The dilemma

So it's another day on the job, right? Yeah, exactly.
Oh, sure, I have one of those, since being a hero kinda qualifies. Does my happiness matter? No? Does the happiness of everyone else matter? No. So what matters?

Repetition, profit, fame, and the fact that shit gets done.

"Mister faery, sir," a lesbian-in-training's somewhere below me, bitching and talking and thinking and enjoying. Plenty of idiots around, plenty of stuff going down. Put simply, I'm in a village. The name doesn't matter, nor does the general setting, or even names or descriptions of the people that live in this particular village. "There's this temple nearby, and someone has to clean it of all evil." She smiles like the fake dyke she is as I look down upon her. Or him.
Can't be sure, since it's easy to confuse gender when there are no breasts, facial hair, or crotches to speak of.

Details aren't important.
Obervation's not important.
Awareness is even less so.
Fun's not gonna happen.
Feeling entertained has an even slimmer chance of baring itself.

"Fuck you, kid," faery-thing mutters. I'll never figure out where it keeps the lung-capacity for the voice. Some buzzing, glitter all over my shoulders and green Santa-cap, but it still stays out of my reach.

"So," don't know why I bother, but I look around a bit. Maybe it's the last of my false compassion slipping away, "where's this temple of yours?"
Area's packed with kids that have come to watch the true, green, Hylian hero, not to mention his twisted form, in action.

Fingers are raised at, you guessed it, a trail leading to the cemetery, which was cleverly placed outside the village upon its founding.

-

And it's all bland, because.
"You can't pass here," some fat guy proclaims, while chewing on what looks like a cock crafted from sugar. He's not really blocking the gate, or anything, he just stands there, and won't let me through. Reasons? He doesn't have any. They never do.

"Just tell me what I need to fetch you, oh, mighty fat one," finish with a silly bow, which elicits a dumb giggle from the flying piece of shit hovering to my right.
More sparkling stuff, more faggotry, more ugly stupidity. It's like a pride-festival, only somehow more gay. Probably because the thing never runs out. Probably.
Possibly.

"I want," definitely. The fat coughs, then demands shit, "a chicken, so I can wake up my lolicon, two bottles of manseed, four undead spiders, and a huge wallet." Fat face. Fat legs. Fat arms. Fat, fat, fat.

He's probably fucking with me. He has to. No one's this stupid.
No one.
Wait. Slow down.

Slow down.

"What the fuck?" even gesticulate wildly. "So I have to pay to save you, your village, and all the dykes and fags in the known universe? Seriously, what is your problem?"

"He's not into faeries like you," mosquito chimes in. I'm about to smack it again, for having lingered a bit too close, but it ditches the air around me the moment I notice.

Fat just stands there. Fat.
So I unsheathe my sword. Fat.
Then he looks at me - again. Fat.

"I have a sword," flail it around in his general direction. "See? It's sharp, made of metal. Purple metal, and blue metal, and it has all this bling on it, and wings, and shit that makes no sense," and I wheeze, and it sounds even more feminine than my usual voice, "much like your demands." Oh, I want to die.

Please, kill me. Anyone, anybody, anything. I should not be.
"It's going to cost you," shine up. Feel the breeze, rush of blood to the face, and a smile almost creeps its way onto my facial features - almost, so very, very close. Oh, yes, "ten dollars."

-

"Now you're sucking again!" idiotic thing whines while buzzing around my head. I respond by trying to hit it half-heartedly with my free hand. "Faeries are supposed to have a grand charisma-score, and be fully capable of dealing with anyone who wants to buy, barter, discuss, or sell anything!"

"Oh, that's a common misconception," tire of the game, at last. Blade leaves the fat for the tenth and final time with a meaty sound, and what remains is a mess of pale skin, red liquid, and yellow chunks thrown in a healthy mix. Ground's gory, his limbs have all been hacked off - all five, and I took the liberty of stabbing him through the throat as well. "In reality, faery-elves are superior at everything, including," wipe the bloody blade on my left leg, "but not limited to; pleasuring members of the opposite sex, pleasuring members of the same sex, striking down anyone who gets in the way, copping a feel, masturbating," three wipes aren't enough, so I go for a fourth, "enjoying life, and," fifth, then I stop caring, "getting somewhere."

I look like a murderer, but no one cares. No one watches. No one even bothers to consider things.
Why should I sheathe my sword? Why?
There is no answer, because there's not even a demand for me to do it. Exactly. Theoretically, I could butcher the entire village, then cum all over the parts, and none would be the wiser. No cops. No officers. No military. Not even a single militia.
In Hyrule, everyone trusts everyone, and everyone is completely oblivious to the blank stares, empty faces, and dumb ultimatums waved around like massive dicks by everyone.
'I want a cock.'
'I want a bomb.'
'I want cash.'
'I want a pair of used panties.'
'I want to be someone else.'
'I want to have a balanced body and a working voice.'

"We both know exactly how skilled you are at those things," I don't want a gender. I don't want a face, and I most likely don't want a background-check, or even a basic, medical check-up. All I want is to stuff that flying thing up, then blow a load inside it so it explodes.

"We sure do."

-

VT2 - 2007