The Butcher's Masquerade (Dungeon Crawler Carl, #5)

by Matt Dinniman

He seems to think that you’re some sort of antichrist figure sent from the heavens to bring about the apocalypse.

You and Donut.

It’s a small, but growing, conspiracy amongst s...

Trauma does that, I thought. It’s an explosion with your heart at the center. It changes everything all at once.

This was also something that trauma could do.

It could make you blind, and it could open your eyes wider than they’d ever been, all at the same time.

Uncle Morty’s Insta Lawn-Kill and Undead Repellant, Extra-Strength Edition.

“Carl, we can’t kill her! She’s Kiwi’s daughter! This is Footloose, not one of your Rambo movies.”

“This is nothing like Footloose, Donut.”

“It’s nothing like Rambo, either...

Holy shit, I thought. She’s throwing a temper tantrum because she’s not allowed to eat us.

The velociraptor moonwalked back across the platform. He goddamn moonwalked.

And it’s not just Ferdinand. This is typical of the entire species. Cats don’t ask for permission. They never apologize. They’re soulless murderers. All of them.

Sledge: Surviving is winning, Louis. Everything else is bullshit.

It’s not to dance in a recital, Carl. Young Tina wants the same thing I do. She wants what I suspect you do, too. She wants her mother back.”

I laughed. I laughed at the absurdity of it all. Here I was, about to get sucked into a literal hell, sitting down at a party, talking to a tattooed, topless fish woman while listening to a mushroom dude named Horton play a poorly-tuned guitar, singing my cat’s favorite song.