The drunken ass black smith part 1

Oh, weary traveler, pull up a chair—better yet, a throne of irony—and let’s sip on the finest brew of sarcasm as we delve into the riveting saga of character development and foreboding thunderclaps (boom boom boooom) in our quaint little narrative hamlet of Dumbworx. The drunken blacksmith, a man of steel with a heart...well, not of steel, more like overcooked noodle. Picture this: a brawny fellow, swaggering through the village square, hammer in hand, kindness in his slurred words, but alas, it’s all a façade. Behind the ale-induced merriment lies a soul so adept at being a jerk, it’s practically an art form. He’s not just any tormentor; he’s the Michelangelo of meanness, crafting masterpieces of misery with the delicate touch of a man who can’t even spell "technology," let alone use it.

But wait, there’s more to this tapestry of contradiction. He’s as sensitive as he is dense—a rare breed of man who can dish it out but can’t take a spoonful of his own medicine. Imagine a giant, teary-eyed at the mere mention of anything true and funny, pointed at him yet turning around to bully the nearest kitten. He’s the chameleon of village politics, blending into circles of joy and camaraderie, all the while his true colors are as murky as his favorite ale.

Who, you ask, could possibly see through this charade of drunken happiness? Who could navigate the treacherous waters of his shallow personality? Enter our other players: Lady ShallO Two-Face and the Sheriff-Who-Really-Should-Retire. This duo, bound by duty and bewildered by the blacksmith’s antics, find themselves in a twisted tango of emotions, unable to sever ties with our hammer-wielding Lothario. Why? Because, dear traveler, in a plot twist no one saw coming (except everyone, really), he’s entangled in a love affair with both! Yes, our blacksmith, clumsy with both words and metal, somehow manages to be the village Casanova, a testament to his unparalleled skill in the ancient art of "How?!"

So, as we lean back, savoring our coffee (or perhaps something stronger to endure the tale), let us marvel at the journey of a man who is, paradoxically, the worst yet somehow indispensable. A man whose very existence challenges the fabric of village life, weaving a story so absurd, it’s a masterpiece. Cheers to our drunken blacksmith, the unexpected hero of no one's heart and the bane of common sense.

So one day, when the Wi-Fi signals flutter as whimsically as the local wildlife, our story unfolds. Behold, the Knight of the IT Order, found himself in the unlikely company of a drunken smith apprentice Dention. This apprentice, whose hands were like a raccoon's, was a curious sort that most would avoid making small talk with. I found him an absolute delight compared to my rat squire squeezed into pink tights who looked like he moonlighted as a backup dancer for medieval boy bands.

Enter the most enchanting character of our tale: the girlfriend of the raccoon-handed man, known throughout the land as the Lady of Non-Truth the filly of lies. A beacon of deception, her talent for fibbing was unparalleled, making her the go-to for discerning the truth—simply because everything she said was true, was the polar opposite of true. Need a lie detector? Just ask the peasant with a face like a horse. The Lady of Non-Truth the filly of fibs if Danda agrees, It's so not true.

The drunken smith and the raccoon-handed apprentice Dention both adored her, for her lies were as captivating as her half-equine beauty. To the naive, love-starved men with more self-hate between them than a dragon could shit out after raiding a village. You see, The Lady of Non-Truth the filly of fibs Danda had told these two foolish men that she loved them both.

But alas, in speaking to the raccoon-handed apprentice, I, the knight of the IT order, inadvertently ruffled the feathers of the drunken ass smiths, bald head who for no reason retorted by mocking my physique and my trusty knee mule (yes, a mule for my knee because why not?). In a stroke of genius, I consulted the lying filly, Danda, about the drunken smith's taunts, which ignited further fury when she confirmed them as truth.

The plot thickened when I inquired about the smith's prowess in Python, to which Danda proclaimed the drunken ass smith a veritable coding wizard who always completed his code with her. The raccoon-handed apprentice trembled in his boots, fearing for his job but smitten with Danda all the same. Also, the sheriff who really should retire was in love with the raccoon-handed apprentice's skills, for he could handle balls very well with those raccoon hands, so every Thursday night, they did a great deal of ball handling together, and the sheriff, who knew a great deal about men who handle balls, protected the raccoon handed apprentice so the smith could not lash out at him. for if he did the raccoon hand apprentice would whisper of it to the sheriff who really should retire while they handle balls together.

