We all wear masks.

Then we build walls around them.

Some walls are fake.

Some are real.

Either way, they turn into armor.

And armor has a way of keeping things out.

Even the things you need.

A long-long-long time ago…

In the distant, ancient lands known as Iron Bolt, everyone was busy racing for elite loot and weapons powerful enough to split a man clean in half.

Nations butchered each other for god-forgotten artifacts left behind by the gods — back when those gods were still busy tearing each other apart over prime real estate in the sky.

So if you’re expecting an epic adventure about an unbeatable barbarian in panther-hide briefs, congratulations — you somehow ended up in exactly the right place.

My name is The Great Book of Might and Dick.

I know everything.

And everything knows me.

Everything’s a good kid, by the way. We’re kinda bros.

Sometimes I also hang out with Death and Death of Death.

Two weird little bastards. Fun guys.

Anyway… enough of my bullshit.

ahem

This glorious mess of a story follows the exploits of a great barbarian and his team.

He is strong.

He is fast.

He showers every day!

He is PARDON — The Barbarian of Iron Bolt!

“We need a real brute for this team,” said a powerful, skinny, wrinkled, short, deeply unsettling mage named Bitch Death.

“I’m talking about a guy who can turn monsters into guacamole with his sword, grind bones into dust with his fists, gnaw eyeballs out with his teeth, and finally top it all off by stinking up the whole area with his rotten breath like a biological weapon.”

While the mage was running his mouth, he watched a line of slaves being dragged along in chains by a trader whose name was, apparently,

“Mind Your Own Damn Business and I’m Not Telling You My Name, You Useless Piece Of Shit.”

Then, out of nowhere, a barbarian appeared—riding a wolf the size of a horse.

He gave the entire local gang of idiots a cold, murderous look and said:

“Release the slaves. One chance. After that—you’re fucked.”

“Go fuck yourself!” shouted the guard captain’s head, already severed and flying through the air.

“He killed the boss, boys! Get that greasy pig-fucker!” yelled the deputy captain in his final moment—right before he split neatly in half along the Y-axis, like some fat chocolate guy in a red cap, wrapped in cheap foil.

And then the slaughter started.

Quick. Efficient. Final.

The slaves crapped themselves in terror. Blood spread across the ground like a cheap red river.

From the center of the carnage, slow and impossibly dramatic, stepped the barbarian.

Long hair—not that dumb stereotypical fringe, but a proper part. Beneath the layers of guts and blood, you could see his panther-hide briefs. In his hand, his loyal sword gleamed.

He brushed a chunk of someone’s face off his own and approached the mage.

The barbarian stared at him.

Behind him, enemy corpses were smeared across the ground like cheese on a grater.

“You with them?” the barbarian asked, his voice like wind howling through the passes of the Mountains of the War God’s Stinking Breath.

“No.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Just camping,” Bitch Death said, nodding at a campfire recently extinguished with piss.

“Got it. Goodbye.”

“Hold on, barbarian. I’m looking for a warrior who can help us rescue the daughter of King Anus. A loving father. A raging alcoholic.”

“…Anus?”

The barbarian stared.

“Yes.”

“Hm.”

He scratched his brutally masculine stubble.

“Pardon.”

“Well then… I’ll continue my search.”

“No. My name is Pardon,” the barbarian growled, with a tired octave in his voice.

“And I’m Bitch Death.”

The barbarian nodded.

“What’s the pay?”

“The royal treasury of His Majesty Anus.”

“Hm. Any weapons? I’m also interested in elite gear.”

“Very likely.”

“Where’s the daughter?”

“With a terrible sorcerer. Necromancer. Necrophile. Zoophile. Name’s Dicklin.”

“…A necromancer,” Pardon repeated, staring at an offensively epic sunrise.

After a moment, he asked:

“What level is he?”

“I don’t know. His aura just shows three question marks.”

“…Then he definitely drops elite loot.”

Pardon nodded.

“I’m in. Let’s go, mage.”

“Easy, barbarian. I’ve got a team. I’ll introduce you.

Team!”

They lined up beside him:

Archer — Deadeye Aim-At-The-Ass

Thief — Jerk-Rapid-Hand

Rogue — Sexy Maiden

Pardon nodded at the rogue.

“Been a while, Sexy.”

“Yeah,” she smirked,

“A lot of semen has flowed since then, my friend.”

He turned to the others.

