Joyce Meyer

Jenn’s eyes widened. “A genuine cowboy…” She cupped her chin. “Foalboy? Canineboy? But, he'd still herd cows right… So Cowboy makes more sense.”

He had a horse head for a head, and an enthusiastic mangaka’s approximation of a cowboy outfit, with plenty of pins, badges, and threads of inlaid gold. In his hand was a revolver—something close to a .44 Russian, but bigger, and decorated with a single red stripe across the barrel.

Several guards marched in. White Hats, led forth by the carrot of noise and danger. They grabbed the stranger and tried to haul him out, nodding to Filly as they did.

“You’re all traitors!” Came from the stranger, remaining uncharacteristically still. “Long live the true King!” He was dragged without resistance. “Long live House Liffiths, and death be to those who usurp his name!”

Filly holstered his gun with a spin. A round of applause came, a round of cheers onto that. The cowboy moved to a corner of the tavern and sat, lit by the glow of a table-side hydrangea lamp.

Jenn smiled and moved counter side. “A ale for the hero, please,” she said to the barkeep, offering a New Yorkyo quarter.

He picked it up and held it a hairsbreadth away. “This wouldn’t be Indarian, would it?”

The barkeep took out his own coin and inspected it.

Jenn’s quarter was not Indarian. Though both coins were strangely of similar complexion, and had the image of a kimono-wielding man engraved into them (New Yorkyo, not New York or Tokyo, remember?)

Jenn took out her wallet and rummaged deeper. After a few seconds, she found some regular coins. Pocketed from a journey to a more popular world.

The man took a shorter look. “Yen,” he said, in a tone I thought quite accurate. The innkeep took out a sliver of paper, listing the exchange rates of all the acceptable currencies.

Jenn ran her eyes down the list, and nodded. A barmaid came by with two beers, and set them on the cowboy’s table. Jenn watched him speak to the barmaid, and assumed he was making guesswork of their generosity.

She let the situation pass, and herself a ale too. Then, she was ready.

Jenn approached. There was no strategy to her bearing. She just sort of plopped down, still clumsy from pain, but with enough tact to not come off as a drunkard.

“Jenna Cockehead,” she said. “Jenn for short. Cockehead for the funny sort.”

“Mistah Amelica.” He said. Mister America. “But you can carru me Filly the Foal.”

“So, Filly, I’ll just be frank: I just came from an infirmary, I haven’t had a good conversation for who knows how long, and I need a drinking partner.”

“Good—otherwise I would’ve wasted coin for nothin’.”

A barmaid came with two mugs in hand. Filly raised one, and Jenn raised the other.

As one would have it, alcohol, and a nice place to drink it (anywhere short of a toilet or worse—your in-laws), was a great way to break the ice. Within an hour, the two were relaying their life stories to each other, and by another, they were relaying it to another group of tourists in the inn.

“Listen,” Jenn said, taking another sip of her mug. “Knowing, alright, doesn’t make you smart. Don’t confuse winning trivia night as a sign of intelligence.”

She was speaking to the boy across her table. A black-haired, average boy. A Kaito, Katou, Kabuto-type, normal, and unimpressive.

The average boy smiled. “You know, Einstein said something similar: ‘Intelligence is not the ability to store information, but to know where to find it. ’”

“Kyaaaah, Kaito-kun, you’re so smart!” said one girl at his hip, a white-haired elf.

“Please impregnate me!” said another black-haired catgirl, blushing all the while.

“Hmph, baka!” Another said, a uh ‘short’ girl, with blonde drills. “You promised me we’d do it raw first!”

“Of course, of course.” The boy patted them on the shoulders. “But as Joyce Meyer once said: ‘Patience is not the ability to wait, but the ability to keep a good attitude while waiting’.”

They let out another incessant squee. The characteristic high-pitched yelp anime girls devoid of personality often did.

Worn by their constant antics, Jenn could barely suppress her desire to murder him right then and there, and breathed hard into her napkin.

In the first place, that quote of his had never in the history of the world been uttered by Einstein. It was one of many in a line of pseudo-intelligent misattributions, and had been unironically quoted by the boy before her.

