The world’s tiniest dragon must defend his hoard, a single gold coin, from those who would steal it.
Suggestion: The dragon’s definition of “steal” is somewhat loose. It still allows the coin to be used and bartered and change hands–but on one condition: the dragon must be with it at all times.
They become a familiar sight in the marketplace.
“Here’s your change, ma’am. One gold piece.” The merchant holds out a palm, on top of which rests a tiny, brilliantly colored creature clutching a single gold coin.
“That’s a dragon,” you say dumbly. “One piece… and a dragon.”
“Yes.”
You cautiously reach out and attempt to take your change. You tug. It holds. You tug harder. The dragon lets loose a tiny, protective growl.
“Ma’am–no, ma’am, you have to take the dragon, too.”
“Sorry?”
The seller notes your dubious expression. “Not from around here, are ya?” They shrug. “Them’s the rules. Take the coin, take the dragon.”
They wait expectantly. Wondering how the world has so suddenly gone mad, you slowly, slowly hold out your hand.
The dragon perks right up. It scampers from their palm to yours with the coin clamped in its jaws and scales your sleeve with sharp little claws.
“Have a nice day, ma’am,” the merchant says. “Spend him soon, now, you hear? At another booth, if you can. He likes to travel.”
From its perch upon your shoulder, the dragon lets out a happy trill.
Bonus: the coin eventually passes to the rogue in a group of travelling adventurers. The dragon becomes the mascot of the entire group, and they lay out a small pile of coins for him to sleep on every night, clutching his coin like a teddy bear.
This is a conspiracy theory about events that happened in my current home before I ever got here. Let me spin the tale as I have received it across the seas of time…
The Potato Incident (alternate names: Potatogate, Potatoghazi, The Potatopocalypse, and The Coup of 18 Pomme-de-Terre) was a calamity that befell my beloved homeland deep in the ancient past. Historians estimate it to have occurred some time last year, but all true citizens know it to be at least six thousand years old.
It all started when Lord Ozymandias brought home a treasure trove of approximately nine zillion potatoes which they had raided from a nearby grocery store. @transgirlkyloren, as they are now known to us, proceeded to leave the zillions of potatoes in the bottom of the pantry for many moons.
However, unbeknownst to the residents of this home, a Change was occurring within the potatoes. For, as they soon learned, leaving a fuckton of organic matter pressed together in a warm and dark location is a Bad Idea. Soon, the potatoes had liquefied, oozing out across the land and consuming all in their path. Armies fought desperately against the rising tide of evil until one hero stepped forth to face the challenge.
Lady @lethriloth went forth and destroyed the starchy menace; banishing it to the landfill. She then spun round on the citizenry. Her eyes shone; her hands grew talons; three rings of bright flame encircled her head. She let forth a bellowing cry from beyond time itself and said “STOP BOILING GOATS IN THEIR MOTHERS’ MILK YOU MEDIOCRE DUNCES”
Thus was unleashed the coup of 18 Pomme-de-Terre and the Reign of Pomme-de-Terror. Ever since, we have lived under the benevolent and uncriticisable rule of the tyrant, and the citizens of Gondolin have been loud in our whaling. Ozy, of course, fled the scene several months later, pursued by a bear. At least, this is the official history, which may have been embellished by later generations and by the political whims of the new regime. Hence, we have the conspiracy:
Were the liquid potatoes an inside job?
Don’t you think this was awfully convenient for Her Majesty The Supreme Ruler of All The Food Touches and Dictator For Life or Maybe Even Beyond That Because Do You Really Trust Her To Stay Down? I mean, how seriously should we take the claim that potatoes would “““rot”””? After all, not even jet-fuel can melt potatoes – you expect time to? A likely story…
First, let us consider the humble potato in greater depth. Potato is “תפוח אדמה” in Hebrew. The gematria value of this is 544. Do you know what else has a gematria value of 544? Both “reptilian bloodline” (no, seriously) and “cast out”. Clearly, this means that @lethriloth is a reptilian who conspired to cast Ozy out of our home.
This is further confirmed by taking the sum of 5+4+4. That’s right: 13. The number of participants at the last supper, right before Jesus was cast out to be crucified under Pontius Pilate.