“Nice to meet you all. Let’s move!”

And just like that, the team charged off in search of adventure.

The heroes rode on—day and night, night and day. All the while, the mighty clanging of Pardon the Barbarian’s balls echoed across the land—enigma, avenger, and raw male specimen. Mountains, forests, steppes, and ancient battlefields blurred past, dissolving into mist lit by a young red sun. They charged ahead like horny dogs chasing bitches, until their asses nearly fell off.

“Camp!” announced Bitch Death, and—miraculously—camp happened.

The team made themselves comfortable among the ruins of what used to be a small village—eaten alive, like everything else around here, by green, speckled fire and necromancers’ swords.

Evening rolled in: soft, warm, and aggressively horny in spirit. Fireflies lit up the dark with their magical little asses. Crickets chirped somewhere off-screen. The fire burned nice and steady, and roasted fish from a nearby stream smelled suspiciously perfect.

“So,” asked Deadeye Aim-At-The-Ass, “what are you planning to do with your share?”

“I’m not doing this for myself…” Jerk-Rapid-Hand rumbled quietly. “I’ve got someone to pay back.”

“I won’t stick my nose where it doesn’t belong… hic,” the archer hiccupped and took another swig of piss-mead. “Ugh… fuck… hic! This stuff is awful!”

“Try not to get completely wasted, friends,” Bitch Death remarked. “So—what do you all think about our sky?”

“What about it? And why should we be thinking about it?” Sexy Maiden asked, rubbing shiny lotion into her overheated body.

Bitch Death stared thoughtfully at Pardon in the distance, obsessively grinding his thick, long sword to a lethal shine. The mage bit into the crispy side of his fish-on-a-stick and launched into philosophy:

“That’s where the gods dropped into our world… Some of them taught us meaning. And dumb jokes. We figured out we existed—and instantly started beating the shit out of each other. Love somehow never really caught on with us… Honestly, it’s fascinating. And stupidly simple; logical and obvious. Yet people keep spilling blood. Some don’t understand words. Others don’t even understand love. All they want is lust and tits. But the real point of life is staring into the eyes of the one you love and seeing light there—the same light from that sky…”

The mage sighed. Silence followed.

“Alright… let’s sleep,” Bitch Death said, exhaling like he was done with existence for the day.

Everyone collapsed wherever they could—on their side, on their back, face-down, ass-up—jamming their fragile mortal bodies into the cracks of the ancient ruins. Eventually, they passed out. Then they snored.

Nighttime dripped on. Grain by grain. The darkness felt good. Calm. And, surprisingly, not damp.

A golden beam of sunlight punched some unlucky crow straight in the eyes, and it screamed at the entire world. Half-awake, the heroes scattered to take their morning shits. After a half-assed attempt at grooming, the team was already bouncing in their saddles again, moving on.

They had entered what used to be the nearest necromancer lands.

Why “used to be”?

Because about fifty years ago, everyone finally got sick of the whole satanic corpse routine. A few kingdoms banded together, clenched their fists, and beat the living shit out of the necromancers. The necromancers fucked off deep into their own territory and hid there.

From time to time, the heroes spotted old necromancer banners—dusty, badly sun-bleached, painted with hippos, geese, and the usual bony skulls. But a few banners caught Pardon’s and Bitch Death’s attention. Too clean. Too new. And featuring a goat.

The place was dust. Gray. Dead.

After all these years, not a single blade of grass—or any other sad excuse for life—had returned. Only cold, stink, and rot floating around, slowly decomposing inside the heroes’ lungs.

“According to the ancient map, Dicklin’s tower should be right behind that rock,” Deadeye rasped, his voice cracking slightly.

“Well, alright then,” Jerk-Rapid-Hand nodded.

“We smash the bastard and bring the girl back.”

“Idiot!” Bitch Death barked.

“Old idiot!”

“I’m not old…”

“Do you even know what you’re talking about?!”

“Well…”

“A necromancer isn’t just fucking around with your finger up your ass. This is serious. He raises the dead. You can get very sweaty and very tired fighting someone like that!”

The heroes stepped onto a small plateau. Beyond the cliff stretched an almost endless slope—crawling with maggots, buzzing with flies, and packed solid with blue human corpses. At the very end of that meat-roll, a pitch-black necromancer tower stood upright against the sky.

“My nasal pores are clogged with necromantic energy,” the mage whispered.

