Editor's Note: Two generations ago an AFG editor pitched the idea of producing non-fiction novels to be distributed by AFG dealers. Tales of mayhem and mischief for a more entertaining way for goofoff young adventurers to learn how to be skilled without feeling bored.

The editor found the oldest man with scars he could, gave him a cassette tape and a jar of "RECORD" tachyons, and told him if he came back later with a story on the tape he would be given hard cash.

That man's name was Steak Griz. And he did what he was told. A few times.

The editor's name was Jeff "Stainless" Steel. And he was found months later, stabbed. A few times.

Tape 1 was either lost or destroyed. Some AFG suit probably sat his fat ass on it.

Here is tape 2.

---

[Usual sound of glass shattering and electrical buzz -- tachyons at work] Fuck! ...god dammit. Shard of glass in my finger. [Sucking sound] What cheap ass jars are you buying, Steel? You dick. Okay. The hell was I talking about last night. Oh, shit, okay, how I got my ride. I think I stopped where I, when I got to the, uh, the house. God damn that was forever ago - where are my notes. [Sound of ruffling papers] I wrote shit down this time, Steel, this is goin' to sound like high quality shit. Here. Alright.

[Griz clears his throat] The gun rack was a burnt mess. He must have earned the thing, probably by being the only survivor of some terrible fiasco in another man's house. Maybe it was his own house. I have no damn clue. I just know the stories. There weren't any guns resting in it. When I was checking out the burns I noticed it was dusty as hell. It must be here as a signal for people, as soon as they enter his place: "Two things: I've been on fire. And I keep my guns on my person." Basically, "Don't Fuck With Me".

He didn't even need the rack. Everyone knew his name, tales of what he'd done and to whom and with what and how many car flips he pulled off before it was over. We knew because of the guide. The Guide. But you know that. Why am I telling you that. Steel, fix my shit. I ramble. But you know that, you said that's why- fuck this why am I telling you what you already know. Fucking chimp. Fuck!

I get pissed. You get pissed, Steel, once you've put up with all the shit I have. And I don't mean the whole "I've seen death, man" pussy shit. Killing a dude is nothing, pulling a dangling limb off a son of a bitch to get to his car keys is a daily fucking thing. Fuck that, no, I get pissed because of dumb ass spigots who need to bug the hell out of guys like me. Sucking up and whining and crying and -- fuck me where is my whiskey.

[Unintelligible for about 15 seconds -- glass grinding, slamming noises.]

-king bought like three damn gallons, what the hell. Screw it. I might as well kill the little fuckers myself, do it real quick, because they're going to die anyway. You can tell, man. When you've been around long enough. You can tell who will cut it and who will be cut. Heh. I'm not even drunk yet.

Shit, sorry, I went off again. Let's do this.

[Ruffling papers again.]

The house smelled like soiled pants and month-old blood. At first I thought maybe this was the wrong house, the house of some terrible dick who couldn't cut it. Or maybe the guy lost it, he went crazy like a lot of them do and invited a sasquatch over to dinner and called him a hairy retard.

A few months later, once he stopped calling me a spigot -- that's how you know a veteran adventurer respects you -- I asked about why his house smelled so fucking awful. He blinked at me for a few seconds, then realized what I must be talking about and laughed real hard. He told me he would often do these real ballsy solo runs against some union out of Clampett County. They had an HQ in an old steel mill where they kept stacks of middle fingers they took from anything dead that has middle fingers. Stacks didn't fuck with them because of that creepy shit. No, all he was pissed about was there were some perfectly kick ass steel sawmills they weren't even fucking using. That's where his priorities are, man, if there were some dicks letting real kickass, stylish weapons rust he was going to do something about it. Especially if they could tear a car in half or be used as a frisbee by a group of sasquatches.

