This Inevitable Ruin (Dungeon Crawler Carl #7)

by Matt Dinniman

“Okay,” Quasar said. “Carl fucked shit up. He fucked up a little in the end and now has a spider stuck in his chest. The end.” “I swear to the gods old and new if you don’t give me what I want I am going to tell my father that you said you’re my real dad.” “Now we’re talking, kid,” Quasar said. “Keep saying shit like that, and you’ll get far.”

I like Louis. I’d sure be sad if something terrible happened to him this next floor.

I patted the tiny gnome on the head. “You shouldn’t have to think about that sort of stuff. We just need you to stay safe.” The little girl gave me a chilling smile. “I shouldn’t have to think about killing outworlders? Why shouldn’t I? Have they stopped thinking about trying to kill me?”

Don’t shy from what you’ve become. Force them to look upon you. Force them to see what they wrought, what they forged in the fires of their own creation. Let them know fear.

Still... Her death will only result in court-based battles outside the dungeon. You want real chaos? Try killing that Dream guy. Or the Viceroy. Or that Jello-looking thing. He may not look like much, but when you start killing off investment bankers... Anyway, I don’t want to be a backseat warlord. Just try to keep it together long enough to keep me entertained, and you’ll keep getting the good stuff.

Well, he looks like he stumbled drunk into the closet of a colorblind drag clown.

Donut: ARE WE SURE WE TRUST THIS GUY? HE’S OBVIOUSLY UNSTABLE. Carl: I trust him with my life. Donut: OKAY. BUT YOU’RE TRUSTING HIM WITH MORE THAN THAT. IT’S WITH ALL OF OUR LIVES. Carl: Hopefully it won’t get to that point. Donut: AFTER ALL THIS BUILD-UP?

Warlord Donut: THIS IS WHY YOU’LL NEVER BE AS GOOD OF A KING AS YOUR FATHER. HE TALKED ABOUT HOW MUCH OF A DISAPPOINTMENT YOU WERE BEFORE HE DIED. War Chief Stalwart: You are a liar. Warlord Donut: YOU KNOW, THAT’S THE ONE THING I’M NOT LYING ABOUT, WHICH I’M SURE MAKES IT HURT EVEN MORE BECAUSE I BET YOU KNOW IT’S TRUE, TOO.

Anyway, Imani’s tattoo was a small, barbed wire symbol that circled her ankle. I hadn’t seen it yet, but when Donut learned Katia was planning on that style of tattoo, she loudly voiced her objection. Donut: THIS ISN’T THE 1990’s. I SWEAR TO GOD IF IMANI STARTS USING THE PHRASE “HOME SKILLET,” I’M GOING TO LOSE MY MIND.

He continued to sob, and he spoke between the gasps. “Let us put our differences aside... I’m ready for the emptiness to be filled. I have several enhanced pet biscuits ... but after what happened last time, I’ve been so afraid... And now I’m afraid it’s too late. Bianca is fine company, but she doesn’t speak. You are absolutely right. ... We need to keep communicating. I need to come to terms with you being an idiot and be grateful for what I have. ... You can’t help how stupid you are.”

New Quest. Kill the Blasphemer. This worshiper of Hellik has insulted me. Kill him. Reward: You will receive an additional Emberus Boon. The more entertained I am by this, the better the boon.

Dream Katia clutched the baby to her chest, and the little girl clung back onto her. And as they clutched onto each other, Katia swayed back and forth, singing to the girl. “And here is the worst moment of my life because I know it’s the last time I will ever see her,” Katia said. A moment passed. “It’s also my favorite memory, and it is where I keep coming back to.” We remained silent for some time, watching Katia sing and dance with the baby, who was soon asleep.

One of her abilities is being All Knowing. She knows everybody’s business, which makes her a dangerous foe and an even more dangerous friend. If she gives you information, it’s probably true, and it’s probably something that’s going to get you into trouble for knowing. While she’s able to lie, she rarely does. Why bother when the truth is often so much worse?

Elle: My throat feels like I’ve been gargling sandpaper. And I smell like that god’s schlong. It’s worse than when you got sprayed by the skunk. But that’s it. Donut: OH NO, I’M SO SORRY. Elle: It’s not the first time I’ve woken up stinking like a stranger’s wang, believe me. Imani: Elle! Elle: Don’t pretend you don’t know what went down on canasta night.

Epitome Tagg: By the gods. That orc princess was right. We should have blown the failsafe weeks ago. By the gods. The Champion of Nekhebit: HEY, HOW DID YOU CHANGE YOUR NAME? Warlord Carl: Yeah, we’re looking for you, too, buddy. The Champion of Nekhebit: NO, SERIOUSLY. THIS IS ANNOYING. Epitome Tagg: For the sake of the gods, it’s in the notification menu. Section four. WARLORD DONUT: IT WORKED! THANKS! WE’RE STILL GOING TO KILL YOU, THOUGH!

“Don’t tell sad stories about Louis’s past,” Donut shouted from her spot on Mongo’s back. “My goodness. Don’t you know how this works? You’re going to jinx the rescue!”

“He was having sex with a naga?” Donut asked. “How did that work? Can you imagine the dirty talk? ‘Rub your naughty tusks all over my scaly cloaca, my warthog king.’ It’s obscene!” Prepotente grunted. “Oh, it really is quite filthy. One of the harem girls was one of those tripods, like the adjutant for the Dream. It would be like having sexual congress with the Sputnik satellite!”

“It’s okay to be a work in progress,”

He’d compose three-beats about his hive, back before they were ripped away. Before the Syndicate came and killed them all. Sometimes, if the poems seemed like they’d probably be especially moving, he’d broadcast them over the open band. He’d do it until someone in authority ordered him to stop. And then after, he’d wait, and then he’d start broadcasting again. He’d done it so much, he knew he’d been blocked from the local feed by most of the captains. That was fine. Not everyone appreciated philosophical ponderings, especially when told in verse. Or maybe they were just like him, he mused. Someone who once felt things, and now he simply couldn’t. Maybe everyone was faking it, putting on this big show of emotion, performing for a set of gods he was pretty certain didn’t exist. Performing because they knew that’s what they were supposed to do. Because they knew if the others realized who they really were, how empty they were, that they’d be cast out and left with nowhere to go.

“Write any new poems?” “Several.” “Any good?” This was an ongoing conversation between York and Boomer. The old elf seemed to think all poetry was without merit. Still, the ribbing was good-natured, and York pretended to enjoy it. He’d like to think it was something he really would enjoy, if things had turned out differently. He played along. “All my poetry is good, Boomer.” “Well, I have a poem for you, my mantis friend. It’s based on the style of a popular Earth poem.” “I am not a mantis. But that is of interest to me. I have been reading of those as well and have been attempting different kinds. Is it a haiku? A sonnet? A limerick?” Boomer grinned at him over the display. “Roses are red. Violets are blue. We won Faction Wars. Now we get to kill more of them.” “That is a terrible poem, Boomer.”

As soon as we’re done here, I’m going to make a line for the closest attorney bar and drink for free until I wake up in a gutter with at least three new venereal diseases.”