“Don’t touch the meat… it bites… and then comes the blood transfusion…”

The team ditched their mounts and stood before a crooked, hideous wall—eyes staring, hair hanging, half-chewed skin with meat still stuck to it.

“Forward, team!” the barbarian rumbled, stepping into the depths of the corpse labyrinth.

The others followed.

Thirty minutes later, the scenery hadn’t changed. Guts. Bodies. Rotting organs. Dead teeth. Blood muck squishing under their boots. But… for now, all that rot lay quiet. Still. Dim. No signs of risen dead, zombies, or any other off-brand horrors from beyond.

“Maybe…” Bitch Death whispered, “maybe they only wake up if we talk?”

And after that, everything went to shit.

Teeth started clicking in the walls. Hands jerked. Guts twitched like rabid worms. And from the labyrinth’s deeper, darker holes, the ugly ones erupted. Sewn from different bodies and packed tight with corpse meat, they snarled, drooled, and clacked their teeth like starving dogs. Their poorly bolted-on heads spun around like chariot wheels in the gladiator arenas of almost-legendary Ramzyuk.

“Finally, something to smash,” Sexy Maiden flashed her perfect smile and bared her axe.

“Better let me handle this…” Bitch Death squealed, spat into his sweaty palm, and muttered some kind of spell.

From other openings in the labyrinth, new creatures burst out—demonic squid-things. They tore through the stitched zombies in seconds, then slithered away like nothing happened.

“Not bad, mage,” Pardon nodded, sliding his thick sword back into place.

“That’s nothing,” Bitch Death said. “I come from a long line of Bitch mages. My great-great-grandfather, Bitch Charisma, was a truly powerful mage. I’d even say… epic.”

“Nice,” the barbarian nodded again.

Bitch Death twisted his wrinkled face into something resembling a smile.

“Guys… look…” Sexy Maiden whispered, almost erotically.

“About fucking time…” they breathed in unison.

The corpse-walls split apart, and before the heroes—almost magically… actually, very much magically—the necromancer’s tower materialized, guarded by tall black gates.

“Who dares to shuffle their feet through my Zombyrinth?” demanded a distant, barely visible silhouette atop the main bastion of the tower, his voice echoing like a thousand warring corpses.

“My name is Dicklin! I am the master of these lands! And who are you, vermin?!”

“Eat shit, barbarian!” Dicklin screamed. “It’s too late! She’s mine now!”

“You are very bad! And for that, you will pay. And you will pay with your life! Which means—you will die!” Bitch Death shouted.

“I do not die, idiot! I am immortal! I made a pact with the Devil Hystericus himself! But of course you drooling idiots wouldn’t know that. All you know how to do is eat and shit!”

A heavy, rotting silence followed.

“How screwed are we?” Pardon asked.

“Well… Hystericus is serious business… he’s a powerful devil… one of the five High Devils of the Nameless Kingdom…”

“You idiots sure talk a lot,” Dicklin shouted from above. “I’m off to enjoy my little bitch. You have fun! Army of dead bastards—attack!”

The necromancer spat into his palm, wiped it across his backside, and muttered a spell.

From the ground, roughly a thousand skeletons clawed their way up, armed with every kind of weapon imaginable. Without a single scream, shout, curse, or any other sound, they formed into a perfect line.

“Ha,” Pardon smirked without smiling, and—

Wham—and the first hundred skeletons exploded into dust from a single epic strike, powered by focus, fury, and years of accumulated hatred toward this piss-soaked world.

It was Pardon.

He charged in, smashing skeletons left and right. Sexy Maiden followed close behind, her oiled breasts bouncing as she crushed skulls with her loyal Black Axe. Jerk-Rapid-Hand sliced through bone with his daggers. And Bitch Death conjured streams of magical arrows, which Deadeye Aim-At-The-Ass fired in relentless volleys.

A few movie-worthy seconds later, the battlefield was just piles of bones.

The silence started rotting again.

“I hate being interrupted!” Dicklin screeched, sniffling like someone post-coital. “You miserable creatures—that was only wave one! Army!”

With a dry clatter of bones, the skeletons assembled once more into a silent, merciless line—ready to do anything for their freshly returned existence.

“Yeah… we’re definitely breaking a sweat here,” Bitch Death muttered, scratching under his loyal Doom-Cap. “I have an idea…”

He cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted:

“Hey, necromancer! That all you’ve got? Can’t you cast something cooler?”

