Chapters 221 and 222 (Patreon)

Chapter 221

I took a quick glance over my shoulder to make certain there were no fellow crawlers watching, and then I took a step inside the room. My view counter was absolutely spiked, so I knew there was no way I’d get through this without Donut eventually finding out. I sighed and let the sticky, filthy door close behind me.

I was assaulted with the stench of male sweat, grease, and cheap cologne.

Entering the Penis Parade.

The deep bass of a somewhat familiar Billie Eilish song pounded, drowning out the techno from the dance club behind me. I took a moment to let my eyes adjust to the darkness. A ridiculously buff troll creature stood upon the main stage, gyrating to the song while a group of drunk, female elf and dwarf NPCs screeched, their voices carrying above the pounding music. The green-skinned, tusked troll was completely naked, and he carried a massive club in his hand. There was no pole like in a female strip club. The troll had a high, black mohawk that waved back and forth as he spun and twirled the wooden club with the enthusiasm of a majorette tripping on ecstasy. The squealing NPCs kept throwing gold pieces at the dancer, and they were pinging off of him like hail, clicking and rolling off in all directions. A skinny, young crocodilian in a Penis Parade t-shirt scrambled about with a bucket, gathering the coins all up. The bucket was almost full of gold.

The name floating over the dancer was Author Steve Rowland. Level 50 Forest Troll. The skinny kid collecting the coins was Bucket Boy. Level 10 Crocodilian.

I reached up and drew a privacy bubble over my head, which had the effect of only slightly muting the music, but not the screeching of the women. My eyes searched until I found a line of male NPCs, all sitting at the darkest end of the dingy bar, all staring at me. I was the only crawler in the club. I started searching the men, trying to see in the dark which one had an elbow tattoo of a spiderweb.

“Hey there, sailor,” a deep, Spanish voice said, sidling up to me. I jumped, surprised. I examined the shiny, oiled-up man. He was human, and he appeared to be about seventy years old, with a long, white beard, a conquistador-style helmet, and little, spandex shorts along with an open vest. The man was jacked, but it was weird because he seemed so old. I was several inches taller than him.

“Are you here looking for fun or looking for a job?” the man asked. He looked me up and down and ran his hand across my jacket. “It’s been a while since I’ve tilted a giant.”

The name over his head was Dong Quixote. Level 45 Human.

“I’m looking for Damascus Steel,” I said.

“Oh,” he said, taking a step back. He let out a breath, and half of his muscles turned to flab. I blinked at that. “He’s the cranky one over there.” He pointed at a large man, sitting in shadow at the end of the bar, the only one not facing the crowd. He sat around the corner, separated from the others. Dong Quixote’s voice had instantly changed, losing the Spanish accent and becoming a little nasally. The elderly stripper took a breath, turned away, and approached a group of squealing women. On stage, the troll was bouncing in circles, pretending his club was a hobby horse while he smacked his own ass. Suddenly the troll dropped the club and fell onto his side, grabbing onto his face in apparent pain.

“Rosemarie, you know the rules,” a new voice called. It was coming over the loudspeaker, but it cut through my bubble. “Stop aiming for his face. If he loses an eye again, you’re paying for the healer.”

I looked up to see a raised DJ booth, hidden in the shadows between the bar and the stage. I caught sight of what looked like a skeleton wearing a golden, glinting crown. He was leaning over his console, glaring down at a group of women.

“Fuck off,” an elderly dwarf shouted at the DJ booth, followed by a chorus of laughter. This was apparently Rosemarie. She had some sort of weird, black and white pet creature on her shoulder. It looked like it was maybe a mole.

I returned my attention to the dancers, and I approached the end of the counter. I caught eyes with a large, shirtless man with dark, purple skin and snake-like features. It immediately reminded me of Eva, though this guy only had two arms. Anaconda. Level 75. Quarter Naga. This guy was one of Donut’s favorite dancers. He looked me up and down appraisingly. I walked right past him, moved around the edge of the bar, and tapped the man at the very end on the shoulder. He didn’t look up. His body felt like it was made of solid metal.