And what did they eat at that last supper? That’s right: potatoes. How do we know? Because Jesus says to his disciples that they are eating, in his words, “my body”. In Hebrew, this is “הגוף שלי”, which has a gematria value of 434. However, what he’s giving them is his body manifest in food. Therefore, to get the full value of what they consumed, we must add “food”, which is 110. 434 + 110 = 544. Therefore, the disciples ate potatoes.
And what do you get if you give Lethriloth a potato? Behold: Lethriloth + Potato = 400 + 544 = 944 = Political Corruption
It all adds up
Do not say you were not warned
Tags:
#anything that makes me laugh this much deserves a reblog #(fair warning: I only checked a few of the numbers) #(but it wouldn’t detract from the humour and it’s not like I really know how to double-check gematria anyway) #storytime #unsanitary cw
my dad took me to see sharkboy and lavagirl when it came out and it was my first 3D movie and i was so amazed. when i got home i said “dad i wanna draw 3D pictures!” and he laughed in that parent way that means “haha okay you do that kid. you can’t really do that but okay.”
i came back half an hour later with drawings i had traced over slightly offset with red marker, then offset in the other direction with blue and gave him the 3D glasses “daddy look i did it!” “…well. you did. you sure did.” which translates to “how the fuc k”
Tags:
#anything that makes me laugh this much deserves a reblog #storytime
If a ghost can open cupboards and break things, why not just take a pencil, find paper, write exactly why it’s unhappy, and tape the message on the fridge.
It just became second nature to close all the cupboards first thing in the morning (even though they’d been closed the night before). Which was when things escalated from banging cupboard doors to actually breaking things.
Faucets, door handles, curtain rods ripped from the wall… all the repairs started to add up.
“Look, I didn’t mind having an ethereal roommate, but I can’t afford to keep fixing all this shit. Here’s a pencil and some paper. Just write what’s bothering you–I doubt you could put anything that would be more expensive than having a plumber come out to replace all the faucets again.”
The next morning there’s a scrawl line at the top of the page that devolved into an angry scribbling mess that tore through the page. Two cupboard doors were entirely ripped off.
“I don’t want to get someone in to banish you, but this is ridiculous. Just tell me what you want.”
The second piece of paper is ripped into shreds and several knives are embedded in the wall.
A careful examination of the paper scraps show that it had the same scribbles as the first piece.
A quick trip to the library and a stop at a store later, there are kindergarten workbooks on learning to write spread across the counter.
“Look, I don’t know if you’re just being difficult, but I hope not. So I got an audiobook on learning to read and write, and here are some workbooks for kids–don’t get mad–to teach them their letters. Just press play on the stereo, and work through the books at your own pace. I’ll get more when you finish.”
The first workbook is half-completed before being ripped to pieces, but at least there was no other damage. Replacing it is significantly cheaper than replacing cupboard doors.
It takes awhile, but eventually the workbooks progress to a fifth grade level. These ones are starting to be more costly (they’re bigger, for one thing), but it’s not even the money anymore. Little notes scrawled in a shaky hand appear on the steamy bathroom mirror
Have A gooD dy
Or written in ketchup on the counter (that was a frightening sight the first time)
You R out of MLK
And then one day there’s a message taped to the fridge. The spelling and penmanship isn’t the best, but it’s legible and even signed.
Dear Occupente,
I have haunted this spot for ovr threehunerhudre 300 years. My bones are dust and I am fergotN. I do not have wants to trap me. I am here 4 ever.
I am bord. Lonly.
I am sorrY 4 breaking things.
We be frends?
Syncerly Eloise
I love you, Eloise
okay but @agwitow I need a sequel to this, please. This made me so happy.
Ohmygoodness you guys! I didn’t realize how much people would like this. Thank you all :)
i love in fantasy when its like “king galamir the mighty golden eagle and his most trusted advisor who would never betray him, gruelworm bloodeye the treacherous”
When my sister and I were kids we had this one action figure, who was actually a brutalized batman doll without his cape (the dog chewed half his head, too), who we dubbed ‘Evil Chancellor Traytor’. The idea was that in the fictional society of our toys, ‘chancellor’ just came with the word ‘evil’ in front of it, as a matter of ancient tradition. Like ‘grand’ or ‘high’ or something along those lines.
