Aww [i][b]hell[/b][/i] naw. The man sitting cross legged clumsily strumming chords on his lyre, in reality a poorly modified wooden box, or maybe it had been a crate or something in the beginning for all he knew, that had been come across and picked up on the side of the I-90 outside of Gary, Indiana on he and his gaming group’s way to a convention in Chicago last year met with his equally clumsy wood working skills and some of his step dad’s, “borrowed,” power tools was not about to sit around and watch this shit go down without doing something about it. He had just been trying to pick up on those three fat chicks, and by extension the ugly one’s smoking hot mom who dropped them off here once a month every last Saturday for the Greater Kentucky United Live Action Roleplay Smack Down, minding his own business when some Colonel Sanders looking mofo just walked up and hit his dungeon master. He had just been saying some PC shit about how awful it was that women in the Live Action Roleplay community were held to such unrealistic double standards and that the community should be making every effort to make everyone feel as comfortable as possible rather than encouraging body shaming and male dominated power structures, how his group was so lucky to have women and minorities conscribe half of their number and how great it was for the community that their group was representing women in the subculture blah, blah, blah. He didn’t give a shit, there were two women in his outfit, the Knights of Fortune, and both of them were smoking hot, plus unlike these chicks they didn’t talk like they’d been brought up by cracked out bayou hicks with only slightly less brain cells then teeth, but he also had to live with them. Plus they actually knew him, knew what he was up to right now in fact, and if it weren’t for the group they wouldn’t have given him the time of day. These chicks on the other hand, especially the ugly one’s mom, were total strangers and were totally losable at his first convenience or desire. 

He had been working on this for eight months now, and the way he saw it best case scenario he became a good enough friend of theirs to get invited over to the ugly one’s place and chat up the mom, she was divorced and dating but without much success so far as he could tell, and happen to get lucky and catch her on a day she happened to be feeling down about her situation, schmooze her a bit, share an expensive bottle of wine he’d bring over after slapping a much cheaper bottle’s barcode over it before taking it through self-checkout, show off some of the dance moves he’d picked up in drama and community theatre classes over the years, the old fancy stuff rather than his more developed and interesting hip hop routines, and maybe he’d get lucky. Worst case scenario he’d hook up with one of these chicks to feel like he got something out of this whole endeavor and drop the Kentucky group, along with his burner phone whose number was the only one of his they had, and the social media pages he had set up years ago and filled with friends that he didn’t know and posts that meant nothing, just like the twenty some other identically fake and meaningless accounts used for looking real without having any actual relation to his real life, then walking away from the whole thing entirely. No one besides him in his group actually liked coming to Kentucky once a month and he had only kept them going to the effort because he pointed out that they had an awesome monthly barbeque after the session that was free with a home made side dish or five bucks without, they always stopped at a grocery store and bought a couple four ninety five pies that got quickly transferred over to bamboo steamer baskets to save a few bucks, and nothing in Indiana, Detroit or Chicago even came close to rivaling the event in respect to the food. Kenzie and Mac were both predominantly food driven, and so far he’d kept the scheme going long enough to begin nearing the finish line of the operation. 

He was close enough to taste the fruits of all his hard work, the payoff for all these Saturday trips down to Kentucky, and some f@#$ing guy had to come in and hit Mac. It was the South, he got it, someone was likely to start shit one of these days. Even in the North people would often hassle the LARPers, throw shit at them, even slash their tires in the parking lot every now and then, but why’d he have to pick Mac of all people? Sure he was fat and black, but there were three other black guys at the event, and half the people who showed up to these things were fat, including two of the aforementioned black guys. If he’d just hit one of them instead he could have just kept on talking and let the thing sort itself out, but this was different. He wasn’t sure Mac even liked him, and frankly he wasn’t sure if he even liked Mac all that much, but even if he was a whiny, overly rules oriented control freak he was [u]his[/u] dungeon master. The twang of his string breaking in mid song took him by surprise just as much as it had taken the three women seated around him, and as time picked up it’s normal pace and the red started to recede from his vision he smiled warmly towards them, and it only now occurred to him that he must have had the dead stare of a raving lunatic plastered to his face for a moment in full view of his audience, now baring his silvered teeth in a more amicable manner before excusing himself. “Right hairy knees I am ladies, must be excusing mi’self for a tiddy bit. Mac-E boy meh bruv o’er theyuh seems to have had ‘iself a bi’ ‘ov an accident, best help ‘im out, innit?” he stood, tossing the lyre to the ground before hurrying over to the man accosting Mac in the field below. “Oi, Ker-nal F@#$boi, you takin’ the piss? How’s about you Harry Holt ‘fore I get down there and your Hovis!?” Damn event rules said foam only, so he’d left the real stuff behind. 

[b]Edit[/b]: Oops, forgot to censor one of the F-bombs. Sorry about that.