Underpirates

Back when I was 19, I wrote this humorous fantasy novella which takes place in some kind of weird DnD-MMORPG-version of hell, inspired by Monkey Island! I renamed Guybrush as Wado and Murray as Mortis. Enjoy!

Underpirates!

Manuscript

. . .

Written By Larpushka

Portrait by Brad D. Nault

Table of Content:

Prelude
Chapter 1: Undertown
Chapter 2: Billy Banjo
Chapter 3: The Dungeon Masters
Chapter 4: Valda Vaux
Chapter 5: A Confederacy of Dunces
Chapter 6: The Last Barricade
Chapter 7: The Pit of Doom
Chapter 8: The Ramparts
Chapter 9: Sewertown
Chapter 10: The Grand Opening
Chapter 11: The Puppet Master
Chapter 12: The Ongoing Siege of Undertown
Chapter 13: The Final Tune



Prelude



Somewhere, far beyond space and time, or any hint of common sense for that matter, in the deep uncharted edges of the subconscious limbo (where the author of which lives), a character woke up from a horrifically and dysteleologically unaccounted-for amnesiac headache, the sort you could be partly experiencing right now having read the word in the latter sentence.
As he opened his eyes, everything was vaguely dark, smoky and curiously hot. But then, something was there casting its stocky and bearded shadow on the mysteriously dark and smoky blur, but what? The smoke was beginning to clear, and there appeared an old glossy-eyed Santa-Clausic dwarf, who didn't look particularly sane mind you by any stretch of the imagination. He was wearing a horned-helmet and armoured in thick heavy iron with spiky shoulder pads, holding a foaming skull-shaped silver mug in one hand, with the background of a flickeringly blazing firey spectacle behind him. If there was ever a fuzzily adorable yet at the same time eeriy terror-inspiring image, that was it.


"Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaavast ye scurrilous dog!" Blustered the old dwarf in a cartoonishly animated fashion, his grandfather-gravelly voice was both hearty and foreboding. "Welcome to hell! To the very netherworldly regions of the underdark, where yer neither dead or alive! Harr!!! Fire and brimstone, smokin' rollin' boulders of doom, skulls and bones and rivers of dancin' flames! Yar-har-har!" He bawled, then stop, stooped, and stared at the individual up close, "arrrre ye scarrred yet?"
"Wh-What?" Blurted Waldo instinctively, our headache-suffering newcomer, "how did I get here!?"
"How does anyone ever get anywhere really?" Asked the dwarf, his eyes widened and eyebrows raised in a curious fashion, "ain't we all just purposelessly driftin' in netherworldly dimensions fighting fire giants and flamin' critters?"
"What?!?" Blurted Waldo again, even more bewildered than before. "Wait, wait... I think it makes more sense that I'm just having a bad dream, right? And that I'm gonna wake any moment now..." He waited. "Aaaaaaaany moment now," he added much more doubtfully, gulping.
"Hah! There are no dreams here lad, yer in the valley O' nightmares now!" Assured him the dwarf, Horg, enthusiastically, then pulled the young man up and embraced his thin pencil-like frame with one arm, gesturing at the hellish scene around them of cracked magmatic soil, blasting lava geysers, fires, smogs and firesparks dancing in the otherwise dark air, where some suspiciously big red bombardier beetles were moving about. "P'epare yerself fer an epic adventure O' grand and hellborn proportions unlike anythin' ye've ever experienced before, laddie, bolden yer might and hoist yer moxie! Ye only get once chance to die!"
At the end of that sentence, there was only a puff of smoke left in Horg's empty grasp, the fully-fledged petrified individual was already putting his legs to work, running away into the unknown depths of the abyssal underplane. Sadly, it was just about that moment where the most unexpected and unlikeliest of things happened (as such things often do in hell) and he was randomly hit by smouldering boulder that rolled him into the unknown darkness of the endless abyss.
"I didn't say ye have to take it that soon!" Shouted Horg.

* * *


Oh yes, hell. For those "skeptic" and "freethinking" readers of you that don't believe, I'll have you know hell is quite an intriguing place where you can adventure in. After all, what better place is there to look for excitements than the one place everyone fears to get to? So forget your little lily fairies, queens, kings, castles and knights, for here in the firey underbellies of hell we do things quite differently. Ridden with unspeakable hellspawns and monstrosities of demonic nature, it is a world (or an underworld I should say) beset with inconceivable terrors, chaos, gloom, death and despair, for the underworld is the prime location to where our dark, evil and rather unlikely story takes place. So harken carefully reader, and don't say you weren't warned, that from this point on it will take courage to read on...



* * *


Perhaps, in the entire annals of hell, there was no greater adventurer than the legendary dwarf Horg Heiren. Ahh yes, Horg Heiren, the very name makes many of the hellspawns themselves cower in fear. If time truly makes legends, then Horg is a timeless myth of which written words could never do true justice to. The veteran dwarf has seen it all and done it all, but he's not looking to collect any pension retirement funds, ohhhh no, like any good adventurer he's looking for more adventures, for a true adventurer never rests...

And so, like any good story, it all started with one too many drinks and an uncanny urge to do something inexplicably stupid. But to be more specific, our adventure begins somewhere down below, many uncounted miles beneath the surface, some say beneath the plane of life, in the deep dark trenches of the underworld, as the mighty old adventurer, Horg Heiren, waded his way through a misty valley of skulls and bones in an attempt to complete yet another senselessly random and unscripted adventure.


CRACK! CRICK! THUD!



Came a disturbing noise. From a cave made out of bones and rotting corpses shambled out a very big, horrific-looking two-headed skeleton. Bone spikes emerging from his arms and shoulders, everything about it look demonic, evil and ghastly, as though it was constructed by some dark forces to spell fear and trepidation. Horg looked up to see one head was larger than the other, it seemed slow and queer, while the smaller head looked quite. . .cranky? "Hey, hey, hey," croaked the smaller skull grouchily, spinning around on its skeletal neck axis a couple of times, "for the love of everything dead and unholy can you stop making so much racket walking over all those bones!?"
"Yea," croaked the bigger skull in a slower voice, "some of us are trying to sleep here!"
"Until some foolish heedless mortal woke us up!" Croaked the smaller skull. "Who are you moronic numbnuts who dares so carelessly disrupt the eternal sleep of the Demonic Undead Warden of Skull Island?"
"Horg Heiren's the name," answered the dwarf formally and fearlessly, puffing his chest, "professional major thumper, hellspawns annihilator, grandmaster of taunts and insults of the highest calibre and frequent expert grumbler at me spare time", he finished his introduction. "Now, I pardon the interruption lads, but on the other hand, I will solve all yer future auditory inconveniences, be they minor or major, by thumpin' yer unholy tail-bone back to the dark and unfathomable oblivion that awaits ye!" He then leaned casually on his hammer, in a pose that captured a disturbing sense of confidence at the face of an undead creature four times his height.

"WHAT?" Thundered the enraged undead entity, once again the smaller head spun on its axis to further emphasize the extreme exasperation, "you insolent mortal fool! How dare you wretchedly unwitting worthless soul threaten the hellish grandeur that is me? I will have you stirred and crunched to a paste of your very meat and bones!"

Horg raised an eyebrow ironically, in a manner that suggests he heard such bravados before.

"But before I shall undo you, mortal, harken and witness the following unfolding of harrowing chaos and unnnnnnnnnnncanny terror! BUWAHAHAHA!" The two skulls spun together on their axis, fire erupted behind them for a moment as though from an active geyser, and the entire underworld turned darker, as though the very evil spirits of hell were joining the skeletal warden to infuse more darkness and fire to the scene. "Brace your soul for dark forces come into play here!"

"I am Rigor!" Said the larger skull.
"And I am Mortis!" Croaked the smaller one.

"And we are the evil demonic two-headed horror of Skull Island," said the two horrific skulls together, "the very terror that haunts the souls of the living in their nightmares."

"The unspeakable and unmentionable dread of the netherworld!" Continued Mortis alone.

"Tremble before our all-mightynage ye insolent mortal," continued just Rigor, "or else the..."

"Aherrmaherrm," coughed Horg, interrupting their presentation to remind them he was still waiting, then spoke in an affectedly polite fashion. "Pardon me lads, but I don't have all day, I got other demonic creatures to perish ya know? So we can reschedule if you want, but I can kindly assure ye that each time results shan't be subject to variation."

"That's it!" Said Mortis threateningly, then stomped near Horg to cast his big and dark shadow over him, looking down at the dwarf as he towered above him. "I was going to give you another minute to live, but I've had enough of your insolence. Prepare to meet your unpleasant doom, stumpy!" Said Mortis. What Mortis didn' know, that if there was one word that really really upset Horg, that was it. Oh dear, as the author of this book, I always feel a slight shiver when a demon/monster or some sort of boogeydevilwatchacallit calls Horg "stumpy". You should never ever never call Horg "stumpy"...that never ends well. That might be the second biggest understatement that's written in those pages (you'll get to know the biggest understatement soon enough).
"Stumpy?!? STUMPY!?! Who yer callin' stumpy ye reanimated stack of voodoo broomsticks!?" Blurted Horg in a temper. Then came a mighty growl and a mighty underhanded thump! Followed by a mighty shower of broken bones that came raining down. It was all over in a matter of miliseconds. Much too fast.
And so, somewhere in the dusty regions of the underworld, three unsuspecting goblins, which can best be described as yellow little ugly things with squeakily annoying voices, stood next to a foul-smelling cauldron as from nowhere in sight, a big bone plunged into their stew, splashing the green dish all over them. All the three soaked goblins could do is look at each other and scratch their head. "Eh?"
Meanwhile, back in the Bones Island, Horg was clapping his hands clean, having completed his task. "Stumpy! Humph!" He huffed.
And perhaps it was the unusual flowery pink-shaded aroma in the airways of hell tonight, but a hint of remorse made him sigh, and think (the latter of which Horg often forgets to do, as his mind is filled with either grog or uncontrollable demented rage). "Too bad, I was just beginnin' to find him entertainin'. . ."
As he started walking away, he stepped on something round, and talking.
"Ouch!" Croaked the thing.
What he picked up was a hideous bloodshot-eyed skull, it was actually the smaller skull of the bone golem he just thumped. "Great leapin' troll warts! Yer still alive!?"
"Of course I am!" Croaked the skull, "true evil can never be fully destroyed, don't you know?" Horg looked at it from all sides, like he's just about to purchase a souvenir. "Wait...what are you doing? Drop me down you fool! I am no toy, but the very essence of evil!"

All of a sudden, a strange green-shaded mist was starting to whirl around them. Horg was used to seeing oddities, yet still felt the nature of the mist seemed especially random, weird and uncalled-for. He raised an eyebrow at that.
Mortis seemed very alarmed, as if he knew something Horg didn't. "Quick you foolish mortal!" Croaked Mortis, "put me down at once, you're tampering with unkent forces beyond your puny sphere of occult understanding!" Said the skull, but before Horg was able to comply, the weird mist then flashed in a sudden voodoo explosion. Horg flopped to the ground belly up.
As the flash faded and Horg recovered, he saw something inexplicably horrible had happened. The explosion completely torn through his shoulder, and thereupon his shoulder was Mortis, embedded there where his spiky shoulder pad used to be, now seeminly an integral part of him.
"You ignorant, unthinking, moronic fool!" Cried Mortis. "Do you have any idea what devilry you have just unleashed? We're stuck together now, stuck for ever and eterrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrnity!" Foreshadowed the skull as it spun on Horg shoulder axis.
"We are?" Asked Horg in disbelief as he tried to impossibly pull the skull off his shoulder, only to be zapped by that same unkent voodoo magic, which made him quickly withdraw his hand. "Well," he sighed despearately, "Hah! Ay' suppose we arrr. But might as well be, ye know, I've been looking to get some sort of companion lately, being a lone adventurer in the infinite darkness of the netherworld isn't at all what's it hyped up to be. Look at it this way, ye could be me shoulder pet."
"Pet?!? Do I look like a small flea-ridden furry poop factory to you?"
"Ahh...I mean, you can be my diabolical scheming companion?" Said Horg with a slight amiable grin, catching Mortis' drift. "Hah? Hah?"
"Hmm-- Will there be gory deaths, evil plotting and constant terrorizing of mortals involved?" Asked the skull hopefully.
"How can there not be?"
"Buwahahaha!" The skull spun on Horg's armour shoulder-spike axis gleefully. "Well that's more like it!"
As they departed from Bones Island, the mist whirled and twirled over the bones of the island, as if putting its own touches on the ending scene.
"Would ye like to hear a joke?" Asked Horg.
"No".
"Why not? Where's your funnybone at? Hee-hee-hee..."
"Oy vey..." Sulked the skull.
"Ye know, somethin' tells me this is the beginning of a wonderfully abusive relationship..."



And this, ladies and gentlemen, is an old timeless tale
Of how Horg and Mortis met, in a grand guignol of a hellish vale
The duo seemed meant to be together, through good and bad
One a seasoned old adventurer and the other... a demonically cranial shoulder pad

And so, having concluded another adventure and another dispatching of an unholy creature (or at least part of it), Horg was headed to Undertown (which will be told all about in the next page) with Mortis attached to his shoulder. Though, he still couldn't shake that feeling there's something especially flowery wafting in the airways of hell tonight, and he didn't like it at all...





UNDERPIRATES: PART 1 of 2



Chapter 1: Undertown



Undertown, located somewhere in the deepest ends at the firey buttcracks of doom, is the first and final frontier of the lunatic fringe of hell, the underpirates. Underpirates can best be described as insane bunch of absent-minded, foul-mouthed recklessly foolhardy piratically-prone anarchist savage loons, with varying and questionable degrees of sanity and sobriety. They are often involved in an endlessly mindless cycle of grog-induced lunacy that encompasses treasure-hunting, pirating, adventuring and grog-swilling (which they will continue to do so long as they manage to not get themselves killed).



"ARRRRRR!" Blustered Horg in an earsplitting roar, "welcome to Rock Bottom, Mortis! To the tavern at the very end of the underworld! The main hub for local skullduggeries, communal buffooneries and a whole lot of drunken unsolicited, unwarranted and illegitimated brawlin'!" He announced loudly, as he sat by the bar counter of that old tavern in Undertown's magmatic soil, Rock Bottom, made out of the wreckages of a ship, with its notoriously rusty anchor holding the sign that simply said "no brawling!" in big red paint. Inside the tavern, it was truly a morbidly quaint scene to behold, with broken furniture and household items strewn about while several dusty cannons were situated by the crooked windows, and large masts were used for columns helping to hold up the ceiling that was made out of the hull of the broken ship.

"Jax!" Cried Horg happily at the bartender.

"Welcome back Horg!" Shouted Jax in return, his lopsided smile showing a few golden teeth. Jax, the bartender, was a bald eye-patched dwarf with straight long black beard, who looked typically gruff and naturally grumpy for a bartender, although today he seemed a bit cheerful, as Horg was one of his favorite costumers. "It's good to see you again after all this time you went adventurin' on yer own, why I thought ye ain't be comin' back, hah, but ye always do. Now what kind O' liver-wrenchin' or otherwise life-defyin' drink can I fetch ya, old friend?"

"I need somethin' strong," answered Horg, "somethin' to make me forget all about my new troubles and voodoo curses," he hinted at Mortis with his eyes.

"Ah, mind-numbin' oblivion is it?" Asked Jax rhetorically, "that sounds like a job for me highly-dangerous highly-intoxiciatin' flame-stirred acidically-enhanced grog. Comin' right up!" Said Jax with a hearty grin and ducked under the counter.

Jax acidically-enhanced grog is something no one should really ever really drink, unless you got the liver of a true underpirate. It's a mix of ale with with the bile extracted from the gallbladder of a giant undersea hag, with only hint of battery acid and enough artificial sweeteners to fool your body into thinking your drinking something that can't paralyse you from head to toe. After pouring, stirring, and even lighting it on fire, Jax shoved a bubbling, grey-hued drink (that somehow seemed to be so acidic that it was corroding the skull-shaped mug) at Horg's way.

Horg lifted the mug, shouted "skoal!" and swilled it down, wiping the rest of the liquid as it trickled down his beard, as it always did. "I have to say, Jax," said Horg after a good long and loud belch, "it seemed the degree of wild and rampant lunacy (as well as arrested development, blithering idiocy and dementia praecox) around Undertown have slightly subsided since I went on my yearly adventure all around hell," he said just as one underpirate came crashing through the wooden wall (having just been shot through a cannon), leaving his underpirate-shaped hole through it. Surprisingly, none of the underpirates seemed to have batted an eyelid at that, as though it was just another day in Rock Bottom. And you can just imagine what would happen if the lunacy-degree hasn't subsided.

"Aye," confirmed Jax as he sniffed a flowery odour, "sadly there has been some inexplicably strange, wildly improbable and unlikely occurrences transpirin' around Undertown. It all started a few weeks ago with some inauspiciously flowery smell that seemed to be permeatin' every region of the Underdark."

"That smell!" Smacked Horg at the counter, a few plates and mugs flew up, and one drunkard woke up to ask: "wuzza wassa fuzzeh?" And immediately dropped back to their semi-unconscious nap.

"Shiver me timbers!" Cussed Horg, "I knew somethin' unpiratey and unlikely was up with it!" He said, his fist shaken.

"Aye, though we didn't think much of at a time, but then underpirates been strangely disappearin' little by little," said Jax a little worriedly. "But that's not the whole affair, folks be complanin' they just can't find any good treasures lately, just look at Guli," he gestured at Guli Goldtooth, the most well known treasure-hunter in Undertown, bald dwarf with a red mustache, who just opened a treasure chest to find a shoe inside, and even cuffing it at the sole only yielded dirt and dust much to Guli's chagrin. "And even the lovable and marauding population of demonic hellspawns that we usually pick a fight with for pleasure seems to be vanishing little by little, or just don't want to pick a fight with us underpirates anymore. What's going on, none of us knows!" He shrugged helplessly.

"Ye don't say?" Wondered Horg out loud, stroking his beard thoughtfully, wondering what could it all mean.

"If I may pontificate upon the matter as the representative of all-things Evil here," said Mortis, strangely formal, as though really is representing all-things-evil. "There's an uncanny shift in the evil forces in the underworld, and it is all happening because the very scourge of hell, the most feared archdevil in the underworld and leader of all the hellspawns, Hellbeard the Unrepentant, has quit!"

"Hellbeard?" Wondered Jax, shocked, "quit? Who be replacin' him?"

"I will, BUWAHAHA! Once I unhinge myself out of this damnable shoulder and find myself proper body that I can control, I shall find Hellbeard's throne and crown myself as the king archdevil of all things evil and evil-like!"

"Till then you be stuck with me, crony," dismissed him Horg and looked at Jax. "Be there any more clues to this unfolding bizarrity?"

"Well, earlier this week I've gotten some very strange clients," answered Jax thoughtfully, "dressed all frilly and formally, the upper-cruster sort, asking me for something no one had asked me in years for - clear water!"

"Clear?" Asked Horg.

"Blimey! I know. And here I go thinkin' water comes only in two forms, bacteria or ochre-ridden! Who knew there's a clear version!?"

"There is?" Asked Horg, completely befuddled as the bartender at this new revelation.