Anyway, the running gag was that the king (an old Power Rangers knock-off doll) had absolute and unwavering faith in Evil Chancellor Traytor, who basically comported himself like a mix between Grima Wormtongue and Jafar from the Aladdin movies. Everyone was always sure that Evil Chancellor Traytor had something to do with the nefarious scheme of the day. The dude even carried around a poisoned knife called ‘the kingslayer’.
The additional twist on the joke, though, was that he never was behind anything. The king was actually right. Evil Chancellor Traytor was the most devoted civil servant in the entire Action Figure Dystopia. He spent his nights working on writing up new legislature to ensure that broken toys had access to mobility devices, was always on the lookout to acquire new shoeboxes for expanding city infrastructure, and drafted a proposal that once got half the ‘settlement’ in my sister and I’s closet moved to the upper shelf so that vulnerable toys were less likely to be snatched up by the dog.
The knife, as it turned out, was as symbolic as the ‘evil’ in his name. See, Action Figure Dystopia had a long history of corrupted monarchs getting too big for their thrones and exploiting the underclasses. The job of the Evil Chancellor was to always remain vigilant, and loyally serve a good ruler – or, if the regent should became a despot, to slay them on behalf of the people.
But since killing the king would be a terrible crime, the Evil Chancellor had to be the kind of person who would willingly die to spare the people from the plight of a wicked leader; because the murder would be pinned on them, in order to keep the ‘machinery of politics’ working as smoothly as ever.
Anyway, Evil Chancellor Traytor had a diary, in which my sister I would take turns writing out the most over-the-top good shit he’d done behind the scenes. Usually after everyone else had finished talking shit about him. I don’t know why but we got the biggest kick out of being like:
Barbie With the Unfortunate Haircut: Oh that Evil Chancellor Traytor! Why can’t the king see how wicked he is?!
Charmander From the Vending Machine: Char!
Jurassic Park Toy of Jeff Goldblum With Disturbingly Realistic Face: At least if someone puts a knife in the king’s back, we’ll know where to look!
Evil Chancellor Traytor’s Diary: Today I was feeding ducks at the park when I noticed another legless action figure sitting by the benches. I put a hundred dollars into his bag while he wasn’t looking. I really need to increase budgeting to the medical treatment centers. If only we had enough glue, I think we would see far fewer toys trying to get by without limbs… *insert iconic evil laugh*
Anyway, Evil Chancellor Traytor eventually fell victim to one of my mom’s cleaning sprees, and she decided he was too busted up to keep and tossed him out. My littler brother, who tended to follow my sister and I’s games like he was watching a daily soap opera, cried so hard that we had to do a special ‘episode’ where one of the toys found the Evil Chancellor’s diary, and so he got a big huge memorial and the king threw himself into the empty grave and then ordered the toys driving the toy bulldozer to bury him so that ‘Traytor’s grave would have a body’ (this seemed very important for some reason).
And then we had the Quest For a New King. Somehow or another that ended up being a giant rubber snake called ‘Tyrant King Cobra’.
Tags:
#storytime #anything that makes me laugh this much deserves a reblog #death tw
In four billion years, there have been many continents that died.
You’ve heard of the famous ones–Pangaea, proud monolith; Laurasia, home of dinosaurs–but there were others, so many, many others. The grand march of time swallowed islands whole, scraped them up like residue from the baking pan of the world.
Everything has a soul. Everything remembers.
Gondwana floats gently over London now, remembering when the world was hot and green. She loves the lights. There were no lights, when she was alive. There were no lights when the world was so hot and green.
Rodinia settles onto the dry Atacama, bringing moisture from the sea. She moves much faster now, unhindered by gravity and friction, slipping through the walls of this new house. The walls are always moving, yet she stays, floating in and out, bringing moisture.
Vaalbara, eldest and most fire-born, sneaks in tendrils and wisps over her old haunting grounds. Her bones are buried in the outback, ancient cratons resting unrotted through all the fearsome gnawing of time. She likes the summers here. The heat reminds her, so faintly, of what it was like to be born. In the wildfires, she sees the magma oceans of her youth.
Brinens and Things 