the years, his knife ring
was still his favorite. There is very little a person can't kill with a knife
and maiming and killing terrible people was fun and easy. Much easier than
reaching towards a light that never existed.
After several hours of wandering the
streets and maiming perverts Quaddle snorted some wildly effective amphetamines
and headed downtown. The bank opened predictably and he would be waiting. He
got an odd look or two as he watched the early staff arrive and begin their
daily tasks. After a period of time he saw who he was looking for. He crossed
the street and intercepted a small and terrified looking man wearing spectacles
and a suit he had obviously slept in. His watery eyes went wide when he saw the
leggy brunette bee line straight at him. Unprepared with any sort of zany
opening line he struggled to remember what a normal person would say.
"Please don't hurt me. I don't have
any real money." said Percival, covering his face and eyes.
"You quivering idiot, take me to your
office." said Quaddle, not willing to be messed with.
Percival did not have the spine to refuse
and so led the lady past a variety of questioning stares into his small office;
a cluttered and stuffy room packed as if by unwell rats. Percival nobly swept
aside a pile of coffee stained receipts from a dirty and uncomfortable seat
before collapsing behind his desk and mounting a sad and desperate search for
booze and mints. Quaddle drew the moldy curtains closed and (coughing) removed
his illusion. Percival spit out a warm load of mouthwash he had intended to
swallow before skittering into the corner to pee.
"Please don't kill me... or do. Please
do, but don't make it hurt... or do." said Percival, clawing at the wall
in desperate confusion.
Quaddle knew it was going to be bad. He
didn't expect a bandstand with a man holding an oversized check for infinite
trillion dollars. But. Having negotiated and lost vast fortunes to the crushing
wheels of fate, Quaddle knew that it was never that easy. Rather it would be (as
with most things) an ugly torturous orgy of blood, chaos, and retribution.
"Sit down, Percy. I'm not going to
kill you." said Quaddle, stuffing an expensive smoke between his frowning
lips, "Killing you wouldn't make me any money and it wouldn't make me feel
better. So just sit down and relax... hey, you have any more mouthwash?"
"That was my last." said Percival,
beginning to cry.
"No... no! Stop that shit. Here, check
this out." Quaddle pulled from his tasteful handbag a bottle of bourbon,
"You like to drink, yes? This is very special. This is a very special
bottle of liquor. Bourbon. Have you ever had that before?"
"No... I don't think so." said
Percival, "Is it French?"
"Well... the word is, I think. But the
whiskey comes from America." said Quaddle, "It's a place in Kentucky.
Terrible place to live. Nothing to do but drink and so here it is. This
particular bottle is 100 years old."
Quaddle produced a glass and poured a few
fingers before swirling the golden contents around. Percival didn't know what
it was, but it smelled like something in the neighborhood of a flaming wooden
barrel.
"Where is the money, Percy?"
asked Quaddle, "What did you do with all of my money?"
Percy wanted so bad to explain it and he
tried. There was no holding out on people, anymore. For who? The owner of the
bank? That being a merchant who just happened to have more money than most
Gods, because those Gods owed him such and such in gold, or favors, or
whatever. Quaddle cut his magic teeth on besting genies out of their wishes.
Such a task is not beyond someone with a crystal clear understanding of
language, irony, and slavery. Of these things, Quaddle was all too familiar.
But there was something else altogether, when it came to Sail.
Sail is what he called himself, but Sale
could also be a spelling, and maybe even Sala. He (like Quaddle) had many names
between many worlds. He was always there when you needed to lease a barely
functioning wagon yet never when it failed and gets you imprisoned. Always
there when you needed a gun, but refused to sell bullets because of an abiding
respect for life. Unlike Death, who could always be cheated through a clever
challenge or a triple bypass, no one ever bested Sail. He would never play a
game over a bill. He would simply give it to you, and you would pay it, or more
than likely something terrible would happen to you. Maybe right then. Maybe in
a day or two? Inevitably it would come. Tragedy beyond all reckoning,
manifested from the very energy of entrophy itself. If there are only two
certainties in the universe (death and taxes) then surely Sail is the taxman
cometh.