"Aye, and that's not all! "Just look at old Humpert over there," he continued, motioning at an old bony underpirate who is usually found fainted over the counter, muttering something unintelligibly, but today, he was actually sitting straight much to Horg's astonishment.

"Horg!" Cried the old bony man, grabbing Horg by the shirt, "it's horrible! You--you have to do somethin'. I don't know what's going on!" The panicked old man palmed his forehead worriedly. "It's become so bad I've even begun feeling rare flashes of sobriety!" He said distressfully.

"Sobriety!" Horg exclaimed shockingly.

"Yes!" Confirmed Humpert and shook his head sadly. "Yes. In fact, in fact, I even began thinking clearly on occasion, and acting, er, logically from time to time," gesticulated the old man frantically, "it's killin' me! Killing me!" He grabbed his own frazzled white hair, "I-- I can't stop it! I just don't know what to do."

"Shake out O' it lad!" Grabbed him Horg by the shirt with a shake. Humpert then noticed that Horg has a skull attached to his shoulder. A skull that seemed to be looking at him, deep into his eyes. "Boo," said Mortis.

"AHH!", cried Humbert, scared half to death. He never did have an animated skull yelling at him, wondering if he's really sober. "Ta....ta...ta..t.a..t...talkin....sku....skaka..."

"Ah, that's just Mortis, he's mostly harmless."

"I beg your pardon!?"

Don't let this tomfoolery get to you," said Horg to Humpert, "that's no way for an underpirate to behave under any circumstances!"

"I'm. . . I'm sorry!" Sobbed Humpert, "I just don't know what's going on. I also have this urge to become useful and productive, I hate that!"

Other underpirates began joining the complaining having heard Humpert, they were also getting those urges, those annoying flashes of sobriety. None of them knew what was going on, why did their fellow underpirates keep disappearing, why and where have the creatures gone, and why and where are all the treasures.

"By Hellbeard's flaming beard, what on hell is goin' on around here?" Wondered Horg admist the bickering. . .





And just as Horg wondered that, far off in the uncharted backwaters of the underseas, sailing at a very low speed and looking particularly out of a place was a gloriously adorned and partly gilded giant ship, and worst of all, it was a pink! Within the most luxurious of cabins were two individuals, lady Petunia and sir Pierre Charlesworth, portly and formally dressed with colourfully feathered hats.

"But of all places, why hell?" Asked Petunia with her big rolling voice and posh accent, after spraying herself from a bottle of flowery-smelling pink-shaded perfume and sitting on a well-padded purple couch. "I really think we're making a terrible investment here, dear. Why not some place more sunny, with less fire, ashes and lava?"

"Don't worry, dearest," assured her Pierre with a voice just as rolling, just as clear and just as aristocratic, as he paced across the well-decorated cabin with a gently aristocratic gait, his partly-shut eyelids reflecting a sense of timeless superiority above all entities. "When we're done with it, hell will be the biggest tourist attraction known in the business. We've only hired the best of the best for a reason to conduct our main and most important of projects, the hellish amusement park."

"Oh you betcha!" Said a clownish-looking man who just entered through in the threshold. It was Master Widdlesworth. He had a long brown top and was flashily-dressed in purple and green, a big bow tie and with his own gaudy (and of course gilded) walking stick that he occasionally twirled. "I can see it now! Huge friggin' flashy signs, neverending rides, lots of blissfully igno--er, happy visitors, a brilliant success story, the whole nine friggin' yards! So let's just relax, huh? Seriously. let's all shut the hell up with all the incessant high-and-mighty blabbering you do oh-so-well well and enjoy the local warmth of the lava seas and lovably hazardous toxicity for a change eh?" He took a long breath at a bit of toxic air. "Ahhh can you smell it, wafting in the air? It's the unique smell of big corporate takeover... either that or a freshly budding lung disease. Either way, don't you just love new beginnings?"

Petunia frowned, if it was up to her, they would've hired someone else than that clown. But she trusted her husband, so she fought off the frown from appearing on her long chubby face and stuffed it with a nearby cake.

"Ah, but master Widdleswarth, we can't relax just yet," said Pierre, "there is only one place that stands in our way, Undertown..." he pointed at a map delineating the Underbellies of Hell, which was the region that encompassed the center of the lunacy and interest of hell, and there in the edge of it all was Undertown, "but not for long. Those lowlives, inbred piratical fools and loons that reside there wouldn't know what hit them. From that point on it will be a clear sailing to our business dream. After all, all hell needs is a little revamping, reeducation, redesign, and a touch of nobility... ours, specifically."

"Well, it's going to need a lot of that, dear", said Petunia, "and you can start with that pirate over there." She pointed out through one of the small windows at a ship next to them.

That pirate over there happened to have been Patchy Phannel, only the craziest pirate to ever sail the underseas. An unscrupulous, unthinking, unhinged foul-mouthed nut; a manic-looking dwarf with gray zigzagged sideburns, polished scalp, a pegleg and a hook-hand, whose own caricature didn't even do him justice. Though Patchy's ship is relatively small, little did they know that Patchy specifically designed his entire ship with the single purpose of blowing really big things up to really small particles. And that, perhaps, is the biggest understatement that can ever be written in these pages. I'd add that if there were any laws in hell, this ship would be illegal.

"HARRRRR!!!" Roared Patchy, jumping steadily on the railing of his stumpy-looking ship. "Avast ye scurvy dogs! Ye've reached a one-dwarf-wreckin'-crew, prepare tae meet yer end ye lily-liver'd muffin-guzzlin' barnacles!"

On his much taller ship, Pierre had one foot on the railing and was looking down on Patchy with a smirk, along with Petunia and Widdleswarth joining at him side by side. "You pathetic little uncouth "underpirate"," said Pierre, putting his finest royal accent and overweening attitude to use, "you and all your kind will soon learn for the first time of your uncultivated existence the meaning of common courtesy. Wheel out the cannons!"

Immediately, a nearly uncounted amount of cannons were rolled out from their ports from the royal ship. Still, Patchy did not look impressed.

"Don't make me laugh, powderchub!" He yelled out, then whistled. "Itchabold, let out the Deluxe X-500 Really-Really-Really Big Cannons!"

"Aye aye cap'n!" Replied a chinstrap-bearded bald halfling fella from the porthole below, and in a giddily excited manner pulled a lever twice his size. Then, springing out from their hiding place beneath the wood, several ridiculously huge (and I mean frightfully gigantic) wide-muzzled cannons came forth. They were so cartoonishly sizeable, it didn't even seem to make sense that a ship that small can sustain such disproportionately big cannons. Not even Pierre, Petunia and Widdleswarth could stay smug at the sight of the wide-muzzled cannons aimed directly at their newly-paled faces. "Well, what d'ya know? I always wanted to go out with a bang," quipped Widdleswarth, proud of his gallows humor. "Huh? Get it? Get it?"

"Shut up, circus boy!" Snapped Petunia at him.

"Yarrrr!!!" Cried Patchy enthusiastically, a match already lit in his hand.

"Uh, cap'n," said the wimpy voice of Itachbold from below him, "we're out of ammo".

"Uh oh..." Paled Patchy, his match extinguishing itself, his pop-eyed gaze implying he knows what's to come. Immediately three sinister grins appeared on the faces in front of him.

"Parley?"

"Fiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiire!" Cried Pierre, Petunia and Widdleswarth put together.

KABOOM!



Chapter 2: Billy Banjo



The sound of casual banjo strumming preluded another dark and dreary dysteleological moment as Waldo woke up to. Each tune that was strummed was imitated just the same, and each time the tune got fancier and fancier, as though two banjos were dueling. As Waldo opened his eyes, he then saw a very old, short and slightly hunchbacked man, his lips perpetually curled inside his toothless mouth, with a worn-out cowboy hat and a banjo sitting on a couple of hay sacks not far from him. On a shorter, long crate beside him laid a young, fat and unkempt good ol' boy with a wheat stalk in his mouth. They were playing a dueling banjo tune. Behind them was a big upside-down wreckage of a ship situated on the lava shore of magmatic soil, the flame-retardant lacquered covering of the wood was strong enough to hold against the scorching lava heat, which was providing decent lighting to the area. The rest of the region seemed barren, and the horizon was foggy.

"Well howdy stranger!" Said the old man in a friendly accented drawl, "Welcome to Billy-and-Babba Shipwreck Banjos Dou! I'm Billy Banjo, this is Jimbob Bubba Junior. We haven't had visitors in goshdarn it...years! Heh-heh. What brings you to these bleak and barren parts of the netherworld?"

"I don't really know, it's all been a series of unfortunate (and excessively random) events," answered Waldo.

"Ayup! Heh, that's hell for you. No one can seem to plumb the spooky mystery of it. We all got it the same way as you did junior, everybody did. A headache, darkness, and bang," smacked the old man his open palm with a fist, having stopped playing his banjo for a moment, "before you know it, you're surrounded in a firey smog! No explanation given. That's how we got here, that's how we all got here."

"That's...um, great. I don't think any of that will help my confusion or my disoriented memory loss."

"Well, junior, one good thing about forgetting is that you can no longer worry about what ever it was you forgot, hee-hee-hee", chuckled the old man to himself. "Although," he said in a more serious tone, "there is one cure I know for memory loss, it's singing The Ponder Song!"

"The....what?" Asked Waldo.

"The Ponder Song!" Exclaimed Banjo.

"The...Ponder Song?" Asked Waldo again.

"Yes, the Ponder Song!" Reaffirmed Banjo.

"I'm sure I'll regret asking this, but what's the...Ponder Song?" Asked Waldo, thoroughly befuddled.

"You see, whenever ye forget something, anything, you just sing the ponder song, and voila! You'll remember what it was you forgot! It's gauranteed to work! Most of the time, anyway. Only one problem."

"What's that?"

"I can't remember the lyrics, heh," said Banjo.

"Somehow, I knew you'd say that," said Waldo.

"Hey," said Bubba, "maybe if you sing the ponder song it'll help you remember, Billy!"

"You hare-brained nincompoop!" Snapped Banjo at Bubba, "can't you even grasp the paradox of what you're suggesting? If I can't remember the lyrics I can't-- Oh wait, I just remembered them! Hee-hee-hee. Ready Bubba?"

"Ready!"



Oooooooooooooooooooooooooooh

Ponder wonder, wonder ponder, ponder and wonder along

Just wonder and ponder and ponder and wonder it's quite a catchy so-ong



"Oh no," said Waldo. "For the love of everything good and decent, stop it!"



So ponder the wonder and wonder the ponder, keep singing in tune

Don't worry about, everyone else, thinking you're a loo-ooon



"You're clearly not," said Waldo. "Worrying, that is"



Ponder and wonder and wonder and ponder and keep on wondering still

"Something tells me, you forgot, to take your morning pi-ill", sang Waldo.

"Hah! Keep it goin' lad!" Encouraged him Banjo.

"The hell I will!"

"In hell you are!" Pointed out Banjo, still strumming.

"This is just getting confusing now."



Ponder wonder wonder ponder fonder la wonder la wee

Amnesia, agnosia, alzheimer too, I got the whole friggin' three-ee

What was that word? What was that sound? I forget I forgot

What was that thing I was thinking about

Retrace, reminisce, follow the memory trace

Now I forgot why I'm singing in the first place!



"That's...just...great," said Waldo.



Ponder wonder wonder ponder and ponder and ponder some more

There's no end to this battle, this memory jog, it's an endless tug of wa-ar

So keep wonder and ponder and ponder the wonder it's quite a magical theme

Worse come to worst, we'll just have to, smash your head on a bea-am!



"You'll what?"

"Hold it right there junior!" Said Banjo, ending the tune and grabbing a plank from the wreckages.

"Yikes!" Yelled Waldo and took to his heels, but then, in a statistically highly improbable moment, was hit again by a random smouldering boulder.

"What the fajebus!?" Cried Billy.





Chapter 3: The Dungeon Masters



Still grumbling and muttering with just about any possible expletive you can think of (and goodness knows the underpirates knew more insults than the knew regular words), the underpirates at least they knew there was one place which they could go seek help. In the center of Undertown (and away from anything else) was a very big wooden puppet house, the title above said "The Dungeon Masters" in nailed wooden planks, with one plank loosely dangling and occasionally creaking to the undercurrent underwinds of the underworld. The Dungeon Masters were believed to be the creators, rulers and knowers of everything hell and hell-related. As Horg approached the puppet house, as though he activated an invisible trigger, suddenly rose up with a seemingly magical puff seven very odd-looking dilapidated cardboard puppets of old bearded men, all wearing fancy cardboard stars-and-crescents carved wizard hats. They all seemed real-sized and were controlled by strings. Their names were carved below each of them: Plankton, Lumbert, Timbert, Woody, Logwood, Barkcove and Boardbloke.

"Greetings and salutations, underpirate!" Said the cardboard figure in the middle, Woody, strings lifting his arms and mouth in perfect harmony to his voice. Hmm, too perfect.

"Welcome," said another cardboard puppet, "to the dungeon masters domain!"

"We're the all-powerful," said the a third cardboard puppet.

"All-seeing," said a fourth.

"All knowing," said a fifth.

"And mildly vengeful," added a sixth as an important caveat.

"Masters and Rulers of the underverse!" They all said in sync, raising their arms dramatically.

"What is it you wish, underpirate?" Asked the main cardboard puppet in the middle, Woody, his head dipping low out of the puppet house and reaching close to Horg. "Speak now, we don't have all day, you know?"

"Dear Dungeon Masters of Underdown and the Underworld," cleared Horg his voice, acting unusually respectful, "I'm here to lodge an Official Grumble on behalf of the underpirates," he said.

The Dungeon Masters looked at each other knowingly. "Look," sighed Woody, shaking his head, "for the last time, we have nothing to do with all the bizarrely inexplicable oddities that are recently transpiring in hell," he explained.

"Ye don't?" Asked Horg.

"No, what do think we are, some sort of all-powerful voodoo dolls?"

"Well, yes!" Said Horg, much to the agreement of the other underpirates.

"Well, that's besides the point," said Woody, "we don't know what's going on really. But," he rubbed his chin, "we have a vague idea," came a dramatic pause.

"Well?" prodded them Horg and the underpirates.
"Very well," took Logwood a long breath (which was, really, just to enhance the sense of drama he wished to create, since he didn't really have any lungs). "We sense a great evil has arisen within the firey depths of the underworld. An evil so nefarious, so foul, so unnatural, it could very well destroy the very fabric of the underpirates existence."

"Yes indeed," said another Dungeon Master sage, Lumbert, with a look and voice not so different from Woody, a little more older and bent, "it is dreadful and vile beyond all imagination, Horg."

"Aye," said a third, Barkcove, slightly bigger than all the other Dungeon Masters with a thundering voice, "it has the great powers to reshape hell itself!"

The underpirates began to ramble, grumble and curse. They didn't like to hear about upcoming changes, they were perfectly happy with how the current sordid state of affairs. And besides, that extra detail about being wiped out the face of the planet didn't sit well with them.

"It's all happening in the one place not charted on any map, ever drawn or any story ever told," said Woody, pausing for dramatic effect. "Far in the underseas, beyond the Sea of Despair, past the Undying Mist, in The Uncharted Islands."

"The Uncharted Islands?" Asked Horg, never having heard of the place before, which he found rather odd, since he thought he's been everywhere around hell already.

"Yes, The Uncharted Islands, This is an old and dark tale."

"I like those kind!" Interjected Mortis.

"...for you see, long ago in the Age of Creation," explained Woody, "when we first started reshaping this place we call hell by breathing fire and chaos into it, we left out a patch of islands somewhere. Having no idea what to do with these islands, we ended up throwing all our discarded ideas there. All the freaks, the plotholes, the things that just never clicked, you know? Whatever is happening, Horg, is happening there. We just can't tell what's happening there because of all that damn mist, it distrups our all-mighty clairvoyance." Woody paused and sighed. There was something very serious about him then. "Whatever it is, you MUST stop it Horg!" Foreshadowed the cardboard puppet, seemingly growing bigger, his voice getting louder and louder, shadows deepening around him for a moment, "or else the fate of the underpirates is doomed forever eternity!"

"Muhahaha!" Laughed Mortis, "how perfectly evil!"

"Hey!" Shouted an inebriated underpirate from the crowd towards the Dungeon Masters, "why don'tcha do somethin' 'bout it eh? Yuz the all-pow'ful ones hmm?"

"We're the Dungeon Masters you pixilated drunken degenerate, we cannot and shall not intervene in the affairs of mortals!" Explained Woody. "That would be immoral."

"Unethical," added Plankton.

"Unprincipled," added Logwood.

Horg adjusted his girdle on his evergrowing belly. "Well, I feel thar be a quest of grand and hellborn proportions comin' up!" He said, swinging a fist. "Don't worry me hearties, I'll get the meanest crew of loony underpirates," he said as the underpirates behind him roared in agreement, gunshots in the background, "the biggest and most well-armed ship I can find," came another series of roars and gunshots, "and we'll put the crackdown on this whole kerfuffle in a blazing mad fit of gloriously crazed chaos!"

The cheers went wildest at this point! "Get me a cannon!" Yelled one underpirate enthusiastically. "I'll blow whatever it is to shreds! Even if it doesn't need blowin', I'll blow it anyway!"

"Harrrr!" Roared another underpirate, firing his blunderbuss in the up.

"No no no," frowned Woody, cutting the celebration short, "you can't just take any ship and any crew! What do you think this is, some kind of piratocracy?"

"Well, yes!" Answered Horg.
"Well, that's besides the point, when conducting official Dungeon Master businessnes you must sail the Dungeon Master's Official Ship!" Explained Woody.

"Eh, actually, the Dungeon Master's ship is under repairs," explained another Dungeon Master, Logwood, to Woody, "what with the, er, fumigation and all. Just a small termites problem," he said to Horg. "Well, it's the problem that's small, the termites themselves are actually kinda big."

"Right, well, you'll have to take the spare Dungeon Master's Ship," said Woody. "It's... smaller."

"MUCH smaller," added another Dungeon Master a more honest tone. "Really only room for one person there."

"But..." Started to object Horg.

"Rules are rules," said Woody in a tone of finality.

Horg sighed, realizing he had no choice at the face of those bureaucratic deities.

"Well then, fare ye well, Dungeon Masters, may the whims of inebriation lead yer path."

"Good luck, Horg! And try not create some cataclysm or break the space time continuum," said Woody, "it's really really hard to fix those."

"Aye aye", said Horg, despite the fact that normaly his adventures end up in a mighty cataclysmic whirl of uncanny and uncontrollable space-time-continuum broken chaos. "ARRRRRRRGH!!!" Cried Horg as he departed, the sound of cheering underpirates, gunshots and roars accompanying him.

"Give 'em hell!" Yelled an underpirate.

"Kill 'em all, let the gods sort 'em out!" Yelled another.

Woody sighed as he looked at his fellow Dungeon Masters. "This will all end in tears, mark my words."



There was silence for a while.

"Ponder wonder wonder ponder..." sang one of the Dungeon Masters. They all turned to look at him.

"Sorry," he explained, "that song got stuck in my head from some reason..."



