The Man-Pony Interjection
Welcome, welcome, one and all, to this 100% pure Cohen update (see label for washing instructions). When last we saw Cohen, he was heading out into the world as a legally dead man. He’s been roaming ever since, but it’s time to see what has become of our beloved man-pony.
Be mindful, O those of you with delicate sensitivites, that there is some swearing near the end. But if you put your thumb over the offending word and read on, it's all good!
The snow pirouetted in drifts around the hanging sign of the Goat and Bush Tavern. It investigated the cracks around the windows and inched cold fingers under the door, but the inn was built to last against the elements. Old Man Winter gnashed his teeth and went home for a sulk and a mug of something alcoholic.
Inside, the last embers of a dying fire sputtered apologetically in the breeze issuing down from the chimney. Candles hung from brackets in the roof, but their meagre flames cast more shadows than light.
Overall, the atmosphere was almost friendly, but not quite; like an ex-mass murder selling Girl Guide biscuits.
The bartender dragged his nails through his hair for the umpteenth time that night.
Once, just once, he thought ruefully, it would be nice to close at closing time.
He glared at the man before him, the man who had been sitting there the past six hours, drinking, rambling and refusing to leave.
“-Duzn’ luvme neemore. Bu- bushe luvs this dooshy- dooshy- guy? Haaa!”
“There, there. I’m sure it’ll all turn out alright,” the bartender sighed. If I got a dollar for every dumped drunk I’ve had to put up with, I’d have a nice retirement fund put aside by now…
He’d obviously said something wrong as the stranger facepalmed wildly, threatening to backflip off his stool.
“No! NO! Tha’s the… thingammy… whatsit… problem wi’ yousort! Fink it’ll aaaall ge’better by isself. Weeell, i‘ won’! I ‘aven’ seenerin thing- years. She ha’esme.”
“Then maybe you need to move on,” the bartender said, hinting heavily. Alas, he’d been trying to get rid of him all night; why should he listen now?
The man crumpled forward, plunging from the Mountains of Rage into Emo Valley.
“No, I don’ nee’ tha’. I nee’- I nee’- ‘nother drink…”
“That’s the last thing you need, friend. Now, how about you go home?”
“Can’ go home. Don’ live here.”
The bartender yearned to reach under the bar, where he kept a sturdy oak club for the persistent ones, but he restrained himself.
“You can’t stay here. Come on, we closed hours ago. It’s time you left.”
“Noo, pl-pleese! I’ll freeze-!”
“Well, that’s your concern, not mine.”
A new voice spoke up. “Aw, go on, Burt. Where’s your sense of compassion?”
Just then, the view to Cohen’s left was markedly improved.
“Oh, wa-hey! Lovely. Top rate b-"
“I’ll cut you some slack because you’re inebriated, but I will warn you that the next word out of your mouth may affect your ability to walk properly for a month.”
“-braids,” Cohen finished lamely.
“Nice recovery.”
The bartender coughed irritably. “Nice to see you Vena, but you of all people should know we’re closed.”
“Thought I’d drop by on the off-chance. Burt, were you really going to throw this poor man out into the snow? It’s a horrible night.”
“Vena, it’s been a long day. I don't have time for-"
“If you ask me,” she interrupted, making it clear they were about to find out even if they didn’t, “what he needs is a hot meal and a place to stay. A plate of your famous wild pork and onions would be a great start.”
Burt rolled his eyes. “No! I’m not cooking at this hour of the night! I should be in bed! Why should I-"
“For me?” Vena said, fluttering her lashes like a pro.
Burt stared at her dejectedly, knowing defeat when it hit him in the face with a mallet. “Damn you and the effect you have on me, woman.”
“I know, I know. Love you, Burt.”
With a sarcastic bark of laughter, he stalked into the kitchen and fired up the stove.
“So, who am I saving from getting his arse frozen off in a Lancre snowstorm?”
“’M Cohen Discworld, thank’oo,” Cohen said, enunciating carefully.
“My name’s Vena. Some call me Vena the Raven Haired, but that’s just the locals being fanciful.”
Cohen observed her outfit, trying not to stare. “You look like- like you could pull off fan-fanciful.”
“Ha! This isn’t everyday attire, I grant you. Anyway, where are you staying tonight?”
He frowned. “Um. I’unno. I only arrived this’afernoon an- an then I saw wha’ was’in the news…” he trailed off.
“Is that what's getting to you?”
Cohen started to answer, then caught himself. Why should he share his deepest secrets? She laughed at his haughty expression and shrugged.