So he would crash his ride into the mill after getting a few shots in him, fingers flying everywhere, throwing whoever he could find under his car or dumb enough to not have run away into his trunk and drive home. It became this ritual for him, a way to blow off steam after real tough gigs. He set up this ramp in the trees and every time adjusted its angle and location and the speed he hit it with, trying to find the perfect combination to kill as many fuckers as he could on impact. It was hilarious to him that these assholes were always surprised by him. They never were ready for the attack, never came out and destroyed the ramp. They didn't even move where they played cards. Stacks thought maybe their boss was just some fucked up weirdo who cycled through so many idiots in his hunt for fingers he didn't care. Stacks didn't care, either. He called it Gutterballing. "Bowling for gutter trash," he said.

But he'd drive home with bodies in his trunk, either dead or alive, and drag them into his house to loot the bodies. He timed every run, too. From the moment his car crashed their party to when the last body was fed to his pigs. Gotta keep the pigs fed, man. You never know when you need some hog meat. So his house was constantly filled with this smell. But the reason he never cared about it was a whole other story. The tale of the rocket up the nose. I'd tell that one but, shit, I got way the fuck off topic again.

[Ruffling papers]

Okay, so all of that is just to say Frank Stacks' house smelled awful and had all this shit in there to show off how awesome he was. Jesus, this writing shit is fucked up, man, I don't know how you do it. Okay, fuck. Where's my whi-

[End of tape.]

 

 

So you've busted up a few caves full of rats and made the ten dollars you need to buy a tire patch for the last spare tire for miles and get out of your hick home town, finally. Now its time to make some real dough for once, how about that, kiddo? That patch isn't going to hold that tire together forever, and certainly not the whole three hour trip to St. Whiskeydick or Stain Valley or whatever shitty city you think you'll hit it big in. Little do you know that theres lucrative business to be had right in the very woods you cursed for being so devoid of things worthy to slaughter. You need to hunt that which you did not know was even there, fight the unknown brotherhoods that lurk all around you and stab wildly at powers that you cannot hope to comprehend. What you need to do, adventurer, before anyone will ever respect you enough to give you a decent paycheck, is discover, track, locate, and exterminate a cult.

Before you begin, consult this handy checklist for recommended equipment:
-A Car*
-A Newspaper
-A weapon (unless you prefer to use your fists)
-A 12-pack
-A fifth of any liquor
-Your wits (or really dark sunglasses)
-Buddies, at least 2, no more than 6

Step one, discover the cult. Before you go running around in the woods looking for dudes wearing deer antlers in a drum circle, you first need to confirm one even exists in your area. One does, most definitely, but knowledge is your best weapon in this task, as the more you know about a specific cult, the less likely you are to be sacrificed to its god. Any newspaper will contain any recent kidnappings in the area, and the most basic resource a cult needs is sacrifices to its god. Put the two together, you can figure it out. Locations with a high frequency of kidnappings may tip you off to the general location of their temple, but you could be looking for days and if your tire blows, you're out of luck. The next thing to look at is who they are kidnapping. If it's primarily nuns and virgins, then you can bet whatever change you have left from the tire patch that their temple is going to be any old abandoned church in the woods, and if you've read page 77, "Maps are for Pussies", you'll have no problem finding the gigantic stone building sticking a middle finger out of the forest with a noisy ass bell in it, and you can almost always expect demons (page 666). However, if most of the kidnappings are livestock, then you will be looking primarily for caverns, which are easily identified as gigantic goddamn holes in the earth (pg. 77). Please note that gigantic goddamn holes are the only ones suitable to house a cult. Small caves, which you are already duly familiar with, house mostly venomous bites, bearholks, and stashed dogman loot. Due to this type of cults location and kidnapping preference, you will most likely be confronted with animal worshipers (pg 665), or possibly Neanderthals (if you find Neanderthals, then you have wasted your time). Lastly, kidnappings of children usually mean slave labor camps, and cleaning up slave labor camps is charity bullshit that you don't have time for.

