"I CANNA BELEEB DIS SHIT!"
A flock of tickbirds who had been nervously enduring the rant thus far suddenly burst from the canopy. The tiny brown birds rose high as one brown mass, their individual bodies highlighted by the early morning sun in hues of gold and silvery platinum. From above, they were an amorphous blob and the individual birds were the shining scales of a fish, shimmering and winking as they ascended.
The shifting, scaled mass whirled and hesitated, pouring first to the east and then thickening before it elongated and doubled back on itself, toward the west. Another bellowing roar echoed up from the jungle below and the bird mass exploded, reformed, and flew north without further pause.
"Son of ass! Bitchdog ting! FuuUUUUCK!" Fyve kicked out with his perpetually bare foot and his heel connected with the still-rooted stump of a severed and missing tree. It was likely the victim of the not-so-environmentally-conscientious wolvar, or the goblins had taken it for lumber. At any rate, it was there. So he kicked it.
The thick stump creaked in protest as it tore free on one side and rocked back. Ever the scrupulous one (i.e. compulsive), the troll stooped in front of the thick stump, wrapping the two fingers of each hand beneath the thick roots for purchase. "DAMMET!" He sprung upward, thick bands of muscle tensing in his arms and shoulders, his entire body straining as he sent the tree flipping end over end through the air. Dirt and small stones whipped the ground in the wake of its torn and flailing roots as it made its final descent into the river, several yards away with a huge splash.
The straight line between Fyve's unnaturally huge tusks was pulled down in a lipless grimace as he stood there, eyes shut tight, covered in the dirt and bugs that were his reward for a job impulsively done. His shoulders heaved from both from the effort of unearthing and tossing a several hundred pound stump and from his rage. The dirt in his eyes didn't help. A cone of soil sat on each shoulder; likewise he had a huge, crooked pyramid of earth atop his head. All that were needed were three flowers to complete the picture. Daisies, perhaps.
An earthworm fell between his thick indigo dreadlocks and wiggled and tumbled its way between thick dreads, falling onto his neck and finally exiting his hair to roll off of his hunched back. His shoulders continued to rise and fall, crumbs of earth falling off every few breaths.
He cleared his throat and sniffed.
Dirt sucked up his right nostril and made him cough with is mouth shut.
"NGHAAAH!" He roared, slapping at his hair with hands that were contorted into angry claws. A vein in his neck stood out. Veins all over him were standing out. "YaaaHAH!" he shrieked, as he ground at his dirty eyelids with the backs of his fists.
Dreadlocks flapped and flew as he shook his head wildly. Fists punched at the air as elbows jutted out at bizarre angles and knees followed suit in the mad struggle against dirt and air and opposing limbs. A limp penis bounced and wiggled, but balls were very still as they'd had the presence of mind to withdraw from the situation as soon as the hissyfitometer had reached critical levels. Everything else was in frantic motion.
Knees jogged outward and muscles flexed. Sweat flew everywhere that it didn't cling and combined with dirt to form silty brown pools between muscles before becoming heavy and overflowing into streams that coursed downward on flushed blue skin. Dirt and sweat mixed in a tiny belly button; winked out like a pale brown tear when the flat belly bent in half and the troll leapt up and down in a mindless rage. The belly button filled again.
Finally, after a half hour of bouncing and roared syllables that meant nothing in any language, the troll took a final leap and stomped to the earth at a squat; knees spread and bent like a frog's, heels facing in at a diagonal. Dirty, indigo dreadlocks whipped his upper back and shoulders hard enough to leave a mark.
Fyve panted and wheezed. His nose was still plugged. Turning his head to the right, he covered his left nostril with one filthy finger and took a deep breath. His shoulders rose, chest expanding, belly expanding. He exhaled sharply. A wad of dirt, black with blood and gooey with snot, shot from his nostril and struck the side of his face. "Nassy!" he hissed as he slapped it away and wiped his hand on the grass that he hadn't pounded into oblivion in his frenzy. The grass in the immediate area was now sparse. He didn't care. If he had thought on it, which he didn't, he could give two shit in fucks.
At the base, where it joined his upper heel, the dewclaw on his left foot had snapped off. He grabbed it and dropped to his ass as he brought his heel to his mouth, blood-red irises and black pinpoint pupils locked on something near the river as he opened his mouth.
He maneuvered his foot between his tusks, which took a bit of straining and foot twisting, and grabbed the dangling, bleeding claw between his front incisors, yanking it away. "Ow-ow," he whimpered as he spit the claw away. He tore his eyes from the river and looked at his foot. A string of Fyve-meat hung there. He sniffed and turned his head, spitting out a bit of bloody, dirty mucous. Returning his attention to the foot, he snapped the flesh off at the base and then released the foot. It sprung back over his left tusk at an impossible-looking angle and then slapped back down to the ground. It bled. If it hurt, he showed no sign.
