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

by Matt Dinniman

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.

They’re 49% bear, 51% racist uncle who works for the IRS and has to hide his erection when he prepares for an audit.

Where I’m from, it’s a cultural thing. It means you’re from a people who like to say ‘Yeehaw’ a lot and listen to music about trucks and cheating girlfriends and you eat things like corndogs and fried butter. And you like to blow things up.”

“I’m not insulting you, Carl. It’s called constructive criticism. It’s different.”

‘Future Hunter the hunter was formerly a hunter before she got punched to death by a human with no pants?’

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.

“You’re a giant man in his boxers, Carl, and I am a cat. They’re going to notice us the second we walk out the door. You didn’t think this through.”

“Which is why I am here right now talking to you instead of having my soldiers fertilize the forest with your entrails.”

The velociraptor moonwalked back across the platform. He goddamn moonwalked. As he passed Donut, she popped her sunglasses onto her face. Both bopped their heads to the music.