The Gate of the Feral Gods (Dungeon Crawler Carl, #4)

by Matt Dinniman

Tracked All-Terrain Suicide Machine. The Royal Chariot – Contraption. If a snowmobile got drunk on moonshine and had a sweaty, ill-advised night with a hillbilly’s coon-hunting ATV, this oversized birth defect of a vehicle would be the result.

Carl: Mordecai, what the hell did you give them? Mordecai: They’ll be fine. It’s called Rapid Detox. Clears them of alcohol and any negative effects of most drugs. Not Blitz, unfortunately, but most everything else. Works great. It makes it so certain toxins will no longer affect them. It only lasts for a single floor. Carl: So they can’t get drunk anymore? Mordecai: Or high. And if they do drink, they become violently ill. It’s used to treat alcoholism. And to torture prisoners.

“Remember when we cut that guy’s head off?” Donut whispered as we sneaked into the empty room. “Yeah, I still have that guy’s head in my inventory,” I said.

“You keep destroying governmental buildings, Carl,” Donut said. “People are going to start thinking you have a problem with authority.”

Reward: You will receive a Platinum Quest Box. In addition, all crawlers in this quadrant will receive a permanent fifty percent charisma bonus during any future interactions with Changelings. You’ll also receive my undying respect, because there is no way in hell even you can pull this one off.

New Achievement! You’re the reason why daddy drinks! You have, for an unspecified reason, raised the ire of the System AI. You have corrected the issue, and everything is back to normal. The acceleration action has been suspended. This time. Good boy. Reward: You’ve received a Gold Makeup Sex is the Best Sex box.

I went to the new tab and wrote, “Does this work?” The magical pen rose into the air as the top popped off the ink well. The pen dipped within and wrote out “Does this work?” I drew a rudimentary cat portrait, and the pen copied my work. Donut looked at the cat art with distaste. “Am I a joke to you, Carl?”

Donut: LONELY_YETI_15 SAYS I HAVE THE PRETTIEST FUR PATTERN SHE HAS EVER SEEN. SHE ALSO SAYS SHE’S GETTING A TATTOO OF ME ON HER LOWER THORAX. Carl: You’re supposed to be helping Katia sew. Donut: I DON’T HAVE THUMBS, CARL.

She has an overwhelming need to protect children. But most of all, she just wants to kill everybody. Especially bitches. And guess what you are? Tick Tock, motherfuckers. Aaaand here. We. Gooooo!

What I do from here on out is solely for me and my people. As long as I am alive, I will do everything I can to make them burn. They will not fucking break me.

I had multiple, passive, low-tier stealth movement abilities that never worked for shit because I traveled with a dinosaur and a talking cat, but I hoped it would help cover my passage now.

I picked her up, holding her with two hands while she squirmed. I went into the bathroom, I closed the door, and while holding her gently but firmly, I placed her in the bathtub. A few hours later while I sat in the emergency room waiting to get my hand, my arm, and my goddamned ear stitched up, I’d described, to the unimpressed nurse, the noise Donut had made the moment she’d entered the water. “Man, it was like a screeching, amplified baby combined with an outboard motor revving at a high rpm. I’m not even joking when I say it was one of the loudest, most terrifying things I’ve ever heard. Holy shit.”

“That was pretty awesome,” I said once it was clear we were safe from the sharks. “Go fuck yourself, Carl,” Donut said.

I picked up the head, pushed the mouth all the way closed, and I strode to the training room. I rolled her inside and closed the door. “We’ll deal with her later.

“Grab the stick,” I yelled as I clicked the gyroscope and jumped onto the wing. The plane started to shudder. “Grab the stick?” Donut shrieked. “What do you mean, grab the stick! Thumbs, Carl! Thumbs!”

“With your new jacket and bandana and tattoos, you look like someone whose picture gets put on the news because he did something involving indecent exposure and a Wal-Mart. What does this new religion actually mean for you?”

“He’s going to die, Porthus. He’s never going to make it past the sixth floor.”

Porthus?!? OMG!!!