And speaking of the boy…

He was what you would call an ‘ordinary-looking fellow’. Ordinary eyes. Ordinary hair. Ordinary cast of an isekai harem surrounding him, catgirl, elf girl, whatever girl is in fashion these days.

In other words—an insult to peak fiction.

“I’ll be damnedu,” said Filly the Foal in a voice all too quiet. “This one should’ve been spanked as a young ’un.”

“Did you say something?” said the boy.

“Nothin’ my eyes don’t already tell,” replied Filly, lapping with his horse-tongue.

The boy smiled. “You know—”

Tired, Jenn rolled her eyes and interjected. “Yeah, we know some random guy a few hundred years ago said something particularly smart, which you, by the way, didn't come up with.”

Surprised. “I didn't mean to offend.”

“No kidding,” she mumbled. “You don't mean anything. You're like stale bread, you just exist.” Jenn took another swig and looked disapprovingly at her mug. “Dammit, this stuff is worthless.”

The boy was on the cusp of speech. Looking like he was about to explain something particularly important concerning the content of alcohol in olden times. He would've it seemed, had it not been for a rather strong side-glance from Jenn. A deep and curious look at the ‘companion’ next to him.

“Cerica,” said the boy to the drill-haired girl. “You should introduce yourself to the nice lady.”

“Huh?” She crossed her arms. “Why should I Kaito-kyun?! This no-good hag has been disrespecting you this whole evening!”

Cerica—a small girl, as in smaller than the height of consent, as in, small enough to convincingly pass as an eight-year-old, jumped in place, and shook her head at Kaito, in a display of adolescent naivete. She was dressed in some ojou-sama adjacent attire, volumed blouse, mother of pearl buttons, and floral brocade.

Quite different to the two around her—with their more conventional fantasy styles. But very anime, nonetheless.

“Now, Cerica, be nice. Jenn here hasn't done anything wrong.”

“Nothing wrong?! Nothing wrong?! Are you seeing this bi-atch? Because if you are, I gotta ask: Why are you being so nice to this bi-atch, Kaito-kun?!”

“Because… it’s the right thing to do.”

“O. M. G. I knew you had mommy issues but really?!”

Jenn cut in. “I'm not even thirty you damn kindergartner. And what's this about mommy issues?!”

“You hear this bi-atch Kaito-kun? She's not even thirty is bzzt codeword for THAT SHE'S TWENTY NINE!!! She's a leftover Christmas cake, Kaito-kyun! Her ovaries are probably a Sahara desert compared to mine—THEY'RE DRYYY!”

“Whatu in tarnation,” whispered Filly, not quite getting any of this.

“I can be your mommy gf Kaito-kyun! I'll even step on you and call you a naughty boy! Mesugaki domination is all the hype these days!”

He gave Jenn a conciliatory look. “Haha,” Kaito nonchalantly laughed. “Sorry, Cerica-chan can get quite excited at times.”

A pained expression took Jenn’s face. And she inhaled in spite of her pain, because people couldn't well live without air despite how much she wished.

“My ribs,” Jenn groaned, clutching where she'd been hit. “My beautiful ribs…”

As she sat there, half suffocating, Cowboy Filly gave a long look at Cerica.

Glug. Glug.

The loli (quite possibly lolibaba) had downed a mug of alcohol. Indarian Swill—sure, diluted to a watery base, but alcohol nonetheless.

“This little lady has quite the tongue for liquor.”

“Oh, Cerica, here's older than you think.”

“I beggo your pardon?”

“She's actually two hundred and eighty.”

“And she's getting married to Lord Master Pharoah Archmaester Kaito-kun!” Cerica raised a middle finger. “Suck on that you post-menopause slut!”

The two did not linger long in that part of the inn. Somewhere far enough from the madness of isekai characters, Jenn and Filly drank in relative silence. Even so, their silence did not last long.

Following their relocation, a woman in a witch’s garb approached them. A redhead, with rather noticeable features (I'm talking boobs, the author's never neglect to mention the boobs—not my fault, they were bouncing with the gravity of a different planet designed to optimise the aerodynamic efficiency of them).

