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Message
Having fun with Grok on X
Posted on 3/25/25 at 9:56 am
Posted on 3/25/25 at 9:56 am
Write a story with Paul Muad’dib as a Cajun:
Here’s a short Dune story reimagining Paul Muad’Dib as a Cajun, steeped in the bayou instead of the desert sands of Arrakis. I’ll weave in the spirit of Frank Herbert’s universe with a Louisiana twist.
---
The air hung thick over the bayou, heavy with the scent of cypress and mud, the kind of damp that clung to your bones like a second skin. Paul Muad’Dib stood on the rickety porch of his maman’s old shack, barefoot, his sharp green eyes scanning the murky water. The spice didn’t flow here—not like the tales his grandpère told of the desert folk far beyond the stars. No, the spice of this land was in the crawfish boil, the roux, the blood-red cayenne that burned through the veins of every Cajun born to the swamp.
He wasn’t no Atreides by name no more. That was a title washed away when the ships crashed into the Gulf, scattering his kin like shrimp in a net. Here, they called him Paul Laveau, after his maman’s line—voodoo queens and trappers who knew the waterways better than the Harkonnens knew their own greed. But the spice trade? That stayed with him. It wasn’t melange, not the stuff that turned eyes blue and minds sharp, but it was power all the same. The traders came up the Mississippi, hungry for the rare saffron root that grew deep in the black water, guarded by gators and whispers of the loa.
Paul wiped the sweat from his brow, his voice low as he muttered a prayer to Papa Legba, the gatekeeper. “Ouvè baryè pou mwen,” he said, asking for the way to open. The Fedaykin—his crew of swamp rats and boatmen—stood ready, their pirogues loaded with machetes and jars of the root. They weren’t no Fremen, but they moved like shadows through the reeds, silent as the wind over a dune.
The Harkonnens had come too, though. Big men in fancy suits, stinking of bourbon and cigars, thinking they could muscle into the bayou and take what wasn’t theirs. They didn’t know the water like Paul did, didn’t hear the hum of the swamp like he could—a gift from his maman, trained in the old ways of the Bene Gesserit, though she called it somethin’ else: *la voix du sang*, the voice of the blood. With a word, he could bend a man’s will, make him drop his gun and walk into the jaws of a waiting gator.
“Cher,” his sister Alia called from the shack, her voice sharp as a filleting knife. She was small, but fierce, her hair wild like the Spanish moss. “Dey comin’. I seen it in the gumbo pot—dey boats churnin’ up the water, three miles out.”
Paul nodded, his mind racing. The prescience hit him hard sometimes, flashes of futures like lightning over the Gulf. He saw the Harkonnens’ skiffs, sleek and foreign, cutting through the bayou. He saw blood on the water, his Fedaykin falling, and then—a path. A narrow one, where the saffron root sang to him, where the loa whispered back.
“Get de boys ready,” he told Alia. “We gon’ take ‘em at de choke point, where de cypress kneel low.”
The fight came fast, like a storm brewin’ out of nowhere. The Harkonnens roared in with their machines, but the bayou wasn’t no place for steel and noise. Paul’s crew struck from the water, knives flashing, voices raised in a Cajun war cry that echoed through the trees. Paul himself moved like a heron, swift and deadly, his *couteau* slicing through a fat baron’s throat before the man could scream.
When it was done, the water ran red, and the saffron root glowed faintly in the moonlight, safe in Paul’s hands. He knelt by the edge, letting the blood drip into the bayou as an offering. “Merci, Papa Legba,” he whispered. “You opened de way.”
The traders would come tomorrow, and the spice—his spice—would flow again. Paul Muad’Dib Laveau, king of the swamp, stood tall, the future stretching out before him like the endless waterways of his home. The desert might’ve shaped a messiah once, but the bayou birthed a legend.
---
Hope you enjoyed this Cajun twist on Paul’s tale! Let me know if you’d like it expanded or tweaked.
