Brent had tromped his far share of l’oeil, if you read. He had held high-level meetings with Ugandan officials, dig? He had place his penis within a woman’s lady-penis and done his duty for King and Country.
Madly now, with a scream ripping from his throat on top now and the orgone flowing up the Sheraton walls: he is thrusting thrusting thrusting. “FOR YOU, ABBADON! I make the flesh sacrifice!”
I’m sorry: what is this?
I had a premise–Brent got it, got it hard–and then I provided an example. Point to your side: probably didn’t need to bring any of the Abandoned Gods into it, nor make anyone hold the words “Brent” and “thrusting” in their heads at the same time. That’s my bad.
Did you have a point?
Yes: Brent grew bored with the boundaries of normal human sexuality. He had become so jaded that he required oral while he threw the switch on someone receiving the death penalty. When the only boners left are murderboners, you’ve come to the end of the road. (Also, Clive Davis had run out of favors in the Texas Dept. of Corrections to sneak Brent in and let him get his lethal freak on.)
Brent was confused, scared, gassy. He did what his people have always done in times of crisis: picked up his war-axe, sang the Song of Ancestral Greatness, and headed back home to the mines.
Through the Orphan’s Forest and across the Desert of Lies ran Brent. So quickly did he fly that backwards sentences flew for miles.
Finally, Brent reached the Avoidable Mountains, so named because the range was completely uninteresting and you coud do a million other things with your time. At the entrance to his clan’s mine, he knocked.
A small window within the door opened, because that’s how these things work.
“I return, cousin! It is I: Brent, son of Bronn. Let me in.”
“Did you sing the Song of Ancestral Greatness?” the voice behind the door said.
“Did you sing it well?”
“Of course I sung it well,” Brent said. “I have a lovely voice.”
“You have a unique voice,” the voice said.
“Well, yeah: by definition. Everyone’s voice is unique. You’re hiding behind semantics.”
“Listen, man: I’m just doing my job here. Gotta sing the Song before you come back. That’s Dwarf 101, man.”
“I sang the Song!” Brent yelled.
“You remembered all the names? Got the tricky bits right? What about all those generations when they named themselves different shades of darkness?”
“That bit, too.”
“And did everyone go to the bathroom while you sang it?”
“Go get your manager right fucking now.”
I need you to stop doing whatever this is.
TO BE CONTINUED!
Oh, please, no.