James A. Hunter
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Shadowcroft Year 3 - Chapter Fifty
🕑 Added 2023-01-11 18:00:01 +0000 UTCPeppered throughout the upper rows of the coliseum were Marko’s faceless mannequins, all eerily motionless and decked out in jeans, muscle shirts, bandanas, and a shocking array of flannel. They were the perfect wrestling audience, waiting to witness the smackdown of a lifetime. Unlike the dummies from earlier in the dungeon, these were genuinely lifeless and held none of the deadly traps of prior version. But Shador didn’t know that, which made the mannequins even more unnerving.
The first and second rows were filled with Logan’s army of morel minions.
Enormous Shambles and nimble Spore Wargs. Lethal Destroying Angels and adorable Kurrybooboos. But Logan had pulled out all the stops when it came to his Skullcap Waddlers. He’d used the combined power of Inga, Marko, Treacle, and Chadrigoth to transform the dumpy warriors into a diverse horror show of fungal nightmares. There were spider waddlers, moth waddlers, candy armored infantry waddlers with jawbreaker bazookas, hell hound waddlers, as well as waddlers that were honorary members of the Crazy Clown Posse—decked out in clown makeup, all wielding hatchets and spray paint. With them were the Markabooboos, which looked like rotund mushrooms squeezed into sexy nurse outfits.
The Marabooboos were easily the most distressing creatures Logan had ever crafted.
Intermixed among his conjured minions were mushroom growths of all shapes and sizes. Creeping Blister Wart. Fields of delicious Opal Truffles. Bulbous Stink Horn growths. Sunflower Pods drifted here and there, glowing with a buttery warm light. Get close enough, and you’d find your toast buttered all right.
Logan had also added more fungal colonies to the ring itself. Each corner of the wrestling ring held a new and terrible surprise. Ghoul’s Snare in one corner and Blister Wart filling another. Spits of razor-sharp Crimson Coral jutted from the turnbuckles on the third, while the last held enough Gem-Studded Puffballs to take out an armored Humvee. It was all part and parcel of the fungal slam fest experience! An event truly worthy of paying $69.99 to watch from the comfort of your living room.
As Logan looked around at the mass of mushroom mania, pride welled up in his chest. Even if they didn’t win the day and beat Lou Shador, they’d certainly crafted a dungeon for the ages. <Did you guys hear that?> he sent, equally proud of his word play. <Let’s get ready to fungal! That was pretty cool, right?>
<I don’t get it,> Chadrigoth replied. <Sorry, friend, I’m sure it would be awesome if I got the reference.>
<That’s a fifty-fifty proposition,> Treacle sighed.
<Stay focused!> Inga shouted. <He’s coming!>
Marko’s voice was dead pan. <Oh, I get it. It’s fungal, instead of rumble. Funny.>
Yeah, but the goat boy didn’t laugh. Logan couldn’t help but feel a bit letdown.
Chadrigoth was all business. <Remember, Logan, you just have to delay him. We don’t expect you to beat him. He’s S-Class.>
Logan couldn’t forget that.
Lou Shador surveyed the coliseum through the slits in his mask. He didn’t look impressed at all. He also didn’t look worried. Instead, he grinned, reached into his cloak, and pulled out handfuls of… Flyers? Yep, definitely flyers. He hurled the slips of paper into the air and they fluttered down like confetti on New Year’s Eve. Logan wondered what they said. But before he could find out, the throb of an electric bass guitar pummeled the arena, promising doom. Then there were drums beating out a snappy tempo. After the inevitability of the rhythm section promising epicness, the next logical scream was the triumphant aria of a single electric guitar.
A wave of magic erupted from Lou Shador. He was the source of the intro music.
Even single one of Logan’s fungal soldiers look on with stunned expression etched into the lines of their faces. Mariah Carey, was back in her crimson coral armor, and she had her shepherd’s hook in hand. But this time, it snapped, crackled, and popped with Fulgur Apothos. She also had a single-shot jawbreaker blunderbuss hanging off her shoulder. She blinked. “Can you feel the hype, boss? I’m hyped and afraid. I’m hyped and afraid!”
A few of the waddlers hesitantly started for the door, as if they could slip out the back unseen.
The two Mycotic Shambles took a big step back as well.
The wrestler seemed to get bigger, stronger, better.
Logan knew it was some kind of intimidation spell. The song seemed to be a mix of “Thunderstruck,” “We Will Rock You,” and the ever beloved “Rock & Roll Part 2” by Gary Glitter that Logan always associated with hockey games. It was the pinnacle of classic rock hype-music. Luckily, as an A-Class Morel Sovereign, he had mental immunity, and so, he wasn’t intimidated one bit.
Logan took to the air, floating on an unfelt current, and swept his staff outward in an arc, sending out a wave of calming narcotic spores for his army. “That’s like bad Blur. It’s like ‘Song 2’ played on a ukulele and five-gallon Home Depot buckets. I am so not impressed, Lou. So not impressed.”
