Part 42: by Major FailureOh, and SRM? I've just watched about 5 straight hours of deadwood, so I think my update may even contain more profanity than yours when it comes. Mind if I bring Ral back?
Journal of Ral "major failure" Swearengen, businessdwarf and former ruler of Boatmurdered.
So the cocksuckers send me back to fucking Boatmurdered. All the fucking gold under the hill and a superior cougar skin waistcoat in exchange the use of my fucking extraordinary talents to clean the damn place up in one year. Not that I have a damn choice. Every fortress east of here is suffocated in the bean-counting beaurocracy of the peckerwood United Strongholds Alliance, and only shitholes like Boatmurdered have any autonomy left for businessdwarves like me to prosper in.
The fucking smell of the place hits me before I even get to the river. The entire place is buried in a foul, godless cunt of a stench, lurking in cloying great bastard hills of smoke above the mangled cinders of what used to be the elephant fields.
It starts to rain as I trudge across the bridge, washing the stinking smoke into my clothes and pinging off the drifts of rusty goblin armour. Oh, the fucking goblins. I have to kick a fucking six-pack of the dirtworshipping heathens out of the way just to get through the gate.
Inside is the most tragic disgrace I have ever had the fucking displeasure to see. Corpses, vomit, boulders, mud and useless goddamn objects strewn seven deep over every available fucking surface. A skeleton crew of ragged, beat-up dwarves stumbling around on useless shit-lugging errands for a bunch of delirious, opium-fucked nobles living in what they assure me is the lap of fucking luxury but which to any sane dwarf is clearly some festering hybrid of a slaughterhouse and an antiques fair.
Barely have I been inside for a fucking minute when some cocksucker rushes over and thrusts upon me a pile of useless documentation about the mechanisms, doomsday weapons, secret elephant projects, cuntwiping machines and gods know what else scattered around this cat's ass of a fortress.
It takes me all of eight seconds to realise I do not have time to acquire the fucking college degree I would need to decipher the plumbing and fucking entertainment systems of this rickety deathtrap, so the documents go straight in the cave river. Wasting no time, I call a meeting with the cocksucking nobles and inform them that their demon-fucked disaster area of a fortress is all theirs. They can do what they like with their shitty little empire, I am taking the couple of dozen able bodied dwarves who survived the demons and the sieges and starting a new site that might have a fucking hope of surviving another year.
So I point south and tell the cocksuckers to start digging:
"This was settled as a damn mining camp," I say, "and as of this fucking moment you now fall into two categories: miners and the cocksuckers who keep the miners alive. No fucking jewelers, no fucking mechanics and no fucking craftsdwarves. Do I make myself understood? I am going to sit down at that rusty, piece of shit magma forge and crank out copper picks, and you can use them to get some fucking mining done so we have the space to start a new town."
I'm barely done making the last batch of picks when those cocksucking hoopleheads the elves show up, no doubt weeping their fucking balls off about the elephant chunks being kicked around by children in a lake of blood outside the trade depot. Without even bothering to see what they have I have three of my guys rob the piss out of them. The haul was mostly useless shit, but at least we swiped some bloated tubers for my personal supply of swamp whiskey. Thank Arnok for that.