Fyve sniffed, cleared his throat, sniffed again. He drew himself up on the balls of his feet, leaned forward on his hands and lifted his tusks menacingly. The crest of near-transparent fur at the top of his curved spine began to rise as he puffed out his chest. He bared his teeth and his hairless brow, already brutish, furrowed until the bridge of his nose was all wrinkles. He was murderous and he was disgusted. His anger was far from spent.
"I fucked!" he yelled. "Youshit!" he stabbed an accusing finger at the source of his outrage; the thing that had utterly destroyed his perfect day. "Disobedium," he rumbled, lowering his tusks and tilting his head in a defiant manner.
"I fuckstab! Fuckdog! Fuckass! Fuck! FUCK! Fuckyou!" He was screaming so hard that the tendons in his neck threatened to tear through his skin. His skull strained forward as if he sought to spit it out at the offending… offender. Spitting was definitely happening. He was spitting on his tusks as he screamed and pointed with his finger and tusks and rage.
"BaaaHA!" He grabbed a rock and hurled it, the end of his sound breathless and coming out like a chirp. This was followed closely by another stream of slurred and nasal expletives, random syllables and growls inserted here and there for further confusion.
Sweat poured off of him. His ass crack itched. He felt gross and dirty. Fyve leaned back, pressed his palms to his thighs and stood with a grunt. He was tired. His palms left streaks of blood on his legs. He didn't know why they were bleeding. He shrugged and looked up at the thing that had ruined everything.
He sniffed, cleared his throat, and turned to go find his nearest cave and maybe stare at his things. That would be nice. As he stomped off warily, he turned around and favored his enemy with one last seething glare topped off with one of the worst words he knew, "Aneemal." Then the dirty and defeated troll was gone.
Gradually, the denizens of the jungle crept out from their burrows. The parrots and tickbirds returned to their trees. The worms had burrowed deeper to escape the earthquakes from above. They now tunneled back toward the curiously firmer-packed earth. Snakes ventured from beneath rocks to hunt for the frogs that came back out of the mud for breath. Well, one snake didn't. That snake was dead. It had been stomped in half.
The small raccoon that had been evicted from its stump, awakened rudely by shock of water rushing through its home, shuffled between the foliage with little black hands to retrieve the smashed snake.
Life in this little section of the Scholazar Basin had been interrupted, but it hadn't ended. It had taken many hours, but things continued much as they were. Well, close. Several yards from the river, in a rare break in the trees, there was a hole from a torn out tree. Not far from that was a circle, about twenty feet in circumference and three feet deep at its center. It wasn't so much a circle as a dent. It looked like a god had punched the earth there. A god with a very lumpy fist. Were one to look very closely, they'd see a small amount of blood. God blood was apparently red.
Closer to the river was a camp of sorts. A meager scattering of supplies, comprised of a mortar and pestle, a sack of herbs and powder that had been mixed into a paste. A brush sat on a pile of clean towels nearby. The paste smelled of mint and lavender but the brush appeared to be of the type one would use to clean rust off of metal, not to brush teeth. Curious.
To add to the mystery, there was no sign of the owner of these possessions. Only the towels, bowl and brush, and some rather long-legged black slacks draped over a tree. Perhaps the god fist had punched the unwary traveler into oblivion.
Oh, but there was one last detail, so small and easily overlooked. And yet it did nothing to solve the mystery of the missing bather…
Beneath the now-late afternoon sun that filtered through the layers of humid jungle canopy; half-sunk in a massive and stinking pile of eggy-smelly crocolisk feces, was a rectangular shape.
It was Fyve's last bar of soap.
FuuuHUUUCK!
Epilogue : Fyve's dewclaw regrew quickly. He rinsed off, flew to Shattrath to buy new soap and took five baths before the day had ended. Then he got piss drunk. The snake stayed dead, but its sister went on to have four hundred and seventeen young. Two hundred and thirty seven of them survived to sexual maturity and went on to have many other young. The raccoon made a new home in an abandoned burrow, which was much nicer. The log in the river, however, did not survive.
Hope you enjoyed the lolwut one-shot. Fyve dropped the soap this morning and woke me up shitting in my ear about it. So I thought I'd shit on the internet about it. WoW isn't mine, though I be flirtin' widder. Fyve is mine, so plz don't write about him without asking first. To see some badass pics of him that I did not draw, check out Yay My Stories . c o m
~I'wilo
Thanks to all the people who have been commenting, messaging, drawing pics (Lahv yah gahls!) and listening to me ramble. ::hug without touching::