“What, brother? That was my hype song entrance intimidation skill. No one, and I mean no one, brother, has ever heard that and not filled their drawers with the special brown sauce.”
“Super gross, bro,” Logan shouted back. “You say brother, I say bro. It works. Now, how about you get out of here while you’re still breathing?”
“Ain’t gonna happen, mushroom,” the wrestler yelled.
“Then tell me, for the love of all that’s holy, why a luchador? Why all the Earth stuff? You and your Glow Brigade spent a ton of time on Earth, and I want to know why.”
The mouth hole in Shador’s mask was big enough so Logan could see him smile. “That’s a secret I’m taking with me to the grave. Let’s just say we got training there. Special mess-you-up-forever training, brother. Oh yeah!”
Logan chugged down a Spindle Wig smoothie he’d been saving for this special moment. “Looks like you won’t be eating any more Slim Jims, bro because I’m bringing the hulk-a-mania down on you like the wrath of the Undertaker! Triple H forever!”
Logan took two huge steps and went flying off the ring. In midair, he quadrupled his mass, thickening every bit of him until he looked like he was wearing a fungal plate mail over a fat suit. It was his exoskeleton turned up to the next level.
He wasn’t done armoring up. He had Treacle’s armor with a special haiku all of his own. “Our common spirit. Friendship forged in sacred work. Our esprit de corp.”
Suddenly, all of his layers of chitin, his own armor, and the new candy armor adjusted itself, the runes shining. This was next-level Treacle crafting.
Logan was three feet taller, four feet wider, and yet, it felt like he was only wearing a thick jacket. He spun his new staff, pouring out spores of all kinds.
A look of fear flashed through Shador’s eyes. Because he was being attacked, not only by this new armored mushroom giant, but one that was full of Mycological Rage. Every bit of Logan’s guardian form suddenly was juiced up by Mycological Rage with a Spindle Wig smoothie chaser. It was a mushroom-y dump of chemicals into his system.
Logan knew the plan was to keep the luchador busy during the fight, and to be fair, Logan made the bad decision before the narcotics and adrenaline and rage fungi hit his glands. Still, he was just tired of this Lou Shador character. He had the blood of so many dungeon core on his hands. And he thought he was the toughest dungeoneer on the block. Well, he’d chosen the wrong block to walk down.
Also, attacking the guy before he hit the ring was such a baller WWE move. Sure, it might disqualify a real pro wrestler, but this was Logan’s event, and the only rules?
There were no rules.
Logan landed right on Lou Shador’s face. The fungaloid rammed the butt end of his Staff of Sporing right into the wrestler’s solar plexus. Then it was a slash to the mask and a kick to the throat.
The wrestled staggered into the seats, showing Logan some unwanted plumber’s crack. Logan whacked that big luchador butt, driving him forward into the seats. Shador turned, blood on his lips, and his nose at the not the greatest angle.
Logan wasn’t done. Another couple of whacks with the staff, all the while dousing the luchador in a potent cocktail of Pollinic Affliction, Athlete’s Infection, Psychedelics, and Narcotics. If Logan was tweaking hard, he wanted this guy to join him.
His magic red cloak tried to stop Logan, but its movements were sluggish. At least the cloak wasn’t in its right mind.
Logan hauled the wrestler up, marched him down the aisle, and then tossed him up and over the ropes. Shador landed face first on the canvas.
The entire arena was up and cheering—all of Logan’s minions, which were kind of a lot. He had four knots orbiting his core like Jupiter’s moons, and the Apothos was flowing through him like Mountain Dew at Talladega.
Shador was up in seconds, wiping the blood from a split lip. “You ain’t right in the mind, brother. You put the bleeding pedestal right in the ring, right in the one place in all the universe where I cannot lose. Now, I’m gonna crack all five cores like I crack my eggs in the morning. The full dozen, brother, because Daddy needs to eat.”
He went for the card table.
But thanks to Treacle’s crafting skills, the metal legs suddenly sprouted hinges and big metal feet. The pedestal then scurried away across the canvas. It leapt over the ropes and went skedaddling out of the ring, running up the aisle, well protected by the various kinds of waddlers, the Mycotic Shambles, and even some of the Destroying Angels.
Logan shrieked like a banshee and launched himself back into the ring.
“Come and get some!” Shador screamed, the veins in his neck bulging.
Logan rage shrieked. He’d lost it. He stashed his staff into his Ring of Pockets. He wanted his hands free for this next part. All the benefits of the staff continued to work just fine even when the weapon wasn’t in his hands. It was part of the Tree of Souls after all.
Shador’s wrist wrap tentacles unspooled and reached for Logan, but the morel sovereign grabbed them in his two big fists. He spun and twisted, using his superior weight to hurl Shador into the Blister Wart corner. The cloak still wasn’t functioning well—temporarily down for the count thanks to Logan’s spore attack—so the luchador collided into the mushroom colony with his big hairy back.
He retracted his wrist tentacles as he yelped in pain.
