Down the Drain

"Come the FUCK on!" shouted Arbunkler Xess to everybody and nobody at all. He is a Goblin riding a used 1999 Scorpion on its last claws. He is stuck in after-work traffic. He is the traffic...is what he sen sibly reminds himself, what his hoarse vocal chords promptly ignore—"If I'm the traffic then why can't I control myself and FUCKING MOVE? So why should I be expected to control any other blood pressure impulse at all? Why ignore my Goblin liver in need of a bully beating? He spurs the scorpion's exoskeletor cruelly, desperately, and swerves off the exit, quite blinkerless and in need of a fix Pure agitation and the wear of a day's work pretending to beslain by "adventurers" in the "cave" as he dismounts from his shit park-job and drags himself and his diminish ing coin into Bully Bitch's Bar. He was sup posed to start jogging today...fucking great Boba Fett is behind the bar (the metaverse smorgasburg of lazily strewn together IP are picking up second jobs, hustles OnlyFansing to keep up with metaverse-flatic n), Boba was there last night when Arbunkle walked out (stumbled out) on his tab. He doesn't blast Arbunkler with words, but a look....maybe (he's got a fuckin helmet!" "Look, just keep my tab going from last night. I'll....I'll have an Old Fashioned. Classy. Or it would be, but... "did this gre en FUCK just make my Old Fashioned with FIREBALL?! Does he think I'm a fat sorority Dejection—& then an actual fireball from space, and they all get burnt.