Step two is Track the cult. You know their probable temple location, their primary kidnapping locations, and their peak activity time (ALWAYS at midnight, and more active on full moons, eclipses, solstices, equinoxes, scientific aural disturbances, volcanic eruptions, planetary alignments, thunderstorms, and the days their paychecks go through). Set up a few tracking bugs in the woods, or do it the old fashioned way and lay in the back of your truck under a tarp and look for groups of five or six robed guys shuffling around in the dark. Go ahead and kick the shit out of them, and if you're lucky enough to leave one alive, you can attempt to interrogate him for details such as who their god is, what their leader dictates, and when their next party is going to be. What they will never tell you is where their temple is exactly located, because their god would instantly vaporize them. If you've done your research, then thats not important anyway. We recommend you talk them in to giving up the location, its fun to watch. After kicking the shit out of them, freeing any towed sacrifices (or grilling them up in the case of livestock), you can then follow their tracks to their nearest Jamboree. Cultist Jamborees serve as temporary holy grounds to quickly process sacrifices and gain converts. Average jamborees will have live music and a beer tent, but larger ones can include cheap merchandise such as silk screening booths, snow cones, corn-dogs, and dudes selling glow sticks among other things. This is where your buddies and the booze will come in to play. Jamborees are full of cultists at their weakest, power-drunk off the vibes of their weird manipulative god, the music, and the beer. Be sure to drink only your own alcohol, as the provided hooch usually contains mind control tachyons. Use this opportunity to gather more information on the cult. Observe their rituals, listen to their dogma, clap along to their band and act like you're 100% for the introduction of a gigantic scabby six limbed bipedal lizard in to our world. Now, even though they tell you what he looks like, you are still not prepared to see him. This is going to be hard, but when they offer any sacrifice that you didn't free for street cred a small portal will be opened. Ready your wits or dawn your shades (darker the better) and prepare yourself for the ugliest thing you've ever seen. Keep in mind you are viewing it through a portal to a realm which scientifically doesn't exist. It's like watching car crashes on T.V., they are much more awesome in person, and what you see through that hole is much more ugly close up. Now get the hell out.

Step three is Locate. If you did well on your research then this should be no problem. Get your weapon and your car (which you should not have driven at all until now) and check all probable locations of their temple, it should be easy. Very carefully and gently slam your vehicle in to the temple, jump out, and be ready for a fight. They will hit you with their music and chants, they will summon servants of their god which, while ugly up close, are still not as ugly as their god would be on TV. If you haven't succumbed to the intense mind control radiation of the temple (jamborees inoculate you against this unless you partied too hard with them), and if you are not vomiting from the intense stench of the underworldly servants, then you are ready to move on to the next step:

Extermination. Kill everything, take the good parts. This is the easy step. Be on the look out for the cult leader, he's the one with the coolest looking robe, and most importantly: car keys. Congrats, now your ride isn't a rusty old turd with a shitty tire, just remember to scrape the bumper stickers off before someone accuses you of being a cultist. Be sure to load all goodies in the temple in to the car, and be on a look out for the most important piece: the object of power.

For information on dealing with cults who have successfully called their multi-tentacled fanged eyeball lord in to this realm utilizing an object of power, see page X.

 

 

So adventurer! You're all set. You're pumped and amped and ready to go out into the wilderness to collect heads and make a nickname for yourself (more appropriately, nicknames are made for you. See page 487, "Nicknames"). Your backpack is full of various incendiary and jagged items, your satchel full of water and meat, and your stomach full of butterflies. And also meat. This is it, you're ready to kill and thrill. Right?

Wrong. Where's the booze?

The world before you, adventurer, with its promises of murder and mayhem, requires you stay hydrated. Alert. And maybe drunk enough to be numb to the surely intense pain you're about to go through. You don't need to pack water bottles and gauze and band-aids. Throw all that shit out. It's bulky, it's boring, and it's for pussies. If you want to survive the pain of puncture wounds and insults about your male status, you're bringing some alcohol. Don't be a pussy. You'll get fucked.