Logan dashed over, grabbed double fistfuls of leotard, and hurled Lou Shador sideways into the Crimson Coral corner. The coral shredded his arm and the left side of his body. So he wasn’t completely invulnerable after all.
Logan wasn’t done.
Shador’s cloak was flailing sporadically, finally trying to save the wrestler. Logan wasn’t having any of it. He grabbed the silky material and used it to hurl Shador into the Gem-Studded Puffballs. Explosion after explosion wrecked the wrestler, shredding the cloak, adding insult to injury and a few new bleeding wounds.
Logan used his rage-strength to effortlessly lift Shador above his head. He spun around in a circle then threw the man across the ring and right into the turnbuckle sprouting Ghoul’s Snare.
The mushrooms growths grabbed hold of the luchador, holding him steady, while Logan closed the distance and used proceeded to use his face and torso as a punching bag.
He roared in triumph as one of his oversized fists knocked a tooth loose…
And that’s when the powerful effects of Mycological Rage decided to pack their bags and skip town.
In an instant, Logan’s muscles deflated like popped balloons and he felt himself wither and shrink back down. He stepped back, winded from the exertion.
Shador spat blood from his mouth. “You done, brother?”
“No. Just need a breather.”
“You my friend, ain’t got the time to breathe.”
“It’s bleed,” Logan spat. “I ain’t got time to bleed.”
It was obvious that Shador hadn’t seen the movie. He flung out his arms and the Ghoul’s Snare holding him snapped. Was he really that strong? No, it was weakened because Shador had suddenly become very smelly. He reeked like gym socks and used kitty litter. While Logan normally liked such biological odors, this was on another level entirely. He couldn’t stand the stench and quickly found himself gagging.
Diseased air gusted out from the wrestler’s armpits, feet, and nether regions. His core was throbbing with a power Logan had felt it before—when he’d fought Billy Scales inside Steve the Mannequin.
“No way!” Logan shouted. “What the hell?”
“Lots of bad stuff in the gyms of Loss Angeleez. Walked around for years in my bare feet catching all sorts of diseases. Didn’t kill me. Made me strong. Lots of fungi on Uroth that no one thinks about no more. A surprising amount, brother, if you know where to look.”
That was why Logan’s halo spores hadn’t affected the wrestler. He was immune because he’d spent so much time barefoot in L.A. It kinda made sense.
Shador raised his hands and from out of tattered cloak appeared a whirlwind of folding chairs, more folding chairs than you could shake a stick at. They swirled around the ring in a screaming tornado of padded seats and metal legs. The chairs clobbered the handful of Logan’s minions who had been ringside for the action. Logan narrowly ducked a few of the chairs, but soon he found himself being mercilessly battered—back, front, face—from every angle with an unstoppable onslaught of folding chairs.
Destroying Angels hurled Morta bolts, which blasted apart some of the chairs, but for every piece of furniture they dispatched, two more chairs seemed to appear.
Over the hurricane of folding chairs, he heard Shador’s hype music start again, followed by disembodied chanting. “Lou Shador! Chant his name. Lou Shador! Chant his name!”
“You have your minions, brother,” Shador growled above the din, “and I have mine. Except I like to call them fans. Or in this case, rabid fanlings.”
All the paper flyers he’d been flinging had sprouted into wide collection of normal looking humans, however, they were all wearing the luchador masks. There were hundreds of them, and they came swarming down in a dizzying array of jeans, flannel, and sports jerseys. Their weapons were a strange collection of chains, baseball bats, barbells, dumbbells, and weight room plates.
Mariah Carey, her candy helmet cracked, turned, holding the jawbreaker blunderbuss. “Waddlers! Prepare to repulse toxic fandom!”
The rabid fanlings swarmed down in an ocean of crazed humanity.
One of the flyers fluttered to where Logan could catch hold of it. It was what he kind of expected.
Monday, Monday, Monday, one night only, the Luchador of Love, the Raider of the Righteous, the Dungeoneer of Daring, Lou Shador, versus Logan Murray, Fungal Freak and Mushroom Moron. The battle of the millennia. Fungal powers in full world-punishing display. Two gladiators will enter. Only one gladiator will leave.”
Shador pointed a finger at the folding table scurrying away from the rabid fanlings. “Found your cores, mushroom. Now it’s time for Daddy to eat!”
Logan coughed and tried to spit the taste of nasty air out of his mouth. “Will you please not refer yourself as daddy? It’s unsettling.”
That was when the ropes encircling the ring came alive, ensnaring Logan like constricting boas. Or boa constrictors. Either way, he was helpless. He felt like a tamale wrapped up in barbed wire. The ropes continued to get tighter and tighter and tighter. And stinkier and stinkier and stinkier. There was mushroom magic at work, but how could that be?
What he was feeling shouldn’t have been possible…
Comments
Luke DeMink
I love the action and the mystery. Maybe some fungul lord influence on earth that relates to the golden serpent. Mmmm. Possibilities.
