George Knows Best [Mud Wizard LitRPG]

Bob and George were off. None of that "around the block" bullshit. A proper walk, cross-country, sleeping under a stars. A man and his dog. Peace on earth (you know except for that threat of impending doom). They were off.

Bob felt he'd been neglecting his Georgie-boy. So many stupid "humans" had been vying for his attention. A good dog can get left behind. Well no more, Bob had straightened out his priorities. The dream team was back and on a mission: get stronger, save the city, save the world (just about the plot of every action movie ever).

George, of course, in his magnanimous, bighearted way didn't hold Bob's inattention against him one fig. He just wasn't that kind of dog. No, George was mad happy. The animal couldn't even walk straight. His tail wagged so hard it threw him off his line and made him zigzag. Pop!

"Oh no you didn't!"

George grinned wickedly and barked. The stick was out, boys. The old stick. That stick. The stick of legend, lovingly cherished and carefully protected within George's special space. This stick had seen things. It was with this stick Bob had knighted George. It was with this stick Bob had parted the mud sea. A stick's a dog's best friend.

"Give it here, George."

Bob laughed as he lobbed the stick into the distance. George was after it, a golden flash in the grasses. The good, old days. Back when life was simpler and all a man had to worry about was what to do with the hairy, many-eyed monster dancing on top of him. Bob could see it like it was yesterday. And this would be the moment George led back a swarm of angry enemies.

Ruff!

"You finally found it, George. You're getting slow, old boy."

George was headed this way, making straight for Bob's position. He was galloping, tongue out, fur slicked back. Behind him followed a swarm of green things, all buzzing angrily after him. And, in his infinite wisdom, George was guiding them direct to Bob's front door. That dog hadn't lost his touch.

Bob had thirty seconds before the dog and company piled on top of him. Thirty seconds to rescue the situation. He recognized the chasing buggers from adventurers' pub rants. They were the rank D big brother of the raupenflieger. The system called them "stachelflieger" and assigned them levels between 11-13.

The soft, purulent body of the raupenflieger had been transformed into a hedgehog-inspired nightmare. The pus-filled green core remained, only now encased in a forest of white needles with black tips. Poison needles, if drunk adventurers were to be believed. The solitary habits of their raupenflieger cousins abandoned, stachelflieger preferring to travel in great swarms.

George barked merrily (oh what fun!) as he loped forward, unashamedly pinpointing on Bob's location. The stachelflieger looked pissed off and aggressive. Not the kind of folk who'd accept a heartfelt apology and go grumbling off. Bob kicked up a mud ball from the ground, caught it, hardened it and accelerated it at the group. He would test the waters.

The mud discus shattered into an insect in the middle of the pack. The insect exploded. Good work, Bob. Its trademark green pus jettisoned out like it was spring-fired, but Bob had expected that much.

What Bob hadn't expected was for several hundred poisoned needles to be launched out at massive speeds, shrapnelling out in all directions like a grenade.

What Bob hadn't expected was for one of those needles to catch George, who was running at full tilt, in the leg and have the dog crash down into the grass.

If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.

What Bob hadn't expected was for the stachelflieger to have zero resistance to an explosion of their own kind. That however was the inconvenient truth.

First one monster popped. Then another. Then another. Then exponential growth took over and the whole swarm, fifty strong, went up in a colossal bang, throwing out a tidal wave of green acid and a storm hail of pinprick spikes.

Bob regretted testing the waters. George was lying on the ground, only a few paces ahead of the blast zone. The green tsunami balanced over his head. Bob dived forward to protect him, throwing Harry ahead as a makeshift shield. Bob landed, rolled and curled around George, screening the dog, just as he felt several small impacts pepper into his back.

Silence. Bob groaned. Not a good start to the mission. Harry had done a stellar job of blocking the pus. High speed, tiny needles not so much. Bob had flash-hardened the cloak of course, but pressure is force divided by area of impact; the needles punched right through and continued into Bob's backside.

Bob staggered up, vision dizzy, but made out that George was alright. Yes, George was alright. George had stayed cool and collected. For all the danger, George understood what was important. He hadn't dropped his stick. Good dogs don't drop good sticks.

Bob slapped on a health-patch as a stopgap, while he searched through the system shop. Stachelflieger poison would kill in you the end, but it was slow acting, especially on D rank bodies. All round it just worked better on poor people. Most diseases do. The Stachelflieger Scratcher set popped into existence. Life is pay-to-win.

Inside a rectangular case was a thick, white cream and a set of tiny tweezers. Bob groaned again. This was going to take all day and all night. Just like the system this, to be realistic in all the most annoying ways. First Bob took off his shirt and slathered two thirds of the cream across his back. That would counteract the worst of the poison. It didn't stop the itchiness though, or the deep flashes of nerve pain that had Bob spasming every three seconds.

Dog first. George had miraculously gotten away with only the one needle on his leg. But even this one needle gave Bob a hell of trouble. Tweezers require a deft and steady hand at the best of times. Pulling out a five millimeter splinter through jerking agony spasms was a job and a half.

In the end Bob managed it, mostly thanks to a self-induced meditative trance and the pain numbing health patches, but it had taken five minutes and a good deal of Bob's stored concentration. George barked his gratitude and nosed Bob's face. Then he dropped his stick at Bob's feet and backed away two paces. Bob was not amused.

"Put that thing away, George. I've had enough 'fetch the poisonous enemies' for one day."

Bob had some major surgery to perform on his back. A journey of a thousand miles starts with a single step. Bob tried to reach behind him. Elbows aren't really designed to twist that way. "Dammit!" Bob threw the tweezers on the ground and stamped on them.

But the needles weren't going to pull themselves out. So Bob gave Harry the tweezers and some firm instructions on how to use them. Alas, they don't teach you splinter-extracting spells in magical mud school. And the stupid cloak (i.e. Bob who was controlling the cloak) dug a hole in Bob's back, mistaking a stray stand of back hair for a caterpillar needle. Would the poisoned needles go away on their own?

Maybe Bob should head back to the city and get this looked at by a professional. Yes, skulking back into the city after his first encounter with the lowest rank D monsters would be a major morale boost for his troubled city. He could hear the crowd chanting now: "Fallen Star Bob, Fallen Star Bob."

To rub it in, Bob hadn't even got experience for the whole herd. Only for the one he'd mud balled. The good, old days, eh? Nostalgia is the great artist. Even hell looks oddly comfortable through memory's perspective. Bob lay on his stomach, cursing and fuming. He'd slap a health patch on every thirty seconds to renew the buzz (they were really only good as a painkillers these days), while he tried to think up some solution.

George prodded confusedly over. Why won't you play, the brown eyes seemed to appeal. Bob gestured at his back. A veritable pincushion of gleaming needles, dried blood and thick cream. George sniffed a few times. He barked. He had understood. Pop!

The whole forest of needles disappeared in an instance. Bob was grateful. Bob was not grateful. Bob was angry

"George, I... thank you," Bob couldn't help himself, "but why the hell did you have to wait this long? Couldn't you have done that ten minutes ago?"

Those round, blameless eyes seemed to say, but you didn't ask?

Bob's stomach churned. He, he, he hadn't asked. Bob grudgingly patted the dog on the head. George barked and acknowledged the praise as his just due.

"George, I've had an idea. I think we're underutilizing that backpack of yours."