Kiss Me Fuckin' Arse - Just Another Day in the Ice-Laced Ruins of The GodForsaken City

Kiss Me Fuckin’ Arse — Just Another Day in the Ice-Laced Ruins of The GodForsaken City

Crrrraaaaack — CRACK!

The sheet ice split like lightning bolts through the webbed remains of cracked pavement. Dirty snow clung to broken curbs and overturned mailboxes. The skeletons of ruined skyscrapers loomed above, hollowed by centuries of wind, ash, and frostbite. Weeds strangled through parking meters. Moss crept like cold fingers across rusted walls.

And on the sidewalk outside what used to be a biker bar — black paint peeling, neon signs long dead, the stink of oil and piss still strong — sat a garish 1968 VW Bus food truck.

Purple tartan flapping in the cold wind. Silver unicorn hood ornament glaring down all who dared stare. Skull-spiked bumper guards. Rainbow pinwheels. Strings of LED faerie lights flickering in mockery of the dead power grid.

It was early morning in The GodForsaken City (formerly known as Boston) and the food truck had pulled off the side of road, on a seemingly deserted back alley side street, so BoomFuzzy could cook breakfast for himself, Quaraun, and GhoulSpawn.

It was difficult to park a food truck in the city, even a zombie infested city that lay in ruins, without attracting the attention of starving survivors. Starving Humans seeking food, were often worse than the zombies seeking brains.

Zombies were easy to fight. They were predictable. They shambled by in search of brains.

Humans were unpredictable. You never knew what to expect from a Human. And it was for this reason they had parked the food truck in the outskirts of the city, in a back street, in an area, where it appeared there were no shanty tents set up, so that they could eat their breakfast in peace, without being interrupted by Humans begging for food.

BoomFuzzy, scowling from behind his VR cyber-tech goggles, hands smeared with tofu-bacon grease, glared down at the two Humans who were now standing outside the food truck.

The immortal Lich King flipped a skillet with flair, plated scrambled eggs — golden, fluffy, folded thick on toasted sourdough. Cheese slabs, barely melted, oozed down the crusty sides. Black coffee — hot, bitter, boiled strong enough to slap you sober — steamed in recycled tin cans.

The two men stood awkwardly in the frostbitten slush, both wrapped in threadbare military jackets scavenged from long-dead soldiers. One was bearded and balding, the other still barely out of his teens, gaunt-faced and shaking from the cold. They clutched their empty bellies, eyes fixed hungrily on the plates. Steam from the food truck fogged their cracked sunglasses.

“I made this for me fuckin’ self,” BoomFuzzy snapped, as he handed two plates out the side window with a grunt. “Me food truck were no yet open for business. I only just parked it so I could cook breakfast for me and me Elf and me Goat — “

“I’m a sheep,” GhoulSpawn called out from somewhere inside the 23 window Kombi.

BoomFuzzy ignored him.

“If ye want some, ye pays. If ya pays, ye eats.”

“But we have no money,” the older Human said.

“Then ya gets lost. Simple.”

“My mother runs a brothel,” the younger man said. “She could — “

“No. She couldn’t. Yer mum’s tits ain’t gonna fly here. I got me two Husbands in the back. Ain’t got me no interest in females. I doesnae swing that way.”

“Couldn’t you just give us a bite?”

“This food truck is me business,” BoomFuzzy said. “How’am’I to make a profit if I give away me food, eh?” He waved his spatula like a weapon. “I ain’t heartless, but this here is not a charity, nor a soup kitchen. Find something to trade iffy ya gots no money.”

“What would you take for trade?”

“What have ya got?”

“See if they have any coloured glass,” Quaraun yelled from the back room of the Volkswagen.

“Yer heard me Elf,” BoomFuzzy said. “He likes making jewellery out of coloured glass shards. Find him some coloured glass and I’ll give ya both full bellies.”

“Where would we get coloured glass?”

“There’s a big old church down that way,” BoomFuzzy leaned out of the food truck and pointed down the road. “Here — “ He tossed a burlap bag to the two Humans. “Fill this up with coloured glass and any relics or small statues, beads, books, or whatnots, ya can find in the church down there. I’ll make meals for both of ya when ya return.”