Booze serves several purposes already alluded to. Most of it is common sense. But since common sense tends to only save a handful of you sad sacks, we'll write it out for you anyway.

First, booze is tasty. Rum, beer, fermented street-chimp blood mixed with freshly squeezed oranges (an orange-a-la-tang); pick your poison. Don't overlook the joyous taste of a good drink. Since you're going to wish you were dead often and without fail, the sweet taste of a shot is much more enjoyable than the sweet release of death. Pleasures like that will elude you.

Secondly, booze keeps you hydrated, alert. It helps you heal from your various battles and other activities, like wrecking your car or punching an elephant minding his own business (of course, booze will also cause you to do many of those things, but more on that later). At the very least it makes you feel like you're healthy. Which is usually enough. No need for a "first aid kit", and what the hell is this "potion" bullshit? Fuck that. If you've got a keg you've got a nurse. At least until you need limbs re-attached or organs put back in place. Then you need a scientist (See page 778, "Science!"). Being drunk gets you through the day, at least without crying like a little girl.

Thirdly, booze helps you be a badass. It gives you courage when you need it. You're going to be facing a bunch of terrifying and daunting shit out there, adventurer. Be prepared, or prepare yourself, with booze. Down some before you head into the main room of that underground gauntlet home of the Muskrat King. Share a beer as you take part in your first major radio station raid. Before, during, and after intense activity, enjoy a beer. Especially after. Because you just earned rad cred.

And speaking of cred, lastly, booze is the drink of legends. Not only does any alternative make you seem like a total tool, being a man who can down gallons of alcohol a day gives you cred. And the frontier before you rewards men with cred. Be the Fonz. Don't be a spigot (n., a little bitch who will probably be spraying blood by the end of the day).

Here are some hot booze tips to help you out on the open road, adventurer:

• If you've got a crew, rotate the dude at keg duty: the guy hauling the keg or cooler of beer or assortment of alcohol. This guy tosses drinks out when a dude calls for one, whether during a rough battle, before, or after. This is important, and essential to any group of jackasses going for broke.
  
• Speaking of crews, find a bartender for yours, or train up yourself. And have anyone with tending skills teach the rest of the crew, too. Booze knowledge is very important, because with the right touch you can get some amazing drinks.
  
• Which means, try any and all booze you can find. Different drinks have different effects, especially if a scientist got his hands on it. Go for it. You may find a cocktail that gives you temporary speed boosts. Or a secret brew that keeps your bones solid like steel. Or maybe just one that gives you intense liquid shits. Don't be a pussy, adventurer! Drink up!

Above all, adventurer, have a drink on hand at all times. You never know when you'll need it. Especially to give yourself a final toast as you go toast.

If you'd like to learn up on the scientific branch known as bartending, quit wasting time and go read that article, page 67, "Brewin'".

 

 

Bearholk
A 3-foot wide mass of knotty fur sporting a multitude of wet, goopy eyeballs atop four nasty bug-legs tall enough to bring it up to eye-level, so you just cant look over the thing and pretend its not the grossest thing ever as you throw a Molotov at it. Hanging from under its hair and eyeballs is a jawless mouth that contorts and flops around like a black leathery tentacle. Its bite is harmless, but once the mouth touches something edible it begins to pour out approximately a bucket-full of nasty smelling digestive fluids. While not acidic enough to cause any permanent damage under normal circumstances, Bearholks do hunt in packs of about 4 to 12 and approximately 3 could overwhelm an Adventurer and drown him in bugpuke.

Also comes in Polar, Grizzly, and Circus varieties.

