My Silly Short Stories

2:57PM, D-Day The well-dressed gentlemen entered the bone elevator. "Are you ready?" "What the fuck do I look like?" "An ugly-ass orc." Several of them chuckled "Hey fuck you, you pointy-eared prick!" "A simple 'yes' would have sufficed." Third floor. "Fuck your 'yes.' This isn't the time for these fucking pleasantries." "Don't fucking talk to him like that. We're a team and shit isn't going to work if we argue over meaningless bullshit like this." Seventh floor. "I just wanted a direct answer. We need to be succinct in our communications." "Fuck your succinction, you stupid gnome!" Ninth floor. "Will you fuckers shut up and focus for two fucking seconds?!" "Alright, alright, fuck." "Say, you've been quiet since we got in here. What do you make of this?" "I think we're in a real shitty situation that could get even more shi...

In the Maelstrom district of Hexum, Snake Lord Flamespeak was the hip-hop-happeningest battle rapper in all of Mandara. Flamespeak a snake-man who would face many a creature who thought that he or she could contend with him, only to figuratively spit flames that destroyed all their hopes and dreams and to literally spew flames that burned his defeated opponents to ashes. Flamespeak was as dangerous as his bars were fucking amazing. After defeating and incinerating the famed dwarven battle rapper, Farticus, Flamespeak had held the "Best Battler" title from every single rap battle league in Mandara. Coincidentally, he was also the only member of many of those leagues. It seemed as though his monopoly on the rap battle game was so rocksteady, that he would forever reign as Lord of Battle Rap. That is, until one day... "Don't try and hold me back, mom!" said Lil Lenny, a 13-year-old aspiring goblin battler. "You can't keep me from BattleFest 3E227 (that is,...

classic a/n: I made this after playing The Witcher 2 and it shows. While Mandara has never seen a single entity rule over all the land and has thus maintained a relative peace, many kingdoms do squabble in power struggles every now and then. There are many ruling bodies including human kingdoms, elven kingdoms, dwarven kingdoms, orcish kingdoms, ogre tribes, goblin kingdoms, racially integrated kingdoms, and kingdoms for the various animal peoples of Mandara. One struggle between regimes such as these turned into a bitter one-day battle that cost many lives. In the hills of east Mandara, several days prior to The First Rabbish-Crocodilic Punitive War of the Second Epoch, Lord Rabsire of the Lagomorphian Trade Republic was in the court of the Crocodilic Kingdom, or, as the locals refer to it, Croc Town. Lord Rabsire and King Crocmaniac, the King of Croc Town, were in the middle of an annual break dancing event that was hosted to not only entertain the locals, but also to foster peace be...

"So let me get this straight," said Rardisar, the talking raccoon from The Peacemaker 2: Part 1: Colon, as they were walking through the forest. "You motherfuckers are telling me that some puffed-up-asshole-lookin' noble hired you to kill The Master?" "That's right," said Louis, the talking skeleton. "All we gotta do is follow this quest marker and we'll be there in a jiffy." "Ya'll wylin' as shit, bruh," replied Rardisar. "Can you tell us anything about The Master?" asked Wizman, P.I., the hardest, cruelest, stone-cold-Steve-Austinest wizard-for-hire to grace Mandara with his presence. "Well," said Rardisar, "all I know is that the motherfucker is a lich who lives in this dirty-ass cave with his shitty couch that just eats all of your change. He was once a normal motherfucker named Bobby Boy who was the nicest little bitch-ass kid you would ever see. Some motherfuckers say that one motherfuc...

In Mandara, wild-ass shit goes down every fuckin' day. As a result, Mandara has a long history of wild shit that goes down every day. One such day had some particularly wild shit go down. It was a hot summer day in the Dungo desert. It was a hot day, hotter than any day before. It was so hot, that if you sweated, bandits would hop out of the sand, turn your ass into Swiss cheese, and drink all the fluids they could. Yep. It was hoooooottttt. Anyway, in this desert was a massive cave, the only cave in all the Dungo desert. Many creatures sought to enter this cave for its comfort, but all were consumed by the great dragon Grafthior. He was a bright purple dragon that was over 1000 years old. His signature weapon was a pair of brass knuckles that he used to pulverize anyone who got fresh. Grafthior was known throughout the desert villages as the baddest dragon in the land. That is, until this day. Marty was a metalworker in the village of Sandy Dirt, which is pretty much the worst god...

