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

by Matt Dinniman

“Okay, buddy. We gotta be quick. You are balls deep in the wrong hole, and mom is pulling into the driveway. You get me?”

The day I take a bribe from some pig-faced imperialist fuck is the day I wither.”

And how is that machine greased? The universe’s four lubricants. Blood, tears, taxes, and lawyers.”

Because Donut sounded like a helium-drunk cat being crushed by a steamroller when she attempted to sing, that was why. And even though she wasn’t that bad of a dancer, when it came to making a song emerge from that tone-deaf gullet of hers, her rhythm was that of a drunk, three-legged donkey trying to negotiate its way down a set of ice-covered stairs.

Reward: Your reward is advice. Fatherly advice. Don’t be a little bitch. There’s your reward.

Donut: CARL, I’M STARTING TO THINK THESE PEOPLE MIGHT BE A LITTLE WEIRD.

Just Wait Until Your Daddy Gets Home – Wheeled Bomb. Type: High Yield Thermobaric Explosive. Also imbues Fear within blast radius. Effect: I hope you’re paid up on your homeowner’s insurance. Status: 250. Fortified. Boom.

New Achievement! Insurgent. You left an explosive device along a well-traveled path, and it detonated and killed an intended target. It was really cool. Too bad you didn’t get to see it because you’re a trap-leaving bitch! Reward: You’ve received a Gold Trapmaster Box!

Samantha: DO YOU KNOW HOW LOUD THIS THING IS? BESIDES, THERE’S NO TALKING IN WAR. ONLY TEETH AND BLOOD AND THE WAILING OF WOMEN WHO BLEED OUT AS I SEDUCE THEIR MEN AND MAKE LOVE IN THE GORE.

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

“But you gotta do yours first. And don’t tell Katia. I don’t want her thinking I’m a whore.” “Why do you associate nipple rings with that? Plenty of people have them.” “I’ve seen those videos on your computer, Carl.” “What does that even mean?”

Reward: Whores don’t get rewards.

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.