Here’s a short Dune story reimagining Paul Muad’Dib as a Cajun, steeped in the bayou instead of the desert sands of Arrakis. I’ll weave in the spirit of Frank Herbert’s universe with a Louisiana twist.
---
The air hung thick over the bayou, heavy with the scent of cypress and mud, the kind of damp that clung to your bones like a second skin. Paul Muad’Dib stood on the rickety porch of his maman’s old shack, barefoot, his sharp green eyes scanning the murky water. The spice didn’t flow here—not like the tales his grandpère told of the desert folk far beyond the stars. No, the spice of this land was in the crawfish boil, the roux, the blood-red cayenne that burned through the veins of every Cajun born to the swamp.
He wasn’t no Atreides by name no more. That was a title washed away when the ships crashed into the Gulf, scattering his kin like shrimp in a net. Here, they called him Paul Laveau, after his maman’s line—voodoo queens and trappers who knew the waterways better than the Harkonnens knew their own greed. But the spice trade? That stayed with him. It wasn’t melange, not the stuff that turned eyes blue and minds sharp, but it was power all the same. The traders came up the Mississippi, hungry for the rare saffron root that grew deep in the black water, guarded by gators and whispers of the loa.
Paul wiped the sweat from his brow, his voice low as he muttered a prayer to Papa Legba, the gatekeeper. “Ouvè baryè pou mwen,” he said, asking for the way to open. The Fedaykin—his crew of swamp rats and boatmen—stood ready, their pirogues loaded with machetes and jars of the root. They weren’t no Fremen, but they moved like shadows through the reeds, silent as the wind over a dune.
The Harkonnens had come too, though. Big men in fancy suits, stinking of bourbon and cigars, thinking they could muscle into the bayou and take what wasn’t theirs. They didn’t know the water like Paul did, didn’t hear the hum of the swamp like he could—a gift from his maman, trained in the old ways of the Bene Gesserit, though she called it somethin’ else: *la voix du sang*, the voice of the blood. With a word, he could bend a man’s will, make him drop his gun and walk into the jaws of a waiting gator.
“Cher,” his sister Alia called from the shack, her voice sharp as a filleting knife. She was small, but fierce, her hair wild like the Spanish moss. “Dey comin’. I seen it in the gumbo pot—dey boats churnin’ up the water, three miles out.”
Paul nodded, his mind racing. The prescience hit him hard sometimes, flashes of futures like lightning over the Gulf. He saw the Harkonnens’ skiffs, sleek and foreign, cutting through the bayou. He saw blood on the water, his Fedaykin falling, and then—a path. A narrow one, where the saffron root sang to him, where the loa whispered back.
“Get de boys ready,” he told Alia. “We gon’ take ‘em at de choke point, where de cypress kneel low.”
The fight came fast, like a storm brewin’ out of nowhere. The Harkonnens roared in with their machines, but the bayou wasn’t no place for steel and noise. Paul’s crew struck from the water, knives flashing, voices raised in a Cajun war cry that echoed through the trees. Paul himself moved like a heron, swift and deadly, his *couteau* slicing through a fat baron’s throat before the man could scream.
When it was done, the water ran red, and the saffron root glowed faintly in the moonlight, safe in Paul’s hands. He knelt by the edge, letting the blood drip into the bayou as an offering. “Merci, Papa Legba,” he whispered. “You opened de way.”
The traders would come tomorrow, and the spice—his spice—would flow again. Paul Muad’Dib Laveau, king of the swamp, stood tall, the future stretching out before him like the endless waterways of his home. The desert might’ve shaped a messiah once, but the bayou birthed a legend.
---
Hope you enjoyed this Cajun twist on Paul’s tale! Let me know if you’d like it expanded or tweaked.
1
Posted on 3/25/25 at 9:57 am to boxcarbarney
Write a story of Logen Ninefingers but as a New Orleans Yat:
Here’s a tale of Logen Ninefingers reimagined as a New Orleans Yat, trading the grim hills of the North for the gritty streets of the Crescent City. I’ll blend Joe Abercrombie’s bloody realism with the soul of NOLA’s working-class Yats—those “Where y’at?” folks from the Ninth Ward.