When Quaddle helped save the world (the
most recent time) he was on Earth, and as a result of his efforts was able to
afford not only a considerable nest egg of valuable rare metals recycled from
the world war, but also proprietary rights for pan-dimensional multi-cast. It
was an emerging technology that allowed infinite tangential universes from a
predetermined perspective. The pitch Sail had given him was "Every War
Game". A virtual reality platform that would fully and realistically
insert you as a member of any known war in the recorded history of the
multi-verse. Quaddle could hear the pitch so clearly, and understood so
beautifully how it could work. Pocket dimensions broadcasting players into
castrated universes of brutality and meaning. Be an archer at Agincourt. Stand
with Henry on Saint Crispin's Day. Fire a cannon at Waterloo. But for who?
Maybe things would have turned out differently, had you been there? Command a
tank in the generals rank, while the Blitzkrieg reins. Or fly, far above, in
jets and bombers, and ships, and airships, and spaceships, and whatever. Blah
blah blah your very own world war for 1% of blah blah blah.
"One trillion dollars!!! I have given
your boss!!! AND I WAS TOLD IT WOULD BE SEVERAL TRILLION BY NOW!?!?!?"
said Quaddle, wondering how he was ever going to get his space program off the
ground, "Where did it go? Where COULD it all go? Is it here?"
Quaddle peered between the curtains, but
Percival pulled him back.
"It's no use, Quaddle. The vaults are
all empty. I could give you every key to every drawer and the best you could
find would be used gum. They stopped robbing us probably 10 years ago, because
they understood that we had no money." said Percival, reaching for the
glass, "I don't get paid. I would be out in the cold, right now, if I
wasn't the president of this bank. I don't know who those people are."
"What do you mean, you don't know who
those people are?" asked Quaddle.
"I mean, I don't know who any of those
people are. I've been trying to find out who the other person with keys is. If
you find them... I can pay you handsomely." said Percival.
"You just said you have no money!"
said Quaddle.
"There are other ways of arranging
payment, you know." said Percival, gently rubbing a nipple.
"You sick fiend! Get off of me!"
said Quaddle, "You think you can hand job your way back from a trillion
dollars!? Even at a $1,000 hand job you would be masturbating me on 18 hour
shifts for 10 lifetimes!!! And I wouldn't give you ANY dollars for a hand job!
Nothing! So, you do the math..."
Percival was still trying to prostitute
himself but nothing seemed to be working. The best he could say was that he had
not been arrested, trying. He tried to blame his charisma but it was far worse
than that. He had branched out, looking for a number of other careers, after
his degree in vocal performance proved to be entirely worthless. He was a
swordsman for a time, but never any good. A retailer, a lumberjack, a butcher,
and now, finally, a banker. He knew that he had never been any good at any of
the things he had done or he would have met with happiness, or success. Going
into the bank every day. Trapping and cooking vermin to survive. Eating paper
and wood when even the rats were scarce. He realized in the most recent winter,
when cannibalism became a casual affair among the last of accounting, that he
needed a new job. From a handful of potential careers he was ready to take
prostitute off the list.
"Hey... aren't you the greatest
pirate, ever?" asked Percival.
"What about it!?" snarled
Quaddle, on the verge of frenzy.
"Well, I was wondering if you had any
job openings? In your jolly crew?" asked Percival.
"I had a boat made specifically not to
need a crew, you moron. To not need a crew, you dig?" said Quaddle,
"So why would I want to bring you along? You probably don't even know
Gilbert and Sullivan."
From a place of deep knowledge and
yearning, Percival summoned the words to his voice and sang, bright and loud
into the office at large;
"I am the very model of a modern
Major-General, I've information vegetable, animal, and mineral, I know the
kings of England, and I quote the fights historical From Marathon to Waterloo,
in order categorical; a I'm very well acquainted, too, with matters mathematical,
I understand equations, both the simple and quadratical, About binomial theorem
I'm teeming with a lot o' news, (bothered for a rhyme) With many cheerful facts
about the square of the hypotenuse!!!"
