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#GameOf'Trónes - Book the First: Rager at Bielski's

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Tyler stood in the streets of his kingdom, one shoe off, exposing a dirty sock, his other shoe coated in what appeared to be vomit that was comprised of chili sauce and milk. His jeans were torn and faded, not that he had bought them that way, just that he was a dirty hafling by nature. He wore a large chrome belt buckle, to support his pants that read ‘FUCK’ in bold capital letters. He wore a grey button up shirt, half tucked into his waist, and a loosened tie. On top of all of this was a blazer jacket, a very dirty, dingy, stained blazer jacket. The stains appeared to be that of the same puke, along with several wine stains and what undoubtedly had to have been seminal fluids. It was hard to determine if it was his own or not. He wore broken prescription glasses, the thick framed ones hispters wear to be ironic, breaking past the meta to be like a double hipster or some shit. His ginger beard was wildly overgrown and his hair was damp and matted looking, pressed against the side of his face and head.

He wore an expression of joy on the surface, though it was plain to see he was putting up this front as to not reduce citizen moral. Tyler lived out on the streets on purpose, so that his people wouldn’t see him as someone above them. His modesty destroyed his perception of reality though. He thought his land to be impoverished, when in reality out of the eight major kingdoms, his was one of the wealthiest.

Disillusioned, Tyler wandered the streets, smelling of bile, rambling about the impending war, as his citizens walked around him to avoid contact while talking away on their iPhones and sipping their starkly overpriced coffee drinks, on their way to their high paying jobs.

“People, no need to be alarmed, see I am one of you! I’m suffering from this economic down turn just like all of you!” People went so far as to take phantom phone calls just to avoid having to acknowledge his existence.

As he went on ranting about the economy and the impending Mexican Winter a well-groomed man in a fancy suit approached Tyler.

“King Tyler? Is that you? Holy. Shit. You smell awful.” The man said in a European accent. Tyler approached him, squinting his eyes, “Please, sir, don’t touch me. I’m here on business from your abandoned castle. Since you decided this foolishness was your best course of action as diplomatic leader, I’ve been acting as a quasi-king in your place, informing the public that you’re on a spiritual journey or some shit. By the way, your disgusting body pillow wants to know when you will be making your alimony payments.”

Tyler lifted a hand and pressed a single, shit covered finger against the man’s mouth. “Shhh… they’ll hear us.” Tyler said in a whisper. The man gagged and pushed Tyler’s hand away.

“Who the fuck are ‘They’?” he asked.

“The illuminati. They’re everywhere!”

“Sir, might I remind you that you were the one that formed the illuminati, as part of your new democratic program, so yes, they are everywhere. You’re one, I’m one, hell, it is a twenty-five dollar fee to join. It’s harder to get into the Mickey Mouse Club.”

“But what about JFK? Who assassinated him then?” Tyler asked inquisitively, one eyebrow raised.

“You had his death sanctioned, m’lord.” The man in the suit was not amused, “Sir, we need you at the castle, there is business to attend to. It’s urgent, we don’t have much time before the Fuckboys from that damned mountain attempt a siege at our walls.”

Tyler looked down at his feet, entranced in deep thought. He gave himself a moment to reflect before looking up to his councilman and nodded in agreement. The councilman extended an arm in the direction of the castle as to lead the way. Tyler began following.

“Hold it right there, Tyler.” A voice bellowed from behind the two men. A familiar voice. Tyler turned slowly to meet eyes with an old ally. His eyes lit up in excitement.
“Bielski, you son of a bitch!” Tyler opened his arms for a hug, and strode hurriedly over to Bielski, as Bielski did the same. They embraced joyfully at this happy reunion. “Bielski, you look like shit!”

It was true, Bielski was wearing rags, and had seaweed wrapped around his arms and torso, a small fish was ensnared in his mangy hair, still gasping for air. His head was gashed open from coming into direct contact with a large stone desk that had fallen out of his castle, alongside him.
“You… uh, don’t look much better.” Bielski replied.

“Psh, I dress this way ironically.” Tyler said, rolling his eyes.

“Listen Tyler, gather an army as soon as possible. The Fuckboys laid siege to my kingdom. My land is in ruin. They’re coming here next. We must gather troops and as many allies as possible. Mexican winter is upon us, we can’t afford to lose this battle. My citizens will not live in the shadow of Mount Fuckboy.”

“I agree, let’s ride on the morrow to the kingdom of Harrison Wisner. He is a powerful ally to have.”

The two stared deeply into each other’s eye for an awkwardly long period of time, cradling the back of one another’s head. Gazes fixated on the other. The two got their faces uncomfortably close. The thin European man stared wide eyed in disgust. Passersby formed a small crowd to witness two homeless looking men about to fornicate in the middle of Time Square, snapping photos on their shitty smartphones.

“How do I quit you, Bielski?”

“Ahem, men.” The councilman interrupted the two and they broke free from their embrace, clearing their throats loudly while looking around at the audience they had produced, “We need to get back to the castle. Now!”

The three men arrived at Tyland Manor by sundown and began the long arduous task of making a strategy, for tomorrow they would travel to Harrison Land.