“Are you out of your goddamn mind?” Dicklin barked back. “You think I’m stupid? I’m not about to improvise some untested spell on a bunch of grown men!”

“Oh… well then we’ll just leave and tell everyone you’re a coward. That you only use safe, pre-tested spells because you’re afraid to take risks. That you picked a girl over a fight. You hear me, you necrotic dick?”

“Go fuck yourselves!” Dicklin roared. “I’ve got an army! I spent a long time designing it so brain-dead idiots like you wouldn’t interrupt me!”

“Fine. Screw this. Princess rescue isn’t exactly a dream job. Pay’s garbage, the hassle’s insane. Pleasure meeting you. We’re leaving,” Bitch Death muttered, hands in pockets, strolling back toward the Zombyrinth.

The rest of the team followed suit. The skeletons turned their skulls toward one another—apparently debating enemy strategy.

As soon as Bitch Death slipped behind the grotesque wall of the labyrinth, he waved for the team to freeze and wait for his signal.

Meanwhile, the skeletons began to glitch. Their programming clearly stated: detect enemy, eliminate enemy. But there was no enemy. No target. No instruction update.

So the skeletons started attacking each other.

The algorithm collapsed. The magic ran out of breath.

“You patchwork condoms!” Dicklin screamed. “You broke my magic! Couldn’t you just die like everyone else?!”

“Pardon,” the mage said calmly, ignoring the necromancer. “Take down the gates.”

“Not so fast, you hairy ape!” Dicklin shrieked in falsetto. He wiped both hands on his foul backside and rasped out another spell.

The sky turned black. The ground bled red.

Bones in every corner began to move—scraping, skittering, rolling into a single pile. Then the pile rose, growing, locking together into a colossal skeletal monster, stretching nearly a kilometer tall.

Every spear, sword, and axe clattered together, merging into one massive blade—half a kilometer long.

“Your name is Mega-Skeletus! Kill the living!” Dicklin declared, pointing a crooked, probably unwashed finger at the team.

“O-U-A-A-ARRR!!!” Mega-Skeletus confirmed, unleashing a roar that echoed across the land—like a white gordilla from the planet Byumeh during mating season.

“Hm…” Pardon scratched his maximally brutal chin.

Then he sprinted straight at it.

Suddenly, from the depths of the giant’s hollow eye sockets—like caves—bone dragonlets began to launch outward. Leaving green trails of necromantic energy in the air, they streaked down like torpedoes and exploded against the ground.

Pardon could only dodge the storm of bone-fire raining down around him.

“Use the bone-launcher, damn it!” Dicklin shrieked.

Mega-Skeletus blinked. Mode shift.

From his eye sockets burst a steady stream of razor-sharp bones.

Pardon shredded the incoming storm like a rabid hippo at feeding time. Bones shattered mid-air.

Mega-Skeletus adjusted.

One stream wasn’t enough.

He doubled it—two streams per eye.

Sexy Maiden lunged in to help, her mastery of the battle-axe speaking louder than words.

Mega-Skeletus escalated again.

Three streams per eye.

Six torrents of bone screamed toward the team.

Bitch Death bit his tongue, spat a bloody glob onto the gray sand, smeared it with his finger, and drew a magical square.

“Cookie. Tangerine. Cream. Winter,” he whispered.

A massive tangerine tiramisu materialized over the heroes like divine pastry protection.

The bones buried themselves in cream.

“I’ve got two of those scrolls left…” the mage rasped.

“AAA-I-I-I’LLLL S-O-O-O M-A-A-A-S-S-A-A-A-C-R-E-E-E Y-O-O-O-U-U-U!!!” the monster roared, its voice echoing endlessly across the wasteland.

After the heroes finished eating—and even licked their fingers, since forks were apparently not an option—and once the echo faded, the monster cleaved the tiramisu clean in half with its massive sword.

The team waited.

Then things got weird.

The monster turned around, grabbed its own backside, and began to shake.

“Ha-ha! Push, buddy! O-ho-ho!” Dicklin squealed with laughter.

Mega-Skeletus shook so violently that even Pardon felt slightly uncomfortable.

From deep within the rancid pelvic cage, a bone tentacle erupted.

It began sweeping everything aside, slamming down at the heroes.