The burlap sack landed in a pile of snow with a dull plump. The older man grabbed it quickly, brushing off the ice. Without another word, the two of them turned and sprinted down the icy road, boots crunching over salt-stained pavement. The wind howled down the desolate street, whipping their tattered jackets around thin frames. Ahead, rising like a frozen monolith, loomed the blood-red brick husk of a long-abandoned cathedral.

A few hours later the two men were sitting on the sidewalk eating hot meals, while Quaraun sat in the back of the food truck sorting through his new treasure of colourful glass shards, crumbling hymnals, and stacks of tiny shot glasses.

Outside, the battered bar door swung open with a creak like death yawning. The neon lights flickered on.

“Oi,” BoomFuzzy said. “That bar ain’t as deserted as it looks.”

Out stomped the bar’s owner. A greasy man with chains on his belt, a crude steel bat in one hand, and ‘MURDER’ tattooed across the meat of his knuckles. His beard was matted, his breath reeking of stale moonshine and old-world arrogance.

“You stealing my fuckin’ customers, you freak,” the bar owner bellowed at BoomFuzzy. “I saw ‘em — lined up! All two of ‘em! They came for my liquor and left with your goddamn tofu bacon and fancy Fae shite!”

BoomFuzzy blinked.

“Yer customers? Ye mean those two skinny bastards wi’ frostbite on their eyebrows and diarrhea in their boots? Yer drinkin’ yer own brain outta yer ears, mate. They were no here to buy ya beer, they couldn’t even afford to buy me food.”

“They’re still mine.”

“How you figure?”

“My regulars. My territory.” The man jabbed his bat at the VW’s chrome bumper. “Food trucks ain’t allowed to set up within two blocks of a standing bar.”

“Says who?”

“That’s regulation. That’s law.”

“What law?” BoomFuzzy asked. “World up and died. In case ya hadn’t noticed there’s a zombie apocalypse going on. Ain’t no laws no more on account of there ain’t no governments no more.”

“You and your sparkle pies can roll the hell on outta here.”

“Why?”

“We don’t need no sleazy food trucks stealing customers from our restaurant.”

“What customers? What restaurant?” BoomFuzzy scoffed and spun in a slow, mocking circle, arms wide. Wind tugged at his coat, whipping steam off the grill. He pointed to the shattered windows, the fire-blasted wall, the caved-in roof. “Ya call that heap of shite a restaurant? Those burned tables? That piss puddle of a lounge? I’ve seen cleaner kitchens in zombie nests.”

“It’s a licensed establishment!”

“It’s a rat nest wi’ a liquor license taped to the wall in crayon!”

“That’s it. You wanna play dirty?”

“I always play dirty.” BoomFuzzy licked his fingers, slow and theatrical, before flipping a pancake onto a plate without looking.

“I told you to move your clown wagon!”

BoomFuzzy narrowed his eyes.

“Al’righty.”

He moved it.

Eight feet forward.

Right across the bar’s only door.

“You fucking bastard,” the bar owner screamed. “Now ya blocking my door!”

“Ya told me to move it.”

“Move it again!”

“No!”

“Move your ass!” the barman yelled.

BoomFuzzy grinned wickedly. Purple and black kilt flapping in the wind, he climbed up on the bumper and flipped it.

His kilt.

And his arse.

“Kiss me fuckin’ arse, ya peely-wally gobshite!”

The bar owner stood stunned. Mouth open. Brain stalled. Then rage replaced reason.

“Y-you little freaky garden Gnome — ”

“Dude, like — maybe don’t start a fight, right?” GhoulSpawn said, leaning his horned head out of the back window. “We’re, uh, kind of in, like, enemy turf here, y’know? I mean, statistically speaking, urban ruins have an 87% higher likelihood of random brawls escalating into, like, full-on raider-level shitstorms.”

“I LIVE for brawls!” BoomFuzzy roared, leaping off the bumper and uppercutting the bar owner without warning.

The man flew backward into a snowbank with a muffled thump.

