Carl's Doomsday Scenario (Dungeon Crawler Carl, #2)

by Matt Dinniman

Also known as the Gigachad of the Over City, Incubi are the male counterparts of the infamous Succubus. The smooth, seductive, and ultimately deadly Incubus can be identified by his stunning good looks, exquisite charm, and sensuous feet. They can only be found on the urban levels of the dungeon. They give new meaning to the phrase, “hit it and quit it.”

“Yeah, no,” Donut said. “Artist Alley? Really? Aren’t those the nerds that like Star Wars and draw pictures of cats dressed like the guys from A-Team and stuff?” She shuddered.

A Hobgoblin is what happens when a lady troll manages to get a goblin drunk enough to talk herself into his pants.

eyed the spinning, 3D bigfoot creature with distaste. I focused on the creature’s massive, sparkling feet.

Donut ended up with the following: Strength: 20 Intelligence: 23 + 5 (Tiara) +1 (Charm) = 29 Constitution: 4 + 2 (Brush) = 6 Dexterity: 12 + 2 (Crupper) +2 (Bracelet) +5 (temp. floor bonus) = 21 Charisma: 70

And there are a few cat girls walking around.

“What is a cat girl?” Donut asked. “I don’t like that. And a were-cat? Whoever that is needs to just learn to commit.”

Mordecai: Mom loved him more. Well, who’s the dead one now? I’m glad that cat used her ashes as a bathroom.

My first impression was Slender Man. Slender Man dressed as a clown. Holy shit.

Mordecai teleported into the room, standing just to the side of the main bar. He stood with his pants down to his knees, eyes closed. “Now ladies,” he said, his voice slurring heavily. “One at a time. Grannie first. There’s plenty of Mordecai to…” He trailed off. He opened an eye, looking upon us.

The fact your planet was filled with so many boring assholes with inane, ridiculous hobbies tips the scales way out of your favor.

She was always paranoid about the cat catching on fire, yet she had a million candles all over the apartment.

When I tried waking him the first time, his tail had risen ominously, like a cobra.

The little dinosaur hopped up and down, waving his bloody arms and splattering gore everywhere.

It’s also an anklet. One would think anklets enhance the beauty of feet like toe rings do, but they are excessive, jangly distractions that make you look too garish.

She’s completely naked except for this quite lovely thong that Miss Beatrice would just adore.

Donut: HE HAS AN ERECTION, MORDECAI. IT’S VERY INAPPROPRIATE. MONGO IS APPALLED.

Holy shit. I pulled his fucking heart out. I pulled out the heart of a fucking lion.

“She looks like she smells really bad,” Donut said.

“Oh, it’s going to be amazing,” Mordecai said. “It’s going to be a day for the history books. It’ll be the first time you two do exactly what I tell you to do.”

I watched Donut for a bit, and I could tell what she was doing. She wasn’t really asleep. She was just closing her eyes and pretending that she was back home in her favorite spot.

I still needed to do my foot routine.

You have been stunned! You have been paralyzed! You have been rendered unconscious! Why do you got to get killed? You ain’t so little as mice. I didn’t bounce you hard.

No, I don’t want to be alone.

It was hard to look at her like this. She’s so small, so vulnerable.

Somewhere in there, deep, deep down, there is a spark of the old Heather. The beloved bear has moments of lucidity as she runs down her terrified prey. In those brief moments, she thinks: Good. I’ve always hated all you assholes, anyway.

I need pants. I really fucking need pants.

The clowns hunger, Primal. They are ravenous. And now they know of your flavor.

It’d felt as if someone had taken their dirty fingers, sunk them directly into the meat of my brain, and dragged.

Now, if you’ve never had a flaming, skull-faced bear on roller skates barreling at you full speed, you don’t know what you’re missing.

I had a sudden, inexplicable memory of Bea playing that game on her phone with the volume turned all the way up while I was trying to watch TV.

I tried to stick as close to Miss Plot Armor as possible.

I hate clowns, I thought. I really hate clowns. Whoever invented these things needs to be punched in the face.

Kids always love the fat clowns. They’re jolly. They’re happy. They make you laugh.

But this was a different, oddly specific aroma that had been indelibly imprinted on me as a four-year-old, a scent I’d sometimes remember as the path I could’ve taken, the world I could’ve lived had my dad not found us and taken us back. It was a scent I’d been chasing all of my adult life.

But that’s what we do when it comes to family. We protect them at all costs.

All it takes is a little seed, my mom had said that day as we planted the trees. Just little seeds here and there, and soon enough you have a forest.

Then he started bouncing up and down, waving his arms and circling around me, hitting me with his head in joy, as if he’d just realized I’d returned.

This, I thought, this is my family.

Donut: GUESSING THE PLOTLINES OF TELEVISION SHOWS IS MY SUPER POWER.

The pub was called The One-Eyed Narwhal, but the logo was of a fat, bald human unzipping his pants, grinning lewdly.

The thing was a horse-sized, multi-breasted, pitch black goat monster that looked like it belonged on the cover of one of those 1980s heavy metal album covers, one where if you played it backward, the words would tell you to murder your grandma.

“Holy shit, am I that predictable?” I asked.

“Cats don’t drink cocktails,” I said. “Cats don’t shoot lasers from their eyes, either, but here we are, Carl. Mama needs a night off.”

She took another drink and then started growling at the bowl.

They’re good in enclosed spaces, but if there’s any ventilation, you might as well just pull your dick out and point at it.”

“Yeah, okay,” Pustule said. “We wouldn’t want anybody getting off on any feet.” Donut gave me a sidelong glance. “Well, it might be a little late for that.

He always did the male version of a duck face in his photos, and since I’d never met the dude in real life, every picture I’d ever seen of him made him look like he was taking a shit.

“That’s a city elf. They are designated as a separate race because their stupidity is so outstanding, the high elves consider it a genetic defect and kick them out.

Scrawled onto her back in torn, bloodless flesh were the words, “No, you won’t.”