Picture the chaos: rotting earth, mud, bones, dust, cream, tangerine pulp—and within that swamp-like mess, the team struggled to dodge the tentacle while desperately trying not to sink beneath it.

“I’m bored,” the barbarian muttered and leapt onto the tentacle.

Sliding—nearly falling twice—he sprinted upward and, right at the base of the monster’s backside, hacked it clean off.

The colossal skeleton howled.

And then three more tentacles shot out of its rear like ballistic problems.

“Ah, fuck this,” Pardon said. “New plan.”

He jumped back.

The colossal skeleton made for a decent punching bag, sure—but this kind of fight would take an entire match. They needed something faster.

“Deadeye! Cover him in arrows—bottom to top!” Pardon shouted.

The archer unleashed a true arrowstorm. Arrows embedded themselves across the colossal skeleton’s body exactly as ordered.

Pardon took a running start and leapt onto the pre-boss’s leg. Grabbing the arrows as footholds, he climbed effortlessly—higher and higher—until he reached the skull of the skeletal colossus.

"That's the end of you, skeleton,” the barbarian snarled, ramming his thick, gleaming blade straight into the mega-skull made of smaller skulls.

Mega-Skeletus staggered… then collapsed into a heap of useless calcium.

“You piece of shit!” Dicklin screamed.

“Help! He keeps forcing me to drink tea with him! I can’t take it anymore!” groaned the daughter of King Anus, peeking over Dicklin’s shoulder. “I want to go home and get absolutely railed by my ripped slave-bros!”

“Silence, bitch,” Dicklin snickered. ““Go on then—get inside fuckers, that’s why you’re here, right? Let’s see how far you make it up my tower. There’s a whole lot of plenty of fun stuff waiting for you in there! Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha—”

…everyone had already rushed into the tower while this idiot kept laughing for several more minutes…

“Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!”

“Stay sharp… that corpse-licking freak has probably trapped every inch of this spiral staircase,” the mage muttered. “Beautiful tapestries. Statues from the Age of the Great Mages. Stone frescoes of the Godogods defeating the Wandering Trashalacticus.”

“Lock it in, Bitch Death,” Pardon said. “This place is pumping distraction spells. ADHD-core dungeon design. You drift, you forget, you die. Barbarians know necromancer tricks.”

“You’re right… brain back in formation,” the mage nodded—and slapped himself so hard the echo ricocheted through the entire tower.

The team moved upward slowly

For a couple of minutes, nothing happened.

Except the air began to smell… wrong. Suspiciously fart-saturated.

“My miasma!” a shrill, horrifying scream echoed from around the corner.

The team exchanged looks.

“You like my miasma?!” the voice screeched. “I spew it straight out of the hole in my ass! My ass can unleash millions of cubic meters of rancid miasma! My name is Miasmator!”

Jerk-Rapid-Hand—the only one with his face covered (he wore his trusty Ass-Ass-In Mask)—leaned around the corner.

He saw a grotesque creature with bulging eyes, tangled black hair hanging beneath torn rags, and gray skeletal fingers twitching hungrily through the air.

“Oh shits… oh gods…” he whispered.

“What is it?” Sexy Maiden asked.

“Bro… that’s not normal,” Jerk-Rapid-Hand wheezed, swiping sweat from his mask. “It’s literally blasting super toxic farts out of its ass… and it looks like a ghoul that lost a custody battle.”

“Another necromantic experiment,” Pardon rumbled.

“I have an idea,” Sexy Maiden said, gesturing toward a stained-glass panel showing necromancers massacring barbarians.

Deadeye Aim-At-The-Ass smirked and fired an arrow straight into the glass.

Glass exploded into color and dust. Fresh air flooded in.

“My farts!!! My stenches!!! My whispering vapors!!! I’m suffocating, you filthy bitches!” Miasmator shrieked and hurled himself out the window.

“That was easy…” Sexy Maiden smiled, shrugging her undeniably sexy shoulders.

“Only darkness awaits us now…” the mage whispered, pointing his crooked digging-stick toward the pitch-black stairwell ahead.

The team stepped into the darkness—and began to feel fear.

All except Pardon.

The barbarian had solved this trick long ago.

“My grandfather told me about this,” he said, driving his sword deep into the steps with all his strength.

A deafening roar exploded through the tower. The entire staircase trembled—and the darkness vanished instantly.

At the team’s feet lay a creature skewered clean through.