Froggum
A race of exceedingly annoying frog men that nest in three to six foot deep holes that they dig wherever they damn well please. When possible, they will steal garden hoses and use them to fill their pits with water. They stand about four feet tall and wear ratty human-made clothing, purchased from garage sales whenever they can afford it. They fiercely defend their pits when anything comes too close, but mostly just ask questions and follow you around when you encounter them outside of their territory.
They have been known to use small weapons and makeshift armor, but these are usually rusty pieces of shit due to being stored in a mud pit.
Froggums often breed in their pits before leaving for a new one, with the potential of breeding up to a hundred more Froggums. This can be prevented by pissing in the Froggum hole.

Rumblesnake
A species of rattlesnake whose rattles contain compressed lead filings, so heavy that when it shakes its tail, it causes a small earthquake in the immediate area. When its target is off-balance, it then springs out and "punches" them. Adventurers hit by this "punch" have all claimed to see a gigantic fist coming at them like a rocket and terrible nightmares of soaring through the air as their faces swell up. The Rumblesnake's bite is nearly fatal, but it never bites its targets because it considers that cheating. In the case that you DO get bit by a Rumblesnake, the only cure is to kill the snake that bit you.


Silverback Cougar
Imagine the speed , piercing roar and tearing bite of a cougar, but in the terrifying muscular frame of a silverback gorilla, complete with hands that can grab and tear off limbs. Silverback Cougars, unlike their close relatives the common Tree Gorilla, live primarily to beat the living piss out of everything they meet. They are not to be fucked with. Even if you manage to hold off the assault from its tree-trunk arms, you have the snarling face of a pissed cougar snapping at your neck as it slowly overpowers you.

Sub-Ops Groundhogs
Highly skilled groundhogs that work as a group to quickly dig tunnels underneath threats and erupt from the dirt to kick off-guard adventurers in the head. They live underground, and also are hoggers, so watch any valuables you happen to set down on the ground. They wear tiny little army helmets and speak this hilarious little rodent version of combat orders to one another. Despite their appearance they can and chances are will kick your ass and send you packing. They prefer not to kill their targets, because they know that living with the shame of being pushed around by a handful of furballs is more than enough to keep most adventurers away.

Sub-Ops Groundhog Captains are also highly skilled in hand-to-hand combat, disarms, and submission holds.

Pine Goblins
Tiny little men coated in pine sap and needles, they attack their prey by jumping on them and slowing them to a crawl by turning the sap in to amber almost instantly. When their victim is completely encased in amber, they drink its blood by driving a syrup tap into the victim's leg.
Pine goblins also mark their property by coating it in their sap. In their society, anything not caked in gunk is up for grabs, and this means anything. Some adventurers have awoken from camping at night to find that every square inch of their tent had been claimed by one pine goblin. These stories are also accompanied by the same goblin attempting to lay claim to the campfire

 

 

Peter Osmarand Cuffs, whose name was legally changed in 1252 to "Diamond" Pete Cuffs, is the legendary hero who on several occasions has torn chunks out of dragons throats with nothing but his teeth and a set of enchanted rock climbing gear. Diamond Pete first discovered his ability in 1249 at the New Beeferton Bazaar, when the young hero to be bit the worlds largest uncut diamond into a perfect gem with three hundred and ninety-eight facets, while it was in transit through black market smugglers in a candystore used as a front for their operations. Taking the Diamond for himself, the young Pete, then a mere 12 years old, traded it at the pawn shop across the street for a set of adventuring gear and promptly left town without his mothers permission. It is interesting to note that by cutting and selling the diamond at the pawn shop he completed the hand-off between two black market rings while simultaneously increasing its value fifty-fold.

While travelling to West Potluck (stop one on the Historical Diamond Pete Trail) Pete began to hone his ability to crush anything in his teeth and began to fashion spearheads, small daggers, fishhooks, meathooks, rings (one enchanted, see D. Pete's "Spitball" Ring, pg 502), and various small sculptures out of scrap metal salvaged from the sides of the Ancient Freeways. He would eventually master this ability and build his first Hot Rod out of parts he chewed himself.

