II. Oh, S***!: Biker Leather and Dead Babies

When Eragon finally stopped thinking, big, disgusting, leering Urgals in disturbingly skimpy pseudo-biker-leather outfits had surrounded him, armed with large heavy objects, and larger, heavier, harder objects.

So, Eragon reacted like anyone else would, who has just entered a slaughtered village, waxed poetic at the sight of a dead baby, puked a little bit, and is now surrounded by the very suspect-looking instigators of such wholesale violence.

He tried to fit an arrow to his string, but remembered that his bow was not strung. So, he held up his arms in the universal sign for "time out," to which the Urgals complied, as they were all huge fake-wrestling fans.

It took him a couple tries, but eventually, he managed to string his bow. Then, Our Hero proceeded to knock the arrow in his hand to the taut bowstring, which really didn't make much sound.

But as the Urgals, deciding they gave this idiot enough time, began to advance, Eragon got serious. He nocked his arrow to the bowstring, and prepared to fire as the Urgals were just in his face.

And a leering Urgal in a bizarre skimpy biker-leather outfit, right up in your grills, is a very distressing thing indeed.

So again, Eragon only reacted as any other person in his particular situation would, and swore.

"SHIT!" He screamed, releasing an arrow point-blank into his enemy's chest.

The Urgals crackled with brown energy.

For a second, the world was still.

A crow cawed, and then fixated on its dead baby feast once again.

The most awful smell, even worse than human blood and corpses, permeated the area.

It was worse than an open city sewage.

It was worse than a compost heap.

The Urgal Hordes shifted uncomfortably, grunting.

Feeling extremely drained, Eragon swayed and passed out.

When he woke up, he gagged. Brom was kneeling over him, a corner of his cloak pulled over his nose.

"Wha? Where am I? What's that revolting smell?" inquired the disoriented farmboy of his mentor.

With his free hand, Brom slapped him across the face.

"Ow! What was that for?"

The old man growled like a dragon.

"Happy now, Boy? You did magic. But you could have, say, set them all on fire rather than make them shit themselves to death." He jerked his head over in the direction of piles and piles of horned heads, biker-leather-clad bodies, and brown matter that gave Eragon the (inappropriate) impression of icing on the most evil cake in the history of Alagalagsdlkjshdfhdiwesia.

"I killed them, though, didn't I?" said Eragon sulkily, "without your help."

All the same, he accepted Brom's hand to pull him to his feet, although he let Brom do most of the work.

Not missing a beat, Brom strode gallantly onward.

"Hey, where are you going?" Eragon yelled, quite recovered and adjusted to the hellish stench.

"You better hurry up, Boy; we've got a long walk ahead of us. Saphira and the horses have been refusing to come within five miles of this shithole after your little trick."

Grumbling but not wanting to be left behind, Eragon ran and caught up with the old man.

"But why can't we call a taxi?"

"In case you didn't notice, the taxi driver was in that pile of corpses, Idiot."

"Are we there, yet?"

Author's Note: I hope you were not offended by any of the diction above. I had this somewhat childish but funny thought when I was flipping through the Blue Brick quite some months ago, but I haven't done anything with it until now.

And what the hell do Urgals wear, anyways? As always, drop a comment!