I hated a bully who was not me and did see a chance to set this brute right and issued a Challenge, but being a one-legged knight, I proposed an arm-wrestling match, a suggestion that sent the drunken smith storming off in a huff, for he never lifted a hammer any more he made others do the work while he drank the day away. He knew that my hand strength, after years of typing and mouse clicking, would be far too much for him. So, he swore vengeance. Yet, when asking the Lady of Non-Truth the filly of fibs Danda if I should fear retribution, The Lady of Non-Truth the filly of fibs Danda assured me all was well, for the smith was "a good man"—a statement as reliable as a chocolate teapot. truly, more trouble was brewing at Dumbwroxs, and I, of course, would be part of it, for no man ever suffered under the fate of bad luck more than the knight of the order of IT in that bog of Stinkbour in castle Dumbworx under the rot of digital decay.

Ah, what a day it was, a scene straight out of a comedy of errors, featuring yours truly in the unlikely role of the kitten's knight in shining armor. Picture this: There I was, minding my own, when lo and behold, the village's very own sob story, the smith, was having a meltdown over a kitten. Yes, a kitten. This man, known far and wide for seasoning his ale with the salt of his own tears—tears brewed from a lifetime of questionable choices—had found his latest nemesis in a furry little creature that dared to spill his precious goblet of sorrow.

Now, this wasn't just any cup; it was a chalice brimming with his saltiest regrets, a concoction so potent it could season a feast for the entire village. And what does our hero, the kitten, do? It commits the heinous act of tipping it over. The audacity! The smith, in his infinite wisdom and liquid courage, decided this was an affront not to be tolerated. As he launched into a tirade against the pint-sized perpetrator, I couldn't help but intervene—after all, someone had to stand up for the undercat.

"Unhand that feline fiend and test your might against a more befitting adversary!" I proclaimed, puffing my chest out, ready to defend the honor of kittens everywhere. The smith, caught in the grips of confusion (and let's be honest, probably a few too many ales), couldn't quite process the situation. Here was I, a veritable Goliath compared to him, and yet he had been bested by a creature not even a fraction of our size. His logic circuit shorted, he blamed us for the tragic loss of his tear-infused brew.

Now, I'd never claim to be the sharpest tool in the shed, but even I know better than to argue with a man whose best friend is a hammer and whose therapist is a beer mug. But then, a lightbulb moment! Why not turn this debacle into a tear factory? After all, misery loves company, and the smith was practically a manufacturing plant for the stuff.

So, I unleashed a torrent of barbs and jibes, each one a precision strike designed to reopen old wounds and tap into that endless well of self-pity. It was like striking oil, if oil were made of pure, unadulterated misery. The smith, overcome with emotion, began to cry a river worthy of a dramatic finale in a soap opera. Swift as a cat myself, I positioned the cup to catch this fresh batch of despair, and voilà! The cup runneth over with a new brew of bitterness and regret.

"Consider it a favor," I said, tipping an imaginary hat. "Now, why don't you stick to bullying inanimate objects and leave the living ones be? Add a dash of that distilled disappointment to your drink, and cheers to you, sir!"

And so, the day was saved. The kitten scampered off to plot its next act of adorable anarchy, the smith found a new depth to his well of woe, and I... Well, I realized that sometimes, the pen (or in this case, the tongue) is mightier than the sword. Or the hammer. So, the smith began to sing death metal, cry, and drink too much again.

Oh, strap in folks, because our tale just took a nosedive into the Twilight Zone of medieval soap operas, featuring none other than our protagonist: a tearful, tipsy blacksmith who's stumbled upon the dark arts of identity theft, powered by his very own boozy tears. That's right, folks, a few drops from this guy, and he becomes the human equivalent of a magic mirror on the wall, showing you exactly who you want to see. But wait, it gets better. With a little nudge from yours truly, our smithy's most hated foe had unlocked the ultimate bar trick – tear-salted beer. Move over, craft beer enthusiasts, this brew's got emotional baggage and deceit distilled into every sip.

Enter stage left: the skeleton key to our story, a literal skeleton buried in erotic literature and a void of common sense. She's the gatekeeper, but let's be real, the gate's as open as a 24/7 convenience store. The powers that be gave her this gig to keep her out of trouble, like giving a toddler a box of crayons and a wall they've already surrendered to the cause. Her job's as secure as a gift cards if you leave a note signed Lady ShallO Two-Face, and her decision-making skills? Let's just say she'd trade in the family jewels for a handful of magic beans if you asked nicely.

Our smith doesn't just stop there; oh no, he's on a mission to gather an entourage of the most gullible cultists this side of the fantasy realm, turning "don't think for yourself with a drunken ass" into a team sport. And then there's the rainbow wizard – a guy so open-minded his brains have probably turned to confetti when touched by the distilled emotions of a life of super-question deception weaponized. He's caught up in this web of deceit, a testament to the blacksmith's newfound knack for playing everyone like a fiddle with extra strings with that dark brew of salted beer.