Chapter 4: Valda Vaux



It wasn't any day that an adventurers group was brave (or foolish) enough to adventure in one of hells most feared locations, the Greenslugs Cavern. Oh, what are greenslugs? Well, green as the name suggests, greenslugs were oversized mutated warts-ridden hybrid of trolls and orcs, which means they had real big ugly big mugs that looked like something in between an ape and a pig, with a squashed-up nose and large maws with big fangs protruding out. Slightly bigger than humans, mascular, and carrying a lot of crude metals such as halberds, spears, axes and swords. Yet, if there was one underpirate who wasn't gonna be deterred by blurring the lines of foolishness and stupidity, it was the dashing Valda Vaux. She was the meanest and toughest female underpirate in the underworld, an eye-patched lass with orange-hued hair and a long perfectly almond-shaped chin, with two of the most misfit companions you could ever imagine, Mitch and Gurk. Mitch could be best-described as a "scruffy-looking stocky human person thing". Gurk could be best-described as a big, perpetually-dumbfounded-looked half-greenslag half-human thing, carrying a disporportionately large axe slung on his back.



"A'right crew, so here's the plan" said Valda confidently, after peeking through the open carvern threshold and seeing all the large and well-armoured Greenslugs. "Wait for my command. We gonna go in there in style, make sure you got your items on quick draw, not like last time's screw-up huh? So we start with flashing them with some smoke-explosive voodoo items to create a distraction, then we smash the...-"

"GURK SMAAAAASH!" Suddenly yelled Gurk loudly and charged ahead, as soon as the word smash came out of Valda's mouth, with all due disregard to proper planning or execution.

Valda sighed, palming her forehead. "Every friggin' time..."

Then, shortly after, came the most awful 3-lettered word you can ever hear when you adventure, let alone stand next to a Greenslags cavern. "RUN!!!" Screamed Gurk as he bolted out of the threshold. Then came the most awful-3 worded sentence you can hear, "BIG THINGS CHASE!!!"

And so, as she ran from a swarm of weapon-wielding maniacal Greenslugs, in a brief epiphanic moment, it became clear as ever to Valda where the lines between bravery and stupidity stood.



* * *



It wasn't long after that Valda, Mitch and Gurk rowed in a small boat in the low waterways of hell, sandwitched between dark cliffs. Valda was muttering, grumbling, ranting and raving (there are subtle differences between the four, Valda was skilled enough to not only differentiate, but manage to do all of them at once), occasionally some coherent words would be audible like "idiots".

"Oooh that's rich," mocked Mitch as soon as he heard that. "What about some constructive insults?"

"Shut up! "

"That's not consturctive," huffed Mitch

"Shut the hell up you grimy lump of a misbegotten runt"

"Now that's more like it," affirmed Mitch, and went back looking for golden nuggets in his hairy nostril. Valda, grimacing at that, jabbed her knife on the railtop of the boat and looked away.

"How come every time we adventure something has to go terribly wrong, huh, tell me?" She sighed discouragingly, "you know, sometimes I think our entire existence is destined to be a series of one unfortunate and unlikely event after another," said Valda in a philosophical moment, shaking her head, "as though the entire undercosmic forces of the underworld are lined up against us for some type of comedical schadenfreudic purpose, don't you think?"

The two mugs stared at her perplexedly.

"Schedenwhat?" Asked Mitch.

Suddenly, as if backing up Valda's suspicion, something cast a large shadow over them all. It was a gloriously-adorned and heavily gilded pink-coloured ships, but smaller than Charlesworth Enterprises™ flagship. It was the ship of one Commander Lieutenant Jibbs, a pudgy man with a distinctively thick well-combed brown mustache, officially assigned to regulate the underworld's waterways by Pierre and Petunia Charlesworth themselves.

"Lord thundering jumped-up Jehovah!" Exclaimed Lieutenant Commander Jibbs he looked down from the railing of his fancy ship, his admiral's picklehaub helmet (a helmet with a spiky tip) nearly falling off as he poked it back into place. "Do I see what I think I see, Sub-Lieutenant Edwardo?"

"These are underpirates, Lieutenant!" Confirmed Sub-Lieutenant Edwardo (whose full name was Edward Ferdinado Delgado, not that it matters) with a terribly alarmed pop-eyed gaze look. He was a taller, thinner one, also with a picklehaub helmet with an even longer spike at the tip and an even longer mustache. It was as though you took Lieutenant Commander Jibbs and stretched him cartoonishly.

"Ho-Hold it right there you lawless thugs you!" Cried Jibbs towards the underpirates. "Drop all your arms and whatever voodoo items you may possess, you're hereby under arrest for transpessing in Charlesworth Enterprises™ seaways!"

"We're...what?" Frowned Valda. "Hey, listen there you blithering blubbery tub of lard, I don't know who you are, or. . . what you are, but get it through your thick helmet and even thicker skull, there ain't no laws in this locality, m'kay kay? So unless you want to experience unnaturally deep seizures without actually having a disease, get your gone you fruity sod!" Reacted Valda in her dismissively careless style.

"Why you obstreperous, ignorant disrespectful outlaws!" Said Jibbs in return, "how dare you underpiratical anarchist savages defy Charlesworth Enterprises™ laws of the underseas and its benevolent widespreading tyanny? I'll have you know felonious actions have very dire consequences in the New Underworld Order that is being established!"

"New Under-what Order? Alright, that does it," said Valda, rolling her eyes as she neatly pulled out her shining blunderbuss from within her brown coat, aiming it directly at Jibbs. "I've had just about enough of listening to that gibberish talk, nipper," she came to pull the trigger, but a fired bullet from the other direction yanked it out of her hand. From the fog of the underseas emerged twenty more such ships, the brigades from the approaching ships aiming all their muskets at Valda. "Woah, never had that many firearms aimed at me all at once, don't I feel all friggin' special?" She said sarcastically, wrinkling her nose and raising her hands. "Looks like we're toast. At least we're together in this one, right boys?" She raised one of her thin eyebrows hearing no answer, "boys?"

Mitch and Gurk were already swimming away at full speed.

"Oh real classic!" She snapped at them, just as they were captured by a net. "Some party loyalty you guys have." Shortly after a net was thrown on her as well, and she was slowly pulled up into the ship. Desperately, she slumped about. "Well, I guess this is end, isn't it?" She asked herself in an accepting tone of finality as she was dumped onto the deck.

"Why of course not dear," said Pierre Charlesworth himself in his deep royal accent, stepping out of his cabin with each of his steps emphasized by the wooden deck. Both the Lieutenant Commander and the Sub-Lieutenant moved aside to let Pierre's large frame fit between them. "This, my dear, is only the beginning," said Pierre, giving her his hand as she was dropped out of the net and into the deck.

"Beginning?" Asked Valda, taking Pierre's large hand as he gently helped her up.

"Yes. You see, you're about to join an exclusive program that's already proven its success among others like you, where we're only going to completely rehaul your existence changing the inner-mechanism that control your beastly savage tendencies into unrepentantly polite and ladylike mannerism." And if there was one word Valda really hated, it's ladylike. Eww. Still, she was more disturbed with what he said next. "Welcome, dear, to the underpirates transmogrification acadamy!"

"Underpirates trans-what-damy?. . ."







* * *

"Dungeon Master's Official Ship," grumbled Horg as he rowed a very tiny dinghy in the underseas of hellfire.

"I can't believe it!" Muttered Mortis, spinning on the axis of Horg's shoulder. "I can't believe that this is what those all-powerful reanimated paper-cut twits assigned us with! Why if I had legs and hands I’d have origami'd them all!"

"Aye, but ye seem to forget somethin' lad," noted Horg, "we're in the underseas O' hell now, which means that aside from a whole nasty bunch O' mutated sea-monsters to kill, there's also a vast array O' ships to commandeer," said Horg as he pointed at a ghost ship at a distance, made out of seemingly decomposed yet still perfectly sail-worthy voodoo wood.

And in fact, not far away, from the crow's nest of that ghost ship, the legless skeletal pirate, still jaded from last night's drinking binge, noticed a speck on the horizon. Thinking nothing of it, casually yawning and rubbing his one and only eye with one hand, he dove his other hand through rubble of empty rum bottles and pulled out a slime-covered spyglass. Squinting hard through the fog, the indecipherable object slowly formed into shape. If that skeleton had any colour, he would've immediately lost it. "It's.... HO... HORG HEIREN! ABANDON SHIP!!!" He cried.

In an instance, the commotion began. Some swooning, some running to every-which-way with terrified cries, and some already dismantling their own bones and some jumping overboard.

"What are you all doing!??" Asked angrily the new Captain, Captain Cannonbone, with a long goatee, a big pirate hat, a long coat and a pair of spastic bloodshot eyes, having looked through the spyglass himself. "Get back here and BLOW that thing away!"

"Uh, captain, that's Horg Heiren!" Said the skeletal advisor to the captain, Boneshards. "The skeletal pirates code clearly dictates that in such a situation (seeing Horg Heiren) one must spread his arms in terror and scream all sorts of panicked jibberish.” The skeletal pirate code, ironically, actually did say that, word for word.

"Belay that blast’d code! I don’t care who you think it is-- it's one bloody grizzled UNDERPIRATE!" Shouted the captain frantically, pointing away at the approaching speck. "QUIT YOUR PANICKED SCREAMING ANN GET HIM!!!"

I'll spare you the details. Suffice to say there was a lot of THUDS, CRACKS and CRICKS, and the next thing the captain and the entire crew of skeletons knew is that they were all drifting at sea, almost each limb somewhere else.

"Horg...Heiren, huh?" Asked Captain Cannonbone while holding on to some flotsam wreckages to keep him afloat.
"Yessir," said Boneshards as a part of his sigh, wishing the captain had listened to him to begin with. . . "it was in a code."
"Well what does the code say now?" Wondered the desperate captain.
Boneshards managed to grab the wet manual that was fortunately floating nearby with his one working hand. Flipped along and read out: "Ah...here. It says... We told you so. Na-na-na-na-na hah-hah-hah-hah-hah-hah!"



Chapter 5: A Confederacy of Dunces



If you had retraced the trail of flowery pink aroma that's been wafting in hell lately through the howling wind, you'd end up beyond the Seas of Despair, past the Undying Mist, in a in the morbidly gloomy and misty islands, The Uncharted Islands. But now it has been rebranded and dubbed "Charlesworth Enterprises™ Islands". It featured a large amusement park with all sorts of strange-looking rides and stations, all cleverly designed with a disturbingly-friendly hellish theme. Everything had something firey about it, magmatic and dark, but still, it was all twisted to make it seem as though hell is this fluffy little pleasant and safe place to visit. To top it all, most of the workers were goblins, hired by Charlesworth Enterprises™ Creaturespower Department, perfect for low-pay and very long-hours (as per statistics by the monstrosity of labor).

Located in a small island at the center of Charlesworth Enterprises™ Islands, surrounded by an embelished black iron fence, in what at first sight appeared to be an abandoned ghost mansion from outside, was actually Charlesworth Enterprises™ headquarters. There, in the the lap of luxury, sitting around a long and luxurious mahogany table with cushy chairs were many royalesque individuals and businessmen, while lighting the scene were many candles, candelabrums and chandeliers.

"...So in conclusion, ladies and gentlemen," said Pierre as he paced about, "this is why hell is the future of tourism, it's exciting, it offers something new, an untapped market, something our aging population of elderly wanderlusters and obese individuals with boatloads of money to spend and nothing else better to do would want to see before they die, so investing in the Charlesworth Tourism Enterprise™ of Hell is a once in a lifetime opportunity! Or once in a deathtime, I should say," he chuckled to himself affectedly, "so the question is not why invest in hell, but why NOT invest in hell?" He unrolled a scroll attached to a tall wooden rack, showing the official advertisement flier of hell's main attraction - Circustown, full of firey lava themes and tourists enjoying themselves as they're entertained by hellish creatures. He raised one eyebrow smugly as he was evaluating their reactions. They were nodding to each other approvingly.

"Bravo, Master Pierre", said Mister Edwards, a horse-like face individual, adjusting his monocle. "I must admit, when you first set out on this expedition of turning hell into a tourist locale all of us at the World Tourist Organization thought you had lost a good chunk of your mind, in fact, I may add, you've become the local subject of mockery, but clearly we were dearly mistaken. Your expedition has started quit a positive buzz back in the surface world."

"Yes, yes, it's true, but I must ask, though," butted in another individual, Willoughby. He was shorter, pudgier and bespectacled, with a long beak of a nose. "What about all those savage hellspawns? Can you imagine all the lawsuits? Life insurance expenditures could kill us."

"Nothing to worry, nothing to worry," said Pierre immediately, his waved his hands in a sort of settling confidence. "The creatures of hell are all bought-and-paid-for, lock stock and barrel! We OWN them ladies gentlemen," he gestured with a strong fist, "for you see, even the very hellspawns here are smart enough to realize being a netherworld creature terrorizing the Unfathomed Deeps and killing innocent travellers and wayfarers is a thing of the past, and are joining our ranks of the civilized society, the elitist plutocrats, and our tourism consumerist society, is the smart thing to do. They will perform for us and work for us, in our circus shows, freak exhibitions, and what not! Why they are one of the main sources of attractions in Circustown!"

"Absolutely marvelous, well-thought!" said Edwards.

"I'll cheer for that!" Exclaimed another investor.

"Yes, yes, excellent and wondrous it may be, but what about those. . . underpirates?" Asked Willoughby, playing the killjoy. "These local inhabitants of hell, according to my research paper, are a real property downer," he looked at a chart that had an arrow pointing down, as soon as it hit the word underpirate.

"Ah, that's the kicker. Through a series of reeducation programs, our transmogrification acadamy, if you will, we will turn them all into productive, polite members of our emerging corporate tourist-based economy! And we won't spare any one of them "I call it 'No underpirate left behind!' " Grinned Pierre. "In fact, my very wife, the lovely lady Petunia, is the head founder of the reeducation programs."

Lady Petunia then stepped to stand next to Pierre. "Verily and forsooth," she smacked a pointing stick in her palm, "I can assure you all, respectful ladies and gentlemen of the surface-world, once we're done reeducating them, the underpirates will forgo their atrociously pointless past existence, and just like the rest, will accept the progress and the future of our emerging consumerist society. They will know the true meaning of manners, etiquettes, and propriety," said the woman.

"How very ingenius!" Said one.

"Well thought!" Agreed another.

"Most Excellent!" Came a series of compliments, nods and agreements. Just then the door opened up with a bang. Petunia immediately frowned when she saw who was at the door.

"Hell-o there!" said Widdleswarth happily as he made his flashy entrance, twirling his wand. "Boy, that pun never gets old," he said to himself, then turned to the crowd. "Widdleswarth Woodstick, at your service!" Bowed the colourfully glib individual, taking off his top for a second. "Business tycoon, entrepreneur, circus show conductor, and what not!" He then started going around the table, "hey, love that hat! Great-looking monocle there!" He complimented a few. "Woo! What a fashionable bunch we have here, don't I feel overshaowed? Listen, eh," he turned to Pierre, "hate to interrupt your little summit of scheming overlords meeting you got going over here but there is something you should see."

"What?" Asked Pierre, quite bothered. "Can't it wait?"

"Uh, no. It's big," said Widdleswarth. The earth suddenly shook. Widdleswarth cringed with a grin and a manic look in his eyes. "Heh, very big."

Stepping out of the mansion, and looking up, they saw a grand parade of the largest creatures in hell just arriving to Circustown... ogres, ettins, fire giants and other such colossal and beastly hellish creatures made their way through Circustown. Widdleswarth, like a kid in a candy store, walked up a nearby outdoor wooden stage to watch as the parade of gigantic creatures moved pass him from left and right, shaking the earth which each step they take.

"We-he-hell, isn't that just damn beautiful?" He shouted enthusiastically. "Exhilarating! Electrifying! Woooooohooo, look look how big is that one?" He pointed at a particularly big fire-giant that walked by, causing the earth to shake tremedously with each gigantic step and lava to break off upwards from random cracks in the magnamic soil.

"Goodness gracious!" Gasped out Sir Charlesworth. Everyone else stared in awe with a pop-eyed gaze, completely speechless.
"Yea baby! Well aren't you happy you've hired me now, eh? WELCOME, ladies and gentlemen, welcome, TO ONLY, THE GREATEST...SHOW... ON... HHHHHHELL!!!" Cried Widdleswarth in a fit of manic maglomania, spinning and twirling around showily with his hands up the air as the earthshaking footsteps that foreshadowed doom echoed all around him. . .









UNDERPIRATES: PART 2 of 2





Chapter 6: The Last Barricade



In the smoggy uncharted edges of the netherworld stood a small wooden barricade, stretching between magmatic rock formation and a big lava sea and atuned to the constant sound of catapults-loading-and-launching. Standing vigil on his guard was General-Captain-Commander James Horton Smith, a tall, red-mustachioed, strong-jawed man with mean crew cut, a large ciger in his mouth and bloodshot eyes, as though he's never slept in aoens. Joined him by the barricade were two dark-haired unmarked gruff-looking men, Gattling and Jared, who unlike their captain seemed fairly disinterested, despite the fact every few minutes a flaming rock came crashing around the barricade, the men looked as though they've all gotten used to it, hardly flinching at every crash. Near-death experiences were nothing new to them.

Staggering into the scene was Waldo, his head still spinning with the latest experience with the boulder, and the sound of the dueling banjos just recently fading from his mind. Horton frowned, he hated visitors, he could sense them approaching, always asking a random string of questions thinking his barricade is some kind of museum exhibit, the only reason he answered them was because he'd hoped that if he kept them talking long enough one of those flaming rocks would hit them, and that would make him a very happy man.



"Where am I?" Asked Waldo.

"Welcome to The Last Barricade sonny," said Major General-Captain-Commander Horton just as the squeaking catapult released a flaming rock. "I'm Major Horton, General, Captain and Commander of this last line of defense. You wouldn't happen to be the new recruit, are you? Because of you are, you're goddamn late by 2 years and 257 days!"

"Uh, no, actually..."

Suddenly, a flaming rock dropped just over the barricade, hitting one of Major Horton's two catapults.

"Goddamn it!" Yelled Horton, his two sergeants casually got up to fix it, "not again!"

"Eep! What was that?" Asked Waldo, having flinched away and dropped to the ground.

"That?" Pulled out the captain the ciger out and approached the rock, "that, son, was a goddamn Class-7E Partially-Jagged Extra-Sizeable Flaming Rock," said Horton as crouched over to examine the smouldering rock, he then used a smouldering crevice within the rock to light up a new ciger. "You see, it's those scummy greenslugs at the other end," pointed Major Horton over the vast empty smouldering magmatic darkness ahead, "they catapult goddamn flaming rocks on us, and we catapult them back at them. It's a lovely back-and-forth we have going here, isn't it?" Asked the commander sarcastically.

"Why?"

"Why!? Why?!?" Asked Horton back, pulling out his ciger and glancing at his sergeants to emphasize his shock. "Listen, recruit, if this little line here of protection fall we're all doomed and done for. Every goddamn last one of us. The Last Barricade defends all of Undertown and hell as we know it from being overrun by those goddamn ugly green ugly critters at the other end. Hey!" He screamed to the other end, "you hear me you GODDAMN CLAY-BRAINED MISBEGGOTEN MAGGOTS! HAH?!? YOU HEAR ME?!?"

On the other end, one greenslug thought he heard something, looked around, scratched his head and shrugged, then loaded another flaming rock that was certainly going to miss.

"Geeze...okay, well, how long have you been out here?" Asked Waldo.