---
The air was thick as gumbo on Tchoupitoulas Street, the kind of heat that stuck your shirt to your back and made every breath taste like the Mississippi. Logen Ninefingers leaned against the rusted railing of a shotgun house, a Dixie beer sweating in his hand, the other eight fingers drumming a beat on the can. He wasn’t no Northman here, not with that name—they called him Logen Boudreaux now, a Yat born and bred, raised in the shadow of the levees where the river and the ward lines blurred.
He’d lost that ninth finger years back, caught in a crab trap down in Chalmette when he was too drunk to pull it free quick enough. The boys at the bar still laughed about it, but they didn’t laugh long. Logen had a way about him—quiet till he wasn’t, and when he wasn’t, somebody usually ended up bleeding on the cracked pavement.
“Mais, Logen, you lookin’ like a dawg what lost his bone,” said Bayaz, the old man who ran the corner store. He wasn’t no mage here, not with glowing staffs or fancy talk—just a slick-talking hustler with a gold tooth and a knack for knowing too much. He’d been pushing Logen lately, whispering about a score up in the Garden District, where the rich folks lived behind iron gates and magnolia trees.
“Ain’t lookin’ for no trouble, me,” Logen said, his Yat drawl rolling slow. “But trouble always find me, yeah.” He took a swig of the Dixie, the bitter fizz cutting through the humid haze. He’d tried to leave the life—shrimp boats, bar fights, running muscle for the Irish Channel crews—but the past stuck to him like mud on a boot.
That night, trouble came knocking, loud as a second-line band. Three fellas rolled up in a beat-to-hell Chevy, faces hard as oyster shells. They worked for Black Dow, a mean bastard from Algiers who ran the docks like a king. Word was Logen owed him—blood or cash, didn’t matter which—and Dow wasn’t the forgiving type.
“Where y’at, Ninefingers?” the biggest one sneered, a scar running down his cheek like a river map. “Dow says you either pay up or we take what’s left of dem hands.”
Logen set the beer down real slow, his eyes narrowing. “Y’all oughta know better,” he said, voice low like thunder over Lake Pontchartrain. “A man’s gotta be realistic. I ain’t one to run, but I ain’t one to beg neither.”
The fight was quick and ugly, the way they always were. Logen moved like he’d been born scrapping—fists like sledgehammers, head-butting the first guy so hard his nose flattened into red mush. The second swung a tire iron, but Logen caught it, twisted, and drove it back into the man’s gut. The third pulled a knife, but Logen’s eight fingers were faster, wrenching the blade free and burying it in the fella’s thigh. They scattered after that, limping back to their car, cursing him through busted teeth.
Bayaz watched from the stoop, shaking his head. “You a wild one, Boudreaux. Dat score uptown still open, y’know. Could get you outta dis mess.”
Logen wiped the blood off his knuckles, staring at the dark water lapping at the levee. “Ain’t no gettin’ out,” he muttered. “You live down here, you fight down here. Dat’s how it go.”
The next day, he’d take Bayaz’s deal—some silver-tongued promise of loot and a clean slate. But Logen knew better. The Ninth Ward didn’t let go easy, and neither did he. He was Logen Ninefingers Boudreaux, a Yat with a busted hand and a bloody name, and the streets of New Orleans would sing about him long after the next storm rolled in.
---
Hope this hits the spot! Logen as a Yat feels right at home in the chaos of NOLA. Want more of his misadventures or a tweak to the vibe? Lemme know!
Here’s a tale of Logen Ninefingers reimagined as a New Orleans Yat, trading the grim hills of the North for the gritty streets of the Crescent City. I’ll blend Joe Abercrombie’s bloody realism with the soul of NOLA’s working-class Yats—those “Where y’at?” folks from the Ninth Ward.