“No,” the gravelly-voiced man said. “I don’t go on until later.” He was hunched over a steaming mug of something, possibly tea, and he had an open book on the counter of the bar, though I had no idea how he could read in the dark. While not as old as Dong Quixote, I could tell this guy was older, too. My eyes caught the spiderweb pattern on his left elbow.

“I’m not looking for a dance. We have a few mutual friends, one of whom is Donut.”

The man took a sip of tea, closed his book, and turned to face me.

Damascus Steel felt like metal when I touched him, but looked as if he was made of regular skin. Sort of. He wasn’t as buff as some of the other dancers, but he was well toned and much too large to be an elf, despite the pointed ears. While he didn’t have as many tattoos as Signet, he did have several. His arms were covered in old, faded ink. His chest featured a tattoo of spread, bat-like demon wings with an anatomical heart in the center. In addition to the tattoos, the man was heavily scarred in several places. Old, red welts cut across the ink on his chest, like he’d once been raked by giant talons.

He wore an open, embroidered vest and wavey, wide pants, Aladdin style. He appeared mostly humanoid with Arabic features, but his body seemed a little... fuzzy around the edges, like he was constantly going in and out of focus. Smoke rose off his skin and closely-cropped hair, almost like he was steaming. His eyes were completely white with no pupils at all. Smoke rose from the sockets.

Only when he turned did I notice a pair of stubby horns upon his head. These weren’t the shaved off trunks of larger horns, like in the Hellboy comic. These were tiny, little stubs, like something one would see on a baby goat.

Damascus Steel. Level 75. Ifrit.

Lead dancer at the Penis Parade.

The closer one gets to the world of Sheol on the 15th floor, the more demons one might find leaking out into the regular world, especially in places that haven’t been cleansed in a while. And by “cleansed,” I mean in a biblical sense.

An ifrit is like a cockroach or a rat, though usually a lot sexier and more entertaining than either of those. And smart. And cunning. And they usually smell, good, too, which is weird considering how they look. Where there is debauchery, there are usually demons. Where there is sin, there are Ifrit. Unlike a succubus or incubus, who are inordinately obsessed with sex, an Ifrit is more attuned to the aura of lust and sin and envy and greed and all those other nasty iniquities that spill over the world. That doesn’t make him good or bad, any more than a guy who jacks off to granny porn is bad. Actually, I’m not sure where I’m going with this. Try not to get into a fight with this guy because he’ll fuck you up.

He, interestingly, has the exact same elbow tattoo as you.

“That was Author Steve Rowland,” the DJ intoned over the loudspeaker. “Once we get that coin dislodged from his eye socket, he’ll be available for a private dance. Watch out, ladies. You’re gonna get wet. Coming up next is Splash Zone!”

The crowd squealed with excitement as some hair metal song started to play.

“Carl,” Damascus said, looking me up and down. His eyes focused on my elbow tattoo. He also appeared to examine the other, large tattoo on my left arm, the ball of snakes. My Enemy of the Church tat that I’d gotten for smashing the Diwata shrine. “I’m glad you’ve come to visit. Donut speaks highly of you.” He paused. “As does Katia.”

“Katia is the one who finally convinced me to come here.” I rubbed my elbow.

He nodded. “Walk with me.”

I hesitated, but only for a moment. He left his book and tea on the counter. He led me across the room to a row of cubicles set against the far wall, just to the side of the stage. Above, some sort of otter thing was gyrating up on the platform while a song, apparently called “Girl Money,” blasted. The crowd enthusiastically peppered him with coins while Bucket Boy scrambled to pick them up.