"I can't even goddamn remember you know," said Horton, as though he was partly thinking about the answer. "I can't even remember the last time I slept, or saw anything other than flaming rocks, fire, catapults. . . It's been so long, I can't even remember who assigned us to be here," he scratched his chin. "Do any of you remember?" He asked the other two. They shrugged carelessly.

"Gee, I'd hate to sound insensitive, but if you've been swung rocks for so long, how come you're still alive?" Asked Waldo.

"Some of us more lucky than others," gestured the captain at the graveyard they made nearby, each tombstone containing the last words of the man buried there.



"They couldn't hit an elephant at this dist..."

Recruit Alejandro last words



"Wow, this rock looks strangely accurate..."
Recruit Helmheed last words



"I finally figured out the answer to everything! It's fourty t...!"
Recruit Bransted last words



"Mostly it's the godawful aim of those peabrained greensugs! Those backward pinheads can't friggin' hit a wall if it stood right in front of them, somehow they'll find a way to miss it!"

"You'd think they get a fluke at least once every century," said Waldo.

"You'd think that... wouldn't you?" Snorted Horton with an unfriendly frown.

"Uhh, speaking of hell, do you happen to know of a way out it? The heat is kinda bad for my perm," said Waldo.

"Way out?" Raised Horton an eyebrow. "There's no way out of here, recruit, past this barricade is only a swarm of mutated goddamn greenslugs just looking for the next victim. If you get pass them, there's probably something even uglier and bigglier, as difficult as it is to imagine." Captain Horton looked thoughtfully at the horizon.

"Oh, actually!" He suddenly said, "there is a way out now that I'm thinking about it..."

"Really? What will I have to do?" Asked Waldo excitedly.

"Just stand right where you are..."

"What? Right here? I don't think..."

"Shhh! Don't move..."

"What...are..."

Out of the blue a big fireball landed by the barricade and rolled Waldo off with it.

"See! Here you go!" Said Captain-General-Commander Horton. "You're out now!"



* * *

With a ghost ship commandeered and a whole host of new skeletal pirates under their command, Horg and Mortis sailed past the Sea of Despair, in through the Undermountains, and deep into the Undying Mist, finally reaching close to The Uncharted Islands, where the flowery odor was getting stronger and stronger. Mortis was wearing the last captain's black hat. having dubbed himself (without asking anyone else or even Horg) the new captain of that ship. "Clean the deck!" He ordered, "make it polished-clean swabbies!"

"Uh, captain Mortis?" Approached one of the skeletons.

"What?" Snapped Mortis, "this better be important, body-bearer, I've got plenty of belittling here to do!"

The skeleton pointed ahead, an great wooden arch was coming into view, the sign hanging below it said "Charlesworth Enterprises™", there were a few tall boothes around the arch (little did Horg realize those were in fact ticket stands). As the ghost ship reached the arc, Horg lowered the anchor and the rest of the skeletons were ordered to hide. No one appeared to be inside the booth, the utter silence was suspicious. All of a sudden everything flashed and horrible music bursted out with a choir singing:

Welcome! Welcome! Welcome welcome welcome! Welcome you, welcome thee, welcome thou and two and three! (in a slow crescendo) We weelcooome you to hell we haave pleenty things to sehhhhhhell!

"Hmm, still not catchy enough", talked to himself a man in the booth with fake wooly grey beard. "What do you think, Janice?" A puppet on his left hand showed up "OH MY GOD! Loved it! To die for!" She faked a faint on his chest.

"Oh-oh! That much huh?"

"AHEM AHEM!" Blared Horg.

"Oh! Incomers!" Sprung up the the enthusiastic man in the booth, "Helloooo there! Or, I should say, avast me hearties, yo-ho-ho," said the man with a cleary fake pirate tone. Horg frowned, walked over his ship's figurehead to the bowsprit to reach as close as he could to the man in the booth and took a big breath before letting out all his energy.
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHOY THARR!" Cried Horg with his truly deeply-full and richly-gravelly piratey blustering voice, puffing so hard that it blew the wig of the poor man's face. Horg, having done so on purpose, grinned at the saw the man struggling to reocover his shout and restoring the wig.
"Oh dear me! That's quite a roar! Had I known any better I'd say you're a real underpirate, but the Charesworthes said they've taken care of that problem. That's a quite a believable costume you got there!"

"Uhh...costume? Oh! Aye, thankee!" Played along Horg.
"I'm Jeraldo Heraldo Faldo, master of the performing us, and happen to be responsible for all the new upcoming plays and shows in Circustown," said the man with a haughty posture. "I can get aspiring actors such as yourself into high places around here, ya know? Have you play the villain in one of the main plays with that kinda roar."

"Aye?"

"Aye indeed sir! And there's plenty of rehearsal time seeing how the Grand Openning has been postponed to Flamevember the 23rd, as we're still experiencing some... uh, reeducation troubles, heh."

"Reeducation troubles?" Asked Horg, glancing at Mortis who looked just as confused.

"Of course, of course," said Heraldo as if it were obvious. "Gotta reeducate those real underpirates, yes? Can't have them eh, pirating around for the big openning, right? We want disciplined workers for minimum pay, not wild and savage individuals ruining the experiences of others by chaotic and unlawful behavior. That's not good for business."

Horg frowned. Business? What the heck is going on here?

"Isn't that right Janice?" Asked Heraldo his puppet wife. "It most certainly is!" Replied Janice, who seems to be agreeing with just about anything Heraldo says. Mortis turned slightly. "Nice to meet you too, Janice," said Mortis uncharacteristically respectful, staring at her with his deep dark empty eyes. Horg frowned at him, clearly annoyed. Heraldo raised his eyebrow at that.
"Don't go there," said Horg sternly and straightforwardly, miffled at Mortis.

"Go...where?" Asked Mortis with his morbidly low-pitched voice.

"Wow!" Stared at them the bedazzled Heraldo. "A fellow ventriloquist! You got more talents than I could've imagined, sir!" Heraldo pushed himself slightly out of the booth to marvel closely at Mortis. "Why just look at that cute skull on your shoulder."

Oh no. Oh gosh. If there is any word Mortis despises more than anything, it's cute. He hates this word even more than fuzzy, sweet and cuddlesome (and he very much hates cuddlesome). You should never ever never call Mortis "cute"...that never ends well. And that might be the third biggest understatement that's written in those pages.

"I'll devour off your brains if you call me cute again, fleshbag," croaked Mortis, "leaving you drenching in a pool of your own blood as the forces of darkness join with me to undo your soul and transform your existence into a neverending torment!"

Heraldo paled, staring at Mortis, then looked at Horg, then back at Mortis...and burst out with joy, "Hah! And so believable!" He cried joyfully. "I really wish I was as good as you."

Horg realized there was no stopping Mortis after being called 'cute' and didn't bother to prevent the inevitably ensuing harrowing display of chaos.

"YOU FOOL! You have just officially signed your very own death warrant! ARISE! ARISE MY MINIONS!" He ordered the piratical skeletons. Behind Mortis the terrifying skeletal brigade with their curvy swords and bandanas rose up. Heraldo looked at the unfolding and began to tremble. He finally realized this was no joke.

"You..you...are...."

"....an underpirate," finished Horg the sentence proudly.

"Oh dear oh dear oh dear! Well then! In...that...case..." gulps "please remain where you are while I alert the p...p...proper authorites" he put two fingers in his mouth about to whistle, but before he could puff Horg jumped off the ghost ship and onto the window booth's ledge, grabbing Helardo by his costume.

"No no lad, I wouldn't do that if I be ye," said Horg.

"Oh dear," said Heraldo. "Please don't hurt me, I got a wife and kids, thousands of them actually," he grabbed a bunch of dolls inside his booth and shoved them into Horg's face. "See? And a mistress!" He held a red-haired doll on his other hand.

"You got a mistress?" Asked Janice with a shocked expression.

"Not the time!" Insisted Heraldo.

"Man has issues," noted Mortis.

"It's nothin' personal lad," said Horg, "but I hope you have aerodynamics capabilities."

"What.... do you mean by that?"

And so, somewhere in the dusty regions of the underworld, three unsuspecting goblins stood next to a foul-smelling cauldron as from nowhere in sight, a half-naked human with two bald sock-dolls plunged into their stew, splashing the green dish all over them. Tasting the dish, they looked at each other approvingly, and kept cooking.

Back in The Uncharted Islands, the mist slowly seemed to thin out and there Horg and Mortis could see the break coast of Circustown for the first time, the hell-themed amusement park.

"Yar! A theme park in the underworld!" Roared Horg. "Why if this isn't the most bizarrely comedic and unlikely thing I've ever seen, I don't know what is!" He looked down and saw Mortis with a blonde wig. "Oh, right."

"I can't believe this is the best backup story you could've come up with!" Snapped Mortis. "There were other wigs in the stash there, you know?" Mentioned Mortis. "And what's even the point of it!? What-- a skull with a blonde wig is less suspicious than a skull!? Lead me through that logic, mortal!"

"I know, I just thought ye'd look so adorable in that," shrugged Horg justifiably.



There was en eerily disturbing music now playing in Circustown, it was both happy and morbid at the same time, a sort of happy theme played in the style funeral dirge. It was a violinist, dressed in a dull pink vest, hanging from a single string of a wooden post. He didn't seem to mind Horg or his ghost ship as he descended from it.

"Aye, 'tis the place. That nefariously flowery odour be inescapble herein," noted Horg and took a step forward. He then heard the sound of many clanging bones and turned around to see the entire undead brigade descending from the ship as well; brandishing their cutlasses, wearing piraical garbs and murmuring their mean growls.

"Woah woah woah lads," held them back Horg. "Where ye think yer goin'? We be needin' stealth here, and yer crackin' and creekin' will be givin' us away in no time. Ye stay n' guard the ship."

"WHAT?!" Objected Mortis, no longer in costume. "You mortal fool! You have an army of skeletons at my command and you wanna go snoopin' around in stealth mode? We can raze to ashes everythin' standin' in our path!"

"Ye know, I be hatin' to burst yer bubble, but there be hardier things in hell than a band O' skeleton, me lad," shed Horg a realistic light on things. "Moreover, last time you were so sure of yourself, I don't recall it endin' well for you eh?" asked Horg raising his eyebrow.

"Nor for you for that matter," retorted Mortis. They exchanged a hard stare before Mortis snapped. "Ughhh fine!" Blurted Mortos eventually. "On deck, minions! Your evil shall be unleashed another day, I gaurantee yeeeeeeee buwahaha!"

Satisfied, Horg stepped inside the all-engulfing mist. He walked only a short distance before it dissipated and the bleak view of the construction of Cirscustown appeared in front of him. There were a few wooden stands and scaffoldings strewn about, including several misshapen metallic ladders that appeared to be the beginning of a wicked rollercoaster, all made by several unsatisfied-looking goblinoid workforce. "Gotta find who is behind this," muttered Horg. He took hiding behind some convieniently-located crate. As he scoured the faces around, much to his surprise, he recognized his fellow underpirates there! Except, they didn't look like underpirates anymore. They looked. . . different. Civilized, polite, unpirate-like. Walking upright, not snorting, spitting, burping or anything of the sort. Acting strangely civilized. Most conspicuously, in the very middle of Circustown was none other than Valda Vaux, who Horg immediately recognized as one of his all-time favorite fearlessly adventurous underpirates. Or former underpirate, by the looks of it. "Hear ye hear ye! Come hear the new uprising singing zombie musical group Brrrrrrains with their top new and only single-- Brrrrrrains!" She announced, seemingly practicing her hand-out fliers routine. Valda didn't sound like her old self anymore. That characteristic dismissive drawl in her voice was replaced with distinct formal corporatism. Her face also appeared to be all smeared up with a bright toxic-ridden substance drived from the backside of a dead dungbeetle, also known as makeup.

Horg snuck out of his hiding while two goblins were arguing about the correct alignment of a beam. "Valda? Lassie?" Asked Horg, "what in devils hornbumps be goin' on here? And what have they done to ye me lass!?"

"Horg? Horg Heiren?" Asked Valda, in a business-like hands-at-waist posture, yet her eyes glinted of surprise. "I never thouught they'd capture you alive! Have you also been rehabilitated?"

"Rehabili-what now?"

"Rehabilitated," said Valda flatly. "It's the term we use when we shed our mantle of piracy and accept the upcoming progress and economical paradigm of the corporate tourism industry chairheaded by Charlesworth Enterprises™", she said with a perfect-pitch corporate tone. "If you want to get in the game, now is your time. Treasure-hunting, pirating and adventuring is a dying field of the past anyway. So last year."

"Yarr! Why this here be the greatest inane piece of tomfoolery I've ever heard.... this past hour!" He added belatedly as an afterthought, as he did hear a slew of crazy things lately. "Snap out O' it, Valda!" Berated her Horg. "Ye be a few of the female-specied underpirates who I don't think her time be better-spent in the kitchen!"

Valda folded her arms. "I'll ignore the overt chauvanist undertone of that statement, Horg. My savage bygones are nothing to take pride on. Those days of wanton recklessness, high sea ferocities, voodoo bootleggin'...." Valda started naming the terms slower and slower, her eyes glistening with a yearning, "insult fighting... tavern-brawlin'... treasure-huntin'...." she spoke even more slowly at this point, almost stopping completely.

Horg raised his eyebrows.

"...are.... truly... behind me," finished off Valda with the confident smile coming through with delay.

"Hogwash!" Dismissed it Horg. "Blisterin', first-hand bloody hogwash! What blasphemous brainwashin' have they been feedin' ye lass? Yer an underpirate, and an underpirate is always an underpirate!" Smacked Horg fist at palm.

"Sorry, Horg, but that ship don't moor here anymore. Nah-uh. You gotta keep with the latest trends to be prosperous!"

"preposterous!"

"So say you. Fact is, I have been finally rehabilitated of my piratical ways and I'm very-quite-indeed satisfied about it", Horg curled his lips--that sounded so unnatural coming from Valda; even the syllables were wrongly stressed, as though she had to battle the words out. "Besides, just look at Gurk over there, he no longer has the uncanny nerve to smash things, which keeps things around him perfectly unsmashed. Isn't that right, Gurk?"

"Gurk sm....sm....sma....sma..." Resisted Gurk the urge, standing not too far away from Valda.

"Sma-what?" Frowned Valda, one of her eyebrows raised warningly.

"Sma...sma...smart." Said Gurk.

"Why more like smartypants," said Valda satisfied with the outcome, "I think you earned yourself a cookie," she took one out of her pocket and threw it over, and smiled affectedly at Horg. "He truly made a wonderful turnaround, hasn't he?" Horg nausea was getting worse. "It's only Mitch who's been undisciplinary, typical," she said in a somewhat motherly disappointed tone and folded her arms. "Always underperforming. We're still trying to find... him." The word him, Horg noted, was also spoken unnaturally, as there would supposed to be a string of name-calling and insults instead. "He got away from the educators last time."

Horg couldn't take it anymore. "That does it!" He interjected, "time to end this tomfoolery once and for all!"

"I hope you're not gonna do anything stupid."

"Stupid? Oh no," dismissed Horg, "recklessly foolhardy with unforseenable and irreversible consequences? Ye betcha, lassie!"

"And just how is that different from stupid?"

"Because it sounds better!" Pointed out Horg with his know-it-all slanted-eyebrows look, leaving no room for arguments and wobbling off adjusting his girdle.

Horg immediately hid as they saw two educators walking by, a formally dressed gentleman and lady.

"...fully rehabilitated now!" Said the female educator, Annabel. An old, thin, respectful-looking lady with tightly-gathered white hair. "I thought that one was a lost cause, and that Lady Petunia would have him thrown to the Pits of Doom like the other lost causes, but I actually managed to get him to say "please" and "thank you" today, instead of the usual string-series of incoherent expletives," the educators then took a turn and disappeared from Horg's view. Horg took a look around at the other underpirates, they were all seemingly rehabilitated. They were operating souvenir shops, game stands, or performing whatever talent they had. Speaking of talent, or lack of, Frubo the Lute Picker, widely considered the the worst poet in hell, was standing in a colourful little corner of Circustown. There were many lightbulbs installed on a big wooden sign that said "Original Hellish Poetry!" in some type of firey hellish font. Frubo himself was a halfling with spikey hair and a pair of long goatees braided together with beads, wearing an orange vest, sandals, and sporting a fashionable lute. "Frubo?" Asked Horg, breaking from his hiding spot again.

"Helloes Horg!" Said Frubo.

"What in gremlin torn pants are ye doin' here lad?" Asked Horg.
"Frubo is hired by Charlesworth Enterprises™ to do what Frubo does best!"

"What's that?"

"Oh no, Horg, don't!" Yelled Valda from afar, waving her arms frantically. "Don't!"

"DOOM Da-Da-DOOM DOOM!" Chanted Frubo. "Singing the doom song!"

"Oh bloody hell," mouthed Horg, his eyes widened in fear for what he has just unleashed.

"Doom doom dooooom, dieya guuurg!!!" Kept singing Frubo, completely out of tune, out of wack, and out of style, awfully strumming his lute. Horg cuffed his ears, but it was no use.

"Dooom do-dooom da-dee-da doom doom doooom da da doom!!!"

Valda suddenly turned red, but something inhibited her from taking action. She remembered her recent training at the re-education acadamy. She couldn't let the old Valda back. "Must withhold initial impulse, think rationally, withhold initial impulse, think rationally", she mumbled a mantra.

"Dooom da da doom doom doooom da da doom!!!"

"Make him stop!" begged Mortis.

"Oh for the love of..." Gritted Valda her teeth. Her blood-pressure higher than ever.

"Doom dooom dooooom dom dom dadoodiedoom doom doom doom doom!!! We is alllllsss doooomed."

"That's it!" Said Valda, whatever barrier holding back the old Valda breaking through. Taking out a cutlass from one of the sleeping goblin's guards nearby and cutting through the lute's strings.

"What you dos?!?" Asked the startled Frubo.

"What should've been done a long time ago ye piece of tone-deaf mortally inept--"

"Valda Viena Vaux!" Yelled educator Annabel from afar.

"No, but I didn't mean...he was just..." Tried to explain herself Valda helplessly, but it was too late, Annabel had heard everything.

"I think you could benefit from another session of our anger-management exclusive program," said Annabel firmly approaching towards Valda. "Please follow me forthwith, and drop that savage piece of weaponry!"

Valda sighed. "Here we go again," she dropped the cutlass. "Gee, thanks a lot, Frubo!"

Frubo shrugged in return, he had no idea what Valda's issue is with his favorite song.

Horg looked west where the big dark crag mountains were, where the canopy of hell itself looked like a whirlpool of fermented darkness where lightning bred and chaos brewed. There, down below, Horg saw that all of hell darkest, largest and meanest of creatures, fire giants, fire elementals, ogres and trolls, were either caged, locked, shackled, enslaved or used for otherwise cheap entertaininment and labour. Seeing all of hell's creatures being used for cheap entertainment sent shivers down Horg's spine. Something was terribly wrong, he knew.

"That does it, I'm gonna be havin' meself a wee confabulation with the managership!" said Horg.

In the middle of Circustown there was a large greeting station, looking like a the wall of an aristocratic house with a theatric platform. Above it flashed a large sign saying "CircusTown". Standing in the center of that greeting station on a little protruding platform was Master Widdleswarth Woodstick, proudly looking at the construction of his theme park.