---
The air was thick as gumbo on Tchoupitoulas Street, the kind of heat that stuck your shirt to your back and made every breath taste like the Mississippi. Logen Ninefingers leaned against the rusted railing of a shotgun house, a Dixie beer sweating in his hand, the other eight fingers drumming a beat on the can. He wasn’t no Northman here, not with that name—they called him Logen Boudreaux now, a Yat born and bred, raised in the shadow of the levees where the river and the ward lines blurred.
He’d lost that ninth finger years back, caught in a crab trap down in Chalmette when he was too drunk to pull it free quick enough. The boys at the bar still laughed about it, but they didn’t laugh long. Logen had a way about him—quiet till he wasn’t, and when he wasn’t, somebody usually ended up bleeding on the cracked pavement.
“Mais, Logen, you lookin’ like a dawg what lost his bone,” said Bayaz, the old man who ran the corner store. He wasn’t no mage here, not with glowing staffs or fancy talk—just a slick-talking hustler with a gold tooth and a knack for knowing too much. He’d been pushing Logen lately, whispering about a score up in the Garden District, where the rich folks lived behind iron gates and magnolia trees.
“Ain’t lookin’ for no trouble, me,” Logen said, his Yat drawl rolling slow. “But trouble always find me, yeah.” He took a swig of the Dixie, the bitter fizz cutting through the humid haze. He’d tried to leave the life—shrimp boats, bar fights, running muscle for the Irish Channel crews—but the past stuck to him like mud on a boot.
That night, trouble came knocking, loud as a second-line band. Three fellas rolled up in a beat-to-hell Chevy, faces hard as oyster shells. They worked for Black Dow, a mean bastard from Algiers who ran the docks like a king. Word was Logen owed him—blood or cash, didn’t matter which—and Dow wasn’t the forgiving type.
“Where y’at, Ninefingers?” the biggest one sneered, a scar running down his cheek like a river map. “Dow says you either pay up or we take what’s left of dem hands.”
Logen set the beer down real slow, his eyes narrowing. “Y’all oughta know better,” he said, voice low like thunder over Lake Pontchartrain. “A man’s gotta be realistic. I ain’t one to run, but I ain’t one to beg neither.”
The fight was quick and ugly, the way they always were. Logen moved like he’d been born scrapping—fists like sledgehammers, head-butting the first guy so hard his nose flattened into red mush. The second swung a tire iron, but Logen caught it, twisted, and drove it back into the man’s gut. The third pulled a knife, but Logen’s eight fingers were faster, wrenching the blade free and burying it in the fella’s thigh. They scattered after that, limping back to their car, cursing him through busted teeth.
Bayaz watched from the stoop, shaking his head. “You a wild one, Boudreaux. Dat score uptown still open, y’know. Could get you outta dis mess.”
Logen wiped the blood off his knuckles, staring at the dark water lapping at the levee. “Ain’t no gettin’ out,” he muttered. “You live down here, you fight down here. Dat’s how it go.”
The next day, he’d take Bayaz’s deal—some silver-tongued promise of loot and a clean slate. But Logen knew better. The Ninth Ward didn’t let go easy, and neither did he. He was Logen Ninefingers Boudreaux, a Yat with a busted hand and a bloody name, and the streets of New Orleans would sing about him long after the next storm rolled in.
---
Hope this hits the spot! Logen as a Yat feels right at home in the chaos of NOLA. Want more of his misadventures or a tweak to the vibe? Lemme know!
Posted on 3/25/25 at 12:49 pm to boxcarbarney
quote:
That night, trouble came knocking, loud as a second-line band. Three fellas rolled up in a beat-to-hell Chevy, faces hard as oyster shells. They worked for Black Dow, a mean bastard from Algiers who ran the docks like a king. Word was Logen owed him—blood or cash, didn’t matter which—and Dow wasn’t the forgiving type.
“Where y’at, Ninefingers?” the biggest one sneered, a scar running down his cheek like a river map. “Dow says you either pay up or we take what’s left of dem hands.”