It was a fine summer's day in Mandara. The birds were singing, the bees were buzzing, and the clouds had happy faces in them as they rolled over the gentle central Mandaran plains. Too bad this story doesn't take place here. It instead takes place in the south Mandaran swamps, a nasty, dirty place that had two things that were never in short supply: mud and mosquitoes. Despite the nastiness of this place, some still decided to make their homes here. One such person was the locally renowned human wizard Sopnax who lived there in his tower. Sopnax was a relatively young wizard; he was only 209 years old and had black hair without a single gray streak. In spite of his youthful appearance, he still kept a respectable library of books in his tower that he needed to increase his wizardly power. He was a rather wise wizard who knew that a wizard was only as good as his library. He just got out of bed that day and decided that it was time to go through the forbidden section of his libr...

"Hand over the gold!" yelled the elf bandit as he waved his knife around threateningly at an old woman. "Please, sonny," said the old lady, "I need these two gold pieces to buy kitten food for my kitten. He's sick, you see, and when he gets sick, he just gets this uncontrollable diarrhea that just gets everywhe--" "Shut up!" shouted the bandit as he came closer to the lady. "I'm just gonna have to cut you down, lady. Say goodbye to your pathetic and miserable life!" He raised his hand to deliver a deathblow and the old woman cowered on the ground, awaiting her death. His blade was inches from her head when a hand caught the bandit's arm and stopped it. The bandit looked up to see the face of Paul, the goblin rogue. "Murdering an old lady? Come on," said Paul. "If you kill people, you can't rob them later." "Huh," exclaimed the bandit. "Never thought of that one. You're really smart!...

A/N: A number of these old stories were or had direct sequels. This is the first of them. The titles will indicate as such, for I will upload them in the order they were written, which often isn't the order that makes the most sense within the Mandaran Cycle. "Are we there yet?" asked Louis the skeleton. "My bony feet hurt from all the walking." "No, Louis," said Wizman, P.I., the baddest-ass wizard-for-hire in all of Mandara. "We aren't there yet." The pair was walking down a path at about noon on the way to a village in search of work. The money Wizman earned from that last job where some mom paid him to brutally slaughter her kid and the friends he smoked that dub-dub with would be able to get both him and Louis up to their necks in mead. Did you catch that? A mother paid money to have her son and his friends killed. I just feel like I need to reiterate that because of how fucking insane it is. Damn, son. Life is hard for a young thug ...

Razzle the necromancer was dressed up and ready to go. He wore his suit and tie with a matching vest. He had recently shaved his orc cheeks and wore a sick orc mullet. Did I mention he's an orc? "Come on, man, we're gonna be late!" said Razzle's elven friend, Nebet. Nebet was an apprentice shaman who was also wearing a nice suit. "Calm down, bro, we won't be late," responded Razzle from the bathroom. Razzle cast a magical time spell and a skull appeared on the bathroom countertop in a puff of green smoke. "It's 4:47PM!" chattered the skull. It then disappeared in another puff of green smoke. "Oh shit!" said Razzle. "We're gonna have to ride fast." Razzle jumped down the stairs and landed at the front door. "Nebet! Get your elf ass over here!" Razzle yelled, his voice echoing throughout the house. "I'm coming!" Nebet yelled as he burst through the floor and landed beside Razzle. "Uh, t...

The Barbed Pickle was the most happening tavern in north Mandara. It had a sign on the door that said "No wimps allowed. Any wimps found on the premises will be berated, humiliated and bullied so hard that they'll run away crying like a baby." It was a pretty big sign. Inside was a rowdy time. An orc and a dwarf were in the middle of a bar fight that many patrons surrounded. "Take this you shitty-ass shitty shit!" shouted the first orc, Vic. Vic was big, even by orc standards. He had green skin and a long brown beard adorned with many manly braids and cool stuff, like the skull of the last guy whom he fought in the very same bar and a toothbrush in case he had to holla at bitches and his breath still reeked of blood. Vic wore a menagerie of armor composed of different pieces of armor from the many people he has defeated in single combat. He even had two different shoes from a dwarf and an elf. Because this is fantasy, both shoes fit anyway. Vic swung his mammoth...