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

by Matt Dinniman

Zev: Hello, crawlers. Donut: HI ZEV!

We watched a one-armed, pale, and sick-looking Quan Ch switch from Imperial Security Trooper to Sergeant-at-Arms. “Well, that’s a lie, now isn’t it? It should just be Sergeant-at-Arm, not arms,” Donut quipped. “The next time we see him, I hope you rip his other arm off, Carl. Then he’ll just be a Sergeant.”

Hoo boy. An Ursine. So there are bears, which are the vicious, brutal-yet-somehow-cuddly creatures we all know and love. And then there are the Ursine. They’re 49% bear, 51% racist uncle who works for the IRS and has to hide his erection when he prepares for an audit.

“What if she uses her evil whore sex magic to lure him away forever? Like one of those school teacher ladies?”

Donut: WELL, OF COURSE WE’RE GOING TO TAKE IT OVER. HAVING MYSELF AND CARL ON THE PROGRAM IS THE EQUIVALENT OF HAVING AUDREY HEPBURN AND, I DON’T KNOW, MACHO MAN RANDY SAVAGE SUDDENLY SHOW UP AS GUEST STARS ON A PUBLIC ACCESS TELEVISION SHOW.

“What? What in Pawna’s name?” the cleric asked. “I’m going to kill your mother. And Pawna is a big liar. She plays all innocent and virginal, but she’s into soaking. Look it up.” “Well, I never.”

I shivered. I had the urge to cough, and I suppressed it. “Your luck is a dishonor on the hive,” she said finally. “The hive can lick my sack,” I said.

“Does anybody give a shit about this subject?” “No,” half the crowd said. “I do,” Sydnee said, sounding crestfallen. “Great,” I said. “Sydnee or whatever your name is. What’s the name of your book?” She straightened. “It’s called A Petite Chronicle of the Crawl. One Lady’s Journey into Enlightenment Through Knowledge and Scholarship and Three-Beat Poetry.” “Sounds like a great time. If you guys really want to learn about this stuff, read that book. I guarantee it can’t possibly be less interesting than this bullshit.” “Thank you, Carl,” Sydnee said. “Can I put your endorsement on the cover?” “Absolutely,” I said.

Above, an unholy wail of anguish rocked the village. Donut, still invisible, walked up to the head and put her paw on it, pushing it over to reveal the dead monstrosity’s eyes. “Stupid dog,” Donut muttered on the screen. “The only bridge you’ll be crossing today is made out of rainbows.”

I appreciate what you’re attempting to do for me, Carl, but it is of no worry.” She cleared her throat, twisted in my grip, and jumped to my shoulder. She sat stiffly, attempting to compose herself. I could feel how tense she was. “Ferdinand may have been my first love, but I am a mother now, and I have more important responsibilities. Mongo needs me, and if I am going to pursue a singing career, I can’t be tied down or all emotional because my ex-boyfriend is suddenly trying to get back into the picture. I admit, it did surprise me. But I am over it now. If anything, I see it as a good thing. If Taylor Swift or Adele can profit off of heartache, I’m quite certain I can as well. It’ll make for a good song.”

“Is it? Because the last I looked, this was the Royal Court of Princess Donut. Not the Stupid Team of Stupid Dictator Carl and his Abused Slave Cat, Princess Donut.”

“You fools! Simpletons! I will rip you to shreds for this! I will spill your entrails upon the ground and squeal with delight as I bathe in your offal. Do you not know who I am?” Elle: Donut, your ex-boyfriend has anger issues. Donut: I’VE ALWAYS BEEN ATTRACTED TO THE BAD BOYS.

Everything is fucked. Everything has gone wrong, and it’s my fault.” “If all she says is true, how is any of this possibly your fault, Carl? It sounds like you’re dancing at the end of the same strings as the rest of us.”

Sir Ferdinand, minion of Princess Donut, has joined the party.

She was silent for a moment, and then she asked the question I’d been dreading for a long time now. “Carl? Why doesn’t it hurt as much as it should?”