Excerpt

Long ago, before the days of recorded history, during the Hyperbolean Age of a much younger Earth, AGROTHARN the Interstellar Semi-Barbarian roamed the ancient volcanic lands in search of fame and fortune. Thanks to his magical porridge, which he ate religiously, he had seen the future. One of many alternate futures, to be exact, which seldom came to pass. Much like the flying T-Rexes his forefathers had promised for ages: "Someday, we'll all be flying around on T-Rexes!" they'd claim. "Just you wait!" But no, that never happened. The mighty Tyrannosaurus Rex never did sprout any wings, nor did anyone invent rocket boots for it. And it devoured anyone dumb enough to try mounting it. Thus, AGROTHARN had to content himself with riding a geriatric and often depressed Triceratops named Fred.

Whenever our unrivaled warrior required the services of his mighty steed, he would stuff two muscular fingers into his mouth and release a shrill whistle. The aged Triceratops then came lumbering, stumbling, and grumbling into view from wherever it usually kept itself.

"We must make haste!" AGROTHARN raised his impressive broadsword, named Demise-Bringer. "My steaming bowl of porridge has been burgled! There is only one cur who could have done such a dastardly deed: Nimrod the Nimble!"

"What's so great about this porridge?" Fred muttered.

AGROTHARN pointed, aghast, at the grumpy Triceratops. "Besides providing me with the endless entertainment value of alternate futures? My talented witch of a mom made it for me when I was a boy—before those horrible punk rock pterodactyls snatched her by the hair and carried her off to feed their irreverent spawn! The porridge is always piping hot, and the bowl is always full, no matter how much I eat! And believe you me, I've eaten a whole lot over the years! Just look at how buff I am!"

"Right." Fred shook his head unhappily.

AGROTHARN mounted the Triceratops and raised his sword high. "We're off!"

Fred huffed, struggling to take a single step forward under the warrior's thick-muscled girth. "Don't you ever get tired of eating the same gruel for every meal?"

"Never! And in an alternate future unlike any other, I have glimpsed something known as streaming series! I can't wait to find out how the one called Lost ends!"

At that moment, Nimrod the Nimble pranced into sight, juggling a bowl of porridge from one hand to the other like it was a plaything. Nimrod was little more than a skinny weakling, but boy, could he juggle. Baring his teeth in a fierce grimace, AGROTHARN leapt from Fred and brandished his broadsword in both hands. The Triceratops collapsed with a big sigh of relief.

"For too long have you burgled these ancient lands, Nimrod! Now you will be met by the demise I bring you!"

"For too long, you've stomped around in nothing but a furry loincloth, swinging that oversized sword over your head and shouting every word you utter," Nimrod replied. He held the bowl high and threatened to dash it against the volcanic rock at his feet. "Why should you alone be privy to mystical alternate futures? And what's the deal with calling yourself an interstellar semi-barbarian, anyway, you muscle-bound oaf?"

Fred snickered.

AGROTHARN stood to his fullest height, tightened his grip on Demise-Bringer, and ground his teeth. "By the power of my bulging muscles, I will have that porridge!"

Lunging forward, AGROTHARN expected to slice Nimrod's head from his scrawny neck and reclaim the magical gruel amidst a fountain of gore. Instead, the swing of his blade caught Nimrod's left arm, cleaving it in two, and the bowl fell. AGROTHARN could only watch, wide-eyed, as it shattered and the porridge splashed all over the place. Just like that, his mom's magic was no more.

"From this day forward, you will be known as AGROTHARN the Belligerent," Nimrod said, scowling down at his bloody stump of an arm.

"And you will be Nimrod the One-Armed Bandit!" AGROTHARN seethed.

"Your muscles will atrophy, and you will no longer be able to raise that stupid sword."

The semi-barbarian narrowed his smoldering gaze. "Then perhaps I should use it now to make mincemeat of you!"

Nimrod shrugged. "Or I could just tell you where I hid your porridge, and we could partake of it together, and I could become your sidekick, and we could go on wondrous adventures together that might get into a history book or two once somebody starts writing this stuff down."

AGROTHARN blinked, taking in the shards and gruel at his feet. "So, that wasn't…?"

Nimrod shook his head. "Nope."

Another snicker from Fred.

"Very well!" AGROTHARN shouted. "Show me to my porridge, and I will decide what is to be done with you! Honestly, I have no need of a sidekick—"

"How about one with a cool battle ax welded to his stump?" Nimrod raised an eyebrow.

In spite of himself, AGROTHARN grinned at that. "Ah, yes! I am liking the sound of this alternate future! Perhaps it will come to pass! And we will ride Fred into the sunset! Or beyond the stars, once we invent rocket boots for him!"

He clapped Nimrod on the shoulder, and the two of them ambled off together with great bouts of hearty laughter. Stumbling behind them, the Triceratops shook his head and muttered foul epithets in his native tongue.