We approached the cubicles, which all had red or green lights over them, presumably indicating if they were occupied or not. Loud, female groaning emanated from the one occupied room followed by the familiar, Spanish voice of Dong Quixote shouting, “Thou hast seen nothing yet! Thou hast seen nothing yet!”

“Ohhh, look at that,” a female dwarf called, looking me up and down. “Somebody is getting a go at the forge.” Cackles followed.

This was Rosemarie, the same one who’d gotten in trouble for pelting the troll dancer in the eye with a coin. The dwarf woman was older than I originally thought. The black and white creature on her shoulder was indeed a mole, though it had a fur pattern that was unusual, almost like an Australian cattle dog. The little creature snuffled at me, and the name floating over it was Bernie.

Damascus turned and bowed with a flourish, which caused more women to laugh. He moved to the very last cubicle against the corner and held the door open for me. I stepped inside. He slapped my ass as I passed.

The room was small, about the size of a walk-in closet, and it was covered top to bottom in purple, shag carpet. A swing contraption covered in buckles hung from the ceiling.

My eyes immediately caught the hidden door against the other wall. It was a portal. I activated my skill and took a screenshot of the other side, revealing a brick-covered hallway with torches on the wall.

Damascus stepped inside and closed the door to the club behind him. He locked the door, and without a word, he stepped past me and to the secret door. He pushed his hand against it, and it opened. He stepped within. I followed.

Entering the Guild of Suffering.

Welcome, spider. Welcome home.

My privacy bubble disappeared, just like it did when I exited the Desperado. The music from the club stopped. The temperature rose significantly. Damascus paused in the hall, and pointed to the lone door at the end. It was a regular, wooden door, carved with a spiderweb pattern. I walked toward the it, and the moment I put my hand against it, I was assaulted with a wall of text.

New Achievement! The Molly Maguires.

You have found and entered the main room of a hidden guild, to which you are a member.

Buckle yourself in, buddy boy. This is gonna be a long one.

There are several types of secret societies out there.

There’s the Ivy League college kind, where it’s a bunch of rich idiots who rent out a place, plaster a few pagan symbols on the wall, and then they wear masks with horns and leaves and shit on them and pretend they’re in some Stanley Kubrick fever dream, just so they can forget they’re destined to live out lives filled with salmon-colored shorts and Izod shirts and mind-numbing meetings with financial advisors.

There’s orgy-themed secret societies, speaking of Stanley Kubrick. Those are usually, uh, visually unpleasant people with unsatisfactory sex lives who get together every other month at some house in the middle of nowhere and get drunk and have lots of unsatisfactory sex with other people and pretend like they’re having a great time.

There are altruistic ones. People who want to make a difference by doing good. That’s the most boring kind, so we’re not talking about them.

There’s the evil kind, too. Usually power and profit motivated. The ones where the ultra-elite get together on an island and eat panda bears and discuss how to price-fix world or galactic markets. Yes, those groups really exist. More on these guys in a second.

But first let’s talk about another type of secret organization. One that tries to make a difference, oftentimes outside the confines of the law.

Story time.

In September of 1869, there was a terrible fire at the Avondale coal mine near Plymouth, Pennsylvania. Over 100 coal miners lost their lives. Horrific conditions and safety standards were blamed for the disaster.

It wasn’t the first accident. Hundreds of miners died in these mines every year. And those that didn’t, lived in squalor. Children as young as eight worked day in and out. They broke their bodies and gave their lives for nothing but scraps.

That day of the fire, as thousands of workers and family members gathered outside the mine to watch the bodies of their friends and loved ones brought to the surface, a man named John Siney stood atop one of the carts and shouted to the crowd:

Men, if you must die with your boots on, die for your families, your homes, your country, but do not longer consent to die, like rats in a trap, for those who have no more interest in you than in the pick you dig with.

That day, thousands of coal miners came together to unionize.

That organization, the Workingmen’s Benevolent Association, managed to fight, for a few years at least, to raise safety standards for the mines by calling strikes and attempting to force safety legislation.