Logen set the beer down real slow, his eyes narrowing. “Y’all oughta know better,” he said, voice low like thunder over Lake Pontchartrain. “A man’s gotta be realistic. I ain’t one to run, but I ain’t one to beg neither.”
The fight was quick and ugly, the way they always were. Logen moved like he’d been born scrapping—fists like sledgehammers, head-butting the first guy so hard his nose flattened into red mush. The second swung a tire iron, but Logen caught it, twisted, and drove it back into the man’s gut. The third pulled a knife, but Logen’s eight fingers were faster, wrenching the blade free and burying it in the fella’s thigh. They scattered after that, limping back to their car, cursing him through busted teeth.
God I hate AI, this is too good
quote:
a Dixie beer sweating in his hand, the other eight fingers drumming a beat on the can
quote:
but Logen’s eight fingers were faster,
Not many mistakes, but seems like it thinks for some reason he has nine fingers but only uses eight. That or he holds a beer can really weird.
Posted on 3/25/25 at 1:06 pm to boxcarbarney
Dungeon Crawler Carl: The Tabasco Tombs
Carl was halfway through a bag of chips, petting Princess Donut, when the world exploded. A crimson rift tore through reality, his couch vanished, and a voice bellowed: “Welcome, Crawlers, to the 18th World Dungeon! Your starting zone: New Iberia, Louisiana. Survive the heat, conquer the cuts. Let the good times roll!”
He splashed down in a drainage ditch off Main Street, Donut screeching on his shoulder as muddy water soaked his jeans. The air reeked of spice and swamp, and in the distance, the Avery Island salt dome pulsed like a fevered heartbeat. His interface flickered on:
Crawler #4,192,837: Carl
Companion: Princess Donut
Level: 1
Objective: Reach the first safe zone. Time remaining: 23:59:59
“New Iberia?” Carl muttered, brushing off a mosquito. “Sounds like a barber’s nightmare.”
Donut sniffed the air. “It’s barbaric. My fur deserves better.”
The First Floor: Downtown Death Trap
New Iberia’s downtown was a dungeonized mess—cracked brick storefronts and flickering barber poles casting red shadows. Carl’s first foes were a pack of mutant mudbugs, their claws snapping like shears. He grabbed a rusted barber’s chair leg and swung, cracking shells.
+50 XP. Loot: Mudbug Mandible (Common)
“A mandible?” Carl said. “What’s next, a comb?”
“Make it a crown,” Donut purred, batting at it.
Then came the chaos:
Event Triggered: The Haircut Hustle
A mob of skeletal barbers in faded smocks charged down the street, wielding razor-sharp clippers and scissors that snipped the air. Their heads sported perfect New Iberia Haircuts—short, tight, and squared-off, the kind of trim that says, “I’ve got hogs to wrestle and gumbo to stir.” Carl ducked a buzzing blade, scooped Donut, and bolted into a ruined barbershop. A chest glowed inside:
Item Acquired: New Iberia Clipper (Uncommon)
Effect: +10% speed, deals bonus damage to hairy foes
Carl gripped the buzzing tool. “A weaponized haircut. Now I’ve seen it all.”
The Second Floor: The Bayou Bog
A creaky pirogue ferried Carl and Donut into the bayou, a swampy maze of cypress and glowing moss. The objective updated:
Objective: Defeat the Floor Boss – The Rougarou King
The bog crawled with snapping turtles and fire-spitting dragonflies. Carl buzzed through a tangle of hairy vines with the Clipper, its whirring blades a Cajun buzzsaw. Donut rode shotgun, griping, “This muck is an affront to my elegance!”
The Rougarou King loomed in a clearing—a shaggy werewolf with a matted mane and antler crown, snarling, “You’ll not tame my swamp, outsider!” Its fur was a mess, begging for a trim. Carl lobbed a Mudbug Mandible as a distraction, then charged with the Clipper, shearing chunks of pelt. Donut clawed its eyes, and the beast fell, bald and beaten.
