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There Was Always That One Kid That Ruined Every D&D Game ...

Herk the Moonsbane hefted his gargantuan blade, the weight of it causing even his immense form to stumble momentarily. He spat on the ground, grinned over at his comrades -- most of them beaten, bloody, and half-alive -- and he took a step forward. And then another. His pace quickened and inertia took over, the top-heavy weight of the blade above his head impelling his charge. The great beast before him ground its jaws together, and it was a noise like waves crashing. The dragon spread its milky, translucent wings and shuffled its body to better face the screaming berserker. The air around Herk went cold as it rushed past him; the dragon was inhaling, filling its massive lungs in preparation for another hellish, inferno blast. It lifted its head, twisted its serpentine neck back, and planted its huge claws to brace for the release.

And Herk saw his chance.

Every limb and joint felt pushed beyond its breaking point, his thick leg muscles practically tearing themselves from his very bones, but still he plunged onward. Herk reached the mouth of the canyon just as the flames began their first crackling spit from the monster's mouth. Leaping up onto a narrow ledge, he pushed off a small boulder, and flung himself just above the beast's scream of fire. One foot briefly contacted the back of its spined skull, and then he was rolling -- down across the great neck, along the crook of the wing, and finally to the ground. He hit and spun, barely pausing to secure his footing before concentrating all of his rage, grief, sorrow, and desperation into one mighty blow. With a rending scream, Herk sent his thick, wide foot flying, where it made full and mighty impact with the dragon's testicles. The beast coughed once, the flames catching in its throat, its eyes gone wide, and went as if to topple to the ground -- but Herk was there below it still, rapidly and forcefully kicking the monster right in its scaly gumballs over and over and over again. It did not seem to be able to stand for the pain, but Herk's violent groin-kicks were of such speed and strength as to actually keep the behemoth upright.

All the fury of the desolate Northlands...right in the junk.

The dragon seemed to be entering a state of shock, a look of concerned disbelief etched on its lizard-like visage, effectively paralyzed by the horrendous crotch-pain rippling throughout its mighty form like the first landing of a typhoon on the still waters of a peaceful-

"Okay, that's enough," Scott snapped.

Scott didn't look like he belonged here: He had an awkward blonde bowl-cut, sure, but the kind obviously done at one of those high-end, fancypants Supercuts; not the kind where your mom upends a still-kind-of-floury mixing bowl over your skull and just drunkenly swerves the scissors in a circle. He had the build of a pre-teen jock in the making, and the first hint of a strong jaw beneath his childish face. I both envied and despised him and his stupid, well-fitting clothes.

I bet both of his parents love him too, the little bastard.

"What? What's up, Eldor?" I purposefully used Scott's gay character name as much as possible. He didn't seem to get why his dumb name should be so humiliating, even though I made sure my voice was always dripping with scorn and also that I flicked him in the ear every time I said it.

"Scott. When we're talking out of character, you can just call me Scott."

"Sure thing Bowl-Scott. Scott-cut. Faggy bowl-cut. Sorry! Scott, I meant Scott," I finally conceded, slipping a casual upheld hand over to Aloric, the Dwarvish Cleric.

Aloric left me hanging; Aloric was kind of a bitch like that.

"You can't just kick a dragon in the balls!" Scott protested, "you're a Berskerer! You've got a twelve foot long Greatsword of Frost!"

"Right, and that's what the dragon's all worried about when BAM! Bearclaw Boots of Battle to the Beanbags. It's the perfect strategy."

Pictured: A master strategist.

"It's all you ever do! How did we defeat the Orcs in the Swamp of Sorrow?"

"Ball-kicks," I answered immediately.

"And the Direwolves at Winterfell?"

"Right in the furry little jewels."

"And the Beholder?"

"Ha! That was a good one! You said he didn't even have balls, remember? So I had to cast a spell of Ball Summoning on him and-"

"Wait, we can talk about this!"

"Mikey," Scott turned to the Dungeon Master, a sickly little kid with a jew-perm and a sweet pocket switchblade he used to stab mice because his dad died in the Army. "Will you please tell him he can't kick the dragon's balls to death?"

"As long as he rolls for it, he can do whatever he likes," Mikey replied coolly, the twenty dollar bill I slipped him before the game burning a hot little hole in his pocket.

"Yeah! See," I said, pushing Scott a little, and trying not to flinch when he raised a fist suddenly in return, "those are the rules. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm waging an epic war against evil because some of us care whether the villagers of Oldrath live or die, Eldor."

The behemoth's legs finally gave out beneath it. Herk the Moonsbane rolled to one side just before the massive haunch settled to the earth with a thick, meaty thump. Its breath came hard and raspy; its forked tongue lolled in the dust. Herk looked with pity on the animal -- seeing it at last as just that; an animal, hunting as instinct bade it. He moved to place a hand on its limp thigh and gave it a reassuring pat, then gripped the underside of the leg, and hoisted it above his head. He wedged one foot into the dirt, using the weight of the limb above him as leverage and, holding the prone dragon's legs apart, he really started to kick some balls.