Two large and metallic wooden boots stomped in front of the stage. "So you're the pantalooned freak behind this foolish devilry!" Said Horg, his hammer in his hand.

"Well well well! What do we have here? The smell of grog gone bad, the lack of proper mannerism, and a most horrible sense of fashion-- if it isn't an exemplary specimen of an underpirate!" Clapped Widdleswarth, "bravo! Bravo!"

"Horg Heiren's the name," presented himself the dwarf formally, "professional thumper, hellspawns annihilator, grandmaster of taunts and insults and frequent grumbler at me spare time", he finished his introduction. "I'm also in the business of guarding the underworld from uncalled for changes, particularly the flashily frilly sorts. And so, I'm here to make sure yer lil' joyride of tomfoolery ends here and now."

"Tomfoolery? Hah, this is only the greatest scheme ever made and executed in the entire undercosmic history of hell, and the greatest entrepreneurship the world shall ever know! The tourization of the netherworld!"

"Tourization?!?" Asked Horg, disturbed.

"Oh yes, brilliant idea, isn't it?"

"The underworld is a place that begets terror, fear, panic and trepidation! It ain't no tourist locality!" Protested Horg.

"Well, that's the genius of it, isn't it?" Replied Widdleswarth, "it's unexpected, it's new! It's ever so brrrrrrrrrilliant!" Relished the madman. One rehabilitated underpirate started playing the harmonica in the background.
"Oh no, he's gonna break into the villain's song," said Mortis. "I'm sick of songs! Throw something at him."

Get with the program, adventuring is dead
It's a thing of the past, belongs to those terribly ill-breeeeed
So I see one resolution
To enact this revolution
And start this woooo-oorld agaaaaain!
To end this anarchy
Make hell one-big-friendly canopy
Let the era of tourist consumerism reignnnnn!



Horg realized Widdleswarth has just officially challenge him to battle-poem. Battle poem (also known as battle poeming or battle rhyming) is the ancient tradition of battling through poems, and a close blood relative of the insult-poeming paradigm (also known as insultfighting). Although monsters are incapable of battle-poeming against underpirates due to inherit lack of intelligence, many feuds amongst underpirates themselves tend to be resolve simply via battle poeming. A challenge is made after the first successful stanza is dropped. Although this tradition has deep roots amongst underpirates it has been somewhat lost on recent generations, but not on Horg, who adjusted his girdle.


You're a fool with a silly goal
And frankly look a bit like an emanciated troll
Hell does not cave for no outsider
So go on, go quick, made like a squashed spider



Oh save me that talk you mumbling nutter
Your philosophy is long gone in the gutter
A new dawn shall henceforth rise
And ye underpirates shall have your demise



Underpirates cannot be so easily defeated
We are made from stronger stuff, heat-treated and plated
We all got a wee bit silver in us, and perhaps some gold
And mayhaps a few crumbs in our teeth of ye olde bread mold

It was a draw. "You can't even see when you're outmatched, can you, Hong, Gorg, or whatever your name is? Do you even realize you're talking to the very supreme ruler of hell?"

A very large fire giant emerged to stand behind Widdleswarth, shaking the crust of hell in the process. Horg eyes widened. He saw fire-giants before, but never one this big. It wore a bronze helmet, holding a 10 foot sword.

"Well then," crossed the colourful villain his fingers together, "I think it's about time you're forced into early retirement in the Pit of Doom! Oh Hungus!" Called Widdleswarth, "throw another one to the pile". The fire giant grabbed Horg with his colossal hand and fingers. Horg struggles to get away, but that fire giant was just too big. Hungus walked over until he reached a black hole in the ground. There it was, The Pit of Doom. It had all kinds of signposts about it, such as "Don't Go In!" "Think Twice!" "Dead End." and finally, "Seriously, Don't!"

"Oh goodbye!" Said Widdleswarth as he watched from above in his stage. "It was nice to meet you and all! NOT!"

The goblin captain who stood next to Widdleswarth shook his head at that remark.

And thus, as Hungus dropped Horg, the dwarf fell through to the endless darkness that is The Pit of Doom. . .



~ THE END ~



Just kidding. More on the next page.











* * *



"A hundred and eighty eighty Underpirates captured in three weeks!" Said Pierre within one of the circus tents. It was the military headquarters of the Charlesworth Enterprises™, filled with all sorts of muskets, blunderbusesses, confiscated voodoo items, and other such weaponries, as well as a map of hell, or at least the known regions of it. "Very impressive, Lieutenant Commander Jibbs. You've earned yourself another gilded star medal and another purple ribbon!" He attached them on Jibbs' Lieutenant Commander outfit, that already had about fifty of those already, and little room for any more of them, really.

"Thank you sir!" Said Jibbs proudly. "If you ask me, now is a perfect time to take actions, and attack all of Undertown at once. Our scouts report the population is depleted just enough and I got an entire fleet ready for your command. We're ready, armed and ready to take down Undertown!"

"Brilliant suggestion, Lieutenant," answered Pierre. "The time is right. Move out, and do away with them all at once!"

"With pleasure, lord!" said Commander Lieutenant Jibbs, "you heard that, Edwardo? Alert the crew!" He then saluted, and left the circus tent.

"Men the ships, we've got the signal!" Cried Edwardo as he stepped outside the tent.

From up on his greeting stage, Widdleswarth heard the announcement, his goblin Captain Rebukem stood next to him.

"You know," said Widdleswarth to Rebukem, "it's a good thing to have a backup plan, just in case things go wrong. . ." he grinned maniacally, as if he knew something no one else did.

"Ehhh, back up plan, sir?" Asked Rebukem. "Sir?" He asked again, as he noticed Widdleswarth was gone.



A few hours later, in the smoggy region of the underworld, at the other side of The Last Barricade, a greenslug just lifted a rock to load on the catapult as two villainous-looking individuals arrived, accompanied by one villainous individual who's reputation has already been established. "Gangway! Gangway!" Cried Widdleswarth up ahead of the two, making his way through a swarm of greenslugs. "Hey, Juggins, how are ya?" Said Widdleswarth to the catapult operator. "Widdleswarth Woodstick, good to meet you. Say, why don't you leave that heavy piece of machinary alone eh? Let the pros here handle it."

"Humm?" Droned the greenslug. "Poooroos?"

Widdleswarth snapped his finger, and two fellows, one was tall and pale, with a black headband and a psychotic look in his eyes, Upper Joe. The second was very stocky, hairy-handed tanned man with a stubbly bloated-face and a weird mechanical eye apparatus, his name was Lower Dove. They were members of the mercenary group "Shoot who?". They were hired by Widdleswarth himself to handle a very important task.

"Pshaw! Just like ah' thought! Calibration is all wrong!" Remarked Lower Dove after examining the catapult, adjusting some of the wheels.

"A little diplomacy, gents?" Said Widdleswarth as a circle of about fifty greenslugs looked at him, more confused than angry. "Look, we're here to help you, m'kay? So don't you worry about a thing, sluggers, by the time we get done recalibrating your machinary here, you'll be ready to actually hit stuff. Hit stuff! What a concept eh?"

"Re-kal-errrr-berates?" Asked the greenslug who was formerly responsible of the operation, scratching his red mullock.

"Gee, well, isn't clearer than ever now why you've been here thousand of years without hitting a damn thing ya lovable numbskull thing you," squeezed Widdleswarth the cheeks of the greenslug, who wasn't sure what to make of it.

"Done," said Upper Joe after adjusting some of the ropes.

"Done," said Lower Dove after adjusting some of the mechanical wheels.

"Well, what are you waiting for, trumpets procession on a red carpet?" Asked Widdleswarth, "fire 'er up boys! Oh-- Actually, let Juggins here do it. Sir?" Gestured Widdleswarth.

Juggins pulled the lever.



And so, in the smoggy regions of the underdark, General James Horton Smith squinted at the horizon. He thought, for the first time in centuries, he saw one flaming rock that seemed awfully accurate than all those other ones coming their way. "There's no chance it's gonna hit-" were his last words as captain. The Last Barricade has been breached, and a sudden earthquake was heard all across hell as an uncounted horde of maniacal greenslugs swarmed over.



Dungeon Master Woody rolled several dices, each one of those dices had hundred sides to it, and all of them in a single roll hit 1. Woody's wooden eyes wildly widened. The rest of the Dungeon Masters looked at the dices in shock and awe as they knew what it coded for. "The Last Barricade," they all said to each other.





Chapter 7: The Pit of Doom





There was no fire or lava, no wind, or any signs of life, only deepening darkness and a thick fog, unmoving in the windless pit. Horg blinked as he straightened up a bit, letting that stream of consciousness make its way back into his mind. Mortis was no longer on his shoulder, The Pit of Doom must've broken the curse.

"Greetings to you, surface-walker," said a hunchbacked individual with a deformed-looking protruding-featured face, hunched on nearby rock. He wore a crude leather armour with strangely oversized metal-plated shoulder pads. "Welcome to the Pit of Doom, the place of which there's no escape from."

More and more of deformed and defected-looking individuals approached Horg. They all seemed to have something mutated or misshapen about them. Three hands, a second head, protruding features, large body warts and really bad skin. Some of them were so deformed they didn't even look very human.

"What are ye?" Asked Horg.

"We're the... Defected Ones," said the deformed hunchbacked individual, stepping down from the rock and wobbled his way towards Horg. "I am Haggerfagger, chief and leader of The Defecteds."

"Haggar-fagger?" Asked Horg, one of his bushy eyebrows elevating.

"Well, not being given a proper name is one of my many defects," said Haggerfagger. "Some of us are even nameless. You see, after we were created, we were deemed defected, not good enough, so we were simply discarded, forgotten, or left unattended-to," he said with a slightly sad tone, mostly though he seemed to have accepted his fate, as well as the rest of them.

"Are ye all defected here?" Got up Horg, "this one looks fairly normal to me," said Horg, pointing at what appeared to be a halfling with no discernible defects.

"BWAHHH!! HUR!!! RAZZA! HAZZZZ EHRR!??!" Blubbered the thing suddenly, twitches and spasms.

"Nevermind," conceded Horg, giving that one some space. No immediate discernible defects, at any rate.

"Most of us has long reached the conclusion that the all-powerful creators simply don't want us soiling the underworld, their creation," explained Haggerfagger, "we were even marked, you see," showed Haggerfagger a red D tattooed to his skin.

"We figured the D stands for defected," Explained another malformed defected individual.

"That or dermatologist ASAP," said another as an inside joke.

"So we stayed in The Uncharted Islands, away from anyone's view. . . we made it our home, until we were chased away just recently, and cast to the Pit of Doom by a very evil and foul man called Widdleswarth."

"Widdleswarth!" Shook Horg a fist.

"Yes. He thought we'd chase his tourists and costumers away, that we're too ugly to be even put on display! You know how offensive that is, to be rejected as a freak because you're too much of a freak?"

"Nay."

"Well, it's very offensive."

"Arrr, I'd like to get me hands around his pencily-neck and twist it around some! Grrrr!" Roared Horg. "But it looks like I'm stuck here for good," he sighed reservedly.

The Defected Ones looked at other each considerately for a moment. "There is one way out of here, actually," said Haggerfagger.

"There is?" Asked Horg, a little twinkle of hope flickering in his beady eyes.

"Yes, through Hellbeard," answered Haggerfagger.

The Defected Ones cowered in fear as soon as the name Hellbeard was mentioned.

"Hellbeard, the scourge O' the underworld, is here?" Asked Horg, wide-eyed.

"Yes, and he keeps terrorizing us every Hellfire season. The problem is he celebrates Hellfire every day! So we have to keep hiding whenever he comes blazing through."





. . . not far away within the Pit of Doom was the only source of fire, riding in hellish chariot of with twelve horse-shaped flames, holding a flaming whip, with smouldering boulders for wheels was a large, fire-bearded maniacal-looking creature. It wasn't quite clear what he was exactly at first sight, he looked like a firey incarnation of a large pirate tinged with a hint of undead and all things evil mixed into one demonic entity, it was none other than the fearsome Hellbeard the Unrepentant. Before retiring, Hellbeard was the original leader of the Confederation of Evil and Unrepentant Creatures, and the most fearsome archvillain in the underworld. "YO-HO-HO!" Came a hell-shattering shout in a manically echoing unholy voice. "MERRY HELLFIRE TO ALL! MERRY HELLFIRE!" Yelled Hellbeard as he blazed through the bleakness of the Pit of Doom, turning it all to fire that was immediately quenched by the uncanniness of the Pit of Doom. "YA-HA-HARRR!" He roared again making his way through two large magmatic mountains, but then his chariot came to a sudden halt when he saw an old dwarf standing right in front of him.

"Hail to ye, retired archdevil and former scourge O' hell!" Greeted him Horg Heiren, standing in a heroic pose, holding the hilt of his hammer with the head stuck at the ground.

"Avast ye cretinous underpirate! P'rhaps you numbnut didn't get the memo, but I've quit the archvillainy business a long time ago," said Hellbeard. "So best move along now, I've got punishments to deliver to those who's been very very good!"

"Horg Heiren's the name, but I'm not here to pick a fight! But to ask for yer help in a very important undertaking."

"My help?" Hellbeard was taken aback. "What do you think I am, some sort of gift-giving holiday spirit?"

"It's about the hellspawns of the underworld, Hellbeard," explained Horg, going directly to the point. "They have been sold over by a fellow named Widdleswarth, who've turned them all into craven, brainwashed namby-pambies of the lowest order! They're now cheap labour and entertainment, slaving away to help create a new underworld order of corporate tourist consumerism!"

"WHAT?!?" Bowled Hellbeard with a firey shout that nearly burnt through Horg's skin if he didn't duck in time. "I KNNNEW it would come to this! You see, this is what happens when you leave your grand evil kingdom in the hands of a baffoonish business girly-man, with no real concept of what is REAL evil!"

"You're the one who sold Widdleswarth the dominion over the hellspawns? Gorblimey! But why?"

"Well, I've been thinking about retirement for a long time now, broke my good hip several times, you have any idea how much an undead voodoo reconstructive surgery costs these days? I just couldn't afford this lifestyle anymore."

"Aye, but why sell hell to Widdleswarth?"

"He had the money, who can say no to fifteen large sacks brimmin' with gold? Not I," chuckled the old demon, "plus, he offered me this retirement plan at the Pit of Doom. But now I think there may be more important things than money, for clearly no one is true evil enough to take control over the great scheme of evil other than yours truly," gestured at himself the demonic pirate. "Besides, the Pit of Doom is nothing like what the brochure he gave me said. I don't see natural lava-springs anywhere! I've been meaning to send him a complaint."

"I've been told ye know a way out of The Pit of Doom," mentioned Horg. "We could inflict revenge together," Horg held his hammer in a battle-ready manner.

"Well then, the merriment of Hellfire be comin' a little earlier than usual this year then! HAR HAR HAR!" He cried.

"I have a couple of new friends who want to join us," said Horg as behind him, from all the rocks and crevices emerged all The Defected Ones.

"Hop aboard! Hop aboard! Thar be plenty O' room. And by the way, Horg, is this terribly annoying thing belongs to you?" He grabbed a skull from the back of his chariot.

"Hey! Hey! What are you doing? Put me down!" Croaked the skull.

"Mortis!" Cried Horg joyfully, "I thought I'd lost ye forever!"

"Forever? You ignorant mortal fool, don't you know that true evil can..."

"...never be fully destroyed, aye, aye." chuckled Horg. Hellbeard tossed the skull away to Horg, who then, voodoo or not, just stuck Mortis back to the rip in his shoulder, then jumped up on the firey chariot next to Hellbeard, the rest of The Defected Ones behind them, as it then rose up in the air. "Just promise me one thing," said Hellbeard.

"What?" asked Horg.

"Don't tell the missus or I'll never hear the end of it. . ."



Chapter 8: The Ramparts



There was a malformed-looking defensive wall defending all of Undertown, The Ramparts, made out of misshaped stone, broken wood and mangled metal, situated on the coast of this magmatic locality, with all sorts of ridiculously overpriced cannons or cannon-like firearms lining it up. There were five individuals on the Ramparts of Undertown who never left it for any reason whatsoever. On a tall crow-nest outpost was a halfling with an oversized coat, an oversized hat and an oversized spyglass. It was Smalley Beans, constantly gazing the horizon, occasionally disappearing from the crow nest as though it swallowed him, and reappearing on a different crow's nest along the coast (as though there was an underground channel of tubes) but always looking through the spyglass, completely dedicated to his duty. There was also Mole, a hunchbacked, pale and scrawny-looking fella with the letter D tattooed to his scruff, with a lower lip that seemed to be eating the rest of his face, almost no forehead and no hair, a red puggish nose and eyes that seemed far apart from his each other. He was the cannon-operator, and the hardest worker you'll ever meet, with an obsession-compulsion with all-things-cannonballs, he loved making really big piles of them, as well as putting them in cannon, and naturally, firing away at whatever threat's approaching. In fact, he loved cannonballs so much he even slept hugging one or two occasionally, and if you think that's creepy, you're probably right.

Sitting on the Ramparts with flies buzzing about him as though he was a layabout bum was a man with a long frazzled brown beard and a puffy frazzled brown hair. Cannonarms Dave, who instead of arms had big cannons attached to his shoulders, which made him Mole's favorite friend as he loved loading Cannonarms Dave up, which made it a perfectly symbiotic relationship, since Cannonarms Dave loved being loaded up with gunpowder and cannonballs, so he could launch his cannonarms at the next approaching threat. But most importantly, assigned the entire command of the ramparts was Captain Garl Grizzledhelm, a greybearded dwarf with a big nasal helmet and frizzly grey beard, who stood gazing at the horizon, too. There was his sergeant, Magnus Meatshield, an eyepatched dwarf with a red mohawk and braided beard with miniature skulls attached at the bottom of it. He was everything an underpirate should be, completely unhinged, constantly blathering and loved the smell of gunpowder in the morning after a good blowout.





Past the ramparts was the dock, lined up there were plenty of ships, all of them made using special covering of flame-retardant lacquered wood (Practically all of the ship had high boiling point due to the occasional lava tides, which are periods of time where the very boiling hot seas turn into boiling hot lavas. Suffice to say, it's not recommended to sail during a lava tide). Overall, they were many different types of ships too, big and small, long and narrow, tall and short, but from the smallest to their biggest, you can be rest assured they were all heavily and overly armed in a typical underpiratical fashion.



Today, on the Ramparts of Undertown, Smalley Beans saw something in his small spyglass, but it was only a few specks. He immediately enhanced the spyglass by little more. Now he saw several specks approaching. He enhanced the spyglass then by much more (which made the spyglass seem bizarrely oversized now). He could make out ships, but not typical underpiratical ships, but the fluffy royal sort, it was clear these ships did not belong to any self-respected underpirate. They were primped and tidy, and probably lacking grog and drunk crewmen, he figured.

"ACK! CAPTAIN! WE'RE UNDER ATTACK!" Yelled Smalley, alarmed, pointing seawards.

Captain Grizzledhelm, sleeping and snoring head-to-helmet with his sergeant Magnus woke up. "Huh? What?" A few hard blinks and he immediately looked through a nearby spyglass that was fixed to the ramparts and saw the imminent threat. "Shiver me jimbers!"