+500 XP. Level Up! Level 2
Loot: Rougarou Fang (Rare)
Effect: +10% damage against beasts
Carl panted. “Guess the New Iberia Haircut works on monsters too.”
Donut preened. “It’s still hideous.”
The Third Floor: Avery Island Inferno
The next level dumped Carl onto Avery Island, now a volcanic labyrinth of salt and spice. The Tabasco factory churned molten sauce, guarded by pepper plants with thorny tendrils. A nutria named T-Boy joined the crew, sporting a bandana and a patchy New Iberia Haircut. “Dat’s da real deal, cher,” he said, nodding at Carl’s Clipper. “Keeps ya sharp.”
They fought through sauce-spewing golems and a mini-boss—a giant Tabasco bottle with a buzzcut cap—using the Clipper and a stash of Salt Crystal Shurikens (Common). The floor boss was Mama McIlhenny, a fiery ghost in an apron, her hair a perfect New Iberia square. “Ain’t nobody messin’ with my sauce OR my cut!” she yelled, hurling boiling Tabasco.
Carl buzzed her ghostly locks with the Clipper, disrupting her form. T-Boy chewed her hem, and Donut leapt like a diva, claws flashing. A final Clipper swipe sent Mama sizzling into vapor.
+1000 XP. Level Up! Level 3
Loot: McIlhenny’s Recipe Book (Epic)
Effect: Summon a hot sauce elemental once per floor
T-Boy whistled. “Dat haircut saved our hides, yeah.”
The Safe Zone: The Barbershop Haven
Carl limped into the safe zone—a warped version of a New Iberia barbershop, its chairs spinning lazily to zydeco tunes. Crawlers traded loot under flickering fluorescent lights, and a vendor offered gumbo buffs and haircuts. Carl swapped a shuriken for a cold soda, while Donut demanded a grooming session.
T-Boy gnawed a pepper stem. “Next floor’s da cane fields—zombie barbers with scythes, I hear.”
Donut flicked her tail. “If they touch my fur, they’re dead.”
Carl checked his Clipper, its blades still humming. The timer reset: 47 hours. The Tabasco Tombs—and the New Iberia Haircut—weren’t done with him yet.
Carl was halfway through a bag of chips, petting Princess Donut, when the world exploded. A crimson rift tore through reality, his couch vanished, and a voice bellowed: “Welcome, Crawlers, to the 18th World Dungeon! Your starting zone: New Iberia, Louisiana. Survive the heat, conquer the cuts. Let the good times roll!”
He splashed down in a drainage ditch off Main Street, Donut screeching on his shoulder as muddy water soaked his jeans. The air reeked of spice and swamp, and in the distance, the Avery Island salt dome pulsed like a fevered heartbeat. His interface flickered on:
Crawler #4,192,837: Carl
Companion: Princess Donut
Level: 1
Objective: Reach the first safe zone. Time remaining: 23:59:59
“New Iberia?” Carl muttered, brushing off a mosquito. “Sounds like a barber’s nightmare.”
Donut sniffed the air. “It’s barbaric. My fur deserves better.”
The First Floor: Downtown Death Trap
New Iberia’s downtown was a dungeonized mess—cracked brick storefronts and flickering barber poles casting red shadows. Carl’s first foes were a pack of mutant mudbugs, their claws snapping like shears. He grabbed a rusted barber’s chair leg and swung, cracking shells.
+50 XP. Loot: Mudbug Mandible (Common)
“A mandible?” Carl said. “What’s next, a comb?”
“Make it a crown,” Donut purred, batting at it.