A classic lilac imp—Iron-Bolt-like in form—long massive arms, a compact bare purple tail, dressed in patterned harem pants and a loose robe.

“Don’t finish me!” he coughed, blood bubbling in his throat. “I cannot disobey Dicklin! He binds me here with undead magic! My name is Vasilius! I will be useful to you! Kill Dicklin, and after I complete rehabilitation in the Dimension of Satanism, I shall return and serve you faithfully—and crookedly. Just as I once served Carton…”

For the briefest moment, Pardon’s jaw tightened.

“You talk too much, imp,” he said calmly. “I’ll take help. I don’t need servants. I’m not some sort of Barbarlock.”

He pulled his blade free.

“One of those is more than enough.”

The mage narrowed his eyes.

“What was that supposed to mean?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Pardon cut him off. “Move.”

The heroes climbed a few more flights and could already see the exit onto Dicklin’s main bastion when their path was suddenly blocked.

A sexy chick stood before them in the attire of a shamanic sorceress (everyone may now imagine their own version of a sexy chick — straight out of late-night fantasy cable).

“My sweet, muscular men,” she sang honey-smoothly. “May your dicks be mighty and unbreakable.”

“Your firm breasts and tight hips won’t make us bend to your will, witch,” Bitch Death hissed.

“Control your old dog, barbarian,” the sorceress purred even sweeter, letting out a soft moan. “My name is Nu’De.”

“I know your name, Nu’De,” Pardon said, lifting his heavy gaze. “Mistress of Dicks. Priestess of the Kingdom of Samora. What are you doing here?”

“Dicklin’s an old friend. I’m basically couch-surfing in his evil tower,” she smirked. “But I had to see you myself… the Eternal Wanderer. Ten years wandering around screwing up monsters and expectations — people talk. Don’t worry. I’m not here to fight your dumb asses.”

“So you won’t be our enemy today,” the barbarian confirmed, tossing his jet-black hair in his trademark habit of sorting the world through neatly labeled categories.

“Later, handsome…” Nu’De winked, gliding past the team, trailing her hand across the balls of every man in the party with shameless confidence, then flashing Sexy Maiden a sharp little smirk before sauntering down the stairs.

The guys just stood there, slack-jawed, watching the last glimmer of her oil-slicked ass and those ridiculous goat-clasp panties vanish into the shadows.

“Done fantasizing? Good. We’ve got a necromancer to kill.” Sexy Maiden shouted and, shoving her companions along, pushed the team out onto the summit bastion of the necromancer’s tower.

“Help me already, you lazy pieces of shit!” groaned the daughter of King Anus.

Utterly over-handled and exhausted, she sat on the necromancer’s thin, sharp, bald knees, weeping dramatically.

“Your High-Ranking Highness, we are trying!” Bitch Death called back.

“Shut your mouth, peasant! How dare you answer me, you low-grade whore!”

“O-ho-ho!” Dicklin howled. “She wrecked you, mage! And you still try after that!”

“Fair point… it’s a thankless profession,” Bitch Death sighed. “But the pay’s good. After this, I can finally afford a new staff. You know… proper craftsmanship doesn’t lie around on the road.”

“Speaking of which,” Dicklin leaned forward casually, “have you heard of Uncle Homo’s Staff Emporium in Kukershmats?”

“No… any good?”

“Surprisingly yes… Surprisingly solid. Plenty of respectable magical contraptions.”

“Do they stock cubic pyramidal gurglers?

“I believe so… though you could easily substitute one with the eye of a marionette clatter-slapper.”

“Well I’ll be damned. You’re right!”

“It’s not about the method,” Dicklin shrugged. “It’s about the result. Whatever’s happening in the backend — who gives a shit.”

“You make a compelling argument,” Bitch Death nodded.

“What the fuck are you two discussing?!” screamed the princess.

“Ah, yes,” Dicklin smirked. “None of that will help you now, mage.”

“Still, appreciated,” Bitch Death bowed slightly.

“Likewise,” the necromancer replied with equal politeness.

“For the love of the cocks, kill him already!” the daughter of King Anus shrieked.

“Dicklin,” Pardon said evenly, “your necromantic bloodline ends here.”

“Shut your mouth, you overgrown gordilla, and—” the daughter of King Anus started screeching again like a spoiled sewer-harpy.

“Silence,” Pardon said calmly. “Daughter of King Anus. I am speaking.”

