“I need some backup.”
“Blackup; stat,” Lance said, flicking a d12 dice. It landed on 6. “Nevermind.”
Kyle frowned. “Motherfuckah. Don't fuckin' pussy out on me.”
“Speaking of pussy; when's Cassie coming?” Lance scribbled on his profile sheet. When Kyle didn't answer, he looked up again. “Well?”
“Cassie isn't gunna fuck you, fucktard.” Kyle rolled a d20. “+20. I kill the troll. Lawls.” Lance gawped at Kyle. “No, seriously. She's 'just not that in to you', you know? It's like the reality of Hugh Grant; women would bitchslap the fucker, not date the doof.”
“Motherfuck. No; give me back my fuckin' sheet, you bucktoothed bitch. I'm gunna fuck yo in yo mou' if you don't hand that sucker over...”
“Who said Cassie doesn't want to ride the 7 AM Lance Express?”
“I did, you shaved thug. Now, if you'll kindly release Krunhk, we will get on with the motherlovin' show, daijoubu?”
Lance released his captive; Kyle looked at his DM notes. “We need a fuckin' storyteller, for this DM shit...” Kyle had griped, 48 hours ago. “You're the master of anecdotes – it's pretty much the same thing,” Lance had quipped.
“My styxter is going to rape you, 9 ways from Sunday,” Lance warned.
“Not if my lich ooze-puppets your sorry ass.” Kyle sat up; his own belly was feeling the burn – the damn shag carpet, burning his hairless chest. Internally, he mused that one day, he would stoke up the funds for hairplugs, and go all Austin Powers. Of course, that little tidbit could be a leftover from listening to the Men in Black soundtrack – damn 90s. 'Men in Blake' – a good name for a porn?
“You're ignoring the issue of Cassie.”
“Lame. I'm ignoring you now, until Sir Schmuck rolls a +6.” He studied Krunhk's character sheet. He could still hear echoes of Will Smith in his head; damn 90s. “Snap-snap, crackerjack. It's your roll.”