In the fall of 1252 Pete was a contestant in the Republic of the St. Louis Blues Knuckle Cup (Knuckle Stadium, stop two on the Historical Diamond Pete Trail), and took third place after disarming and disqualifying 12 men by biting their weapons in half as they attacked him. Pete's path to victory was abruptly blocked after being clubbed unconcious by a man who was immediately vaporized by the first place contestant. the second place fighter's name could not be confirmed, as all form of ID on his person was dispersed to the atmosphere. While not first place, Pete was awarded an honorary legal name change for being the first Knuckle Bowl contestant to not kill a dude. He was legally renamed that night in the victory ceremony, right next to that years winner, Wiz. Ferdinand "Magrillin' " Brunswick. Pete later regained conciousness at a bar, after the ceremony committee left him there.

Pete used his fight money to outfit himself with an enchanted set of climbing gear to climb over the Mississippi Mountain Range and cut a new path into the kingdom of South Olovania, bypassing Butt Swamp. (Diamond Pete's Pass, stop three on the Historical Diamond Pete Trail, also the last stop unless you cheat.) He set a new speed record by travelling from New St. Louis, RSLB to Cairo, Illinois Desert (Cairo, Il. Desert, stop four on the Historical Diamond Pete Trail) in less than 72 hours. He arrived in Cairo hauling a dragon, with throat torn out, which he then butchered and sun-cured south of the city (Diamond Pete's Dragon Rib Shack Ruins, stop five on the Historical Diamond Pete Trail).

Realizing the culinary potential of dragons, Pete then spent the remainder of his career hunting and killing dragons and selling the meat at his barbeque restaurant until the day of his death, December 3rd 1264. Cause of death: a communications satellite landed on his restaurant. The offending NASA wizard is still at large.

 

 

Over the course of several thousand years, the mythos surrounding the Headless Horsemen has been warped over time. Contrary to popular belief, these individuals are not headless, caped rapists skipping along misty forests on the back of a mustang looking for some tail while sporting a pumpkin fetish. In actuality, they are simply decapitated centaurs.

The first centaur was a joke put forth by an angry, drunken Zeus. Hera, his wife, constantly nagged the poor dude about his tiny member. Her phrase of choice was "I might as well go bag a horse." After a particularly gruesome interchange after a night of failed consummation, the mighty deity was feeling particularly angry and upset about the supposed lack of umph in his God Rod©, so he shot back some wine, slapped a horse and a poor schmuck on the street together, and a centaur was born. Zeus promptly turned to his wife and said, "saddle up, sis." (Hera was Zeus's sister, but that's a tale for another page.)

In an exciting and entirely unexpected turn of events, Hera went all the way with this lucky buck, and a whole, terrible race was birthed out of her gaping maw. One can argue that it's activities like giving birth to large animals which require the deitess to hunt for larger dork cork, and we do not disagree.

The new race of centaurs did not know what to do with themselves. The initial thought was "hey sweet, natural taxis", but after a few hundred years of fervent political discourse, this was deemed "offensive" to the [expletive deleted - Ed.], and the centaurs were reluctantly welcomed to mainstream society. However, after piles of shit stacked up in the break rooms of offices, horseshoe marks ruined expensive wooden floors, and work wasn't getting done because everyone was staring at the huge half-man, half-horse dongs swinging about, the populous stated enough was enough, and they began hunting the freaks for sport.

Good money was paid to those who brought back the sweetest, most pain-stroked removed heads of the things. The more agony depicted the better. Thousands flocked to the forests, where the centaurs retreated, and over time the creatures' population dwindled. The creatures are now thought to be extinct.

In present times, the tale of Hera and the Angry Four-Feet is told by the parents of sexually active young women in order to steer them away from porking dudes. As the story morphed and evolved over time (and social norms began frowning upon doing it with animals), the literal horse-man was replaced with a dude who really likes riding horses, the slaughtered culture replaced with a pumpkin fetish, but the missing head and the huge cock remained. Well, one head was missing, the other very present.