“Alright, you don’t have to tell me. But if you have nowhere to stay, you’re welcome back at my cabin.”
He gawped at her. “R’lly? But- but you don’ even know me.”
Vena shrugged a shoulder. “I know you’re in trouble, and that’s what I do: I help people. I guess I’m just nice that way.”
“You’re nice in’lotta ways…” Cohen mumbled. Just as she was about to reply, Burt's voice filtered through from the kitchen, telling them to move to a table as he would not tolerate hot plates on his precious bar.
Vena helped Cohen to a table by the dying fire, in an attempt to fight off the chill.
“So, Cohen, what brings you to Lancre? I bet it’s not sightseeing; wrong time of year for that,” she said, gesturing to the coils of snow battering gently against the windowpanes.
Cohen’s tongue was like leather and his brain was like porridge. His heart-felt attempts at answering the question drowned before he could force them out.
“Forget I asked. The sooner you get some food and rest, the better.”
They sat in silence, listening to the wind and the spitting sound of candles guttering in their own wax.
Burt arrived with the pork and set a plate before Cohen with an air of pride.
“That smells amazing, Burt - I believe you’ve outdone yourself!” Vena said winningly.
Burt grunted, but it was clear he was pleased by her words. “There’s plenty to go around, Vena, if you want some.”
“I’m not hungry, but you go ahead. You’ve earned it.”
While Burt sat down contentedly with a plate of his handiwork, Cohen tried to focus on the task at hand. Using the knife and fork together required too much coordination, but he managed a few bites by spearing the meat with a fork. Eventually he looked up to address Vena. It was hard: there were four of her.
“This’s- is real good. Y’wern’t kidding,” he said, feeling rather proud of his mastery of the language. He munched on an onion before speaking again, “T’anks, by th’way, f’r’elping me.”
Vena waved a hand dismissively, “Don’t mention it.”
Then there was a sigh and a gentle splatch as Cohen fell face-first into his pork.
“Uh, Cohen? …Cohen? Brilliant. Let’s get you out of here.”
She got up and slung Cohen's arm across her shoulder lifting him with seemingly little effort. A blob of chutney plummeted humorously from his face to the floor.
Vena jostled him into a more comfortable position and took a step. Although swathed in drunken sleep, Cohen took one with her.
“Don’t get up, I’ll be fine,” she shouted to Burt, who was hesitantly standing, “he can walk a bit and it’s not far to my cabin. Have a nice evening.”
They teetered out the door, and a few steps later they were devoured by the swirling storm.
_______________
Poets who get misty-eyed about dawn’s first rays have obviously never awoken in a well-lit room after a night of drowning one’s sorrows. Cohen groaned and rolled over, but there was no escaping the morning light flooding mercilessly into the unfamiliar bedroom.
He hauled himself into a sitting position on the edge of the bed, waiting for the poundings in his head and body to go away. They didn’t, so he got up anyway and headed for the stairs.
This is all very strange, Cohen thought, as he wandered through the empty house. Last night was a fuzz of memory entwined in cottonwool and bubble wrap, along with copious amounts of alcoholic beverage, but he could remember enough.
He found what he was looking for curled up on a sofa, looking less as though she'd just stepped from the pages of a fairytale in shocking-green pyjamas. Just as he was wondering whether or not to wake her, Vena raised a sleep-heavy hand to her face and opened her eyes.
“Good morning,” she yawned. “I’m amazed you’re upright before twelve. You were in quite a state last night.”
“I’ve always had a good head. Look, thank you, but you didn’t have to give me your bed-”
Vena interrupted, grinning mischievously, “No, you woke up as I got you home and you seemed quite adamant that we could share.”
Cohen grimaced. “Sorry. Um. Where did the pyjamas come from?”
“I’ve got stranger things in this house than guy’s pyjamas, mark my words. Oh, and don’t worry, I didn’t look,” she said, cutting him off at the pass.
Cohen fell into embarrassed silence. Here he was, in the company of a frankly gorgeous woman who had saved him from death by snowstorm, and he was wearing her pyjamas, had slept in her bed, after behaving in an undignified, drunken manner. There's no such thing as a second first impression, and Cohen suspected he'd very much started on the wrong foot.
“Hey, what say you pay me back by fixing some breakfast while I have a shower? I could murder some pancakes right now,” Vena said.
Cohen nodded gratefully, seizing the chance to claw back some decency with both hands. Cooking was one thing he could do.
Vena reappeared as Cohen stirred the mix, swaddled in a dressing gown.
