Orcs didn’t give two shits about what “lesser” races thought of their appearances. An orcish warrior could walk down the street covered in pig mud and horse piss and it would be completely normal to him. On this night, however, it wasn’t about odors or clothing; it was about hair. It was a rowdy and raucous night in the Dragon Wings Orc Bar. Every smelly disgusting orc raised their arms in the air and shouted like sports fans. The latter could have been because they were sports fan, particularly combat sports.
Two grimy wrestlers stood across from each other in the bar’s circle pit while others gathered around them and cheered in lovely orcish cacophony. The fighters never took their eyes off of each other as they stared across the circle pit. They had the one thing that made orcs stand out from the rest of the fantasy races: ruthless aggression. Their fangs were clamped down tightly. Their slimy green lips were quivering. Their bulging muscles were trembling. Their fists were harder than blocks of cement. The biggest blow to the loser wouldn’t come in the form of bruises or cuts. It would come in the form of having his head shaved completely bald.
Tazz Battler, the one with the black dreadlocks and brown fur wrestling trunks, got in his combative stance and looked ready to slam his opponent on the wooden floor with a deafening thud. Gargoth Trencher, the one with blond pigtails and gray sharkskin trunks, remained arrogant with his folded arms and wicked glare. Word around the campfire was that Gargoth wasn’t taking this Hair vs. Hair matchup seriously since he believed Tazz was beneath him. It was either a big mistake or a prophecy, an answer only having this wrestling match would tell.
With the thunderous ring of the brass bell, the fight was underway. Tazz let out a monstrous warcry and wasted no time in bull rushing his opponent. Gargoth, being the arrogant prick he was, allowed his adversary to engage him in a collar-elbow tie-up without much effort. The two of them pushed and shoved their away around the sea of orcish humanity just to see who would gain the first advantage. Even the biggest bruisers were being knocked over with ease by these two warriors.
Gargoth drew first blood when he grabbed Tazz by his dreadlocks and shoved him face first to the floor. To add insult to injury, the pigtailed orc placed his steel boot on his opponent’s head and held him there while posing and pandering to the wildly cheering crowd.
Tazz thrashed underneath the weight of his rival in an attempt not to suffocate on this dingy wooden floor. He then got the idea of grabbing Gargoth’s free ankle with both hands and yanking his body out from underneath, sending the blond oaf crashing to the ground.
Playtime had officially come to an end for these two grapplers. They scrambled together on the floor in an attempt to lock in a submission hold of some kind. Their slimy skin and deadly strength left them both at a stalemate since grabbing onto a limb was next to impossible.
Finally, Gargoth grabbed both of Tazz’s wrists and squeezed as hard as he could while whispering angrily, “Are you a wrestler…or a whore of the night?! If you’re going to fight me, do it without trying to get laid!”
It was advice well-taken. Tazz ripped his greasy, unwashed arms out of Gargoth’s grip, stood up, and jumped up before planting both heavy feet into his opponent’s stomach. The pigtailed warrior let out a throaty scream of agony while the orcish audience cheered their approval of this brutality, especially after blood was leaking from Gargoth’s bottom lip.
Tazz Battler wasn’t finished yet. He hooked his massive arms around his nemesis’ ankles and spun him around in a classic wrestling move known as The Giant Swing. Around and around the two of them went, Tazz not caring if he smacked a few orcish audience members along the way. This gargantuan display of power was ended when the dreadlocked warrior lifted Gargoth even higher in the air and slammed him repeatedly on his back until the pigtailed brute passed out from the pain. So many crunches, so much bleeding from the mouth, and the audience was there to cheer on the whole thing.
“Hand me the razor! He’s finished!” screamed Tazz while holding his hand out. Someone gave him a shaving razor that looked more like a rogue’s dagger and probably hurt like one when cutting hair. But as Tazz went to work on the pompous pigtails and everything in between, Gargoth was still out of it from being slammed on his back so many times.
By the time the once arrogant prick came to, his green scaly scalp had deep gashes and cuts, but no pigtails. He was completely bald while Tazz Battler held the remaining bloody hair in the sky with pride and orcish adrenaline. To confirm this was really happening, Gargoth placed a gentle hand on his own head to feel the wounds. He really was shaved bald. The Hair vs. Hair stipulation had been fulfilled.
Upon realizing his “lovely locks” were gone and upon listening to the orcish audience laugh at him and cheer for Tazz, Gargoth’s lips quivered in sadness while tears streamed down his cheeks, prompting even louder laughter from his peers. He was even treated to slurs like “fag”, “man-whore”, and “big baby” for good measure. The once proud orc was reduced to a blubbering child as tears poured from his eyes in a waterfall of sadness. He was traumatized for life.
The horse laughing and name calling would have gone on all night if it wasn’t for the fact that Gargoth’s tears had turned blood red. Orcs were accustomed to seeing blood on a daily basis, but this was weird enough to cast universal silence in the bar. The more Gargoth cried tears of blood, the angrier he became. His breath became hot enough to blow fire. His bald wounds were healing over with parasites. His muscle-bound body was forming cracks with burning orange light shining through them.
The once tough orcish crowd was now backing away from Gargoth Trencher as he stood up and started peeling his skin off. This wasn’t gentle peeling; this was ripping and shredding, which started to scare the once proud orcish audience. The huge chunks of ripped flesh were turning into maggots and leeches that stank worse than the entire bar clientele put together.
With a sea of orcs cowering and quivering in fear before him, Gargoth Trencher had peeled away his old self to reveal the form of a flaming skeletal death angel, complete with black metal wings and enough of an odor to knock a buzzard off of a shit wagon.
With a deeper, more demonic voice than before, Gargoth screamed, “Is this what you call entertainment?! Is this you’re idea of fun?! Then goddamn it, let’s have some mother…fucking…FUN!!” That last word was prolonged with extra fire in his voice, fire that scorched the skin of the orcs in the tavern.
Gargoth continued to breathe fire and tear the flesh off of the orcs around him. His violent rampage made the entire bar look like a bloodbath of fire and flesh. Some of the cowardly and bullying orcs were able to run for the exit, though most of them were thrashing and burning in never-ending pain. Death came slowly and torturously for Gargoth’s victims.
He could have won bonus points for mental torture as well. In the distant corner of the Dragon Wings Orc Bar was the barkeep, cowering, quivering, and making himself as small as humanly possible. He shivered and cried in his little space and wished death would come instantly. Get in line, barkeep. The only thing that gave him any peace whatsoever was the sudden extinguishing of the flames around him and the disappearance of Gargoth Trencher, death angel at large.
The bartender slowly stood up and surveyed the horrifying damage around him. His furniture had turned to ashes, though that was the least of his concerns. His patrons were mangled and twisted into funny shapes while drowning in a heap of blood and smoke. Judging from the sorrowful look on the bartender’s face as well as his unwillingness to stop shaking, this battlefield would haunt him for the rest of his life. All he wanted to do was sit in bed and cry, but no eiderdown was soft enough to sooth his mental wounds.
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