I was at a roleplaying convention and kept running into a guy, strolling around harmlessly with his girlfriend. He had blue, curly hair and together they were both very jolly and friendly but, for whatever reason, whenever I ran into them it was with some kind of insult or the like, putting him in a bad light even though it was never aimed at him.
He kept brushing it off, laughing because he liked my podcast and felt that it was fun to be made fun of by me. I still felt bad about it, however, because I had never meant those insults to be directed at him. He just happened to... pass by.
I was a prince in a World of Warcraft-like scenario and we were defending our base. I was trying to have barracks built and troops trained, but my allies wouldn't take the attack seriously, letting the enemy orcs just stroll into our domains. Indeed, the orc seemed harmless, just strolling around but I knew that if we let their numbers grow then they would ultimately attack and we'd be vastly outnumbered. So I charged towards an orc, shouting "NO QUARTER!", impaling him on my sword. Then I swung around, channelling the forces of nature into a mighty gust of wind, which through my sword point became a sharp beam of air, piercing straight through the belly of a two-headed ogre standing several metres away, almost turning him inside out. My spinning momentum carried me unto two more foes, lazily strolling along, and I swept my razor-sharp sword in such a powerful motion that it struck the scalp of one of them straight off.
Then I realised - it was the blue-haired boy.
Once again he had accidentally ended up being in my way, only this time the situation was deadly. We all ended up going to the hospital. His situation was critical yet my strike had been so smooth that it miraculously hadn't hurt his brain, which was now exposed. He was conscious. Laughing. Saying that surely good old Hjalmar hadn't meant to kill him. Surely it was just an accident.
I heard him saying this from where I was sitting in the room next door, worriedly eating some crisp bread. The room looked like the cantina of my primary school.
His mother came in. She came over to me and started talking very seriously about everyone making fun of and bullying her timid and gentle-spirited son. Surely, if anyone, the great Hjalmar would have been above such things, but - oh no! - I had to go and lop his scalp off.
"You probably already know that they have nicknamed him Cunt-Simon".
Cunt-Simon? Aaah, his name is Kent-Simon. Glorious.
Cunt-Simon was currently in a critical state, about to go into surgery, but it was too funny. I corpsed into a huge burst of laughter. She took my glass of water and threw it in my face.
He kept brushing it off, laughing because he liked my podcast and felt that it was fun to be made fun of by me. I still felt bad about it, however, because I had never meant those insults to be directed at him. He just happened to... pass by.
I was a prince in a World of Warcraft-like scenario and we were defending our base. I was trying to have barracks built and troops trained, but my allies wouldn't take the attack seriously, letting the enemy orcs just stroll into our domains. Indeed, the orc seemed harmless, just strolling around but I knew that if we let their numbers grow then they would ultimately attack and we'd be vastly outnumbered. So I charged towards an orc, shouting "NO QUARTER!", impaling him on my sword. Then I swung around, channelling the forces of nature into a mighty gust of wind, which through my sword point became a sharp beam of air, piercing straight through the belly of a two-headed ogre standing several metres away, almost turning him inside out. My spinning momentum carried me unto two more foes, lazily strolling along, and I swept my razor-sharp sword in such a powerful motion that it struck the scalp of one of them straight off.
Then I realised - it was the blue-haired boy.
Once again he had accidentally ended up being in my way, only this time the situation was deadly. We all ended up going to the hospital. His situation was critical yet my strike had been so smooth that it miraculously hadn't hurt his brain, which was now exposed. He was conscious. Laughing. Saying that surely good old Hjalmar hadn't meant to kill him. Surely it was just an accident.
I heard him saying this from where I was sitting in the room next door, worriedly eating some crisp bread. The room looked like the cantina of my primary school.
His mother came in. She came over to me and started talking very seriously about everyone making fun of and bullying her timid and gentle-spirited son. Surely, if anyone, the great Hjalmar would have been above such things, but - oh no! - I had to go and lop his scalp off.
"You probably already know that they have nicknamed him Cunt-Simon".
Cunt-Simon? Aaah, his name is Kent-Simon. Glorious.
Cunt-Simon was currently in a critical state, about to go into surgery, but it was too funny. I corpsed into a huge burst of laughter. She took my glass of water and threw it in my face.
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