Snow whirled in little dervishes across the cracked pavement, the chill biting like teeth. BoomFuzzy stood in front of the Volkswagen, arms crossed, steam hissing from the still-hot griddle behind him.

The bar owner groaned, rolling out of the snowbank like a dying walrus, covered in slush and prideful rage. Blood trickled from his lip. He wiped it with the back of his arm and screamed toward the half-collapsed bar.

“BOYS!” he bellowed. “Get the fuck out here! Some deranged little goblin punched me in the goddamn face!”

The bar door slammed open again, not with a creak this time, but with a bang like a battering ram striking bone, as the door slammed against the side of the food truck.

Behind BoomFuzzy, the Volkswagen Kombi gave a metallic groan as the thugs grabbed it and pushed, straining against rusted wheels and icy grit. The whole food truck lurched over a foot… then two… just far enough to free the bar’s door again.

Inside, Quaraun shrieked.

“You are going to scratch the paint! That is custom cream enamel!”

GhoulSpawn popped his horned head out again, mouth full of scrambled eggs.

“Uh, Dude?” he said around a bite. “I, like, think we got trouble, Boomie. Big dudes. Lots of testosterone. Poor conflict resolution skills. Classic case of ‘my biceps are bigger than my brain.’”

“Perfect,” BoomFuzzy muttered, grinning wide. He rolled his neck until it cracked, loosened his shoulders, then flipped the spatula into the air and caught it behind his back.

“Five o’ ye. One o’ me. This’ll be fun.”

Shouts exploded. Rusted chains rattled. Boots slammed the ground like war drums. Biker thugs poured from the shadows like cockroaches in leather.

“Ohhh, fudge cakes — ” GhoulSpawn yelped.

They were big.

They were burly.

They were beefcakes on frostbitten wheels.

Four — no, five — mountain-sized men. Burly biker brutes. All muscle, leather, steel studs, and frost-dusted beards. One wore a necklace of bottle caps. Another had a chainsaw blade strapped across his back like a guitar. Every one of them looked like a chain smoking freight train given flesh and boots.

Each towered well over six feet.

And then there was BoomFuzzy.

Five foot one. Standing waist high to any one of them.

A tiny little Scottish spitfire in a flapping purple kilt, long wooly dreadlocks, and steel-toed boots, glaring up at them like a pissed-off bantam rooster guarding his coop.

“That him?” one of the bikers asked, pointing down at the little Pygmy.

“What’s this? A Gnome? A garden ornament?”

“You bring yer toddler out to fight, old man?”

“That itty-bitty thing decked you?” another said, trying — and failing — not to snort with laughter.

“Aw, come on,” a third chimed in. “He don’t even come up to your nipples! My kid’s taller then him. You want us to beat up a Leprechaun now?”

BoomFuzzy stepped forward, twirling his spatula with theatrical menace.

“Careful who ye callin’ a Leprechaun, Laddie,” he growled. “I an’t no Irish lassie, I be a Scotsman from the Shetland Isles.”

“Yo, he really is a Leprechaun.”

“I am a Phooka.”

“Phooka, Leprechaun. What’s the difference? You’re all just midget Brits.”

“I ain’t no bleeding Brit ya bloody fucking American yank wanker! Last feller what called me British be buried in six different barrels. In six different postcodes.”

The bikers chuckled, confident in their numbers.

“You oughta pick fights with folks your own size, Short Stack.”

“Yeah,” the tallest said, cracking his knuckles. “You’re punchin’ up just to reach our knees.”

BoomFuzzy stomped forward in the snow, raging banty rooster fire in his silver eyes and absolute murder in his kilt.

“Ye poor bastards’re about t’ learn why they call me The Screamin’ Fuckin’ Unicorn.”

And they laughed. Laughed at the tiny, ancient blind chef standing five-foot-nothing in fur boots and goggles, fisted up like a drunken Highland boxer.

They swung.

Their fists hit — Nothing.

BoomFuzzy flickered, shimmered, faded. Lich form. Incorporeal. Literally ghosting them. Their punches passed through cold air.

And then the air shifted.