“That’s better,” she said, ducking outside briefly to retrieve yesterday’s paper, “I only got back last night, you see. Figured I’d stop in at Burt’s for a nightcap but I got more than I expected.”
Cohen transferred the mix into a jug while Vena scanned the front page. She tapped the lead story with a finger and asked, “I was right, wasn't I? This is the reason you were, shall we say, overindulging.”
Genuan Heir Reveals New Love
Handsome Genuan playboy millionaire Edward D’Eath has kept readers across the Disc on tenterhooks for months as to the identity of his latest love interest.
Yesterday, the name of his lovely lady was finally revealed in an interview with the Genua Star. And that’s not all: the pair announced their engagement the same day.
The mysterious young beauty is one Nicole Hurt, 25, Genuan-born, raised in Ankh-Morpork, honours graduate of the prestigious Unseen University. Of his relationship with the beautiful Nicole, Mr D’Eath said this:
“Nicole has given me a reason for life in a way I could never have imagined. We met by chance at the after party for the Genuan Art Awards, and it was like magic. It may seem fast, it feels so right. We love and trust each other to the ends of the Disc.”
Naturally, his glowing bride is ecstatic to be back in the place of her birth. “I may have grown up and studied in Ankh-Morpork, sure, but I’m a Genuan in my heart. I always wanted to move back here…”
The article continued in the same, fluffy style for another 700 words. Vena gave up.
Vena clicked her tongue disparagingly. “Sad what passes for news these days.”
“Sad…” Cohen echoed vaguely, the article's words still painfully fresh in his mind. Like magic… A reason for life… Trust and love…
Cohen served up the pancakes. Vena discarded the paper, sat back down and said, “Correct me if I’m wrong, but my female-senses tell me you and this Nicole have a history.”
He fiddled with the pancake, wits still scattered from the night before. He was hurt from the news report and his pride had taken a beating. He wasn’t sure he had the stamina to discuss his love life with an almost total stranger, but Vena was staring at him intently. Finally, he nodded.
“Ah,” Vena said contentedly, shovelling pancake into her mouth, “I thought so. But why are you still moping? If she’s newly engaged, she’s been out of your life a while. Bad breakup? Childhood sweetheart? What?”
Cohen felt himself freeing up. “Both, actually. My brother got between us and by the time I got around to proposing, she wouldn’t have me. I-” he stopped. The memory of Chrysoprase’s actions burned like white fire.
“Wow. You proposed to your childhood sweetheart? Sorry, I must have you all wrong, then. I presumed you were a Romance Sim.”
“I am. I’m just not one of those. I had a few girlfriends before she came along, but Nicole was the only one I ever had feelings for. I always thought we'd end up together, but I was wrong.”
“By Io, no wonder you’re so messed up. You’ve forgotten how to be a Romance Sim. Pity, really,” she said dejectedly. “Oh, the other thing I was wondering about. Your eyepatch. Is that for decoration, or did you lose an eye? Can I see the socket?”
Cohen found himself laughing at the eager note in her voice. “Sorry, just blinded. But I’m sick of talking about me, let’s talk about you.”
“Fine. My name is Vena Alice Hedge. I grew up here, but now I travel the Disc slaying dragons and saving princes.”
“Really?”
“Well, not the dragons part. But I spend most of my time on the move and I end up rescuing of a lot of attractive young men.”
“So what’s your job description? Adventurer?”
“It's not really a job, and mostly I just travel. Although there have been a couple that turned into adventures. My father didn't like it; he wanted me to work on the family goat farm. Grandad was the one who swashed all the buckles - I guess I got it from him.”
“And you live here when you’re not out Disc-trotting?”
“In the loosest sense possible. It’s good to have a place to call home. No matter how far I go, I have an anchor here. It’s not like I expect to settle down and raise a family or anything, it’s just that even a pointless albatross needs somewhere to nest.”
“Huh?”
“Aw, come on. Pointless albatross? Big bird, prone to flying for thousands of miles for apparently no reason? Used as messenger birds by the Agatean Empire?”
“My knowledge of Agatean seabirds can obviously never rival yours.”
“For your ignorance, you forfeit that nice crispy pancake bit to me,” Vena said, leaning across and claiming the afore-mentioned crispy bit.
“I don’t dare stop you. By the sound of it, you probably know thirty-seven ways of removing my arms.”
She chewed pensively. “You never told me what you’re doing up here in the first place.”
Cohen decided to give her an expurgated version.