Tipping her hat, she leaned in, breasted boobily, and seemed to say something rather important.

“That man was a degenerate,” she probably mumbled.

Jenn nodded. “Way too young, am I right? She looks like a damn nine-year-old.”

The anime witch nodded. “Clearly, he should've waited until his wife looked eleven.”

The newcomer left then and there, and Jenn mimed blowing her brains out with a revolver, making a ‘chk’ sound with her mouth.

With a sigh, Jenn bit into her snack—a meat patty wrapped in tripe. She grumbled, looked at it in sadness, then dipped the snack into her plate, scooping up some sweet sauce.

“How do you handle it, Filly?” Jenn asked. “How?”

“In my long years of livin’, I’ve been subject to tragedies great and small. Talking to a whatchamacall it, isekai man, ain’t one I’d count great.”

“So, you’re desensitised, that’s it.”

“‘Course not. Shoot a man enough times, and his flesh gets run through all the same.”

“So what then? Just sit back, and wait for someone to light you up?”

“The man starts learnin’ to wear protection.”

Filly the Foal hooked his human thumb under the flap of his coat. He tugged. Beneath the red denim was the gleam of armour: steel plates linked by chain and wire.

Jenn chewed. “Even armour gets worn through, old man.”

“Maintenance, Jenn. The plates get run through faster than a Friday-evening courtesan. But that ain’t the point.”

“I get the point. Hone your mind, right? Like some Shaolin monk, hit your muscle enough times and it becomes iron. Become impenetrable.” Jenn smiled, but did not seem to agree. “But I’d rather deck the guy aiming at me before they shoot, if you catch my drift.”

“And who about’s are ya shootin’ to deck?”

“The ugly sort.”

“Plenty of folk with bad bones and too much meat. Don't mean they're deservin’ a deckin’”.

“Not that type of ugly,” replied Jenn, finishing her patty. “Well, maybe that type, too. I can’t determine who I get matched with in the tournament, after all. But if you ask me, uggo protagonists usually have good writing—minus the ugly bastards. When pretty’s the default, making ‘em ugly is a conscious choice, you feel? ”

“You’re a participant?”

“Not yet. But I plan to be, soon enough.”

“Soon enough?” he said, and with a degree of concern. “Say before mornin’?”

“Uhh, I mean maybe. It’s good to get a head start on things. But I haven’t exactly thought it through yet.”

Filly stared long and hard. He did not move. He just sat there in the dim blue light, waiting. Big black horse eyes, weighing how exactly to breach some all too intense news (which, if you knew anything about horses, was a rather frightening thing).

“I reckon,” added Filly, “that something is amiss.”

Jenn wiped at her chin. “Did I get some sauce somewhere?”

“No, lady. It ain’t of gastronomical persuasion.”

Jenn looked from side to side, scanning the room with an all-too-intense glare. “An old rival walked in?” She was intense. “Some mean bastard, who’s looking to brawl? I’m here if you don’t mind me ruining the aesthetics of a good western duel.”

“No, no, good m’am, even if I appreciate the offer, that ain’t what’s at stake here.”

“Then what is?”

“The tournament, m’am.”

Jenn did not catch on. “What about it?”

“It’s today, m’am. And yet you don’t seem none too perturbed.”

“Today?” Jenn stopped. Her eyes narrowed into thin, black slits. “What do you mean today?”

“At the break of mornin’, that’s when they start takin’ in the tokens. That’s when they put pen to paper and have you confirmed!”

“Hold on!” Jenn stood. “But it said… It said it’d take place on the 23rd!”

“And it’s the 22nd, right now. Just a few hours ‘fore the midnight bell makes it otherwise.”

The woman sat down, a bead of sweat on her brow. “The infirmary…” She realised. “Shit. I didn’t realise I was out for two days.”

It was an unfortunate timing of events, really. Having remembered that she fell unconscious in the afternoon, Jenn must’ve assumed that she’d woken up the following evening. This was true, albeit with the added caveat that the following equalled the day after.