“This woman ventures abroad, gets artificially inseminated by accident, and falls in love with a colleague who happens to be the father of her child?”
“Yep, it's amazing,” I said as I down my drink while watching the latest episode.”
“That's ludicrous,” rumbled Jaghatai Khan, Primarch of the White Scars, V Legion Astartes.
“Yeah well, is it any more ludicrous than talking to a 10-foot-tall genetic super-soldier from the 31st Milennium as a framing device for a dumb novella about a guy discovering a sex site?”
We sat in silence on the couch as my favourite Spanish-language telenovela, Juana La Virgen played across the television. The Great Khan grumbled softly, like rolling thunder on a clear day.
“You should never have attended that Shakira meet-and-greet.”
“She definitely makes me want to speak Spanish,” I said, eyes darting through the subtitles.
“Is this what you're doing? Learning Spanish by watching a telenovela program?”
I look straight at the camera. At the reader. At you.
“SMASH CUT TO OPENING THEME! THAT'S RIGHT, MOTHERFUCKER, WE'RE DOING CINEMATIC TRANSITIONS NOW!”
Me and Jaghatai Khan, Primarch of the White Scars, V Legion Astartes, son of the Emperor of Mankind and Great Khan of Chogoris, sat in silence as Juana La Virgen's ending credits roll through the screen.
“Next episode!” I said, reaching for the remote.
“Enough!” Roared the Khan, grabbing the remote and hurling it at the wall. “Your eye is healed, it's time for you to return to your tumen!”
“Erofights is a single player game, there's no fucking Mongol unit of ten thousand at any point,” I said boredly.
“That may be so, but I tire of your Spanish telenovelas! Let us meet the Orks in glorious battle!”
“We don't talk about the Warhammer 40,000 community anymore, that garbage is dead to me.”
“Either you participate in the Erofights community or I will take you back to Warhammer 40k.”
“Fine,” I said, putting on my eyepatch to cover the horrendous scar I got from the last chapter.
The towers of Classic and Femdom With Caprice dominated the EroFights skyline, with other petty offices scraping and bowing in their wake. Today however, all attention was in the Bot Arena, with large crowds walking in.
“I fucking knew that hot bot-on-bot action was going to take off,” I nodded approvingly as I followed the crowd in.
The Arena had changed. It was no longer a tiered circle linked with circular benches on every level, with a bed located at the very center. It had become a bar.
“Winston!” I turn at the sound of my name, finding Frenchie and Andre in a corner table with drinks alongside several others that I knew in passing. I walk towards them, gesturing at all this alcholic madness going on.
“I'm sorry, but what the fuck is this...? Where's Wet God and Red Slave? Who took my bot-on-bot clanking action away and who do I have to kill to get it back? Who....”
“Winston, cher ami, this is ah, how you say... c'est temporaire!” Today is tournament day! Frenchie said excitedly.
“Tournament day? A tournament of what?”
“Le Classique tournament, of course!”
I turned my back on Frenchie and scanned the bar... yes, there was a stage on one end of the room with a bed on it.
Fucks sake. They turned it into a tournament. Now those strategy talking types are really going to wank off now. This is probably what you get when you keep taking the Lord's name in vain.
“Christ on a cross. Jesus fucking Christ, you guys. What the fuck,” I said, taking the Lord's name in vain.
“Nice to meet you, too,” one of the men I only knew in passing said. He was large and muscular and hulked over the table.
“I'm sorry,” I nod shamefacedly before offering my hand. “Name's Winston.”
“Hey there, Winston. I'm Mandingo. You cosplaying a pirate or something?”
“No, I just slipped,” I said, without missing a beat, hand touching my eyepatch.
“On a pair of scissors?”
“Something like that,” I said as Frenchie moved to make space for me to sit.
I turned my attention at the other stranger at the table. He too was muscular, but not to the degree that Mandingo was. He had a moustache that looked almost like a poor attempt by Henry Cavill to disguise himself.
“Señor Winston, Milov88 at your service,” he said, offering his hand.
“88? What happened to the other 87?” We shook hands and laughed at my dumb joke.
I poked a thumb behind me, indicating the stage. “So, who are the fighters for this thing?”
I snap my fingers and wave a waiter over with a crook of my finger.
“Actually don't tell me, I don't even want to look at it.” To the waiter I said, “get me a chocolate milk.”
“I didn't know you were so conservative, Winston!” Andre teased, his hands full of scrolls, full of equations and diagrams.
“I just like to keep my girls private, not on a stage,” I smiled. “What are those?” I pointed at the scrolls.
“Oh... battle strategies for Classic,” Andre said, showing me a particularly detailed scroll about the probability of cumming.
“I don't know about you, but I want my probability of cumming with a woman to be 100%.”