Mole tried to wake up Cannonarms Dave by smacking him, but it didn't work. He then opened a compartment in one of Dave's cannon arms, put a cannonball in there, then poured some gunpowder through a hole, situated a fuse and lit it up. Dave, unfortunately, was just yawning and raising that cannon-arm up, so the big kaboom went up and above, startling him.

"Wha? Eh?" Looked around Dave, startled. When cannonball dropped it smashed Smalley Beans' crow's nest, who ducked just in time. "Watch where you're shootin'!" Smalley snapped at the two, appearing at a nearby different crow's nest. "Humph!"

"Hit the gong!" Ordered Garl from the Ramparts.

There was a big troll standing in the center of Undertown with a wooden club next to him. One underpirate immediately took the club and smacked the troll in the stomach. Then the "gong" was then heard all across Undertown. "BURRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRP!"

From all over Undertown the underpirates emerged and ran up to the ramparts, no matter where they were or what they were doing. Even Jax and all the tavern wastrels and layabouts ran up, arms at the ready.

"Let's show them what underpirates are made of!" Declared Captain Grizzledhelm.

On the other side, Commander Lieutenant Jibbs watched the Ramparts through his spyglass. "Time for a good lesson in manners," he then said. "Let's show them how we launch into a good conversation, shall we, boys?" He gestured at the cannons.

"Roll out the cannons!" Yelled Garl back on the Ramparts. The massive cannons of The Ramparts were all rolled out, as the overblown military-defense budget was clearly being put to good use. With an incredibly long range, far longer than the royal fleet, the underpiratical cannons were already lit up. "FIRE!" Yelled Grizzledhelm. The fuse reached its end.

KABOOM!

The cannonballs flew in a beautiful arch and crashed into several ships of Charlesworth fleet, even sinking one. Mole was frantically running around refilling the cannons after every shot. Even cannonarm Dave was able to get a couple of perfect hits. Still, there were too many ships at sea, and the royal fleet was inching closer and closer. When they got close enough, Mole and the rest of the cannon-operators loaded up the grapplehooks and the underpirates swarmed over with their swords, axes, hammers and guns. The Charlesworth royal fleet was overwhelmed in every department, they especially couldn't match the underpirates creative taunts and insults, which was a very important aspect of conducting battles in hell, called insultfighting. "Avast thar ya beslubberin' shard-borne jobbernowl!" Yelled Magnus after boarding one of the ships, facing a member of the Charlesworth's fleet.

"Pardon me, what was that last word?" Asked the gentle soldier, whose sword was immediately whacked out of his hand.

"HARR!" Roared Magnus victoriously as he went to the next victim.

"Cretinous dizzy-eyed clodhopper!" Smacked Garl the weapon out of another soldier's hand, as the poor soldier couldn't even begin to match that insult.

It was clear then, that the royal fleet was no match for the underpirates of Undertown.



Chapter 9: Sewertown



It was yet another dysteleological moment as Waldo heard a mellowly low-pitched voice asking: "Hello? Hey there? Yooohooooooo!? Say, maybe we should loot him before he wakes up?"

"Meh, this goober doesn't have a penny to his name," a high-pitched female's voice replied. "Already checked him, gub."

Waldo opened his eyes. He saw a chinstrapped bearded man with a long face and rat tails hair talking to a small, filthy female halfling. In fact, the two individuals seemed so filthy insects seemed to be crawling all over them, and all around them-- they were in the sewers.

"Oh, he's awake! Don't worry," the strange-looking man assured the halfling, "I know their language. EEK ARU MAGA MAGA CHU CHU?" He yelled, gesticulating exaggeratedly in some weird body sign language.

"What?" Asked Waldo.

"Oh, you're a native speaker," said the man to his surprise.

"Where am I?" Palmed Waldo his forehead.

"Great question compadre!" Rejoiced the man, "why, you're in between infinite pipes and drainages below an evergrowing collection of sludge slime and gunk," he raised his hands up showily. "Welcome, young prospect, to the grand under-kingdom network of the sewage complex! If you can make it here, you can make it anywhere, and if you can't, why-- welcome to the club!"

"Welcome, goober!" Said Fur Cough as she dove head-first into a pile of junk, swam in it for a little bit, and popped her head up. "I'm Fur. For Cough."

"Crookshanks Peggedhooks, how are you chap?" greeted him Crookshanks, offering his peghand to shake.

"Uh, let's try it with your other hand," suggested Waldo.

"Sure!" Said Crookshanks, offering him his other hand, which was actually a hook-hand.

"Uh, let's try the other hand again," said Waldo.

"Okay," Crookshanks switched arms again. Waldo then shook Crookshank's peg-hand carefully.

"This is just getting weirder and weirder," said Waldo.

"Well, look at the bright side, at least you can't get any lower than that!" Said Crookshanks, wrapping his peg-hand around Waldo's neck, "of course, I only mean it literally!" Picked Crookshanks a broken shovel to show. "Figuratively, heh-- why there's no end to how low you can sink!" He added enthusiastically. "You know," he also added as an afterthought, "the last newcomer we met suicided using that rope," he pointed at a hangman's knot hanging on a ceiling pipeline not far away.

"What are you two doing here, anyway?" He asked.

"Well, what does it look like we're doing?" Gestured Crookshanks with his peg-and-hook hands at the nearby pile of junk. "We're becoming one with the junkworld, rummaging and scrounging for the best of outdated and discarded objects in the under-universe. We, sir, are the guttersnipes!" Crookshanks said with a clear tone of pride.



The guttersnipes were a subculture of the underpirates, who did most of their adventuring in the sewers, and they were mostly concerned with the varying degrees of junk, sludge and filth. Crookshanks and Fur were perhaps the filthiest of them all, a fact they're very proud of. Fur Cough, actually, had the filthiest lifestyle ever imaginable. In fact, with her grubby hands, sooty face, tarnished clothes and smelling flagrantly of rotten mushrooms, she was so dirty and unsanitary she had a very colony of lice and fleas inhabiting her hair, although oddly enough the improbable perfect ratio of either sepcies made her hair self-cleansing in some peculiarly convenient manner.



"Hey, just stick with us kid," said Crookshanks as he wrapped his arm around Waldo, "we'll show you all the ropes around the sewers-- oops," he added just as they walked through where the hangman's knot was, "ignore that. But you got nothing to worry, I know this place like the back of my peghand. . . Hey, where'd it go?" He asked, just seeing that his pegland was no longer attached to his arm. He then saw two mice running away with it into a pipe and jolted after them. "Come back here!" He screamed frantically, but the mice were already deep in the pipe, "no no no no not again!" He shoved his hookhand to the pipe. "Com'on you! AHA!" He suddenly cried triumphantly," But what he pulled out was no his peghand, but a glossy object that had "Charlesworth" carved in it. "Oh," he said disappointedly, but then looked carefully at this object. "What a bizarre bric-a-brac," he said, then sniffed the thing and pulled it away immediately with disgust, "and ugh, it smells so springy and fruity. How disgustin'!"

"That's soap," explained Waldo. "It sterilizes thing."

"Sterilizes? Eww!" Exclaimed Fur, grimacing. "That sounds horrible, goober!"

"No, it cleans your body, that's a good thing," explained Waldo.

"YUCK!" Yelled the disgusted Fur.

"Ugh!" Cried Crookshanks in disgust. "What do I do what do I do what do I do?" Started Crookshanks juggling the thing.

"Yo, Crook, throw it away," she rushed him. "Now, gob!"

Crookshanks threw it away to a nearby pipe, then cringed. "Surprised there wasn't an explosion, heh." He waited a little more, then cringed again. "Oh, no afterthought dramatic pause explosion either?"

"You two are hopeless," said Waldo, then sighed, "and so am I..."

"Forget about your old troubles, you'll acquire a whole lot of new ones here anyway. Seriously, better make room. Say, wanna be a part of our very special clique, newbie? Normally the standards for joining are a little filthier than what you are, but we're being pretty lax lately, membership isn't flying high, you know?"

"Actually, I really have no interes..."

"Good! Here's your first assignment," Grabbed him Crookshanks and turned him around towards the tunnel, "we'd be rummaging through this pile of junk, but if you happen to see a gelatinous cube coming our way, warn us, will ya? Damn thing nearly swallowed us last time," he said with a chuckle.

"A gelatinous cube?" Asked Waldo.

"Yea yea, it's this squeeshy green jelly animated thingy that oozes around the sewers swallowing anything in its path."

"You mean like that?" Pointed Waldo at a squeeshy jelly animated thingy that oozed around the sewer tunnel not far from them, swallowing everything in its path.

"Yea! Yea! Exactly like that!" Said Crookshanks, turning back to his rummaging. Suddenly a look of horror was painted across Crookshanks face as he realized what he saw, and then he said the worst three lettered word you can ever hear in the Underworld. "R-R-RUN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

Fur and Crookshanks bolted away, but Waldo, unlucky as always, wasn't quick enough, and was swallowed by the gelatinous cube.



* * *



"I'm sorry to report that Undertown attack plan hasn't gone as planned, we've underestimated their defenses, their firepower, let alone their remarkably clever insults sir!" Said the well-bandaged Commander Lieutenant Jibbs, behind him a host of mangled and ramshackle ships, as well as a crew that looked more bandaged-up than the next.

"What?" Looked Pierre at his wrecked fleet. "How can it be?"

"None of my man ever heard this kind of witty stuff before, lord. Jobbernowl? Canker-blossom? Hugger-mugger?" Asked Jibbs perplexedly, as though he's still trying to figure out what they mean. "We just couldn't match them! It was so bad, sir, some of the soldiers are still experiencing war-trauma. Just look at Sub-Lieutenant Edwardo over there, used to be so sane," he gestured at Edwardo, who was sitting next to a wreckage, hugging his knees and rocking back and forth while singing "somewhere over the rainbow there's a place..." Other soldiers looked just as traumatized, grabbing their hair, shutting their ears, running in circles, and overall looking as though they've lost their minds. Some guards were already put in straightjackets. "I want home, I want home!" came another repetitive scream in the background.

The Charlesworth could only keep staring in horror at all the wreckages, their entire fleet ruined. "My. . . fleet," said the disheartened Pierre, though anger was building up over the shock. "My precious fleet."

Widdleswarth standing not far away had a half smirk on his face, he didn't look surprised as he disappeared for a moment.

"Well, this is very troubling," said Pierre after inspecting all the damages to his fleet. "How dare these underpirates do so much damage to such fine piece of work? They will pay for it!"

"Orders sir?" Asked Jibbs.

"Well, we'll simply need to come up with a better plan, reconvene, reconsider, and rethink our stratergy..." said Pierre. The sound of sailing ships preluded the following moment.

"Strategy shmategy," said Widdleswarth dismissively as he was standing by the railing of a large greenslug ship that cast a large shadow over Charlesworth Island. In fact, all around him were an uncountable amount of ships, made out of the ribs of fire-giants (a natural fire-retardant material) and their sails out of the skin of them. It seemed as though they appeared out of nowhere, and in them were Greenslags, grunting, wielding their axes and halberds, and ready for battle. They were the same Greenslugs who broke through The Last Barricade, now seemingly under Widdleswarth control. "You know, I had a feeling all along Commander Lieutenant Jibbs and his crew of certified ninnyhammers can't get the job done, so It's a good thing I had a contingency plan all along!"

"What on hells..." interjected Pierre as he watched all those ships around him in horror.

"Oh, Captain Gromjawls," said Widdleswarth, talking to a particularly massive, scars-ridden Greenslag. "Set sail to Undertown! And show them how to properly exterminate, obliterate, and blow things apart! Muwahahaha!"

Captain Gromjawls growled at his crew, his fisted hand pointing southwards. "Hook HULAK!" He ordered in their tongue. It was then that a fleet of a thousand ships of Greenslags sailed out to destroy Undertown.

"Oh I'm dancing in the chaos! Just dancing in the chaos!" Twirled around Widdleswarth as he sang cheerfully on a deck of a ship filled with greenslugs, "what a woooooonderful day! Dee-ah dee-ah dee-ah!"

"You know," looked on Pierre, "sometimes I think this man was given too much power," he commented as he watched the passing fleet with a shellshocked look on his artificially powdered face.

"Lord have mercy," said Petunia, just as dumbfounded.



* * *



The underpirates, while celebrating their victory, were also looking for any sort "fighting leftovers", which could be strayed individuals that were still alive, something that was still intact, or basically anything that they could still blow up to smitterings to increase their kill count. "There's one!" Said Smalley, pointing as he looked through the spyglass. Immediately Mole loaded up Cannonarms Dave and fired at one poor unlucky soldier that drifted along the wreckages.

Most of the other underpirates were already clanking foaming mugs together to celebrate.

"What were they thinkin' to 'emselves?" Chuckled Garl.

It was then that Smalley Beans noticed another something on the horizon. "Uh oh," he said.

"What?" Asked Garl, wiping the trickling ale from his beard.

Smalley wiped the lens of spyglass he was using to make sure he's seeing what he's seeing. He looked again, and there could be no mistaking it. "Greenslugs, ca'pn! Tons of them!" Yelled Smalley. Garl dropped his mug and watched through his own spyglass. The number he saw was indeed blood-curdling.

"The Last Barricade must've been breached, cap'n!" Realized sergeant Magnus, his eyes widening.

Garl sighed. "Shiver me jitters, good ol' Major Horton, he'll be missed," he said in a commending tone, saluting to his memory. Magnus saluted as well.

"Ain't it beautiful, segeant?" Asked Garl while saluting.

"What, cap'n?" Asked Magnus, also maintaining the salute.

"Knowin' how the final few seconds of your death looks like."

"Aye, it is," said Magnus. "These specks on the horizon be harbingin' the final cord in the badly orchestrated symphony of our life."

"I didn't know know ye can get poetic, lad!" Commended him Garl.

Magnus grinned, "Did I? Must be that flowery smell gettin' to me head."

Garl chuckled.



Their cannons could easily match with Undertown's, and as soon as they got in range the cannons fired. The large spiky cannonballs easily smashed apart The Ramparts. Captain Grumjawls watched with glee as Undertown's defenses broke apart, war smog immediately covering the besieged area. Soon enough some of the greenslugs were already on shore. The uncountable army swarming over Undertown.



Despite the borbardment, one part of the ramparts was still standing. Several underpirates were there, some of them injured. Captain Garl and sergeant Magnus looked at the horizon as everything became smoggily red and firey all around them.

"What do we do from here, Cap'n?" Asked Smalley.

Garl stroked his beard as he suddenly then ducked from another cannonball, not providing an answer. Magnus looked as though he's gonna take none of that.

"We'll grind their bones to make our grog! Chop off their limbs to a fine potpourri, and rearrange their arteries and veins to a finely churned ball of bloody strands!" Raved Magnus.

"Eh, Magnus?" Asked Garl.

"Bash and gash, slash and crash!" Raved on the redbearded dwarf, "thump and destrrrrrrrrrroy every little smitterings O' 'em! Skull cleavin' 'em in a fit of mad chaotic total annnnnnnnnnnnnailation! GRR!!! BRR!! HARRR!!!

"Magnus?" Asked Garl again, a little worriedly at his maniacally-possessed sergeant.

"Mammerin' addle-minded crook-pated miscreants!" Cussed Magnus. "Pox-mark'd knotty-pated beetle-headed dunderpates!"

"Mag?"

"Teetotalerin' unchin-snouted scabrous barnacles!"

"I think he's gone to a better place, cap'n," said Smalley.

"He's definitely gone," agreed Garl, "but I don't know about better."

"SKULLCLEAVER!!!!" Shouted Magnus with a large axe lifted over his axe, and in a fit of uncontrollable madness jumped admist the crowd of greenslugs.

"Magnus!!!" Cried Garl and tried to grab him, but it was too late. Magnus had already jumped into the heavy smog and was nowhere to be seen, only the heavy clang of metals and grunts was heard echoing loudly. "Well," sighed Garl, turning to his fellow underpirates, "I suppose if this be our endin' lads, let's die in a mighty whirlwind of blood 'n gore ourselves!" He announced, getting a little bit enthusastic after watching his own sergeant, "and let the underworld remember," his voice became louder and louder, the very dark cliffs of his seem to be echoing him, "that underpirates maybe weren't the brightest, smartest, or wisest, but they were one thing for sure," he held up his axe, "bloody MAAAAAAAAAAAD!!!" Cried Garl and jumped right after Magnus to a crowd of Greenslugs on the shore of Undertown. The rest of the underpirates looked at each other, it was clear to them what they should do.

"YARRRRRRRR!!!" Roared another underpirate and jumped along.

"HARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!!!" Roared yet another, and so on and so forth jumped off from the ramparts dwarf after another.



Not far away from all the seemingly suicidal activity, rummaging through a big pile of junk in the backside of Undertown was Crookshanks as a cannonball crashed through the pile of junk, nearly hitting Crookshanks. "Hey! Hey!" Yelled Crookshanks, "I'm rummaging here! Watch where you're shooting!" He shook his fist. "Gah, underpirates!"

"We're under attack!" Yelled at him Smalley, suddenly appearing from one of the crow nests that was near the junk pile. "Go get help!"

"We are?" Asked Crookshanks to his surprise, then ran up the pile, saw the countless Greenslugs fleet with a pop-eyed gaze of horror, gulped and suddenly sled down the pile.

"Hurry!" Yelled Smalley again before he disappeared again down the crow's nest. Crookshanks ran hastily to where there was a wooden circle platform and a rope-pulley. "Lower the pulley, Bunus!" He said to a dwarf whose helmet covered his eyes.

"Aye aye," answered the dwarf, completely careless about the ongoing siege, who followed the command by rolling the pulley wheel.

After going through a maze of pipes and drainages, Crookshanks reached Sewertown, a small subsidiary of Undertown where the guttersnipes resided. In the middle of sewertown was a big rusted fan, and a tavern, featuring an array of disgusting foods and beverages (such as worms-splattered grog and cockroach pies). It foul-smelling, insects-crawling and filthy, with green goo dripping customarily off its ceiling. "Yo, goober, I'm perched!" Shrilled Fur to the bartender. The hygienically-challenged halfling was picking her nose casually through her torn old mittens, trying to mine some fresh nasal nuggets. And the bartender gave a whistle to his cooks. His cooks were dretches, who were mindless pathetic, bottom-of-the heap green demons, who's purpose in life is never quite clear to them, which made them perfect for a repetitively mindless activity such as kitchenwork.



Crookshanks panted as he made it to Sewertown. He tried to talk, but he was still panting. "Gotta...stop....eating...those delicious....cockroach cakes," he told himself as he repeatedly punched at his lungs. "EVERYONE!" He yelled to get attention as soon as he regained his breath, "stop whatever insanitary venture you're doing, Undertown is under siege by Greenslugs! We gotta go and help 'em!"

Immediately Sewertown residents sprung into action as all sorts of crude, slimy, rusted and broken gear was picked up. They were prepared to help Undertown.

"Let them fend for themselves!" Said Grumpert, halting the commotion. Grumpert was Sewertown's most elder individual, a somewhat frail-looking short man with a big long nose, a long smooth white beard (which naturally had its own multiple colonies of hair-inhabiting insects) and a walking stick, as well as the most respected one of them all. He was known for great stench and an honourable history of living and filth and establishing much of what it means to be a guttersnipe. "Just seal all the entrances to Sewertown. We ain't raisin' a finger to 'elp 'em!" said the old man, raising his finger.