Quaddle shook his head in disappointment.
"You suck at singing, kid. You should
probably just kill yourself and give the insurance to charity." said
Quaddle.
Percival knew he had really butchered it
and that he had no insurance.
"Well, I'm sorry about your trillion
dollars. You're welcome to fill out a comment card." said Percival,
desperate for a mint.
"Oh no you don't, you mincing troll.
You're going to tell me where I can find him." said Quaddle, death in his
eyes.
"Oh, I don't know that, you know that.
No one knows that. It's forbidden. He comes and goes, and goes away for whole
centuries, if you need him. You know this. All of this" said Percival,
working towards the corner, "Besides, I'm in rough shape. Probably better
not to join your pirate crew, anyhow."
Quaddle was tired and angry. He had to poop
even though he had not eaten in a good long while.
"FINE! Fine... you can join my jolly
crew... for now." said Quaddle, uncertain at what he was saying.
From deep within himself Percival summoned
the remains of his pride, pushed it into the corner, picked it up with shaky
hands and snorted it. Symbolically, and as drug-rich dust and mouse feces coating
the room. Opening a cabinet he withdrew his adventuring gear consisting of a
standard adventurer's kit and a +1 stage foil that was not entirely rusted.
"Yo ho." said Quaddle.
"Is there an initiation of any
kind?" asked Percival.
"You are to sacrifice your life to me
and when you die I will take you to heaven with me." said Quaddle.
"Is that true?" asked Percival.
"Maybe. Guy said it to me too, once. I
guess we'll see. Don't let them see you cry." said Quaddle.
They exited the bank and a massive mob of
nazis barred their way with machine guns and sabers. There were about 50
crammed into the courtyard of the bank with snipers on every roof. Above,
gyrocopters made regular strafing runs of candy over the ululating children
that ran to and fro, desperate to see the last of nazi justice. Quaddle knew he
was going to get killed here, with this failed banker. They had the drop on
him. He could never get into the magical purse fast enough to kill every nazi
with a machine gun, because there were just so many. A true Blitzkrieg. Their
leader exited the command tank and made his way forward, removing his gunner’s
goggles and helmet. Quaddle spit in contempt. Trump. Donald John Trump.
The suicide ring was always an option. One
thing to note about Quaddle was that he could only wear five rings (at the
most) because his right hand was a phantom. It looked and operated like a hand,
but that was because it was a magical hand (trapped in a Luke Skywalker glove)
that Quaddle would attach to his stump (occasionally switching out for the
combat hook). You would never give that hand a magical ring because it would
more than likely kill you with it. Even the simplest of magic could be turned
against you and indeed it was only through a supreme force of will (and an
abiding respect) that the ghost hand continued to work for Quaddle at all. It
only wanted to rest, with the rest of wherever the handless ghost was haunting.
Quaddle didn't like thumb rings and so he only had four rings; ring of
illusion, suicide ring, knife ring, sword ring. With the f-tang born of 1,000
felled and forgotten corpses, Quaddle's miraculous rapier sprang into his hand.
"Come on, Trump! You crass rapist!
Let's dance the dance of death, once more!" said Quaddle.
"I killed Guy ManCock, and I'm going
to enjoy killing you here, in front of these great white men." said Trump,
starting to angrily jerk his chainsword to life.
“I don’t even know who that is!?” said
Quaddle, trying to gain a verbal upper hand.
"What do I do?" asked Percival.
"Try not to shit towards me as you
die." said Quaddle, donning the Italian Prime.
