King of the LARPers

[Mikhail]

If you'd told Mik these dorks would kick his ass with their play swords, he wouldn't have believed you. Not in the slightest. Why would he? I mean Mik had fought for real. Monsters and asholes. Dicks and bitches and everything in between. Well, ok, sure. He has his power. That helped. Yeah, more than otherwise.

But come on! What's he supposed to do when he's leaving the club and a bunch of gopnick fucktards decide to get into a dick measuring contest with him to impress the moron girls that hang around? So maybe it was just two gopnicks. And maybe he had muttered something under his breath. What was it, again? That's right. Something about Adidas tracksuits are the uniform of mouth breathing morons. He thought it pretty funny. Yeah, he was drunk and high. But still, pretty good. 

Apparently, he'd forgotten that talking about Adidas was like drawing a picture of Mohamed getting pretty chummy with the Pope to a Catholic Muslim. Crusade and Jihad mixed into one. 

Jesus, it had just been words. But the power had fixed things up. Nothing fancy. Too bad for them their track suits were nice and burned. Fucking stunk, too. 

Yet another reason why they were morons.

Anyway, so he had been in many fights and shit. But the power helped out.

Here, the nerd brigade had apparently spent a lot of time practicing as they imagined they fought dragons and Cyborgs and fucked Hobbits or Slytherins or whatever it was from the Last Ring of Harry Galactica. 

And damn, but those things hurt. I mean, not in a super painful way. And he did enjoy expert use of a flogger or a paddle or estim. So maybe it was his ego that hurt more.

He supposed he should get upset about it. But he didn't. The minute he was a butthurt little bitch about shit life threw at you was the minute the Lady would give you something to cry about.

She didn't fuck around, no sir. Anyone whining about life would find themselves in a world of hurt. He knew this, sure as shit. He wasn't always the model of happy go lucky, didn't give a shit what happened he was now. Nope. And boy, let me tell you, he learned that fucking lesson. The hard way.

So she looked at him with Yun Kao's face, slightly curious expression in her eyes. He smiled at her reassuringly and barked a laugh, clapping the guy who'd slapped his shins with his sword on the back. "Nice one!" He said.

And then he moved on. He did get a few good strikes. But definitely wasn't taking home the Elf Queen or Captain Jack. More's the pity. But fun all the same.

His next tournament was with a guy kitted out in style. Who was this doofus? Obviously had spend money. And his sword was a seriously good replica. 

Sir Sly McStabby. That was good. None of this Lord McLorthien of Clan Humperdink or some shit like that. 

He tipped his fake blade at him and nodded, waiting for the guy to say go!