Wheezy Warlock
A Tarry Eyed Farewell
Garn, the Wheezy Warlock, was knee-deep in his usual hobbies. Drinking too much ale, shouting random phrases that Only made sense to him. If asked about one, the listener would be in for a world of nonsense, the likes of which could shake the most gullible cult leader. Finally, his primary effort in life; Indeed his sole aim! Was to smoke. That. Bloody. Pipe.
Each night as he walks in, the barmaid huffs. Dammea, who is known by her friends and regulars as Dame, rushes to open every window and crank the fireplace flue wide open. Anything to rid her alehouse of the fetid stink coming off that. Bloody. Pipe. Oh well, at least he's not like Old Man Baner, whom we will try to avoid.
Garn: HACK, WHEEZE, GURGLE...
Garn: "Dame, my only friend! How are you?"
Dame: "Heh. I'd be a lot better if I could HEAR YOU over the BLOODY. COUGHING!!!"
Garn: COUGH, COUGH, HACHHH!!!
Dame: "Ok, now you're just doing it on purpose."
Garn, knowing this conversation could go nowhere pleasant, simply laid down his silver,
muttering something about a tanker of ale. He takes his time to prepare the next disgusting
pile of random plants he collects all day for consumption. The regulars have already grown quiet
upon seeing Garn, resigned to yet another night of cold zephyrs and warm pints.
Upon receiving his flagon of stale, warm brew ( Dame was many things, but never picky + always frugal ),
Garn eagerly begins to puff rather amorously, and making 1 or 2 ( or most of ) the patrons deeply
uncomfortable. After a few moments, everyone in the room began to emit coughs, suffer the occasional
gag, and all were possessed of a definite lack of appetite. Strangely enough, nobody... Not even
the mother currently breast-feeding an infant, bothered to scream, yell, or so much as lift a
finger in defiance against the odious fumes being produced by Garn.
That was, until a soldier wearing an ungodly assortment of golden badges with a moustache to
dwarf the bushiest bramble in the forest kicked the door in with a horse. A really, REALLY,
!@#$%^&*()ING TERRIFYINGLY LARGE HORSE!!!
After the unnatural collision of door with door-sized hoof, the giant slavering dou...
*ahem*... After the utterly self-assured and self-important knight pushed his poor giant horse to
commit excessive battery against an innocent slab of wood...
@$$#013: "OI!!! Bar-MAAAID!!! Why've ya go' the bloody shutters flapping in !@#$%^&*()ING October!?!?"
Garn, as usual: COUGH HACK, HERCHACHERRERGH!!!
@$$#013: "And why the 'ell is a !@#$%^&*()ING BEGGAR... IN. MY. SEAT!?"
Dame: Oh... !@#$%^&*()...
Garn: COUGH! Go away. I'm trying to relax. SPUTTER-COUGH WHOOP!!
Dame, whispering to Garn: I'll slip you an extra tanker and some of my own personal pipe herb
if you'll just *please* go somewhere else, even for a couple hours, just don't...
@$$#013 Saunters up to the bar, his improbably solid gold war boots turning said saunter
into more of a, "Horrifyingly loud and annoying screech of solid gold against old, chalky stone
mixed with flint." A river of sparks cascaded behind each seemingly agonizing, "step", on his way.
@$$#013: "I SAIIID... MINE!!!" CRUNCH!!!
Garn, while a reasonable mage, understood the very solid and definite line between being pampered
and having no desire to see tomorrow. The... "Man"... who had just smashed his hand-carved alabaster
pipe laden with ancient runes then pushed him over, was clearly in the latter category.
Garn, in a voice louder than thunder: "WHAT. THE !@#$%^&*(). DID I DO. TO YOU!?!?"
@$$#013, Screaming with deaf ears: "OW!!! MY EARS!!! THEY'RE !@#$%^&*()ING BLEEDING!!! Oh,
Magical Flying Albatross, WHY DO YOU CURSE ME SO!?!?"
Garn, suddenly perplexed: "Wh... Albatross!?!? You IDIOTS are worshipping a !@#$%^&*()ING... Albatross!?!?"
Dame, crying: Why did you have to be such a... Bastard!?
Garn neither knew, nor did it matter much to him, whom she was addressing. In his opinion, anyone
willing to punch a ( seemingly ) withered old man off his stool simply for the sake of an entrance,
was well-deserving of anything life ( or Garn ) could hand him. As such, he performed the immensely
difficult and too-disgusting-to-describe-process, of liquefying the tar in his lungs from his
own smoking, into his opponent's entire body.
To put this in perspective, saying that the entire contents of the tar within Garn's lungs
were even being measured, one would be hard pressed to find a large enough kettle outside a witch's
hut. All of this blackened paste was instantly liquefied, ejected from Garn, then was unceremoniously
shoved into @$$#013's... Various bodily cavities...
In any event, @$$#013, whose story is honestly at a close unless you're a stickler about a measly
5 minutes gasping and bleeding. And now we move on to...
Garn, quite pissed at the narrator: *SMACK* "Hey! I'm *THE* main character, you can't steal my
moment of retribution!!!
Narrator, quite cross with Garn: YOU !@#$%^&*()-!@#$%^&*()!!! NEVER. *SMACK* QUESTION. *PUNCH*
THE. *SHOTGUN* NARRATOR!!!! *SATELLITE-BOUNCED-MEGALAZOR* *pant* *pant* *pant*... Ok... I'm fine now...
Garn, fresh back from his, "vacation": Y... Y... Yes... sss... N... N... Nar... a... tor...
Be sure to come back for the next entry, which is TBA, and will occur after Garn receives the necessary
trauma therapy.
->3
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