...Until 1875, when the union was obliterated by the mine owners.

Why was the union broken so easily? Because they were out in the open. They were playing by the rules. How can you win a game when the rules are written by your opponent?

The answer is you can’t. You will never win. Not as long as you follow their arbitrary guidelines.

This is a new lesson to me. She’s been teaching me so many things, about who I am. About what I am. What I really am. About what must be done.

Anyway, during this same time, a separate, more militant group of individuals had formed in secret. The Molly Maguires. Named after a widow in Ireland who fought against predatory landlords, the coal workers of Pennsylvania became something a little more proactive, allegedly assassinating over two dozen coal mine supervisors and managers.

...Until Pinkerton agents, hired by the same mine owners, infiltrated the group and discovered their identities.

Several of the Mollies ended up publicly hanged. Others disappeared. You get the picture.

So, that’s another type of secret society. The yeah-we’re-terrorists-but-we-strongly-feel-we’re-justified-and-fuck-you-if-you-don’t-agree society.

So, what’s the moral of this little history lesson?

This sort of thing happens all day, every day across the universe. It happens in Big Ways, and it happens in little ways, too. The strong stomp on the weak. The weak fight back, usually within the boundaries of the rat trap they find themselves confined. They almost always remain firmly stomped.

But sometimes, the weak gather in secret. They make plans. They work outside the system to effect change.

Like the Mollies, they usually end up just as stomped as everyone else.

But that’s just life. At least they fucking tried. They died with their boots on, as much as I hate that expression. They died with their boots on for their people, their family, not for some rich, nameless organization that gives no shits whether they live or die. Or go extinct. Or are trapped for a millennia after they’re done being used.

In my opinion, that’s the only type of society that’s worth joining, worth fighting for. Sure, you’re probably gonna die. But if you find yourself in such a position where such an organization is necessary, what do you have to lose? How can you look at yourself if you don’t do everything you can?

And that brings us to the door you’re standing in front of right now. What does all this have to do with what you’re going to find on the other side?

Nothing!

Ignore everything I just said. This is just some demi-god trying to scrabble his way to the top. That’s yet another type of society. A religion-themed one, and it has nothing to do with what I just said. Just do what he says, and you’ll probably be fine. Actually, that’s terrible advice. Just do you.

Anyway...

Reward: You’ve received the gift of enlightenment! You’re welcome.

“What the fuck was that,” I muttered. I’d received a lot of weird achievements, but that was one of the strangest ones I’d ever gotten.

I copy and pasted the notification, which had already changed itself to a short, more standard achievement in my history tab.

“Why are you just standing there?” Damascus asked. “Don’t be a coward. Go in, get it over with, and come out. I have a reputation to maintain, so you must hurry.”

I sighed and pushed my way all the way into the room.

Chapter 222

Carl: It was just a dark room with that weird, naga voice. I never saw him. He asked me if I wanted a job to help the “family,” and I said no, I’m helping you. He then asked if I planned on killing you for the prize, and I said no. I just wanted to know if he had a map of the Desperado Club’s secret passageways. He said he did. A bunch of spiders swarmed up my arm, and I almost crapped myself. But then it added a ton of stuff to my map. There are multiple secret passages and tunnels, including some with monsters in them. Did you know there’s a secret potion market on the middle floor? Mordecai didn’t, and he’s losing his mind over it. There’s a bunch of “drug dens,” too.

Katia: Drug dens? What does that mean? Where are they?

Carl: I’m not sure. They sell the blitz sticks out in the open through the harmacist guys, so I don’t know. They’re mostly behind secret panels in the hallways. I had no idea the place was so extensive. You know, I met the guy who designed the Desperado Club when I went to CrawlCon. I judged an art contest with him. I need to give him more credit.

Katia: You’ll have to send some of those details over. Maybe there’ll be something there we can use. Anyway, do we have an idea on where we’re going to act against our target?