She blinked.

And, astonishingly, shut the fuck up.

“Release the girl. Repent your necromantic sins. Allow yourself to be executed — painfully, but quickly.”

“I require her,” Dicklin replied smoothly, “for a deeply supercalifragilisticexpialidocious ritual.”

“Then we fight.”

Pardon drew breath and unleashed the ancient barbarian war cry:

“AGGROGUGA!”

Dicklin flung the captive aside and, in one grotesque convulsion, transformed into a stinking, black, mantis-limbed monstrosity and clung to the wall.

His chitinous jaws snapped once.

Then he launched himself at the barbarian.

Pardon hacked through his limbs — but the damn things kept growing back.

Dicklin leapt, sank his teeth into Pardon’s shoulder —

they hit the ground —

and he turned back into himself.

Only bigger.

Thicker.

More grotesquely muscled.

“He looks like Pardon now!” Deadeye Aim-At-The-Ass shouted.

Dicklin laughed and slipped a hand beneath his black-and-violet cloak, emblazoned with the red silhouette of a goat.

What emerged was long, black, and disturbingly curved.

Fortunately for everyone present, it was only a sword.

A twisted necromantic black blade, humming with dark intent.

“Not so funny now, barbarian?!” Dicklin screamed like a rabid duck.

“I don’t care what you look like, necromancer. I’ll carve you into scraps,” Pardon said and charged again.

They clashed — hard, heavy, and loud.

Steel shrieked against steel. The impact rang across the bastion like an iron cathedral collapsing.

Every few seconds, one of Dicklin’s arms would go flying off the tower —

but before it could even smack the ground, a new one burst out of the stump and snapped back into the fight.

“You can’t defeat me, fool! I’m immortal! I told you!” Dicklin barked.

“There’s always a way,” Pardon shot back.

“Maybe there is! I just don’t know it!” Dicklin laughed.

“He’s lying!” Bitch Death shouted. “Devils don’t do vague contracts! They outline every damn loophole and explain exactly where the weak spots are!”

Dicklin glared at the mage with pure hatred.

“Good catch, Bitch Death. I know he’s bluffing. I’ve dealt with devils before!” Pardon yelled, parrying another strike.

“Team! Everyone on the necromancer!” the mage ordered.

The team dove in.

They hacked him, punched him, kicked him, even bit him.

And every time, the bastard stood back up like nothing happened.

“So… the number of strikes doesn’t affect the outcome,” Bitch Death muttered, thoughtfully scribbling the observation into his manuscript. “Try hitting him all at once!”

The team struck simultaneously.

Dicklin giggled — and popped right back up.

“Oh, come on…” Bitch Death groaned, scratching beneath his hat and disturbing his pink mop of hair.

“This asshole keeps scratching his balls! Cut them off!” the daughter of King Anus shouted.

“Take the balls!” the mage yelled.

With one precise, almost surgical motion, Pardon severed Dicklin’s balls.

“Ha-ha!” Dicklin’s disgusting, grating laughter rang out again. “Nice try — but no!”

“Pardon, crush those fuckers!” Bitch Death shouted, pointing at the necromancer’s hairy, revolting balls.

“Oh, now we’re talking,” Pardon grinned.

With a single decisive stomp of his mighty barbarian boot, he mashed them into a bloody shit.

“Idiots!” Dicklin laughed again. “I told you — I’m immortal! You cannot wound me!”

“There must be a loophole… spells always have one…” Bitch Death muttered, squeezing his temples like he could force the answer out.

The mage stopped, took a deep breath, and carefully examined the bastion in search of an answer.

His eyes wandered across the obsidian stones that formed the walls… tapestries depicting a goat, some tall purple shimmering cosmic-looking guy, and scenes of the dead being resurrected… a collection of magical artifacts with a curse-cauldron… a magical vacuum cleaner… a chest full of gold…

And a very plain, unimpressive vase.

“What’s in the vase?” the mage asked.

“DON’T TOUCH THAT!” Dicklin screamed.

The mage didn’t hesitate.

He smashed the vase.

“You have no idea what you’ve done…” Dicklin whispered.

Then he started crying.

Everyone froze.

The necromancer whimpered like a child.

“Why?! Huh?! Why would you do that?! *sniff-sniff*” he sobbed, collapsing onto his sharp, bald knees. “I told you not to touch it! That was my grandma! Her ashes!”