BOOM — one bike flew.

CRUNCH — another hog shattered against a rusted lamppost, as BoomFuzzy went full poltergeist on their arses.

A third bike cartwheeled into the bar wall and exploded in sparks.

BoomFuzzy, spectral and cackling, stomped around like a demonic pony, flinging chrome beasts like tinsel. His laughter echoed through ruined alleyways. His dreadlocks trailed like smoke.

Ghost. Wraith. Undead Unicorn fury in a tartan kilt.

“Call me a wee Brit again, ye fucking donkey-fondlin’ bastards!”

Quaraun appeared from inside the truck, white hair billowing, nose rings chiming, his foot long rabbitty ears twitching in alarm.

“Unicorn!” Quaraun shrieked, panic blocking his ability to think or speak clearly. “Unicorn! We must flee! We must fly! Flee and fly! Fly and flee!”

GhoulSpawn was already shoving everything inside — the pans, the plates, the cracked solar kettle, the barrel of beans, the goat milk, the condiment rack.

“We’re out! We’re gone! We’re so gone! Boomie get back in the bus!”

BoomFuzzy hurled one last motorcycle into the icy gutter with a scream of glee, and then —

“Git yer hooves back inside, Loves!” he shouted to GhoulSpawn and Quaraun.

BoomFuzzy dove headlong into the back of the van, phased through the side panel, and solidified in the passenger seat.

Quaraun slammed the driver’s seat lever. The food truck wheezed, coughed, groaned — then roared.

Tyres spat ice.

The VW Bus skidded sideways and bolted down the crumbling street, chunks of frost flying like shrapnel in its wake.

Behind them, furious biker thugs scrambled to right their wrecked rides. But BoomFuzzy’s ghost-light grin pressed against the back window, middle finger raised.

“THAT’S WHIT YE GIT FER INSULTIN’ MA EGGS, YE BUNCH O’ BIKE-HUMPIN’ FANNY-WAGGLERS!”

“Do you have to start a fight everywhere we go?” GhoulSpawn asked.

This story is published in:

• Three Wizards and a Food Truck

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Includes the following stories: Wishing For Lobster Rolls: A Lesson In Why One Never Makes Wishes In The Presence of Wizards The Food Truck's Warm Protective Embrace Absinthe Slushies: An Ode to Frozen Green Fairy Wine Sticky Rice, Bare Fingers, and Slippery Chopsticks Kiss Me FA: Just Another Day in the Ice-Laced Ruins of The GodForsaken City The Bridge of Doom Zwodder: A Drowsy Stupid State of Mind Head Cheese: A Story of Cauliflower, Cruelty, and Carnage Apple Tart and Stargazing Sheer Terror: Rotten Fruit The Candy Corn Cult Vendetta over Vittles Coleslaw To Go With the Lobster Rolls, of Course! BoomFuzzy's Chowder Dilemma Eels Beneath the Ice Why You Should Never Insult the JellyElf in a Street Market Blueberries and Bravado The Curse of the Cloaked Crustacean Dystopia, Doom, and Dark Romance with Custard Pastries in the Parking Lot Snowstorm Sabotage Sea Slugs and Clam Chowder Bread Bowls The Price of Generosity A Mess of Porridge Chocolate Bliss Springtime by the River Springtime by the River: Evening Stolen Midnight Magic Cracked Carnival The Apple Stall in 3 Perspectives Chocolate in the Neon Shadows Mint, Madness, and Motor Parts Spinning Dreams in Silk Quaraun & BoomFuzzy: The Ultimate Power Couple

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The Pink Necromancer, Moon Elf silk weaver & merchant: Quaraun on Noodle Beach. His master chef Phooka turned Lich husband: BoomFuzzy with his 1968 VW Bus Beach Noodle Food Truck. And their on again/off again mad scientist Sheep Demon lover: GhoulSpawn with his 1974 AMC Gremlin time machine. Time Travel setting swings back and forth between 40th century Maine after a comet hit the moon decimating the planet, and the 1970s, Maine. Quaraun in the main character, he and BoomFuzzy are a married gay couple. GhoulSpawn is their shared live-in lover. Art by Wendy Christine Allen.