“I heard Lancre’s mountains are breathtaking in winter and wanted to see it for myself.”
“Breathtaking is the right word. If you head into the mountains at this time of year, you’ll die. A lot of people disappear in the highlands.” She dragged the last morsel of pancake around the plate to catch the syrup, then popped it into her mouth. “Those were really good - much better than what I could do. Well, I’m going to get dressed, you should probably do the same.”
While Vena disappeared upstairs, Cohen stood on the deck, taking in the view. The mountains were beautiful in their crisp, snowy frosting, but at the same time sharp and unforgiving.
He cursed himself. He’d been so eager to get out and fulfil his dreams, he hadn’t even thought that it would be winter in Lancre; he was grounded. What now?
As the deck was slowly numbing the feeling from his toes, he shuffled inside to clean up and get dressed.
A little while later Cohen was admiring the sword in Vena’s hallway. It wasn’t what you’d expect in the house of a girl living alone, but then Vena wasn’t an ordinary girl.
“You like it, huh?” Vena said, appearing in Cohen’s peripheral vision. Even dressed in everyday clothes, there was something extraordinary about her.
“It's incredible,” he said. “You’re full of surprises. Can you use it?”
“My grandad taught me. It’s not that hard, you just need to have stamina and be quick on your feet. The rest is basic technique and flourishes.” she saw the way he was looking at it and said, “I can teach you, if you like.”
He looked up. “Oh, no. I should go, find a place to stay in the town or something. I’m grateful, but-”
She grabbed his hand, stunning him into silence. “No, stay. I don’t mind, I was thinking of staying here until the snow melts, anyway. It would be good to have some company. Besides, why pay for something in town that you can get here for free? And no, I didn't mean for that to sound as dirty as it did,” she amended, as Cohen’s face broke into a stupid grin.
“If you really don’t mind having me around, I’d be glad to stay. And if the promise of sword training is thrown in...”
“Excellent! Let’s get cracking!”
“Now?”
“Now!”
Together they shifted the furniture in the front room to clear a space. Cohen waved the sword experimentally, finding its weight strangely comforting. Vena looked on approvingly.
“I have to say you suit the look. Right, let’s get started.”
Vena went on to outline the essentials of swordplay: correct stance, grip, parrying and so forth.
Cohen was elated at how quickly he made progress. Every piece of knowledge slid into place like a mosaic tile, and he could feel himself improving by the minute. It was as if he’d been born without an essential limb, which he had now regained.
Finally, Vena spoke. “That’s enough for now, we’ll pick up again tomorrow. I have another old sword in the attic; you’ll fight me.”
“Um, shouldn't we start with sticks first?” Cohen asked, trying not to sound anxious.
“Pfft, safety is overrated. Besides, I think you can handle yourself. For now, get some rest.”
_______________
The next few weeks passed in a blur of flashing steel. Vena was a hard trainer and a skilled fighter. Every day, Cohen retired exhausted and beaten, sporting fresh cuts, bruises and a crushed ego.
For all that, Cohen was on a sharp learning curve and Vena praised him enthusiastically after every training session. The only person she knew with the same amount of raw talent, she said without a trace of irony, was herself.
In the evenings they would talk in front of the fire. Cohen shared the story of his life, but omitted some of the gnarly details. He could tell Vena did the same, and the pair never questioned the gaps in each others’ tales. Cohen didn't tell her of his ambitions to find Bigfoot’s treasure. He feared that she, as a Lancre resident, may somehow take offence so he kept quiet. He also chose not to speak at length about the Chrysoprase incident and his temporary death. They weren't topics that loaned themselves to idle conversation.
During those weeks he found himself asking difficult, self-searching questions. The pulp article had torn open an old wound; a wound that was only just starting to heal over. After he had embarked on his new life, he vowed that he never wanted another serious relationship, but now, after meeting Vena, was he so sure? The question whirred like an errant mosquito, sometimes near, sometimes fading, always there. More to the point, would she want him? She'd proved herself to be flirtatious, fiery, ambitious, never in one place for long. That was probably true of her romantic preferences, too. Cohen did his best to ignore the question and focus on his training, but it never gave him peace.
_______________
When the snow melted, Cohen and Vena could take their training sessions outside.
“Ahh, what a gorgeous morning! Do you think you might beat me today, Cohen?”
“I hope so. I’m sick of losing to a woman.”
Vena’s eyebrows shot up. “Really! Then you should start acting more like a man. Start by cutting your hair.”
“Oh, no you didn't!”
“Seriously, Cohen. It’s almost as long as mine.”
