It’s been a couple of months since I maowed down some shrooms and got spirited away to Middle Earth. At first I thought it was the absolute tits, flirting with hot Elven moms and sneaking into the armory so I could dress up in plate-mail and fuck around with swords. Unfortunately, the head honchos quickly realized I had no interest in their Ring War (they also got sick of me shlorping their ethereal-ass milfs). The last straw was when they caught me with Aiglos, the last spear of Gil-Galad, while pretending I was Elrond fighting off demons and engaging in sloppy cunnilingus.
So they made me part of the Argent Regiment, but not as a skirmisher, archer, or anything cool. I’m basically a bitch-boy who has to shlep water for military training, shine their somber-faced statues, and empty the shitters whenever they’re full (fucking hypocritical-ass Elves, pretending like they never have to poop when they spend half their morning dooking out mountains of lembas)
“Ho! Kent of Earth!” Their chief douchebag, a captain named Lydiviél Essari, strides toward me.
“Huh?” I stop shining the crotch of a statue (malicious compliance—if they’re going to force me to polish these monuments, I’m gonna make the nether bits uncomfortably bright) and wipe sweat off my brow. “What’s up?”
He stops before me and crosses his arms. “Aragorn, son of Arathorn, will be visiting shortly. The Argent Regiment will attend his presence. Ensure you change into a clean tunic, and swap your dagger for a ceremonial blade.”
“Let me check my schedule.” I offer an upturned fist, look down at it, and pretend to punch a calculator-like sequence into the palm. Once it concludes, I pop up my middle finger and meet his eyes. “Nope. Looks like I’m busy.”
He doesn’t get it, but the disgust in his expression doesn’t change. “Do as I say, or I shall weigh you with duties that mangle your soul.”
As he walks away, I grumble under my breath. Asshole.
An hour later, I’m lined up with a bunch of soldiers. Aragorn is saying something-something-something about how important we are, and how much we’re contributing to the free folk of Middle Earth. About twenty minutes in, a lady sidles up to him and locks eyes with me.
Holy shit. Arwen!
I mime the “call me” sign and throw her a wink. Her eyes widen in shock, then she hisses through her teeth and jiggles her hand at neck-level, responding with the cut-it-out gesture.
“And so, after long hours of hardship and travel…” Aragorn trails off, looking back and forth between me and his fiancé. “Do you know this peasant?”
She flinches and straightens. “No! No, my love, I…I was simply…er…”
“He clearly knows you.” Aragorn’s gaze narrows in suspicion.
“Come on!” I holler. “What about our first rawdog? You telling me you forgot this girthy upcurved womb-hammer?”
“I…” She looks back and forth between me and Aragorn, then furtively points behind her, “I have to GO,” before scurrying out of our line of sight.
Aragorn turns and draws his sword. “Very well, debaucher. Show us this phallus you proudly flaunt, so I can GIVE IT ITS PROPER GODS-DAMNED DUE!”
Elves scatter, leaving me quailing before the murder-bonered Ranger. Fuck it. No options left. So I open my eReader to a Kent Wayne novel, activating its mind-bending reality distortion powers. Magic flash.
Gollum appears in a puff of smoke, soaring toward Aragorn with a slimy erection before latching on to his skull like a Xenomorph face-hugger. Aragorn manages to scream, “Iluvatar NO!” before the creepy little cave-dweller begins thrusting away with his undoubtedly smelly wiener.
Meanwhile, an interdimensional portal opens behind me, displaying the interior of my homey condo. As I rush back to Earth, I can’t help but cackle like the cat that got the cream.
Kent Wayne wins again! HEH heh heh!
😀
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Dirty Sci-Fi Buddha 