"Aye," said another guttersnipe, a greybearded dwarf fisher who's mutated fish he just caught was dangling on his fishing rod's hook. "They can't appreciate the smell of fresh green sludge, the taste O' cockroach and grub-infested sewage-sauced pies, or the real meaning of livin' in filth, why should we help them?"

"Because there are worse things than underpirates out there!" Pointed out Crookshanks.

"Like what?" Asked Grumpert doubtfully, leaning over on his walking stick.

"Like the people who use this," he held up a strangely bright flowery-smelling glossy object. There were gasps and frightened whispers.

"What is this thing?" Asked Grumpert.

"Well, they call it soap. It. . . it sterilizes things," explained Crookshanks.

"Sterilizes?!?" Asked Grumpert, the rest of the guttersnipes looked just as worried.

"Why'd ye keep it, goober?" Fur flinched. "Yer disgustin', ye know that?"

"Get it away!" Yelled some of the guttersnipes. "This is unholy! Destroy it!"

"Get rid of it at once!" Ordered Grumpert, nearly cowering at the sight of the soap.

"Will you help Undertown then?"

"YES! YES! ANYTHING! Just get that thing away!"

Crookshanks threw the thing away. The tavernkeeper ducked as the soap went behind the counter, through the kitchen and into the brewing stew. The Dretches kept stirring the pot as though nothing happened, and minutes later a huge explosion occurred, smashing the plot and spewing the stew all over the tavern.

The citizens of Sewertown all cringed.

"I guess you were right, there are worse things than underpirates out there after all," admitted Grumpert.

"Then let's go! Now is our chance to show them what the guttersnipes are made of!" Declared Crookshanks.

There was unity around Sewertown for the first time in centuries as they headed out to help Undertown.



Chapter 10: The Grand Opening



It was Flamevember the 23rd, and even though Undertown wasn't yet properly dealt with, nothing would delay the grand opening of the theme park. It was, after all, the main attraction of Charlesworth Enterprises™ "tourism in hell" venture. With flowery shirts and caps, many families (most of them obese, old, or children that were dragged along) descended from the ships. Many of them had strange wooden-square apparatuses around their necks, they seemed accordion-like and had a lense. Apparently, they were a new invention called snapper-zappers, because everyone thought the other suggested name, "cameras", just sounded silly.

"Ah, isn't it beautiful, Marry? Just like in the brochure!" Said one of the tourists.

"Look at that, son, an original hell boulder!" Said a dad to one of his obese sons.

The tourists were excited, happy, and engaged in the artificially-made majesty of this pseudo-hell. "Welcome, welcome," said Pierre as he greeted and shook their hands.

Not far away, Waldo woke up and staggered into Circustown. Amongst the crowd of tourists there was man, seemed to be well over fifty, who had a strange wooden-square apparatus around his neck, inside it seemed accordion-like but it also had a lense and he kept clicking it, and it kept flashing.

"Where am I?" Asked Waldo.

"Oh, Charlesworth Islands Circustown! Where else? I believe this particular section is called the Infernal Region of Fire," said the man.

"Isn't it Infernal Region of Fire, honey?" Asked the man's wife.

"Check the map again, I'm pretty sure it's Region of Infernal Fire," he said, putting on his glasses.

"No no, it's Infernal Region of Fire, I've already checked."

"No no no, I clearly remember it's Region of Infernal Fire, don't confuse me now."

"Uh, nevermind," said Waldo, palming his forehead as to what he's started. "What are you doing here, anyway?"

"Oh, well, we're just tourists, old bean."

"Yea, but isn't it dangerous to tour around hell though? What with the the monsters, the undead, the lava?"

"No, Not really, the Charlesworth have done away with most of the dangers, why it's practically safe."

"WHAT!? Safe!? No it isn't! I got ran over by a smouldering boulder, twice! Nearly got hit by some crazy lunatic with a banjo, eaten by a gelantinous cube, and almost chased to death by a legion of undead making a prison break! Worst of all, I don't think it's even been a day. I can't even tell, I've been unconscious most of the time! You call that safe?"

"Why, sounds like you've had quite an adventure to me! Oh how I envy you!" Said the man, much to Waldo's surprise.

"Right, envy," he sighed. This was hopeless, he figured. "What are you waiting for, anyway?"

"Oh, we're currently waiting for the lava tide to subside so we can go on with tour to the next Island. Just a minor delay in our schedule, old bean."

"So, since you're just touring, how are you two gonna leave?"

"You know, we didn't think about a trip-back, since we were thinking about settling here. We rather like warm weather, hell gets a bad wrap really, but it doesn't seem that bad now that we're here."

"But do you know a way out?"

"Oh yes, just take that ship over there, it's the one we came with. It constantly goes back and forth to bring and take away tourists."

"Finally!" Yelled Waldo, and ran to the ship.



* * *



"Dear," said Petunia to Pierre, "is that a part of the presentation?" She pointed up at a flaming object whizzing up in the dark canopy of hell, then handed her miniature, gilded pocket spyglass to him. Pierre looked and saw the same whizzing flame.

"Not that I'm aware of," he shrugged and handed Petunia her spyglass back, "must be something Widdleswarth planned."

The firey object whizzing from above was actually not something Widdleswarth had panned at all, rather something Widdleswarth would've shun from if he'd only known. "Yo-ho-ho!" Cried Hellbeard, riding his chariot of doom over the theme circus-park with Horg standing behind him on the chariot.

The creatures of hell watched with surprise as Hellbeard dipped low and stopped in the middle of them, as they were slaving near the mine shaft.

"Yo-ho-ho! Merry Hellfire, merry Hellfire too all!" His chariot came to a halt as he hovered in the middle of the largest and most hellish looking hellspawns. "Have ye been good, or naughty?"

The creatures looked at each other, unsure of what to say.

"Now now, be honest," urged them Hellbeard.

"Good," said the creatures sadly.

"Good?!?" Blazed Hellbeard, "you've really let yourself go! Where is the evil attitude, the urge to crash things down? Kill, stomp and burn? Just look what you've become! Blast it all! Align yerself again with the true dark and demonic forces of the underworld, let the powers of Hellfire embrace your souls!" His hands cast a greenish voodoo mist that swirled around itself. "ARRRRRRRR!!!" He channeled the voodoo magick into fire and blew it all over them. Afterwards, the sooty-faced creatures stood still for a moment. There was something evil about their faces now.

"So, who's feeling like committing evil deeds once again?" Asked Hellbeard, blowing off smoke off his finger.

With approving grunts and growls, the creatures began stomping all around, breaking from their shackles. The Defected Ones, jumping off the chariot, immediately joined them.

"Go my army of demonic minions, go and destroy this dastardly happy locality!" Order Hellbeard, gesturing at Circustown. "Go to do what you do best, go and WREAK HAVOC!!!"

"Yarr!" Cried Horg atop the chariot, jumping down. Horg swung his hammer from hand to hand, then looked at a fellow Defected One, "I wanna say it's hammertime, but it feels too cheesy," he shrugged. "ARRR!!!" He charged to the battlefield.

The creatures of hell began wreaking havoc as ordered, stomping and destroying theme park, crashing the stands, lifting the tents, breaking and smashing anything in sight.

"Good grief!" Cried Pierre with a pop-eyed gaze. "What are you all doing!? Stop it this instant!" He ordered, but the creatures did not heed the order. They were all in Hellbeard's control now.

"Is this a part of the main show?" Asked one of the tourists at Pierre. "Very impressive, boss!"

The eager tourists watched and snapped pictures (or daguerreotypes) with their snapper-zappers.

Valda watched the creatures in awe. "What the heck is going on here?"

"Valda," said Mitch behind her with Gurk at his side, offering her her old cutlass and blunderbuss again. "Here! I stole it when Annabel wasn't looking. Let's join the battle! Com'on!"

"Mitch! I can't believe you would do something like that!" Yelled at him Valda.

"But I didn't..."

"Finally you're being useful," she suddenly grinned, already abadoning her newly-instilled principles and pulling out the cutlass from the scabbard and the blunderbuss from the sheath, and certainly kept her crooked grin as she looked at how shiny the blade of the cutlass and the muzzle of the blunderbuss were. She twirled both of the weapons on her fingers, gave a sharp turn on her heels and fired up a shot. "Alright, let's show 'em a little snazzy razzle-dazzle!" Then they both charged into the field of battle, as well as other underpirates, as the sight of total chaos reminded them their true roots. And so, all the other underpirates let go of everything that repressed their true feelings and charged among the fire giants and the Defected Ones to face the goblins and Chalesworth soldiers. It was certainly one hell of a circus show. Of course, it didn't take the tourists long to realize it was not actually a part of the show. And of course, by the time they realized it, they didn't have much time to realize much else, and nor did poor Waldo, who just came to board a ship out of hell, had any time to realize anything when he saw a big foot coming to stomp him, rendering unconsciousness yet again. A clear and vivid reminder that the adventure was not over yet.



* * *



"Well, t'least we salvaged one O' me ol' cannons..." said Patchy, straddled on the huge wide-muzzled cannon that was floating across the underseas with the rest of the wreckages.

"We're still out of ammo, cap'n," pointed out Itchabold.

"Mayhaps we be, laddie, but thar be still gunpowder and I be seein' one halflin' that can be used as projectile if he keeps mentionin' it!" Snapped Patchy.

"Er, sorry," apologized Itchabold. "Hey! Cap'n! Look!" pointed Itchabold ahead. "Do my beady eyes deceive me or is that a free-for-all scrimmage in the horizon?" Itchabold then heard a splash if water and looked around. "Ca'pn?"

But Patchy wasn't there, there was only an incredibly fast-disappearing spatter of water as Patchy raced his way to shore of Charlesworth Island, blabbering incoherently something along the lines of "Rhazzza!! son of a... fazza mazza!!" Then adding, "LEAVE SOME FER ME!!!"

Oh yes, there no stripping Patchy from his title as the craziest pirate in the underseas. Not by a long shot.



Chapter 11: The Puppet Master



It was another dark and dreary dysteleological moment as he heard the sound of shoveling dirt, and felt it dropping on his face repeatedly. When he opened his eyes, he found himselves in a tomb, being buried with the ashy dirt of the cemetary.

"Hey! I'm not dead!" Yelled Waldo, swinging his arms wildly.

"You're not? Are you sure? You look awfully pale," said the hunchbacked gravedigger, Grundal, with a gloomy tone, having an unnaturally protruding-featured face and crookedly yellow teeth, with the letter D tattooed to his arm. "Why don't you think about it more and get back to me on that," he said while shoveling some more dirt down.

"Hey! Stop it!" Yelled Waldo. "I'm pretty sure." Grundal stopped for a moment.

"Pretty sure? That doesn't sound very convincing, my fellow zombie, you'll have to come up with something better than that," he replied and kept shoveling down more dirt.

"VERY!" Cried Waldo, spitting away and rolling in his grave to avoid the outpour of ashy dirt. "I'm very sure! Just stop that will ya?"

"Well, alright, if you say so," said Grundal reluctantly, sighed, lodged his shovel in the dirt and offered him his awfully big and warty hand. As Waldo got up and out of the hole, he looked around to see he was in a very large cemetary, it was typically dark, there were plenty of dead trees and an uncanny unholy mist wafting around, occasionally it seemed to be whirling into a skull or ghost shape, but Waldo thought (or hoped) it was just his imagination.

"Where am I?" Asked Waldo, but the gravedigger was already gone.

Not far from him he saw a crypt, with the banner saying "Gravystones Graveyard PT Offices." Anywhere but here, he thought, and went into the crypt.

Inside, the small crypt was actually a business-conducting chamber. There was an extremely fat, big-bottomed man with powdery pale big face and a small and neatly-cut mustache. He was sitting on a chair that constantly cracked to each subtle move the large man made, but somehow the chair was still in one piece. Behind the fat man was a very thin and very tall long-faced individual, who was just as pale, with white gloves he stood there with his hands pressed together and his eyes shut. Behind him there were two seemingly ornamental rifles on the wall. They were both wearing black unmarked tuxedos. "Welcome to Gravystones Graveyard," said the large individual with a very slow, low-pitched voice, as though it took him much effort just to utter a syllable, "the largest cemetary penitentiary with maximum security. I'm Prisley Gravystone Pringles, the warden of Gravystones Graveyard Penitentiary."

"Wait, cemetary penitentiary?" Asked the alarmed Waldo, half-expecting a reanimated skeleton to break through the wall.

"Yes, what with all the resurfacing-- the dead coming alive, you know? These penitentaries are a must. I blame it on all that voodoo and necromantic activity around these unholy parts. As it is, most of our work includes rekilling and reburying all those who really should just stay dead. And of course, making sure none of them escape from our facility. Wouldn't want undead running all around the underworld, would you?"

"Why does it matter to you? I actually figured that in hell skeletons and zombies would be free to run around."

"Well, we've been comissioned by Charlesworth Enterprises™ to keep them dead, it won't be good for their enterprise to have undead running around scaring off the tourists."

"Charlesworth Enterprises. . . where did I hear that before?" Asked himself Waldo, but he couldn't remember. "By the way, your gravedigger tried to bury me!"

"Oh, my sincere apologies," said Mr. Pringles. "It happens sometimes. You see, the more people die and stay dead, the more we get paid."

"What, so in order to jack up sales, you occasionally bury living folks?" Asked Waldo.

"Well, yes, but we don't encourage it, it's just that our gravediggers are eager for a good comission. Can you blame them? It's a dead-end job after all. Hah-hah-hah," chuckles Mr. Pringles to himself. "I'm sorry, just a little local dark humor."

"Funny," said Waldo, really more disturbed than amused.

"Well, point it, there's a lot of money in it, it's all a part of the gravetombs-industrial complex," shrugged Mr. Pringles. "As a side note, we're also in the market for cemetary merchandise. Can I interest you in a gravestone or a sarcophagus?"

"Not really," dismissed it Waldo, "I rather hold off burial plans for myself until I'm married, but do you happen to know of a way out of here?"

"Well, no, but we can bury you, if you want. Some say that is the only true way out", said Mr. Pringles.

"Gee, so much for trying to hide your ulterior motive. . ." rolled Waldo his eyes.

"Mr. Pringles sir!" Cried the hunchbacked gravedigger, Grundal, as the door was swung open. He was holding his shovel that seemed to have all sorts of eyes and dead skin tissues dangling from it. "We're experiencing a resufacing again," he said with a sigh, smacking a zombie behind him with a shovel. Waldo looked behind him at the threshold, seeing plenty of zombies and skeletons of all shapes and sizes staggering about, some were heading towards the crypt. "BRAINSSSS!" A unified drone was heard. "Brainsssss!"

"Botheration!" Exclaimed Mr. Pringles, taking out his musket that was hung on the wall, loaded up a bullet and fired away. Mr. Pringles assistant, nonchallantly, without hardly opening his eyelids, loaded his own musket and fired away at the approaching zombies, nearly hitting Waldo.

"Yikes!" Cried Waldo, ducked and scampered off.



* * *



As the cannons went off back and forth between the Greenslugs and the Underpirates in the besiged Undertown, casually and fearlessly making his way through it was Master Widdleswarth Woodstick. "Great job captain Grumjowls!" He addressed the gruff greenslug captain, who snorted in response. He never did like humans touching him, let alone telling him he does a good job. He knows he does a good job. "Keep those underpirates in check eh? I got an short errand to take care of," said Widdleswarth as he went off. Grumjowls saluted.



"Won't you help us?!?" Asked an underpirate desperately by the Dungeon Master's puppet house, having stopped fleeing for just a moment from the continuous bombardment of cannonballs.

"Nuh-uh, no way," answered Woody with folded arms. "We can't do a damn thing," he added just as he ducked from a flying canoonball, then came back up. "As I've explained to you before, we're the Dungeon Masters, and under no circumstances can we intervene in the affairs of you mortals."

"Hello hello, dear reanimated freaks of the underworld!" Said Widdleswarth as he and a few Greensluggy well-armed bodyguard came to the scene, standing in front of the puppet house, the underpirate immediately screeched and scampered off, a few greenslugs ran after him. "Looks like there's a new Dungeon Master in town, doesn't it?" He twirled his stick and leaned over it smugly.

The Dungeom Master were all taken aback. "Widdleswarth! You unscrupulous businessman, you're behind this all?" Asked Woody angrily.

"Of course!" Said Widdleswarth. "Who else can so cleverly weave together such a perfectly designed unbelievably twisted and immaculately executed plot? Not those Charlesworth goons," he pointed back with his thumb derisively and dismissively, "that's for sure."

The Dungeon Masters were starting to get uneasy. Woody's unease turned to decisiveness. "That does it," said Woody, looking at the other Dungeon Masters, "I know we took an oath, but I think it's time for some Dungeon Master divine whoopin' intervention!"

Widdleswarth cracked up at this point, laughing on and on. "Divine. . . intervention? Oh please," he waved a dismissive arm, cracking up some more, "don't play games with me, you cardboard cut-outs, I know who's controlling your strings. Show me to the puppet-master."

"What are you talking about you frilly hatrack? We are our own entities," declared Woody. Widdleswarth laugh turned to silence, and then a frown, he didn't like being lied to. He walked over towards the puppet house and began smacking the door with his stick.

"What are you doing?" Asked Woody.

"Stop that!" Ordered another Dungeon Master.

The door cracked opened. Widdleswarth entered a very large chamber, there were all sorts of bookshelves stacked with rulebooks, dices, sketches, concept arts and statues, all having some underpiratical theme about them. Sitting on throne was an old a grandfatherly-looking man there, who had a little padding on the stomach and on his slighty rosy cheeks. His round glasses had a high-arching bridge situated on his slightly bulbous nose. He had a white goatee and a balding hairline, what's left of his hair was combed backwards.

"Hello Godur," said Widdleswarth.

"Widdleswarth!" Snapped the old man, dropping the pincher device that was controlling the dolls, "I told you I'm not selling hell to you! You just don't get it, hell shouldn't be about money, it should be about fun and adventuring! That's what life is all about, or even death for that matter. Wherever you are, fun and adventuring is the answer to all your problems!"

"Yea yea, save that chatshow slogan talk for another time, chub-chub, in case you haven't figured it out my army of savage greenslugs isn't really the mindfully nagotiating sort, more like the steamroll everything in your path sort. Anyway, I got a whole lot of work of redesign in front of me, we were thinking to turn Undertown to a musem exhibit, so if you'll excuse me..." snapped Widdleswarth his finger as a few Greenslugs entered. "Tie him up boys and throw him to the closet, you might need extra rope on that one."

"You'll regret this!" Yelled Godur as he was taken away. "It's he who laughs the last who laughs the loudest!"

"Oh contraire mon frere, he who laughs last probably doesn't get the joke," reparteed Widdleswarth.

"Well you can take our lives, but you'll never take away our freeeeeeeeeeedom!"

"Woah, hello mister originality," chuckled Widdleswarth, "where'd you come up with that!?"

"Freedom!" Yelled Godur again.

"Yea, sure, freedom. Say, are we all really free anyway? Don't you feel there are big unseen hands out there controlling all of our actions? I know I do," said Widdleswarth, looking about eerily just the closet door was shut with Godur in there. Godur still seemed to be muttering all sorts of slogans and idioms, though somewhat unintelligibly thanks to the help of a mouth tape.