“Enough!”
Cohen made the first move, his sword slicing the air with a fluidity that, mere weeks ago, it never had.
“Move your feet!” Vena snapped, parrying the blow before coming round for a counter-attack.
"I am!" Cohen grunted, fending her off and staggering back.
"Just remember, I'm doing everything you're doing in high heels."
"Thanks for pointing it out."
Cohen was barely aware of what he was doing; the sword was leading. It took him through a series of thrusts and swings that forced Vena to retreat a few steps, unable to find an opening in the assault.
Then Cohen’s blade came down hard on Vena’s and the sword was twisted from her hand.
At first, neither knew what happened. They looked down at the sword on the ice-locked grass, and Vena started to grin.
“Cohen, were you aware of yourself just now?”
“I- no, not really.”
“Because your instincts have kicked in; that's the warrior’s mind talking. There’s nothing more I can teach you. Come back inside.”
Confused but pleased, Cohen followed her indoors.
“That was an impressive show today. Of course, it’s a little different when your opponent is eight feet tall and bearing down on you with a great axe, but you’ve got the idea.”
“Huh?” Cohen jumped a little; he’d been distracted by the view. “You have that on personal experience?”
“I've got myself into the odd scrape, but that's a story for another night,” she said evasively, sitting down.
"So you face down axe-weiding giants on a routine basis, do you?"
She shrugged. "Not routinely."
Cohen dropped it. “I don’t think I’ve thanked you, by the way. For teaching me.”
“You already have, by listening and being a good student.”
“You’re a good teacher,” Cohen said earnestly.
“Huh. Yeah, well. I didn’t want to say it,” Vena replied, stretching. “I was thinking. Now the snow has cleared I’ll probably be on the move again soon. But for the first time in my life, I don’t want to.”
“Why not?”
“You don’t know?”
Vena fidgeted. “Gods, this is so out of character for me. I'm not usually one to come over shy, but there's something about you that's driving me crazy and I can't explain it. I'm so confused now and I really have to get it off my chest, so here goes: I really like you Cohen, and I know you’re still really torn up about this Nicole girl, and I understand if you don’t like me the same and if you're not ready to move on yet, but I really needed to say something, and are you going to cut me off before I hyperventilate?”
“Sorry, it’s just kind of interesting watching you babble,” Cohen said.
“Listen, Nicole's forgotten me, maybe it's time I forgot her. Plus, there's no one I'd rather move on with than you," he said. He looked up, meeting her hopeful green gaze. Suddenly the words he had lined up to say dissipated and he was babbling just as bad. “Vena, you- I mean… You’re amazing and-”
“Aw, just shut up. We’re adults, not teenagers, for Io's sake,” Vena laughed. She scooched over and pulled Cohen into her lap.
“Not that I’m complaining, but shouldn’t you be on my lap?”
“Oh well, I never have been one for conventions.”
For a long while, they lay in bed holding hands. Vena’s expression was inscrutable, until finally she said, “Damn.”
“What’s the matter?”
“I think I love you.”
“I fail to see the problem.”
“It’s just that I really don’t do relationships; all I know is I want to make this work. I mean, if that's what you want.”
Cohen squeezed her hand, making her smile.
“Cohen, would you- would you come with me? We could travel the Disc together, you and me.”
His own dreams sped through his mind. A part of him immediately screamed yes, but he couldn’t leave now with his goal so close. “I’ll sleep on it. See you in the morning.”
The next day, Cohen sat down at the breakfast bar and grabbed a spoon. “Lovely,” he said.
“It’s just cereal. Nothing special.”
“I wasn’t talking about breakfast.”
“Did you think about what I said last night? Will you come with me?”
“Yes.”
Vena’s green eyes sparkled and she was back to her chatty self. “Where and when do you want to go? It's been a while since I've been to Klatch, how about it?”
He pointed out the window. “I want to go there, first. Tomorrow. I want to see Lancre. Alone, if that's alright with you. It means a lot to me.”
She nodded. “I know the feeling. In that case, how about you meet me in Klatch once you’re done here?”
“Perfect. Oh, one more thing: Could I borrow your sword?”
_______________
Lancre was a wild and woolly land, slow to release its grip on winter’s chill. Cohen reflected on this as he scanned Agnes’ map, clutching it tightly in a futile attempt to stop his hands from shaking. He’d come to Lancre with nothing but the clothes on his back and a few dollars. Maybe he should have invested in a jacket, but hey. He was a manly man. He could take it.