Even the horse thinks this is a little fucked up.

"No!" It was Sergei who shouted this time, his malnourished exchange student fist slapping against denim. Like all foreigners, he exclusively wore jean shorts. "Mikey, when you ask me to play, you said is 'dramatic battle' for blood and glory! Fight wampyr, gypsy hag, and undead warrior. Not this...this...jolly-making!"

"Nobody is jolly-making, you motherfucker! You take that back!" I slapped the pewter figurine that represented Sergei's character from his stubby fingers, watching as the grim little form of Alexander the Black Knight flipped off into the empty soccer field.

"I am sorry," he said shamefully, "this was a harsh word. But is not fair! For three afternoons I save my Wand of Death because I know, I know big fight is coming. And what happens!? I roll 2! Wand explodes in face! You say 'I want kick dragon in his balun' and you roll twenty: He is down!"

Cory, the quiet kid who played our cleric, coughed softly into his hand. I whirled on him.

"What did you fucking say, Aloric? You bitchin' out on me again? Huh?"

Cory shook his head furiously and shied away from me. He was pasty and short; the only one I was fairly sure I could take if shit got real.

"You just keep all of your bitch to yourself, you hear me, Aloric? You gather it up, you put it all in your little bitch-sack and you take it to the bitch-bank!"

"If it's too far to walk, buy a bitch-ticket and take the bitch-bus."

"Just take the game a little more seriously," Scott said, his high cheekbones mocking me with their potential.

"Fine. But my Belt of the Cheetah casts Haste on me every third round, and that's this one. I get another turn."

"No more with the dicks and the kicking," Sergei suggested.

After untold eons of rapid rabbit kicks to the groin, Herk the Moonsbane dropped the exhausted, whimpering dragon's leg and backed up a step to survey the area around him. Buried fires smoldered just beneath the scorched Earth. What little vegetation there was in this barren country had been burned to the roots by the battle, leaving only thin, black, skeletal forms. They crumbled in the arid wind. Aloric the cleric had taken a grievous wound to the hip early in the battle, and Eldor the Ranger was using the lull in fighting to gather herbs for a poultice to tend to his wounds. Alexander the Black Knight had planted his longshield firmly into the ground beneath him, lightning-shaped cracks in the dust emanating outward from the point of impact. He was huddled behind it, his eyes closed, his lips moving silently, invoking the names of his dark gods in preparation for another of his perverse battle-curses. All was quiet, save the gentle clink of metal as Herk unclasped the Cat Skull buckle on his belt and let his Heavy Breeches fall to the floor. With a grunt more of dominance than of lust, he entered the dragon and began to thrust.

"What!? No! God, what is wrong with you?" Scott screamed, practically frothing at the mouth. Cory frantically avoided making eye contact, and Sergei simply stared at me, his lips pressed together so tight his mouth formed a cartoonish slash.

"It's imagination, Scott. I can do whatever I want," I held another high five out to Aloric, who bitched his sticky bitchiness all over the place and tried to leave me hanging again. I picked up his sweaty palm and slowly, deliberately impacted it against mine, scowling and gesturing at my eyes the entire time.

"Mikey, god damn it!" Scott turned to the DM, waving his arms in disbelief.

Mikey looked uncertain, but I mouthed the word 'twenty' at him over and over until he looked away.

"If he rolls for it," Mikey conceded, flipping through the guide to find the appropriate table of numbers that governed the molestation of giant lizards.

"Here," he said, pointing to a neat grid that took up half the page, "with your agility level, you'll have to roll a 19 or higher to penetrate the dragon."

It's like Rule 34: If it exists, there's a chart for it.

I smiled benignly at Scott, lifted the die and let it drop straight to the board.

His face lost all color.

"Twenty," Mikey recited, "he can rape the dragon."

"Is bullshit!" Sergei stood abruptly, turned even more abruptly, and then stomped off more abruptly than that. Russians do everything abruptly.

"I am not sitting here and watching you screw an unconscious Rattelyr Dragon," Scott yelled, and also moved to leave.

"Fine! That's fine, Scott! You don't belong here anyway! Why don't you go learn to date and do sports and everything will TURN OUT JUST PERFECT FOR YOU!" I screamed after him, choking back a moment of involuntary tears.

"Mister, you're like 30 years old! I'm going to talk to the principal now, because I don't think you're even allowed to be here!"

A slow and silent breeze ebbed up, moving the grass in quiet waves as the two boys marched off resolutely in separate directions. Cory sniffed.

"Oh, bitch it up, Aloric! Just ejaculate your disgusting bitch-juice all over the game!" I screamed, and leapt to my feet. I emptied the rest of my whiskey bottle over the board, gave Cory two for flinching, and ran for the street before security could throw me out of another playground. Two more and I was technically violating some kind of child welfare law.

Halfway up the chain-link fence, I realized I left my loaded 20-sided die behind.

Fucking Eldor.

You can buy Robert's book, Everything is Going to Kill Everybody: The Terrifyingly Real Ways the World Wants You Dead, or follow him on Twitter and Facebook or you can roll for initiative to leave this page.

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