The Dungeon Anarchist's Cookbook (Dungeon Crawler Carl, #3)

by Matt Dinniman

Mole men and mole women actually just call themselves “Men” and “Women,” and quite frankly, it’s exhausting. These losers spend most of their days and nights reading. What a bunch of nerds.

They are hunted ruthlessly by the tunnel trolls, who like to capture and lick them. Not because they impart any sort of hallucinogenic effect. It’s just that tunnel trolls are weird-ass fuckers.

“Look at how beautiful she is,” Donut whispered. “She’s like a vision of pure elegance.” “Yo,” Elle cried at the bartender. “Whose dick do I gotta suck to get another drink? Christ.”

He just stood there, eyes pleading. The dinosaur gave me a look that said, get this thing off of me. “How are you going to control him?” I asked. “There aren’t any reins.” “Mongo and I have a psychic bond, Carl. You’ve never been a mother, so you wouldn’t understand.”

Reading the words of those who have come before me, I know them. You, reading this. I know you, too. You are me. That is who this book finds. I have been alone my whole life. I have been surrounded by my hive, yet I have been alone. That is okay, I now know. It is acceptable to have your own thoughts, your own mind, despite what they say. But it is also acceptable to be alone and want the strength of the hive. There is no shame in that. No contradiction. That is what this book attempts. To make a hive of those who will never cross paths, except in these pages. Yet sometimes this book is not enough. You sometimes want more. You want to belong. Again, there is no shame. There is no shame in wanting to be alone yet also wanting the comfort and the strength of your brethren. But more importantly, there is no shame in wanting to protect those who are your hive, even if you never knew them. For they are yours, and they are being taken. It is us or it is them. There is consolation in dying in the pursuit of justice, no matter how small or big that death is.

The Babababoon is the king of idiotic chaos. This exclusive mob was created by taking a standard earth baboon and crossing it with the population from a Florida jail drunk tank. Not gonna lie. I’m pretty proud of this one. These guys ruin just about anything we put them in.

“Carl,” Brandy said as I stepped off the train. “I understand now. I understand what this is. You must help us. I know you have your own people to help, but we shouldn’t be enemies in this.” “No,” I agreed. “No, we shouldn’t.”