Dick approached Mr. Least’s castle once Greg had recovered from his aneurysm. He claimed that the stupidity of the exchange in the previous chapter triggered it, but Dick didn’t understand what he was talking about. He chalked it up to more of Greg’s insane antics.

  “That stunt you pulled against SilverTung isn’t gonna work against Mr. Least,” Greg said. “He’s a terrible person! Burned down a billion trees! He took sight away from a million children!”

  “Every criminal worth his salt does that. What makes this guy any worse?”

  “Well, you see… he doesn’t tip. Ever.”

  Dick tasted blood in his mouth.

  “And there’s more. He’s one of those assholes who talks at the theater.”

  A vein popped on Dick’s forehead. “I’m ordinarily a pacifist, but I’ll make an exception. This man needs to die.”

  Greg nodded sagely. “We oughta send him to that special place in hell they reserve for people like him.”

  “What’s his NGU?”

  “Nobody knows,” Greg whispered. “But it’s safe to say he’s quite a bit higher than you. You gotta play this safe. We have to make a plan before we—”

  “Oi, you bigoted sum’bitch! Git yer theater-talkin’ ass out here!” Dick shouted, his voice carrying into every corner of the castle. He stood proudly with his hands on his hips, defiantly challenging the lord of the [castle].

  Meanwhile, Greg counted the days until he’d die. Not from a physical attack, but from brain damage.

  Mr. Least cut a menacing appearance. From within the depths of his gilded hall, he strode out, covered in Buttcoin. But Mr. Least was no ordinary person. He was Ferongi.

  Mr. Least opened his arms wide. “Freddy vs Jason… at Tenagra.”

  “Uhh…” Greg said, perplexed. “Do you have any idea what that means?”

  “The Rock, when the walls fell!” Dick bellowed back immediately.

  Mr. Least pondered heavily for a moment.

  “Philip J Fry. His eyes squinted.”

  Dick continued, unfazed. “Freddy vs Jason. ON THE OCEAN!”

  Mr. Least shook his head. “Troy Barnes, returning with pizzas. His face fallen.”

  “God! God, come help!” Greg shouted. On cue, God poked his head out of his godly domain, filled with empty dorito bags, coke cans, and snickers wrappers. “What up, G?”

  “You’re god. You know everything, right? Explain this.”

  God listened in on the conversation.

  “Dick, his arms wide,” Dick said, spreading his arms wide.

  “Mr. Least, his eyes open!”

  Dick’s face lit up. “Leonardo DiCaprio, his glass raised!”

  “Damn,” God muttered. “Well played. You sure his Brain stat’s only at 2? That was some of the best negotiating I’ve seen since well before you were born!”

  Greg blinked, unamused. “You can’t possibly mean they had a real conversation.”

  “Oh in fact, I do,” said God, eyeing Dick with respect.

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  “Okay, I’ll bite. What’d they say?”

  “Well, It got off to a bumpy start, with Dick calling Mr. Least out for his heinous crime of talking at the theater. Mr. Least accepted the error in his ways, then flipped the tables on Dick, proposing he come work for him. Dick refused, but came back with a counter proposal. One that would be beneficial to both parties. They went back and forth for a bit, but eventually, Mr. Least agreed.”

  “Oh yeah? What’s the deal?”

  Dick cleared his throat. “I’m gonna supply him arms in his fight against Silvertung. I can make a killing that way. Maybe even enough to afford my truck!”

  “There’s more to it than that, isn’t there?” God asked.

  “Well, of course. I ain’t helping anyone who doesn’t tip at the theater. I’m gonna give Silvertung the same offer.”

  “So you’re gonna be one of those horrible arms dealers who pretends to be loyal to a country, but supplies both sides in a war?”

  Dick frowned, confused. “Is there any other kind?”

  “Huh,” Greg said. “Guess not!”

  Dick nodded, then fell over when his status screen popped up, dominating his entire field of vision.

  it was fun. (Wait, did he say that? I honestly can't remember, and I can't be bothered to go look it up.)