So, grab your popcorn and watch as our smith weaves through this carnival of characters, armed with nothing but half a wit, a pint of his most emotionally unstable ale, and the kind of charm that could only come from a lifetime spent making questionable decisions. It's a tale of magic, mayhem, and the kind of plot twists that make you question whether you're reading a fantasy epic or the script for a reality TV show set in a realm where the laws of logic took a permanent holiday.

As you can see, our dear protagonist morphed into more personalities and tech decay shapes than a spy in a high-stakes espionage novel, but to me, to me he always resembled the creature in the picture below. Picture this: underneath all that so-called charm and those tears diluted in pint after pint of beer, here's the true visage of the legendary drunken ass smith. See him standing next to an average lady who, bless her heart, seemed blissfully unaware of the walking, talking embodiment of a bad decision and near cosmic horror next to her.

Now, don't get me wrong. I've danced with a few bad choices myself, but unlike our beer-soaked friend, I chose not to marinate in self-pity and delusional ale. Instead, I embraced the radical concept of learning from my blunders and striving for something resembling improvement. The thought that I could have been a mirror image of our drunken ass smith, had I surrendered to the siren song of self-loathing and craft beer, sends shivers down my spine. I think that involuntary shiver and my deep knowledge of technomancy in all forms saved me from this spell of deceit. So of course, this issue just like seemingly every problem at Castle Dumbworx fell into my lap.

Fortune, in its infinite jest, bestowed upon me a squire as delusional as a sitcom neighbor, sporting tight pink pants that would make a flamingo blush. His mind, too small for self-reflection, miraculously saw the same cosmic horror in our protagonist. Thus, armed with nothing but our wits and an aversion to becoming the town's cautionary tale, we set off to battle the minions of Dumbworx under the drunken ass smith salted beer spell and put an end to this Shardae saga. But not before the weak-minded lies of The Skeleton buried in erotic literature and a void of common sense would land me in cultist group therapy and draw the much-unwanted attention of the changing Lady ShallO Two-Face whose mind was as weak as the Skeleton buried in erotic literature and a void of common sense. But she was by birthright and other poor decisions made by who knows in charge of this evil land.

It's like a buddy cop film, but instead of cops, you've got a disillusioned knight and a rat in pink tights, and instead of crime, they're fighting an epidemic of bad life choices. Buckle up, folks. It's going to be a bumpy ride. Stay tuned and check back when you feel like your life is hard or just need a good laugh.

Part 2 the ambushes and the reason to keep fighting.

Now I have been told to live among only crazy people you would be the crazy person. no place in all my travels has ever that statement been closer to true than at Dumbworx Castle. Ah, where to begin with the rest of this illustrious tale of Dumbworx Castle, a place that makes the Mad Hatter's tea party look like a corporate board meeting? Let's dive into this whirlwind of absurdity, shall we?

It would seem logic was taking a backseat and sanity is on a permanent vacation, there lies This isn't your average medieval Airbnb; oh no, it's the Ivy League of lunacy. Here, the inhabitants make the folks of Wonderland seem downright mundane. The guiding principle? "Why use your brain when you can embrace the bliss of ignorance?" Truly, a motto to live by in Dumbworx.

Enter our hero, or perhaps the only person who didn't drink the castle's Kool-Aid, accompanied by his squire, a rat with a fashion sense that screams, "I lost a bet." Yes, a rat in tight pink pants, because in Dumbworx, even the rodents are trendsetters.

The villain of our story, the drunken ass smith, His lies are so transparent you could use them for windows, yet somehow, they're as effective as a diet based on chocolate alone. It's a mystery how his tales of deceit find fertile ground in the brains of Dumbworx's residents but than again maybe not The castle is a haven for the Cult of Don't Think for Yourself (DTFY), a group that makes sheep look like free thinkers. It's a place where "Because I said so" is considered a valid scientific argument.

Our plot thickens with the arrival of the rainbow wizard, a beacon of diversity who has recruited a fruity paladin who's sworn off meat in a land where steak is considered a primary food group. This Fruity Paladin of Scared Cyber isn't just a walking salad bar; he's on a mission to enlighten the masses about digital hygiene. truly the rainbow wizard has an open mind he uses his magic to make meat popsicles on hot and cold nights he really loves meat pops so for him to have hired a paladin of fruits vegetables and cyber security shows his wisdom and fairness.

