Oh, I’m Going to Get Killed Any Minute Now (Part 20)
DAY (technically night) FORTY-EIGHT . . . later on than my other two entries today, obviously, and very, VERY possibly already quite a bit into the dark beginnings of DAY FORTY-NINE. I still don’t have a watch. And I swear, this had better be my last entry today, or I am going to be very put out.
Things have gone from bad to worse to better to much, MUCH better to just truly, deeply surreal. I am once again writing in the bathroom. This is for several reasons.
First off, I have locked myself in here until the shakes subside.
I am—it seems—much more capable of being shocked than I had most previously suspected, even considering everything I’ve been through recently. This, itself, comes as something of a shock to me. Thus, I would consider myself—at the moment—doubly-shocked. Shock-squared, perhaps.
In point of fact, I may be shocked to the actual power of shockedness itself.
That’s a lot of shock.
As I’m sure you’d agree.
That, in turn, caused me to drink quite a bit. Which is the second reason I’m in the bathroom. I am very good at doing shots of Wild Burning Wyvern, I have noted, swiftly and in rapid succession, as well as Jamaican Horse Tranquilizers, which is what I think those pint-glass-filling-things were called, and also whatever that particular thick, blue, potentially Martian liquor was that Jimbo was drinking out of a jug (possibly … Rainbow-Connection Uppercut? Rattner-Comedy-Heist Underwhelmedness? Railroad-Concussion Underpants-Salesroom? Not sure; will require further study), but I am observably quite a bit less good at holding them down and/or not-blacking-out temporarily after drinking them.
Anyway: on the topic of more psychological (and less physiological) shocks to my system, I do not like to think of myself as someone easily undone in the realm of mental capacities. I’m stoic, and world-weary, and put-upon, and yet have—I like to think—a begrudging respect for weirdness. I don’t like it, and I want it off my lawn, but I don’t freak out about it.
I’m like a mid-story Lovecraft narrator in that regard, I suppose. That, and my racism. And my body odor.
My haircut too, kinda.
But my point is this: when those idiot nephews of mine, while goofing around with the map they found in that stupid demon-faced monument, discovered a secret staircase under my strategically important fountain that leads to a part of the dungeon that not even Mr. Bliss was previously aware of, I did not “freak out.”
I took it in stride. These things happen around the three of them. Pp’grgth, Grg-thpp and Winslow have some type of plot-advancement-based, cartoon-physics-related feats. I’m sure of it. It’s the only way they could have survived this long.
Some day, I’ll even prove it.
Likewise, I did not lose my cool and start gibbering when I found out that General VanO’Shaughnessy Blah-blah-blah #3 refers to my superior as Stonnehyldd the “Smokin’-Hot” Stone Golem, or when I learned that that’s what pretty much everyone else calls her, too.
I accept that she is apparently very, very attractive to other people. People who don’t work for her, I guess. Some people have a thing for women carved out of marble.
And I didn’t miss a beat just now when I observed my boss, Dark Lord Torkelheim, doing “the Hustle” in a skin-tight, chest-baring neon unitard with flared bell-bottoms while shouting for the crowd to “check out his sweet moves.”
I didn’t even weird-out when he drunkenly introduced me to his buddy from the edition-change-related-anxiety-support-group that he’s been attending, a Gargantuan-size multi-headed fellow whom I believe to be an otyugh with both the half-white-dragon and half-red-dragon template, a smattering of skills I had never heard of and levels in what might be a Psychic Warrior variant from a now-defunct publisher.
I even let the two of them goad me into asking the DJ to put on some Bay City Rollers without much more than an eye-roll.
But for all my affectations of wry, unamused tolerance for strangeness, I did not imagine for all the world that I would wind up dancing and subsequently chatting with Abliguritia Thundersmasher-Roth tonight. Or that she would find my knowledge of dwarven humor so charming. Or that I would somehow wind up asking her out on a date for this coming Friday.
Or that she would accept.
Hmm. Odd, that. These shakes are not going away.
Hung over. Still in state of emotional shock. Having difficulty tasting food.
This is actually pretty okay, since I eat rats.
Checked the Kickstarter campaign for the Maxx Thrust-Gofast video-game. Zero dollars raised, two comments posted: one from my mother, telling me that I should probably lower my goal to under $3 million, and one from “Gobo-Stabba-2000,” who logged on to inform me that “yar, I’ll pledge one bent copper if ye punch yer worthless gobo self right in yer ugly gobo face, ya bugga!”
I presume that one is from that pirate —or dwarf—with whom I am, now that I consider it, still engaged in a prank war. It’s not from my mom’s IP address, anyway.
Going back to bed. Big, bright Monday tomorrow. That is a thing that will happen.
Oh, cool. So, it seems that the shock has worn off. Now in raw, abject panic.
I have a freaking DATE with the most beautiful dwarf-girl in the WORLD in less than five freaking DAYS.
Must fix every single terrible thing about myself. NOW.