“But then you lose!” Andre said in a shocked voice. “You have to hold it in!”
“Nah, that's not what I'm about at all,” I said, smiling as politely as I could.
“You're a lover, not a fighter, I dig it, but that's not what a sexfight is about man,” Mandingo said, patting me on the shoulder.
“Sexfight? Nah son, free pussy!” I fired back.
Before I could say anything further, the waiting room bell rang across the hall, causing Little Winston to jump a little in his banana hammock.
DING! NUMBER 1! CLASSIC!
A blue got up from one of the seats and left the bar.
“Wait a minute,” I said to the table. “You don't have to stand in line any more?”
“Nope,” Mandingo said. “All you have to do is get your ticket stub from the bar and then you can wait here and watch the tournament, man.”
“Cool. What number are you on?”
“5,” the massive chocolate sculpture of a man said, showing me his stub.
“And you guys?” I said, turning to the rest. They showed me their stubs. Frenchie had 6, and Andre 9.
“I'm not playing,” Milov said... I'm waiting for my own tournament match with Julia Flower.
I went to the bar and asked for a ticket. The number 15 on it stared at me like I strangled a child.
People strategising about sex and a long waiting line. Hell exists after all.
The tournament began with fireworks and loud cheering, both contestants going at it pretty hard and passionately. The drinks flowed freely and pretty soon the crowd were standing on their tables and waving their shirts over their head, cheering wildly for their favourite sexfighter. It was honestly rather exciting.
The fighters were tied, 1-1, and have been going at it for an hour, talking filth to each other for everyone to hear. The reds were screaming for the girl to finish the male contestant off, and the blues were cheering for the opposite.
Forgetting all my misgivings about competitive sex, I started cheering as well, taking a deep breath.
Pretty soon, all the men in the bar began taking up the call. Vamos, vamos. This distracted the female sexfighter, her defeated orgasmic cry drowned by the overwhelming wall of vamos.
Celebrations went on for hours as the men relished their victory. The crowd eventually thinned out and left, leaving the people at our table as the only ones left.
“Hey wait a minute, I thought you had a tournament match?” I asked Milov. The Spaniard wiped sweat from his brow anxiously, looking at his watch.
“She'll be here any minute now...”
“Non, non, non!” Frenchie waved his finger at Andre. “The Sky Land Saga is clearly the better One Piece story arc!”
“Nonsense!” Andre said, the Summit War was much better!”
“Nah, Whisky Peak, that's where it's at!” Mandingo fired back.
“Strategic sex, a non-moving waiting line, and a One Piece discussion. This really is hell,” I said to no one in particular.
“Julia will be here any minute now, guys...” Milov said nervously.
“WE SHOULD HAVE A CLUB!” Andre declared drunkenly, waving his scrolls around like a sword.
“YEAH, THAT'LL TEACH THOSE GIRLS! HOW DARE THEY NOT PLAY WITH US! THIS LINE HASN'T MOVED AT ALL!” Frenchie yelled to heavens.
“We should have our own Secret Lightsaber League, and ban girls from watching us swordfight,” I said, egging the drunks on.
“OUI! A GOOD IDÉE! MY LIGHTSABER WILL BE BLEU! BECAUSE OF ZE BLEU BALLS! HON HON HON HON”
“Mine would be red from overuse,” I encouraged this insane discussion.
“Mine would be purple,” Mandingo said, half sliding down his seat.
“Are we talking about lightsabers or cocks?” Andre wondered.
“WHO CARES?!” Frenchie said, collapsing face first on the table.
“Julia, why...” Milov sobbed into his drink.
The bar is in absolute ruins. Frenchie was sleeping on the table. Andre was tied up on the bar by his toga, and Mandingo's face deep in Frenchie's armpit.
**DING! NUMBER 15! CLASSIC!”
“Sweet,” I said, as my ticket lit up. All right, I gotta go, bye Milov.
As I walked out of the Bot Arena and headed for the Classic tower, I heard a feral, anguished cry from within the Arena.
“JULIAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA! POR QUEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!”
“Hey,” I said to myself. “I understood that without subtitles.”
“Shakira here I come...”
END OF CHAPTER 5
Based on the crazy day during a tournament where we talked about everything except the tournament itself.
This is basically where the Vamos meme started.
I want a Vamos action card. Somebody please make one for me.
This chapter is dedicated to Milov88 and his recently completed quest to get into the next round of the tournament. He also proofread the chapter and provided all the lost details of that day. Praise him with great praise!
Many men (me included) have remarked that the matchmaking bell has created a mental reaction in us. For me, it makes me happy, because that means I get to play.
I wanted to write two chapters today, but Morexis distracted me.
THANKS MOREXIS, you so-and-so, you.
The original ending theme was supposed to be Besame Mucho, but I think the ending theme I eventually chose was funnier.