The chainsword roared to life and Quaddle thrust
forward in earnest. The key to fighting someone with any sort of chain weapon
is distance. Stay out of the whirling blades of death and work the face and
neck with small crucial strikes of cruel precision. Mensur fencers would stuff
horsehair into their wounds as badges of honor. Quaddle didn't trust a
swordsperson with scars. Trump would tire soon (he could not whirl that
chainsword around for long) and then he would have them both shot like dogs.
But it was nice to be alive and fighting
Trump for now. To be able at last to force his rage into the world. He focused
it through his blade which he held aloft as a clever fisherman. It was a
complex tactic deep within the 12 Apocryphal Disciplines of Pacifist
Aggression. "The Fishers of Men" is a defensive stance that demands
your opponent keep their sword at shoulder level or above. Protected by the
saints Peter and Andrew, the fishers who would die on crosses inverted and
crossed. Trump began to get tired of trying to kill Quaddle with his
chainsword. He was inhaling a lot of fumes. Despite his best efforts, Quaddle
had cut him in his hideous face a number of times. He had enough. He stepped
back and throttled down his sword.
"It's been fun..." said Trump,
winded and red, "But I think I'm going to have them load the candy guns
with ordinance. Any last words?"
Quaddle thought of a few as he closed the
distance in the time it took for Trump to avert his eyes. The knife went into
his fat orange neck gently (like a kiss). Quaddle tore the hairpiece away and
shoved it into his own nose, smelling the damp chemical odor of dying trash.
Nazi guns cocked, cannons locked, and Quaddle smiled, waiting to be liquefied.
It was a weird life. Just thenVentola arrived from on high in his solar
dirigible, reigning vaporizing laser fire on every nazi on the block. Quaddle
coughed on corpse ash and gave Ventola the thumbs up. Surely V would give him a
ride.
"Get on before the police show
up!" said Ventola, tossing down a rope ladder.
Quaddle leapt a few rungs up to give
Percival enough room and to his credit he made his dexterity check with flying
colors. A brief climb into the gondola and the three men were gaining a
dizzying amount of altitude in a brief amount of time. Like an elevator taking
hundreds of floors in shuddering, terrifying seconds. Percival's rectum
clenched to the size of a pinhead and everyone's ears rang and popped with the
in-cabin pressurization.
"Stupid gyrocopters. Use helicopters
like reasonable people." said Ventola, offering his new passengers seats
and coffee, "Stupid nazis. Hate em. Cool tanks tho."
Ventola took a sip of his tepid coffee and
walked to the con, a complex series of wheels and joysticks too complex to
begin wondering at. Quaddle looked around, not sure exactly how he was able to
walk away from that certain death so fantastically and completely.
"Nice dirigible, what do you call
her?" asked Quaddle.
"The Air Ship Elizabeth. Welcome
aboard." said Ventola, gesturing ironically.
"Who are you!?" asked Percival,
reeling.
"This is Ventola, Percival. He saved
the worlds with me once." said Quaddle.
"At LEAST once...” corrected Ventola,
"And we have to do it again, I'm afraid."
"No! I'm done, saving worlds! Nothing
is worth saving. I'm a nihilist, now." said Quaddle.
"Look, I don't like the universe
anymore than you do, Q. But where else are you going to live? You know?"
asked Ventola, "What would be the point of saving the world, the first few
times, just to let it get shut down by some unknown force."
"I see your point, but I don't have to
like it." said Quaddle.
"Hey, what happened to the
accent?" asked Ventola.
"It was always an act in order to
avoid description to authorities." said Quaddle.
"Ah, sure. Makes sense." said
Ventola.
"Yeah, sorry." said Quaddle.
"This is just going to be a lot
harder, without your whimsical, vaguely ethnic accent providing color
commentary to otherwise terrible and dire situations." opined Ventola.
"It was probably racist. Appropriative
at least. Luckily Percival here is my bardic swashbuckling companion and a
mediocre-at-best singer." said Quaddle, "Go on, Percy. Sing us a
jaunty little ‘saving the world’ tune."
Percy took a deep breath, and slaughtered
"A Wandering Minstrel I" like a blind mooncow.
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