BoomFuzzy King Gwallmaiic aka BoomFuzzy the Unicorn: Quaraun's husband, BoomFuzzy aka King Gwallmaiic, a Scottish Phooka, who is King of The UnSeelie Court. Quaraun is his court mage and advisor, as well as the only Elf in The UnSeelie Court. BoomFuzzy is a "classic fantasy type" Necromancer who uses sorcery to raise the dead. Being a Faerie he is also an illusionist and master of trickster magic. By profession, he is a Master Chef, owning the global monopoly on restaurants, taverns, pubs, and food trucks. Until his death, BoomFuzzy was regarded as the world's most powerful wizard. He is now a Lich. BoomFuzzy is also half-Human. His mother was a Mongolian/Chinese Human, which is why he wears distinctively Asian outfits, along with a great kilt worn as a cape. Known as BoomFuzzy the Unicorn, he often takes the form of a purple Unicorn. BoomFuzzy's exact age is unknown, though he was well over two thousand years old at the time of his death, and Quaraun resurrected him as a Lich around 500+ years ago, making him close to 3,000 years old. In his BlackBird form he is fifteen thousand years old. Art by Wendy Christine Allen

Quaraun Quaraun the Insane aka The Pink Necromancer: The F2M transgender Persian Moon Elf main character: The Pink Necromancer, Quaraun The Insane, with BoomFuzzy the Unicorn. F2M for those unaware = Quaraun was biologically born female, but transitioned to live as a male; this is why there are stories where Quaraun is sometimes pregnant, in spite of being male and using he/him male pronouns. Quaraun is a Necromancer by the actual dictionary definition of the word, meaning he is a psychic medium who sees and hears ghosts, and uses tarot, spirit boards, and seances to communicate with the dead. By profession he is a silk weaver/tailor/silk merchant. Quaraun is an Elder God JellyFish who takes the form of an Elf to blend in with society. His 12 foot long hair is made out of venomous, stinging jellyfish tentacles. Quaraun is BoomFuzzy's apprentice and regarded as the world's most powerful still living wizard. Quaraun's exact age is unknown, but he is somewhere around 750 years old. In his SunTa form he is twelve thousand years old. The Scared Pink JellyFish that lives in him, is stated to being over two million years old. Art by Wendy Christine Allen

Faeries vs Elves (In The Quaraun Series) A Pink Necromancer World Lore Post

The Pink Necromancer: The Adventures of Quaraun The Insane aka The Twighlight Manor Series

🌸🦄🌸 Furry Yaoi Fiction about Elves and Faeries and Satyrs and Demons and Unicorns and Technomancer Wizards and Liches living in a Lighthouse and surviving as Travelling Merchants and Food Truck Chefs in Cyberpunk Dystopian 40th Century Maine, and Zombie Apocalypse and Time Travel but it’s Slice of Life Vignettes of Mundane Daily Lives of The UnSeelie Court’s Royal Family trying to survive after a comet hit the moon and turned the Earth into a CyberPunk Ice-Age. 🌸🦄🌸

• eBook Editions from this series can be found on: GumRoad

• Kindle, eBook, Print Paperback, & full colour illustrated Hardcover Editions from this series can be found on: Amazon

Main characters: The Pink Necromancer, Quaraun (A Moon Elf) and his husband King Gwallmaiic aka BoomFuzzy aka The Elf Eater of Pepper Valley, Lich King of Fire Mountain (A Phooka/Faerie).

BoomFuzzy is King of The UnSeelie Court;

Quaraun is his Court Mage;

GhoulSpawn (not pictured) is Quaraun’s apprentice.

They are the world’s three most evil super villains, though they do not see themselves as evil. They own the world’s only functioning BioDome and thus hold the world’s monopoly on crops, food, livestock, and fabric, holding the Human population at their sadistic mercy.

These stories are told from their point of view.

 — — Art by Wendy Christine Allen

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This page was written by Wendy Christine Allen of 146 Portland Ave, Old Orchard Beach, Maine. All Rights Reserved.

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