Then came the chaos:
Event Triggered: The Haircut Hustle
A mob of skeletal barbers in faded smocks charged down the street, wielding razor-sharp clippers and scissors that snipped the air. Their heads sported perfect New Iberia Haircuts—short, tight, and squared-off, the kind of trim that says, “I’ve got hogs to wrestle and gumbo to stir.” Carl ducked a buzzing blade, scooped Donut, and bolted into a ruined barbershop. A chest glowed inside:
Item Acquired: New Iberia Clipper (Uncommon)
Effect: +10% speed, deals bonus damage to hairy foes
Carl gripped the buzzing tool. “A weaponized haircut. Now I’ve seen it all.”
The Second Floor: The Bayou Bog
A creaky pirogue ferried Carl and Donut into the bayou, a swampy maze of cypress and glowing moss. The objective updated:
Objective: Defeat the Floor Boss – The Rougarou King
The bog crawled with snapping turtles and fire-spitting dragonflies. Carl buzzed through a tangle of hairy vines with the Clipper, its whirring blades a Cajun buzzsaw. Donut rode shotgun, griping, “This muck is an affront to my elegance!”
The Rougarou King loomed in a clearing—a shaggy werewolf with a matted mane and antler crown, snarling, “You’ll not tame my swamp, outsider!” Its fur was a mess, begging for a trim. Carl lobbed a Mudbug Mandible as a distraction, then charged with the Clipper, shearing chunks of pelt. Donut clawed its eyes, and the beast fell, bald and beaten.
+500 XP. Level Up! Level 2
Loot: Rougarou Fang (Rare)
Effect: +10% damage against beasts
Carl panted. “Guess the New Iberia Haircut works on monsters too.”
Donut preened. “It’s still hideous.”
The Third Floor: Avery Island Inferno
The next level dumped Carl onto Avery Island, now a volcanic labyrinth of salt and spice. The Tabasco factory churned molten sauce, guarded by pepper plants with thorny tendrils. A nutria named T-Boy joined the crew, sporting a bandana and a patchy New Iberia Haircut. “Dat’s da real deal, cher,” he said, nodding at Carl’s Clipper. “Keeps ya sharp.”
They fought through sauce-spewing golems and a mini-boss—a giant Tabasco bottle with a buzzcut cap—using the Clipper and a stash of Salt Crystal Shurikens (Common). The floor boss was Mama McIlhenny, a fiery ghost in an apron, her hair a perfect New Iberia square. “Ain’t nobody messin’ with my sauce OR my cut!” she yelled, hurling boiling Tabasco.
Carl buzzed her ghostly locks with the Clipper, disrupting her form. T-Boy chewed her hem, and Donut leapt like a diva, claws flashing. A final Clipper swipe sent Mama sizzling into vapor.
+1000 XP. Level Up! Level 3
Loot: McIlhenny’s Recipe Book (Epic)
Effect: Summon a hot sauce elemental once per floor
T-Boy whistled. “Dat haircut saved our hides, yeah.”
The Safe Zone: The Barbershop Haven
Carl limped into the safe zone—a warped version of a New Iberia barbershop, its chairs spinning lazily to zydeco tunes. Crawlers traded loot under flickering fluorescent lights, and a vendor offered gumbo buffs and haircuts. Carl swapped a shuriken for a cold soda, while Donut demanded a grooming session.
T-Boy gnawed a pepper stem. “Next floor’s da cane fields—zombie barbers with scythes, I hear.”
Donut flicked her tail. “If they touch my fur, they’re dead.”
Carl checked his Clipper, its blades still humming. The timer reset: 47 hours. The Tabasco Tombs—and the New Iberia Haircut—weren’t done with him yet.
Posted on 3/25/25 at 1:58 pm to Loup
At least Carl has pants in this version.
Posted on 4/8/25 at 9:51 am to boxcarbarney
quote:
“Where y’at, Ninefingers?” the biggest one sneered, a scar running down his cheek like a river map. “Dow says you either pay up or we take what’s left of dem hands.” Logen set the beer down real slow, his eyes narrowing. “Y’all oughta know better,” he said, voice low like thunder over Lake Pontchartrain. “A man’s gotta be realistic. I ain’t one to run, but I ain’t one to beg neither.”
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