Dungeon Crawler Carl (Dungeon Crawler Carl, #1)

by Matt Dinniman

“Nor am I wearing a cloak that makes me look like I won a participation trophy at the special needs comic con, Carl. I’m a cat. Cats don’t wear pants. Don’t be so droll.”

Bad Llama. Level 3. It’s a llama, but it’s bad. If he were human, he’d be covered in prison tattoos and would be hanging out in front of the Circle K hitting on 14-year-old girls. They might be willing to sell you something if you have good stuff to trade. You won’t want to get hit by their spit.

“It smells like that time you tried microwaving Fancy Feast,” Donut said. “I was drunk,” I said. “And you ate that shit right up.”

“You’ve been hit on twice now,” Donut said. “Once by a meth-addled goblin shaman and once by Abraham Lincoln’s grandmother. I can’t wait to see who you attract next. Five gold coins says it’s some sort of bog witch with a beard.”

“Glurp on that, motherfucker,” I said.