Bitch Death suddenly felt awkward.

He opened his mouth, trying to say something—anything—to defend himself before his own conscience.

But then the sky turned black.

Black as shit after activated charcoal.

“DICKLIN!” a voice boomed louder than thunder itself.

Above the heroes, the necromancer, and the daughter of King Anus loomed a massive devil with sharp, straight horns. He wore a pink blazer, a perfectly pressed white shirt, and a black tie.

“YOU HAVE VIOLATED YOUR AGREEMENT!”

“What did I do, Your Villainousness, O Great Devil Hystericus, Lord of Commerce?” Dicklin babbled, twitching and bowing in nervous little jumps.

“WE MADE A DEAL. YOU ARE IMMORTAL. YOU NEVER DIE. AND YET YOU HAVE BROKEN THE AGREEMENT!”

“But… technically… I didn’t die… you can see I’m alive… I’m right here…” the necromancer stammered.

“SILENCE, NECROMANCER! I SHALL EXPLAIN! SUCH ARE THE TERMS OF THE CONTRACT! IT IS WRITTEN!”

He raised a clawed finger.

“NECROMANCER DICKLIN RECEIVES IMMORTALITY AND ETERNAL LIFE… UNTIL THE MOMENT HE DIES.”

“But—”

“YOU DIED IN THE EYES OF THESE RAGGED FOOLS! THEY PITIED YOU! AND PITY IS THE SAME AS LOOKING AWAY! FOR A MOMENT THEY WISHED NOT TO SEE YOU! THEY WISHED YOU WERE NOT THERE! AND THAT IS THE SAME AS YOU BEING DEAD TO THEM!”

“But that interpretation seems a little… stretched…” Dicklin protested.

“THE ONLY THING THAT WILL BE STRETCHED IS YOU — IN THE REALM OF ETERNAL BUTTFUCKERY WITHIN THE DIMENSION OF VOMITALAXY! A MILLION DEVILS, A MILLION TIMES, FOR A MILLION YEARS, WILL VIOLATE YOUR ASS!”

“I CLAIM YOU!”

Hystericus vanished instantly, and Dicklin let out something like a final gasp-scream-fart-squeal-vomit and folded himself inside out into his own ass.

“May the devils fuck you not for a million years, but for two million!” the mage shouted after him.

“I hate it when I don’t kill the enemy myself…” Pardon said darkly, his sword clanging against the scabbard.

“I will not watch your sadness! Fight me instead, barbarian!” Sexy Maiden said seriously.

“Thank you, Sexy. I shall gladly grant you that honor. Perhaps even several times,” the barbarian nodded.

The team descended, chopped down a couple of zombies in the Zombyrinth, and returned to their mounts.

Then they rode off to King Anus, escorting his spoiled chatterbox of a daughter.

The heroes rode to King Anus. Naturally, he threw a massive feast. The orgy was legendary. Musicians, bagpipe players, spoon players, and professional dick-drummers filled the hall. There was plenty of entertainment: jugglers, belly dancers, fireworks, and prank devices. Everyone celebrated and amused themselves however they could.

Bitch Death rummaged through the treasury, hoping to dig up some epic artifact. Deadeye Aim-At-The-Ass went off to get laid. Jerk-Rapid-Hand drank himself sick. The daughter of King Anus almost choked after Pardon shut her mouth again. Sexy Maiden laughed at her for quite a while, and then dragged Pardon to the bedroom so they could fight properly.

And they fought two hundred eighty-two times, for the night was romantic and the moon enormous — like a festering tonsil in the throat of a giant.

For it has been scientifically proven that all giants suffer from tonsillitis.

“So where are you going now, mage?” the barbarian asked while saddling his wolf, Wolf.

“Honestly, I haven’t decided yet,” he sat cross-legged on his horse like a desert wanderer, slowly drawing silent smoke from his ridiculously long pipe.

“We could ride together. I enjoyed fighting side by side with you and your team,” Pardon said, shifting his mouth by about a millimeter into something resembling a smile.

“Okay, barbarian. I’ll invite you to my guild,” Bitch Death chuckled and extended his hand.

“So be it!” Pardon said, shaking the tiny wrinkled hand of the great hereditary mage.

“So be it!” Pardon replied, shaking the tiny, wrinkled hand of the great hereditary mage.

Pardon — barbarian of Iron Bolt.