If he was reading the map right, he was close. Cohen allowed himself a moment to relish the fact.
Cohen Discworld, you are standing on the first step of the staircase of your new life. A life of adventure and treasure-seeking, with a beautiful woman at your side to boot. It all starts here, my friend. Show us what you can do with that pretty sword. Seize the monster’s jewels, whether he cooperates or not! He winced in embarrassment at his choice of words. I mean, steal his treasure. Yeah.
About half an hour later, Cohen spied something through the trees: a log cabin. Every sense was fired up and he no longer felt the cold. He drew his sword in anticipation - it wouldn’t hurt to be prepared.
Cohen stole closer to the cabin warily, staying near to the wall. A small splash broke the silence; he peered around the corner and felt his heart stop.
There it was, the source of so many childhood daydreams, so many hours of research and sweat. Transfixed, he stepped forward -
“Come to join me in a spot of fishing, have you?” the booming voice seemed to come from everywhere, reverberating off the trees.
Bigfoot turned and fixed him with a sad, striking gaze. His eyes fell on the blade in Cohen’s hand and he sighed.
“Oh, another adventurer. When will you people leave me alone? Do I have ‘come bother me, one and all’ emblazoned across my forehead?”
Cohen felt hypnotised. It’s him. It’s really him.
Bigfoot appeared not to notice Cohen’s state and continued with his rant. “I have no quarrel with the other sort, with their notebooks and their instruments, and the amiable ignorant ones. But you and your kind! With fire in your hearts and weapons in your hands! How tiresome.”
Finally, Cohen snapped from his trance. “You are the one they call Bigfoot?”
Bigfoot closed his eyes in exasperation. “By Offler. Not the one, boy, one of, yes, but not the. Although I am the Bigfoot of Lancre, does that answer your question?”
Cohen allowed himself a triumphant smile. “I’ve wanted to find you my whole life.”
“I’m flattered. You didn’t come for idle chatter, I take it.”
“No. I hear you guard a treasure, and I did promise my sister I’d bring her back something nice.”
Bigfoot snarled. “What I guard with my life is no tourist's trinket, you imbecile. It is a curse. An item of terrible strength and power. Like my fathers before me, I am under oath to never let it slip from my possession while I draw breath.”
Somewhere in the depths of Cohen's mind, an internal battle was being fought without him even noticing.
The figure sitting at the controls cracked his fingers and let out an evil chuckle. "Awesome. Let's kick this furry's ass, big guy."
An identical, slightly more diminuitive and anxious-looking figure hovered a few steps back, trying to get the other's attention without being noticed. "Um, Snarky-Side, do you mind if I use the computer for a minute? I think there may be some funky shoot going down here."
"Fuck off, Voice-of-Reason. You'll make him do something wimpy like reason with the monster or some shit," Snarky snarled, not taking his eyes from the screen.
Reason nodded meekly. "I think it would be wise. This treasure sounds dangerous and besides, the poor lad has lost sight of his original goal. All he wanted to do was meet the Bigfoot, not kill him and take his treasure-"
"Think you're so smart, don't you, Reason? Well, screw you! I've let you have a say up till now, but now our big man's got a sword, an ugly-ass monster to slay, and a chance to act like a real hero!"
"He died last time you-"
"Shut the fuck up, man! He got better! Now how about you take your well-meaningness someplace not here, and let me get back to business, huh?"
Reason shrugged. "Alright, but if this ends badly then I hate to say I told you so."
We now return to the land outside the realms of Cohen's consciousness. Thank you for flying Air Brainwave.
“I’ve come too far to leave empty-handed,” Cohen said, advancing. In the depths of his mind, Snarky punched the air in anticipatory glee.
“This is not a question of your pride, you insidious little man, but your safety. The whole Disc could be threatened if it falls into the wrong hands.”
“Then I’ll make sure it falls into the right hands. Promise.”
Bigfoot assumed a threatening pose. “I’ve killed greater men than you. Do you even know how to use that sword, cyclops?”
Cohen’s smile disappeared like someone had switched it off. “You really shouldn't have said that.”
“Really, now. What makes you so confident you can beat me?”
“Because I. Am. Pretty. Main character privileges, lol. Voice of Reason just got his arse kicked. The mighty pink blotter book of plots says so. Because I was born to do this.” Cohen replied, with a hairflip to make the L'Oreal girl sigh.
“And I, my friend, was born to protect the artefact. I believe what we have here is called a stalemate.”
“Only if neither of us makes a move,” Cohen said, and with that he charged.
_______________
The dramarama continues...