Carl: I think we do. We’ll strike when I get back from rescuing Samantha. I’m writing out a list of the secret passageways, and I’ll send it to you. I’ll lay out my plan for secluding the target. Let me know what you think.

I was surprised there were no mentions in the cookbook about any secret passageways in the Desperado Club. It made me wonder if all of this was new.

Katia: Does Donut know you met Damascus yet? I went to get some supplies, and when I got back, everyone was gone.

Carl: Yeah, I came out, and she was already there in the strip club. Apparently she went to the Penis Palace on the middle floor, but it was “boring,” so she went up a floor to where I was. She was dancing with some weird, hairy thing called Gluteus Maxx. Li Na was there, too, watching her. She told me that you asked her to watch over her, so thank you for that.

Katia: I’ve met Gluteus. He’s a bit of a jerk, but he is a good dancer, and I think he’s a little in love with Donut.

Carl: Donut was literally dancing on stage with him. On his shoulder. She was showering gold coins into his thong. For someone who’s so careful with gold, I was surprised she was being so generous.

Katia: Yeah, she does that. She always looks like she’s spending a lot, but she has a strict budget when she goes in there. How did she react when you came out of the cum closet?

Carl: The what?

Katia: The cubicle things in the back.

Carl: Oh, yeah. So, to Donut’s credit, she didn’t question why I was in there. She and Li Na both know not to ask questions about what we’re doing. That Damascus guy told me I had to limp when I walked out, or he’d take out my knee. You know, to make it look like we’d been messing around. I didn’t want to argue with him, so I did it, but I regret it now because that Rosemarie dwarf lady insisted on high-fiving me. And she gave me a little pinback button that says “Certified pole dancer.”

Katia: He just made me muss up my hair a little. I got the button, too. Anyway, be safe with the Samantha thing. Donut is telling me now about the jewel she got for her tiara. She’s pretty excited about it.

I glanced over at Donut, who was currently hovering two feet off the ground as we walked back to the royal chariot. She was literally walking on air, tail swishing. She was quite proud of herself after our most recent battle.

“Donut, don’t waste your hovers. You only get five a day.”

“I’m practicing, Carl. If I don’t practice, how will I know how to use it?”

“Yeah, but now you only have one left.”

We’d ended up keeping her tiara of Mana Genita—which might end up useful one day—and we purchased a blank tiara from the gnome jeweler at the Desperado Club. It had taken Donut twenty minutes to pick one. It wasn’t until I threatened to leave that she finally chose a simple, silver-colored one. Then we paid 25,000 gold to have the citrine jewel installed into the item. Donut’s dislike of the color ended the moment we read the description of what the tiara actually did:

Enchanted Tiara of the Inebriated Dragonfly.

There’s a children’s story out there about a dragonfly who gets so drunk that his wife won’t let him come home, so he hovers in the air above their nest, waiting for her to go to sleep, so he can get to bed. The thing is, the wife knows he’s out there, and she ain’t moving. So the dragonfly either hovers all night or moves to the highest point, sitting on a leaf, overlooking his home, waiting for his wife to turn the light back on to signify he’s out of the doghouse.

This tiara has been made to honor that poor Dragonfly with the angry wife.

This citrine-encrusted tiara, when equipped, imbues the following effects:

50% Reduction to potion cooldown.

Plus 10 to intelligence.

Protection from poisoning (already obtained)

Negates the dexterity debuff when inebriated.

A level 10 Hover Skill.

The hover skill had a five-minute cooldown, and it was limited to five uses a day. It was a little similar to what Elle had, though not nearly as powerful. Donut could basically hover about two to three feet off the ground for about 90 seconds. She could move, and unlike the levitate spell, it didn’t get negated if she took damage. If activated while falling, it would gently bring her to the ground, which was a great addition to the benefit. Now we both had fall protection.