 

 

It is commonly said that Native Americans used every part of the buffalo that they killed. Bones, skin, ickier bits of the digestive system, and even the dilz. They found a use for it all. Why is this important to you, the adventurer? While they used the scrap off their kill to make clothing and build igloos, you can actually use the hacked-to-soggy-lumps of your adversaries as a form of quick cash. For example, take that freshly killed Mimic, scoop out all the slop inside, and BAMMO, you got yourself a treasure chest (fun fact: nobody has actually made a treasure chest in over a hundred years seeing as how mimics grow them as skin). Bury it somewhere, draw a map, and sell it to someone. If you can't sell your map, we suggest growing a beard, wearing some robes and hanging out in the back corner of pubs.

Dead witches leave behind terribly ugly corpses, even the ones that were total hotties before you mercilessly split them down the middle. You may be thinking to yourself "who in the hell would pay me for anything I can salvage from this hag?". The answer is teenage adventurers with nothing better to do. First grab your razor, and depants the witch. You will probably gag a little, if not throw up. Once you've properly steeled yourself, begin to shave the witch's pubic hair and place it in to a small sack. You now have a sack of Witch Pube, which is an increasingly popular legal drug amongst our professions youngsters. When you get home divide the pube into sandwich bags, about half full each. For an average harvest of Witch Pube you will wind up with roughly a dozen baggies which you can sell in back alleys for roughly 50 gold coins a pop. Effects of smoking Witch Pube include hallucinations of bizzare smoking cauldrons, uncontrollable cackling, perceiving other people's skin as green toned, and lethargy, all preceded by intense fits of painful vomiting.

Grease Goblins, while a pain in the ass to deal with, often carry a small fortune in their armor and weaponry. Simply remove the leather straps and makeshift wooden handles and you'll often find yourself with a wide variety of kitchenware and spare car parts. In fact, killing a whole community of Grease Goblins, collecting their equipment, and disassembling it will often yield a complete set of parts to build your very own hot-rod. If there are any survivors after your onslaught it usually isn't too hard to convince them to put it together for you. Once they are done you can set them free, or hack off their heads and thread them on a rope to tie to your antenna.

These are just basic exercises in Buffalo Theory, dear adventurer. Just keep in mind how much goes to waste when you simply kill a monster for its wallet and credit cards. Keep an eye out for anything that may be useful, and don't be afraid to take some of their worthless crap even if it doesn't have an apparent use at first, because there's always some dipshit back at town who's more than willing to fork over a handful of coins for a pill bottle full of minotaur dingleberries.

 

 

During your travels, you'll more than likely come across meadows full of wildflowers. When travelling through such places, you may encounter bee men. These creatures are about 1 foot tall, and look like honeybees with 2 arms and 2 legs. They are capable of walking and running, but prefer to fly whenever possible. Some can also speak English.

Bee men are most often seen gathering flowers to take back to their hives. They can occasionally be seen smoking clove cigarettes, as well. Unlike honeybees, who gather only nectar and pollen, bee men take whole flowers with them. They use the flower portion to make various types of food, including extremely delicious honey; stems and leaves are used as hive building material, or turned into compost. No one is really sure how these things are done; bee men have never told anyone how they make things, and people who have tried to look inside bee men hives have never been seen again.

Bee men live in hives that can be up to 12 feet tall and 10 feet wide. Hives can be found in groups of 3 or more, and are usually located in fields. The hives are never empty, and there are always bee men outside them.

If you encounter bee men and/or their hives, please heed the following information:

1. Be polite, and don't bother bee men that are working. They tend to work in groups, and angering one of them will more than likely anger all of them. An angry swarm of bee men is very dangerous. Unlike honeybees, bee men can sting repeatedly, bite, and use small wooden spears.

2. DO NOT try to break into hives unless you have special training and equipment! Attacking even one hive will likely cause the bee men in surrounding hives to swarm you. See 1 above as to why this is dangerous.

