The Enjoyment of the SoakedShrooms
“Fuck fuck hallucinogenic fucking hallucinating fuck that’s not real fuck I didn’t do that fuck that didn’t happen that didn’t fucking happen this isn’t happening fuck fuck fuck! He can crush goblin head like the grape! Fuck I’m out of here — oh no — where am I how am I floating like this? oh no I need to lay down oh woah wow I’m going down.” The goblin’s heart was beating like a jazz drummer on speed.
The goblin’s eyes slowly opened to watch Glugubrius carry the dead goose to the graveyard of the single tomb. The prayer of Patapius echoed, “Take this Gospel and read, take this Prayer Rope and pray, call upon my name and I will help you.”
Sitting in shock and horror, without any books or beads, the goblin thought a couple reasonable thoughts alongside dozens more less reasonable.
Did Thive really die? Gretel surely has a manglement brew to fix this. But did Gretel die?
“Fucking Gretelforeskin fucking ruined everything.” The goblin said out loud before yakking in a bush, thus allowing a thought to intrude from the tower of Patapius.
“Cleanse your heart of thoughts for the sake of the love of God and ask for bestowments of healing and forgiveness of the sins you have wrought.” But the goblin couldn’t hear the thoughts of Patapius from so far away.
The silence was unbearable.
A scream of agony would be appropriate—yet what’s appropriate may not always be the most logical. Though neither logic nor appropriateness are factors considered when in grief, or when you’re a goblin, quite frankly.
“That fucking blue berserker must pay for what he did — he decimated the cohort. Where the fuck did Thlothus run off to. We’ve got fucking fuck fucking shit fuck revenge—vengeance—we’ve got hell to pay!”
The goblin climbed a tree to see and make sure that Glugubrius was in fact leaving to go to the graveyard. Then climbed down and went back to the campfire.
“They can’t be dead.”
The goblin kept repeating this phrase as a mantra.
The sounds of the forest have ceased. The goblin can only hear a single heartbeat. Thive’s mangled body lies lifeless.
“Dear God…”
The goblin broke out into tears.
“Do not be downcast in thy distress.” the voice of Patapius echoed.
A crow caws and frees the goblin from the trance.
Looking around, it was only Thive’s body left. Even Goblidigo’s headless body had vanished. Gretel was nowhere to be seen.
“How could Grizzle move them with broken arms? Was it Thlothus? No way it was Thlothus. Maybe Glimwog. I can’t believe Thive — one of the Goblin Cohort — is going to be buried in the cemetery of a single ghost. I’ll need help from Thlothus to pack up what remains of Thive for a dignified goodbye… unless, did Gretel really have a brew that would bring Thive back?”
The goblin left Thive there as flies began to take notice, and went home. As the goblin walked down the streets at night, an armoured pig with a lantern approached.
“Esto adhuc! Nomine Tzvakdush, Vindex Crucis Fascium, desiste et pare!” The Nightwatch Legionary announced in Latin.
“Shit! Can’t run—oh wait yes I can. Vale, porcus phallicus clunis, puta porca retro erectionem!”
The goblin was off, and the legionary was in pursuit, with an arrest warrant for the goblin.
ACT I — THE GOBLIN 