While I was really happy about the cooldown reduction and mana point increase, Donut was all about that Hover skill. She thought it was the greatest thing in the world.

“I can fly now. Carl, I can fly! I’m like Superman!” She rose into the air the moment she equipped it and started zooming in circles a foot off the ground.

“Well, sort of,” I said. “Just don’t waste them. Save it for when we need it. You can use it to walk over water, but it won’t let you traverse canyons or anything. You have to be no more than three feet off the ground.”

“I’m flying! I’m flying!” Donut announced, all poofed out.

Now, as we returned from our battle, Donut was hovering again, and there was no reason for it. This was the fourth time she’d cast it.

There’d been a huge car pileup here, and we’d stopped to investigate the local mobs that had caused it. There were multiple, mutilated corpses of bats, who’d gotten themselves splattered by the vehicles. The pileup was about a quarter of a mile long coming from the north, but it only consisted of about twenty to thirty vehicles coming from the south, meaning there was another pileup in the direction we were headed. We were getting close to the southern coast of the island, which had to be near the edge of our total space.

The dead creatures ranged in level from 20 to 40, and they all looked like regular bats, only huge, most of them with bodies about the size of Donut. They were called Brachy Bastids for some reason.

After a consult with Mordecai, we cautiously moved into the trees in search of the monsters. It was daylight, and he was reasonably certain they’d all be asleep.

We’d have to be quiet, so we put Mongo away.

It only took a few minutes to discover the colony. We followed a line of clothes and car parts to a particularly large tree, which was full of the mobs, hanging upside down and asleep. They looked like large clusters of pinecones. I cringed as I stepped on the piles of guano. Mordecai insisted we grab some of the droppings. Donut absolutely refused, but I gingerly took a plastic container I had in my inventory for this sort of thing and grabbed a scoopful. The system helpfully added a new tab in my inventory titled Poop.

There were about fifty of the creatures. They made little snoring, peeping noises. Based on the amount of guano, I had the sense there’d been more. A lot more, but they’d gotten themselves pretty messed up against the cars.

Donut: CARL, CARL THEY’RE ADORABLE. WE SHOULD FLAG ONE. I WANT THAT FAT ONE OVER THERE.

Carl: If Mordecai’s correct, these guys have a weakness that makes them almost useless for card combat.

Donut: YOU’RE PROBABLY RIGHT. THEY PROBABLY HAVE RABIES, TOO.

I quietly planted several explosives around the main group of trees, utilizing hobgoblin pus and my new shrapnel blooms, which I’d just picked up. I hadn’t tested them yet in my bomber’s studio, but if they worked as intended, they would fill the air above them with thousands of little, spinning chunks of hot metal. On Mordecai’s advice, I also planted an alarm trap, burying it in the guano with my foot. This was one of my preprogrammed “loud” ones. These things were tough. Hopefully it’d survive the blast. The monsters didn’t even stir. We quickly moved back to the road, moving a little further south to add some extra distance.

“You ready?” I asked as I wiped my foot on the bumper of a crashed Chevy Bel-Air. Along the roadway, a bus full of apparitions floated by, all wearing nothing but glasses and hats.

Donut removed Mongo from his carrier and jumped to his back. “It’s going to be loud, Mongo,” she said. “Mommy is right here. Here. Let me cover your ears.” She reached down and made an attempt to cover the sides of his head with her paws. “Does that work? I don’t know if these are the correct holes.”

I grunted with amusement.

“Don’t be crude, Carl.”

“Here we go.”

Bam!

Combat Started.

More notifications scrolled by. I leveled.

The explosion wasn’t as loud as I was expecting, even at this distance. I felt it more in my chest. The ground rumbled, and a wide swath of trees in the jungle just disappeared. All around, several of the crashed cars, some of them with their engines still rumbling, shifted. One started to whine loudly, likely from a slipping belt in the engine.

Ping, ping, crack.