Now imagine this Fruity paladin of scared cyber trying to teach fish to fly; that's about how well his lessons on password security are received. This paladin's crusade against mindless clicking is about as welcome as a skunk at a garden party. Each attempt to instill a modicum of critical thinking sends shockwaves through the DTFY cult, causing a level of existential dread typically reserved for discovering your favorite reality show is scripted.

Amidst this chaos, the drunken ass smith's salted beer acts as a catalyst, turning Dumbworx Castle into a ticking time bomb of stupidity. One wrong click, and the place could explode into a spectacle of drama and outrage, leaving everyone feeling like they've just participated in the world's worst trust fall.

Welcome to the whimsical and utterly bonkers 11th century, where saving a kitten from a bully earns you a scolding, and your boss is a Rainbow Wizard with a heart of gold for the wrong folks.

So there you were, playing the unlikely hero in a tale that sounds like it was cooked up after too many flagons of mead. You rescue a defenseless kitten from the clutches of a blacksmith who's more hammered than his own work. Sounds like a scene straight out of a medieval "feel-good" movie, right? Wrong. Because here comes your boss, the Rainbow Wizard, dripping in empathy like it's the latest fashion in enchanted cloaks, telling you to lay off the poor, misunderstood blacksmith. Because, you know, bullies have feelings too. Who knew?

Just another day in the magical 11th century, where logic goes to die and absurdity reigns supreme. Off you go, patrolling the streets, not for witches or warlocks, but for Tech Demons. Because apparently, in this timeline, technology is as menacing as a dragon, but instead of breathing fire, it just freezes a lot. Or makes cybernetic dragons that eats everyone.

Then, as if scripted by a bard on a bad trip, you're challenged to a duel by an old man enraged by the unbearable thought of pausing before clicking a link. Ah, the horror! The humanity! The... inconvenience? You manage to escape, not by valor, but by sheer confusion over the absurdity of it all.

You go to the place of the old man employment Make Pretends Work monastery, a place that sounds more like a tech startup gone horribly wrong. Here you meet the head monk, Frier Believes-Anything, the Steve Jobs of distant tech arcana, Then he proceeds to tell you A DULE TO THE DEATH IS NO BIG DEAL FOR HE IS SURE WE ALL LIVE ON AFTER DEATH AND THE CULT DTFY PROVIDES. and then tells you all about his latest experiment? Wrapping himself in a fishing net to block sonic attacks from the cult bells and the plague. He then says the SONIC THING DID NOT WORK BUT PLAGUE PERHAPS RAINCOATs Because, obviously, a fishing net is the ultimate tech solution for stopping germs and rain.

Ah, the 11th century, where every day is a roller coaster of irrationality, and the line between genius and madness is as thin as the parchment your boss writes his empathy letters on. With that being said I decided to go straight to the top that's right Lady ShallO Two-Face!

So, I dressed in my finest armor, and I was brought to the questionable but not yet proven insane Lady ShallO Two-Face. I told her how common men wanted to fight me to the death over the Fruity paladin of scared cyber changes to the well portal and gossip net. I told her how her Make Pretends Work monastery leader, Frier Believes-Anything, the Steve Jobs of distant tech Arcana, said he supported fighting to the death. I said all this only to be met with accusations that would make a soap opera scriptwriter blush. Lady ShallO, it seems, is more concerned with the emotional well-being of skeletons and drunkards than the actual threats looming over her domain. It seemed I had made a grave error Lady ShallO Two-Face, sanity was hanging by a thread so thin, it could be used as dental floss by a fairy.

She looked at me and said, "I've heard things about you, knight, like how you picked a kitten over the poor drunk ass smiths' feelings, how you made a skeleton buried in erotic literature and a void of common sense feel skinny and ugly." She motions, and those two walk in. I, of course, did not see the rather unpleasant person I have shown you here. I saw the man in the last entry in part one. I will never forget the look on that skeleton buried in erotic literature and a void of common sense; face the triumph I must say the picture here is a close likness but you know what they say AI adds 20 pounds. That drunken smith behind it with his tear-salted beer.

Then, in a twist that not even M. Night Shyamalan could foresee that I was subjected to what can only be described as medieval sensitivity training hosted by a collection of cultists whose grievances range from the olfactory offense of leather oil to the unsettling nature of my eye placement. It's like a Monty Python sketch directed by Kafka.

The climax of this tragicomedy occurs in the dreaded "therapy" session, a spectacle so mind-numbingly boring that I contemplate a life of matrimonial bliss with his rat squire in tight pink pants as a preferable alternative. Listening to a chorus of whines about hurt feelings from a group who wouldn't recognize a real problem if it hit them with a trebuchet, I plotted my revenge, not with sword and shield, but with the most devastating weapon of all: unmasking their villainy to the world.

End Part 2

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