3. If you'd like some honey, be sure to bring something for the bee men; they don't give honey away for free! And make sure at least one of them speaks English! Some good things to offer for honey are cloves, large flowers (e.g. roses, peonies), and money.

If you follow the information above, and throughout this guide, you'll more than likely survive encounters with bee men.

 

 

Are you currently staring at an exact duplicate of yourself? Run. Run away. Read this page, then go back.

A common Doppleganger is what you are dealing with. Their bodies change shape, their minds sharpen, and their clothes morph around until eventually they look and think exactly like you. This is a major problem for most magic type adventurers because they know every spell that you do. Fortunately if you know a teleport spell you can just zip right by him and take off before he can do anything. Brawler type adventurers should have a little trouble with them, as they match your strength, but the gear they carry is just cheap knockoffs of your enchanted gear. Thief types should be able to sneak right by them, no problemo. On the event that you do get caught, just kick him in the crotch. Dopplegangers are used to their victims freaking out long enough for them to kill them quickly and cleanly, not jumping up and immediately disabling them with a quick popcorn maneuver. In fact, disregard most of this entire paragraph. No matter who you are, just kick a Doppleganger in the balls.

"Doppleghandis", as they are called, are an offshoot of the doppleganger species which by some odd branch in evolution copies its target completely down to every last molecule on their armor, ether particle in their magic swords, every synapse in their brain, leaving behind nothing of the original doppleghandi. A perfect duplicate of yourself that won't try to kill you. This, dear adventurer, is what we in the industry call a "One Up". You might call them "Free Men" or "Extra Life", but what it boils down to is that you or your doppleganger, NO fucking telling who the original was at this point (don't even try to argue with him), is now totally expendable. This may sound weird to you right now, and you may already be having an identity crisis, but worry not, dear adventurer. When it actually happens to you, you will realize a whole new world of possibilities opens up.

You can rock paper scissors each other and send the loser (or winner) home to your family while the winner (or loser) can (or has to) continue his adventuring career without any lingering regrets of abandoning your wife and children. You can charge into battle side by side, slaying dragons way way out of your league, knowing that two of you is twice the adventure. And twice the adventure brings twice the loot, twice the babes, and twice the potions if you're in to that sort of thing. You could keep him at the inn at all times to guard your valuables while you obtain more valuables. You could keep him in some town on standby waiting for the inevitable letter or newspaper article announcing your heroic, untimely, hilarious, tragic, or much deserved death so he can pick up exactly where you left off. Or you could just fight to a bloody end, winner now has two battleaxes forged by the last swing of the dying barbarian king's blacksmith hammer. How cool is that?

There is a third variation of the doppleganger, known as the "Koppelganger", It's a clone of Ted Koppel and was brought into existance when a curse that makes bad puns real things kicked in to effect in our own offices. do everyone a favor and kill it.

 

 

Dear adventurer, let us rest and examine this cool world. Have a mug and polish your favorite blade, for the world is dark for a dirty blade to shine.

Go for a walk. Go to the forest at the edge of town, go deeper into the wood than you usually go and take with ease the resplendant amount of trees. Take the warm essence of the wood and bring it in through your lungs, concentrating on your breathing. Listen to the stream and the company of birds, and to the rocks that the sun bashes light upon. Calibrate yourself, my friend, for the journey you are embarking upon is a mighty one. Take with natural ease the segments of this planet, the various components that it is framed upon. If you can constantly resonate with your surroundings, then you, too, can hope to raise your skills in an effecient manner.

The basic composure of life is sound. Ye should glide soundly upon these holy grounds if you listen to the squire of your deity. And kneel to offer your composition of memory to your god, as he or she will take it with care, to another land of listeners. The cycle of life constantly washes itself with reverberations. Learn this, adventurer, should you be a blessed man in heated battle.

If you're reading this book, then battle may become a necessity for you. You should be prepared in mind, body and spirit.

Eat healthy and stretch in the morning.