“Gah,” I cried as a little hunk of sizzling metal embedded itself into my arm.

I covered my head as dirt and branches and bat parts and shrapnel rained all around us. We hadn’t moved back far enough.

Donut screeched as half of a dead bat splattered against her, smearing blood all over herself and Mongo, who immediately started spinning in circles, trying to lick at his own back.

“Rabies! I have rabies, Carl!”

I quickly examined her, checking her debuffs. I relaxed.

“No, you don’t. And neither did the bat. Do you see anything movi...”

Topping at number 11 on June 2nd, 1990, it’s “The Humpty Dance!”

The trap module had lodged somewhere nearby, having been blasted upward despite me burying it.

I covered my ears as the ridiculously-loud song started to boom. Donut started screeching all over again, but then she fired a magic missile into the sky. Then another. Then another.

The blast hadn’t killed some of the bats, and they’d taken to the air. A dozen or so were in the process of swooping in our direction when the song stopped their attack. Now they flapped their wings as they circled helplessly, blinded by the music. Mordecai had said this would happen. Donut started picking them off one by one. In less than a minute, it was done. I walked over, found the trap module lodged in a windshield, and I deactivated it.

Combat Complete. Deck has been reset.

“That was fun, but you really need to be more careful, Carl,” Donut said afterward. “Every time you blow something up, the explosion is bigger.” She’d started to clean herself, but she couldn’t bring herself to lick the bat gore, so instead she was reluctantly allowing Mongo to clean her, which he did with enthusiasm.

Now, less than an hour later, we came across the next pile-up, this one curving around a bend in the poorly-maintained road. The land in this area had been mostly flat for a while, but we were now back to trees and wetlands. We curved eastward as the ocean loomed to the south, entering some sort of nature preserve. We still couldn’t see Samantha on the map, but according to her, she was just off the road not too far from here.

Donut: THERE ARE MOBS COMING UP, PROBABLY JUST PAST THE CRASHED CARS. LOTS AND LOTS OF THEM. HUNDREDS. MAYBE THOUSANDS. I DON’T THINK IT’S MORE BATS. THEY’RE BIGGER AND THEY’RE ON THE GROUND, CROSSING THE ROAD.

I slowed the chariot and moved off the road, stopping near the line of wrecked cars. The woods came right up to the edge of the road here, and I could see the water. If we stepped off the road, we’d immediately get wet. Going off road here was probably a bad idea.

“Okay,” I said as Donut and Mongo pulled up next to me. “Let’s approach cautiously and see what we’re dealing with. Get your escape spells ready in case we gotta run.”

The moment we stopped, I could hear them. It was crackling and crunching and skittering and what sounded like the murmuring of a thousand voices all at once. The tops of the trees around the bend shook.

“I think I know what this is going to be,” I said as we moved forward. “Let’s go stealth.” That meant Take an invisibility potion and put Mongo away.

A moment later, we turned the bend, and I saw I was correct.

Far ahead, there was a modest hill of crashed cars, and beyond that, there were hundreds of the mobs, crossing from the left side of the road to the right. They were headed toward the ocean about a half of a mile away.

Crabs. They just kept coming and coming.

Paz had said the real versions were small, maybe about the size of my hand. These guys were bigger than that. Each of the red and black, armored creatures was about the size of a large pig, with long, segmented legs and claws big enough to wrap around my waist and snap me in half.

They were slightly smaller than the crabs Odette used for her lower body, but they were still goddamned huge. They moved quickly into the forest, splashing into the water, crawling over one another with little regard for the safety of their fellow crab. One appeared to have the severed arm of another in its claw, and it was munching on it like a turkey leg. Another stumbled, and was soon trampled over by the others. The murmuring noise rose in volume, like we were approaching a busy café. They were all talking to one another.

