"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