by Stephen van Ham
Biff opened his mouth in slack jawed bafflement as the Lord of Terriers fell to the ground, his furry, flea infested body punctured by a thousand bites. A rustling cloud of tufts of Kentucky bluegrass settled in a heap over the crumpled form of Diablo, covering him in a blanket of blue. Biff closed his mouth and looked around vaguely, wondering where in hell/hell he was. This certainly wasn't the big dark. Or was it? "Ma lady?" he called, searching for the rogue. "Ma lady?"
Seeing no sign of his companion, the bare-footed warrior stepped over Diablo's grassy, steaming carcass and wandered over to the group loitering in the town square. Biff's bulbulous eyes took in the sights (two Cains, one lying in bloody wreckage, the other muttering fiercely as he read from his spell book, and one angry looking, axe wielding Griswold standing over the bodies of Ogden and himself), and the smells (the faint tang of Lost Spells, coppery scent of blood and the rank odour of demon dog breath) lingering in the air.
Walking past the wailing form of one of Blizzard's overworked, underpaid, underappreciated Battle.Net programmers, Biff grinned, belched, and tugged at Conjuror Ichabod's coffee stained sleeve.
Ichabod absently blocked a Red Vex-thrown Blood Star and stared at the fragrant warrior. "Yes?" he growled. He munched on a baloney sandwich as he pondered the advanced calculus required to return Battle.Net and Tristram to their regularly advertised dimension.
Nearby, Lord Cool started to pummel a wailing, card shuffling Wirt over the head with his Gnarled Root, yelling at him to allow Cool to "level up". Sugar laughed to herself at the sight as she turned and kissed Grand Fromage full on the lips. Grand Fromage melted into a large block of cheese and slipped into the Crack of Hell . . .
Biff gaped at the bizarre happenings. "Wha?!? 'Scusin me, ma lordy, what's 'un goin' on?"
Ichabod grunted as the caressed the gleaming metal of his visor. "What does it look like, you great reeking baboon? The town is in a shambles, I'm out of chocolate biscuits, and you're standing on my foot!" With a loud thump, he lowered his visor and yelled "THE COWLORD FEARS NO BIFF!"
Purple threw another coin into the fountain, wishing he sure as hacked was somewhere else.
Stupidhead raised his arms to draw in the warm glow of the summer sun, rejoicing to be free of the shackles of the PK, Maximum Evil (Stu thought the title "Maximum Boredom" was more befitting, but he never said that out loud in the Godmoding warrior's presence).
Biff, riled at the CowLord's lactose laden insults, growled and reached over his shoulder for his club, Little Thumper, ready to send this fiendish wizard out to pasture.
It was then that Lord Cool stopped whacking Wirt for a moment and spoke.
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