"Saaaaay, is that my new chair?" Asked himself Widdleswarth and sat on the large wooden throne in the empty room. "Ahhh...I'm in heaven," he sighed, then realized the irony. "HAH! Heaven! BRILLIANT! Gah-- Why is no one ever around whenever I have good material?"



* * *



It was a massive amount of chaos in Circustown. The colourful tents were now torn, the stations broken, and Charlesworth Enterprises™ mansion was in ruins. Though the Charlesworth's themselves were nowhere to be seen.

"Who do you think you are you bootless elf-skinned cretin?" Taunted Mortis as Horg thumped another guard. "You incompetent mortal clown! Do you really think you can match against our unholy forces?!?" He taunted another guard.

"Good work tauntin', Mortis!" Commended him Horg.

"Thanks, and that's just my B-material," noted Mortis.

As the Charesworth Mansion collapsed, the formerlly rehabilitated underpirates were back to their old selves, as were the creatures of hell. Hellbeard blew his last fire breath, settings a few small circus tents on fire. "Well, it looks like my work here is done," he said, wiping his hands clean.

"And well done at that," said Horg just as he finished thumping another goblin.

And so, somewhere in the dusty regions of the underworld, three unsuspecting goblins stood next to a foul-smelling cauldron as from nowhere in sight, a goblin plunged to their stew, splashing the green dish all over them. Still alive, the goblin started climbing out of the cauldron, until he saw the chef wagging his finger at him, and another goblin smacked him with a club back into the cauldron.

"I don't think we'll be experiencing anymore troubles from the Charlesworth's anymore," said Horg.

Valda in the meanwhile was wiping her cutlass clean. "You're purrrrrrrrty!" Said one of The Defecteds to her.

"Ugh, eww, yuck" wrinkled Valda her nose. "Gurk! Eighty five degrees on that one," she ordered.

"Yes'm!" Said Gurk.

"Wh-What?" Asked The Defected, not understanding what the command means.

"GURK SMASH!" Cried Gurk, and before the poor Defected One had realized what was going on he was thumped far into the air, 85 degrees angle.

And so, in the dusty region of the Underdark, three goblins innocently stood by as a The Defected One plunged into their stew, splashing their green dish all over them. The goblins poked the weird individual, tasted the dish, shrugged and approved.

The Defected Ones had finally reclaimed their home in The Uncharted Islands, though clearly they had a lot of rebuilding to do.

"Thank you, kind Horg," said Haggerfagger, "not only for helping us reconquer our old home, but for making us feel a part of this underworld and in the great scheme of things," he offered his malformed hand to Horg.

"Anytime, lad!" Said Horg, shaking Haggerfagger's hand in the newly-formed alliance and unity, "ye are an integral part of the underworld, and don't ye forget it."

"Well," said Hellbeard on his flying chariot, "if you'll be so kind to excuse me, there is still one more affair that Hellbeard the Unrepentant needs to finish."

"O'course," answered Horg, "but do you mind if I rent one of your fire-giants?" Glanced Horg at Hungus, the largest of fire-giants of them all, that same fire-giant who threw Horg to the Pit of Doom, who now stood giving Horg a surprised dumbfounded-look in return.

"Not at all!" Said Hellbeard. "Just bring him back without a scratch, but there better be a heckuva lot blood! Har!"

"That can arranged," reparteed back Horg. "Valda, hope aboard!" Said Horg just as Hungnus lifted Horg up on his shoulder.

"No thanks," said Valda. "I got a better idea for my entrance."

"Better than on the shoulder of a fire giant?"

Valda picked up a plank of wood shaped like a double-edged sword, gave her usual half-smirk, narrowed her eyes at an approaching wave and ran towards it. "Yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee-haw!" She threw the plank, jumped on it and surfed on the big wave.

"Haha!" Cheered her Horg. "Ye go girl!"

"By the way, Hellbeard," looked at him Horg, "what did ye do with the Charlesworths?"

"Oh, I've introduced them to some of my most unholiest of voodoo magick, and sent them off to one of my good friends, Mr. Pringles. Let's just say that escape is not an option!" Wagged Hellbeard his finger, a little chuckle following his remark, "now if you'll excuse me, I got some fire to unleash!" He roared as he disappeared with his flaming chariot.





Pierre Charlesworth woke up in a dark cemetary with Petunia already awakened next to him. "My dear," he said to her. "Did your right eye always used to be dangling outside its socket?"

"Oh!" Yelled the alarmed Petunia, and placed the eye back in the socket. Pierre then noticed some of the skin on his hand was missing, he could see his bone, and whatever skin that was there seemed unnaturally pale. "Well, looks like a minor setback," he said, looking about. He then saw it was Gravystone Graveyard cemetary. "Say, isn't this the cemetary we've hired to handle undead activity for us?" He asked.

"I think it is," answered Petunia.

"Damn new resufacers!" Exclaimed gravedigger Grundal from nearby, and ran over with a shovel to smack Pierre and Petunia in the heads, who flopped back down. "And stay dead!"



Chapter 12: The Ongoing Siege of Undertown



Underpirates were moving away from one wreckage to the next, ducking away from the cannonballs. The Greenslugs turned the siege into a game, instead of charging ahead at full force, they were using the underpirates own cannons to try and gun them down. Nearly all the wreckage-shaped buildings in Undertown have been turned to actual wreckages, and used as barricades by the two fighting parties. Jax, on his own part, was finally utilizing his cannons, even though he was running out of cannonballs. However, sneaking fearlessly back and forth to steal cannonballs was none other than Mole. He was so quick, small and agile, that the greenslugs missed him at nearly every opportunity. He wanted to make sure Cannonarms Dave was always loaded, and every now and then Dave managed to get a good shot. Smally Beans, amazingly, still didn't leave his crow nests. The greenslugs unsuccessfully were trying to play whack-a-mole with him at every crow nest station around Undertown. He kept popping up in a different crow nest each time, making a funny face at them, a funny voice, sticking his tongue out, and disappearing back just before they could whack him.



"It was really a bad idea to jump in the middle of all those greenslugs," said Garl to his sergeant, Magnus, who just installed a new pegleg. They were both hiding behind a wreckage, and constantly ducking from the cannonfires.

"Should've left me out there!" Said Magnus. "The evil, the fire, the chaos, the destrrrrrrrrrrruction! I never felt more alive cap'n!" His manic eyes agreeing with that assessment. "I'm goin' back out there!"

"You insanity-suffering maniac!" Said Garl.

"Nay cap'n, allow me to express me disagreement here, I don't suffer from insanity, I enjoy every wakin' moment O' it! HARRRR!!!" Cried Magnus and came to run off, but he was grabbed by Garl before he could.

"Not yet, sergeant," he said, "I feel there are some other forces at work here," he said confidently, clearly the more logical of the two. "Let's wait for them, I think they may prove worthy of our time."

"But...the skullcleaving?"

"You'll get to skullcleave soon enough, lad."

"But that ain't soon enough!"

Garl sighed.





Bunus, the pulley-operator, still alive and remarkably without a scratch (since the Greenslugs thought he was a statue [you would too]), kept standing in his rope-pulling post undauntedly, seemingly without a care in the world. He then saw the pulley rope rattling, it was his cue. He pulled it up. As the wooden platform reached up, there was Crookshanks, Fur, all the other motley bunch of filthy guttersnipes all ready for battle with their malshaped gear, broken helmets, crude and rusted weapons. "Oi! We've come to rescue our friends, ya lumberin' green ham-hand'd bastards!" Said Crookshanks with a strange brogue, clanging his spear and shield together, all the guttersnipes were standing to the left and right of him. "And ye will be defeated by the union of the guttersnipes and the underpirates that ye scorn and detest."

The greenslugs grunted and growled, looked at each other for a moment, wondering if this was some kind of bad joke. Then, with the smouldering crust of hell shaking heavily just at their footsteps, a swarm of them charged over to attack. They were so massive, so muscular, so big, their weapons easily thrice the size of the guttersnipes. It was, seemingly, the prelude of the guttersnipes death.

"You know, maybe we haven't properly edged out the plan," said Crookshanks. "Retreaaaaaaaaaat!" He yelled.

A large boom coming out of nowhere as a cannonball suddenly knocked many of the charging gleenslugs over to the ground.

"Well GODDAMNIT that was a good shot sergeant!" Said a cigar-smoking figure leaning against a smoke-emitting cannon. It was none other than former General, Captain and Commander of what was The Last Barricade, Major James Horton Smith, with bandage on half his head to cover his new scorch marks.

"Major Horton!" Yelled Garl much to his pleasant surprise, careless enough to get up and run dodgily over to him. "Yar, Blisterin' damnation and unholy gripplehooks! I'll be damned and bethrottled! t'be good tae see ya, friend O' old!"

"What, thought I'd leave all the goddamn fun to you, Garlic Pepper?" Grinned the now tooth-missing Major Horton, pulling out his old nickname to Garl. The two captains shook hands exchanging mean-looking expressions.

"The war not be lost then!" Exclaimed Garl.

Gromjawls, standing on the ramparts of Undertown, grunted angrily. "What's the delay?" He asked in a low gluttural murmur, then sniffed some snot back to his nose. "Fullblown attack!" He ordered.

It was then that the seemingly infinite army of Greenslugs charged ahead, howling and grunting. Their number was staggering, so staggering that it all seemed lost, just for a moment, until the earth seemed to shake again, but this time at someone else's massive footsteps. "YARRRRRRRRRRRR!" Came a very familiar roar emerging from the underseas. On the shoulder of a fire-giant swinging his hammer from hand to hand was none other than Horg Heiren.

"Horg!" Some of them yelled, much to their joy.

"Reinforcement has arrived!" He announced. Behind him, riding on a big wave, Valda's surfboard went in between the fire-giant's legs. She jumped off right in time to graciously land on a piece of broken ramparts, right next to a bunch of real mean and stinking ugly Greenslugs. "Hello there, hons. I'd hate to cut your measly existence short but you really do take down property values," she taunted and started swordfighting the greenslugs. Meanwhile, Hungus giant steps stopped right at the broken ramparts of Undertown.

"Ye be lookin' like ants from up here!" Yelled Horg atop his shoulder, then jumped off into the field of battle, forming a small crater and ripple effect. The Greenslugs growled and grunted, turning their weapons and rage towards Horg. "Avast ye beslubberin' crackerjaw'd miscreants! Who wants to first in line for me hammer?" Taunted Horg, then as the Greenslags ran over to him, he swung his hammer like a bat and smash them one by one.

And so, in the dusty region of the Underdark, three goblins innocently stood by as a Greenslag plunged into their cauldron, followed by six more, followed by nine, then thirty seven. The goblin chef raised his hands, threw his cooking stick away, and quit.

Redbeard and Garl charged ahead into the heat of battle, axes and shields, admist the squashing of Hungus, the moral boost by the appearance of Horg Heiren, and Valda Vaux's dextrous invincibility, the greenslugs could no longer sustain the rampant wave of the underpiratical resurgence. It was the final stretch as the underpirates charged all at once to try and take out the greenslugs once and for all.





* * *



A whizzing flame blazed across the dark hellish sky of Undertown, it dipped lower and lower. It was Hellbeard's chariot. He descended to the magmatic soil from his chariot right at the Dungeon Master's House, his boot carelessly squashing a large red bombardier beetle on the way. Cannons, gunshots and sword clangs all aloud in the background.

There were two puppets there now, one was a devilish-looking puppet. It was red, with two fuzzy horns. The other was a stuffed blonde doll with a torn button eye, sawn mouth and fingerless hands. "Give me some sugar doll!" Said the devil puppet to her. It had a voice awfully similar to that of Widdleswarth

"Never!" She replied, turning away and folding her artificial arms.

"Ahermaherm," coughed Hellbeard to draw their attention.

"Buzz off!" Ordered the devil puppet, not even bothering to look who it is. "Can't you see we're busy? Besides, we're not accepting any visitors at this hour, don't you know? The new puppet-master is never EVER to be disturbed," stated the devil puppet as he turned to look who it is. Hellbeard stood with a grin on his demonic face, fire dancing on his open palm. If puppets could pale, this one would. "Eep."

"HARR!" Roared Hellbeard's terrifying voice as the puppet house door was blown open in a flaming spectacle. "Ahoy there WiddlesWORM!" Said Hellbeard as he stepped through the threshold and into the puppet's house chamber, his hands still afire, as though preparing to unleash more chaos.

"AH! It's you!" Cried Widdleswarth, dropping the long pincher devices he was using the control the two dolls, and nearly falling off his chair. "What are you doing here?" He got up. "Didn't you like the Pit of Doom? I can fix you up with a different retirement plan!" He suggested, clearly taken aback and afraid.

"Shut up you unhellish wagwit!" Blustered Hellbeard, approaching closer and closer, making Widdleswarth part with a few sweat drops.

"But hell has never been more profitable with me in charge!"

"Profit shmofit! I realized there are more important things than material wealth, and I won't let you turn my army of demonic hellspawns into subserviently unchaotic creatures slaving for cheap entertainment!" He declared.

"Oh? Well, too little too late," said Widdleswarth, suddenly changing his frightened tone to confidence, looking as smug as ever. "In case you're not aware, I'M the one giving the orders now you reincarnated flotsam of voodoo junk," snapped his fingers Widdleswarth, then the ceiling of the puppet house was ripped off by a fire-giant. "Crash this lawbreaker at once, Hungus!" He ordered.

The fire-giant picked up Widdleswarth instead.

"Wh-what, what are you doing, Hungus?" Struggled out Widdleswarth, "hey, what's wrong with you? What's going on here?"

"Muwahahaha! I think you deserve a nice retirement plan, Widdlesworm," grinned Hellbeard. "THROW HIM TO THE PIT OF DOOM HUNGUS!"

"Don't do it, Hung! Don't!" Shouted Widdleswarth, but the tight grip of Hungus led him straight back to the Pit.

Hellbeard heard some murmuring, he opened up the closet door within the chamber to see a tied-up, mouth-taped Godur. Shortly afterwards, the Dungeon Masters twirled up and appeared in the puppet house again. Woody grabbed a really long pole. "Now let's show 'em some good old-fashioned Dungeon Mastery interventionist razzle-dazzle," he said. "Hey, you there! You lobotomized maniac! Over here!" He cried at one of the greenslug and swung the long pole at him, smacking him unconscious. "Hah! Wimp!"



Chapter 13: The Final Tune



In Undertown, most of the greenslugs have been defeated, the rest have fled, with some underpirates chasing them to make sure no one stayed alive. Magnus already lost his kill count, but he assumed it was something along the 250 lines.

"You know," said Hellbeard, having returned wiping his hands clean, "normally I'd have half a mind to exploit this situation and take over Undertown meself, being the unrepentantly evil atrocity that I am, but I'll be getting enough flake from Missus Hellbeard as it is. Besides, I promised her a nice vacation in the Valley of Helldeath this year, anyway."

"Oooh I heard good reviews about it," said Horg.

"Yes, prime location, even though they somewhat overcharge if you ask me, although they do have those wonderfully exclusive lava-springs. Anyway, I got some rebukin' to absorb for now, but don't worry, I'll be back to terrorize the unfathomed deeps soon enough. Fare ye well for now, Horg!" Blazed Hellbeard away on his chariot.



And so it was, that in the deep firey buttcracks of doom, the Greenslugs had been defeated, and the threat of the tourist corporate domination was done away with, and Undertown was safe to continue its uninhibited anarchistic insanity. The mystery of the missing underpirates has been resolved, treasures brimming with gold and artifacts were found once again, and the demonic hellspawns were back to terrorize the unfathomed deeps. The celebrations took place in Rock Bottom, that was rather missing its ceiling and some of its walls, but nevertheless there were plenty of kegs and ale, and that's all you really ever need. There were all there, Horg Heiren, Jax, Valda Vaux, Mitch, Gurk, Smalley Beans, Itchabold, Patchy Phannel, Magnus Meatshield, Garl Grizzledhelm, Mole, Cannonarms Dave, Major Horton and his two sergeants, Crookshanks Peggedhooks and Fur Cough among the other guttersnipes and underpirates were celebrating their victory with a big foaming mugs of acidically-enhanced foaming grog. Clanking mugs, singing songs, and some even dancing over dead Greenslugs bodies. Even the Dungeon Masters seemed to be having good time with their own "very special" drinks, which they made from their own imbued voodoo magic.

"Skoal!" Cried Horg, sitting atop of a stool next to a broken counter within what used to be Rock Bottom. "Skoal!" They all raised a mug.

"I've noticed you got new workers," said Horg as he looked at the new goblin cooks behind the counter.

"Aye, hired them just this evenin'," noted Jax. "These goblins seem to know how to cook just about anything! And just look at Humpert, he's all mind-numbingly sozzled again, as it should be!"

"Whuzzzza mm brr?" Asked Humpert.

"Ahh," wiped Jax a little welling in his eye. "Just like the old days."

A very large ship then arrived to the docks, which everyone could see due to the missing ramparts. The underpirates all turned their attention to it, some already taking out their guns and swords, but out of the ship stepped out none others than The Defected Ones.

"Welcome lads!" Cried Horg, getting up from his seat to greet them. "Underpirates, I want you to meet a very special community of folks who are (almost) just as unhinged and insane as any of us, the Defecteds.

"Brother!" Said Haggerfagger to Crookshanks.

"What?" Asked Crookshanks, completely confused.

"I can't believe it's you! I tought we'd lost you forever," declared Haggerfagger. "You're one of us!"

"I am?"

"Of course! Look," said Haggerfagger, and showed Crookshanks he has a small tattoo of the letter "D" on one of his right butt cheek.

"Heh, I've always wondered how come I can do this," said Crookshanks as he completely removed his arm and put it back into its place seconds after.

"Did you know about this?" Asked Grumpert at Fur.

"I had a hunch he was defected all along, gub," she answered.



"Excuse me, cap'n," said Itchabold to Patchy, who was already sozzled. "I'm going seek the company of the lovely Fur Cough."

"Mfffhgaw err eh?" Said Patchy, too drunk to come up with anything intelligible, let alone realize where he is.

"Yessir," said Itachbold, as though he understood him, saluted and ran over to Fur.

"Itchy!" Cried Fur.

"Fur!" Cried Itchabold. The two filthy halflings hugged, exchanged a few insect colonies, and the rest is frankly too disgusting to be described herein.



"Hey! Everyone!" Said Mortis on top of a stool, calling everyone's attention, "look who I found someone to sing the ending tune for us!"

"DOOM-DA-DA-DOOM-DOOOOM!" Appeared Frubo, awfully strumming his lute as usual.

"Oh no!" Frowned Valda, laying down her mug. "Oh you better not!" She gave his a warning frown, as long as she was still sober to do something about it.

"DOOOM DOOM DooooooooooM!!!!!"

"Com'here!" She ran after him, but he ran off while singing.

"Doom da doom dya doom! D-doom-d-doom da doom d-doom! DOOM DOOM DOOM! DOOM DA DA DOOM! DA DEE DA DA DOOM! We is alllllssss doooooomed! Da-doom-doom doom doom doom! D-Da-Doom doom dam! D-doom-doom doom doom doom!"

"Now this is just a pointless waste of ink," said Valda.

"DOOM DO-DOOM!"

~ THE END ~