“Stop,” I hissed, lowering behind a car, despite the invisibility. I spied a single crab sitting alone atop a crashed box truck, only about twenty feet away. It wasn’t moving, and I hadn’t noticed its dot mixed in with all the noise. The crab was talking to himself, and he looked like he was in the middle of casting a spell. A faint, yellow glow surrounded his body. I examined it.

Raul. Red Maníseros Land Crab. Sun-Kissed Cloud Rank Warrior. Level 70.

The land crabs, masters of the Juego de maní fighting style, have trained their whole lives for this moment. After years of humiliating defeats, they are ready to seize their destiny. Their sworn enemies, the Monk Seals with their wretched Caribbean Kung Fu, won’t know what’s about to hit them. The crabs have massed on the southern borders of the ocean, where they will swoop into the waves. From there, they will circle the island and release their grand emissions, finally choking out their sworn enemies and birthing an army to tremble the heavens.

Having cultivated for many years, Raul is on the verge of a breakthrough. Through meditation, perseverance, and maybe a little divine intervention, he will enrich his chi to the breaking point, where he will combine it with his inner core and break through to the next level of his development into a master.

But the timing couldn’t be worse. The conflict is here. He is ready to bathe himself in the crucible of war, no matter his station, but he prays for the chance to descend upon his seal enemies with the power of the heavenly rank.

Will he break through before the battle begins?

“Carl, I don’t understand that description at all. It sounds like something from one of your nerd cartoons.”

Before I could answer, we got another notification.

Quest Update. The Chowder War.

The migration has begun, and it’s a sneak attack! The crabs have pulled a fast one. Instead of spreading their incursions evenly upon the coast, they have massed in the south where the monk seals have the lowest concentration. United, they are scrambling toward the water, ready to release their seed. Once in the waves, they will march around the coast, trailing destruction until the wretched monk seals are defeated once and for all and forever banished from these sacred lands.

It’s time to choose a side. If you do nothing, odds are good this bloody conflict will soon spiral out of control. But if you choose to help the crabs, surely they will sweep to victory, choking the baby seals to death with their emissions. If you side with the seals, perhaps the kung fu masters will crush the advance of the crustaceans, ensuring a peaceful existence for generations to come.

What will you do?

I sighed. We didn’t have time for this, though I did want to flag one of these crabs. It was probably a terrible idea to have both a seal and crab in our deck at the same time, but then we could decide which one was better once we had it.

“I’m going to get a flag ready,” I whispered as we continued to watch the lone crab.

The mob appeared to be just sitting there atop the pile of crashed cars. It was sitting in a crab’s version of the lotus position with its two claws stretched out, facing away from us. If it wasn’t casting a spell, it was meditating, but it was also talking loudly. The golden glow around it pulsated.

“Okay, Raul. You got this. You got this. You will not kowtow to the weak! You will never kowtow! You will ascend past cloud rank and move to the golden heavenly throne.”

“Carl, is he talking to himself?” Donut whispered.

“I’m pretty sure he is.”

“What is he talking about? What’s a cow towel?”

“He’s saying kowtow. Not cow towel. It means to submit or be subservient.”

“He’s talking crazy.”

The crab continued to chant to himself, like he was repeating lines off a self-help tape. “My chi is powerful. It is strong. It is free from corruption. It will move to the next level soon. I can feel it. It is pure. I will be a worthy opponent. I will not be left behind. I will never kowtow! When I spread my seed, it will be strong, blessed with my heavenly power.”

The crab was about 100 meters from the main exodus. We needed to find a way to flag him without catching the attention of the rest of the crabs. If these guys were all level 70-something or above, we’d be screwed if they decided to swarm. We wouldn’t be mass killing them like we did with the bats.

I eyed the box truck Raul stood upon.

“Come on, Donut,” I whispered. “We’re making a crab trap.”

~~**~~

Hey everyone! Not too much has changed since the last update. Just thanks for sticking with this. I think you’re all awesome.

Here's Mordecai from the 2nd floor when he was a Bugaboo.