The Final Moo

The last thing I remember was the sky. 

It was a particularly beautiful shade of cerulean blue, dotted with fluffy clouds that looked vaguely like other, happier cows. A gentle breeze rustled the grass of the meadow, my meadow, where I, Bessie, had spent all eight of my years.

It was a good life. Graze. Chew cud. Low at the farmer. Graze some more. Avoid the truck that smelled of fear and iron. It was a simple, bovine paradise.

Then, the farmer’s son, a pimple-faced goblin named Kyle, came at me with a bolt gun.

My last thought wasn’t of my calves, or the sweet taste of clover. It was a profound, deeply philosophical realization that cut to the very core of my existence.

‘…That guy’s an asshole.’

A flash of white light, a sensation of being squeezed through a tube lined with angry hornets, and then… nothing.

When I opened my eyes again, I was standing in a vast, obsidian cavern. Stalactites like jagged teeth hung from a ceiling so high it was lost in shadow. The air was cold, dry, and smelled of dust and ozone.

And I was naked.

Well, nuder than usual. A cow doesn’t have much to begin with, modesty-wise. But now, I was a collection of meticulously arranged bones. I lifted a hand—a skeletal hand, the metacarpals clicking softly—and wiggled my phalanges.

“Moo?” I tried. A dry, rattling whisper escaped my jaw. “Moo…?”

A voice, ancient and sounding like grinding stones, echoed through the chamber. “ARISE, CHOSEN ONE. YOU HAVE BEEN SUMMONED TO THE DARK DOMINION TO BECOME MY GREATEST WEAPON. YOU, WHO POSSESSED A SOUL OF UNSHAKABLE PATIENCE AND A HEART OF UTTER CONTENTMENT, SHALL NOW—”

“Hold on,” I interrupted, my new, raspy voice finding its rhythm. I looked down. Or, more accurately, I looked down at where my magnificent udder used to be. There was just a vacant, pelvic-shaped hollow. “Where’s my stuff?”

The voice, which I assumed belonged to the Lich King Malachar the Eternal, paused. “…Stuff?”

“Yeah, my stuff. My udder. My ears. My… my spots,” I said, a surprising pang of loss hitting my sternum. “I had a lovely patch right over my left eye. Looked like a Rorschach test. Very existential.”

“YOU ARE A SKELETON NOW,” Malachar the Eternal said, his tone suggesting this should be obvious. “A PRIME SKELETON WARRIOR. THE PINNACLE OF UNDEAD ENGINEERING. FLESH IS A WEAKNESS. YOU HAVE BEEN DIVESTED OF IT.”

“Divested?” I scoffed, my jaw clacking with indignation. “You call this an upgrade? I’ve been divested of my primary means of grass processing. No lips, no tongue, no stomach with four beautiful, efficient chambers. How am I supposed to ferment cellulose? What’s the point of being the ‘Strongest Skeleton’ if I can’t even enjoy a nice cud?”

Silence. I imagined the all-powerful Lich King rubbing his temples, a gesture he likely no longer had the flesh for.

“YOU DO NOT NEED TO EAT,” he finally said, his voice strained. “YOU ARE UNDEAD. YOUR POWER DRAWS FROM THE MANA CRYSTAL I HAVE PLACED IN YOUR SKULL. YOUR PURPOSE IS TO LEAD MY LEGIONS TO VICTORY. TO CONQUER. TO—”

“Conquer?” I echoed, looking around the cavern. In the dim light, I could see other skeletons standing at attention. They were the standard models—empty eye sockets, slack jaws, holding rusty swords with the enthusiasm of a DMV employee. “These guys?”

I gestured to the skeleton next to me. He turned his skull with a low creak. One of his ribs was missing, and his left arm was hanging on by a thread of sinew.

“What’s your story, champ?” I asked him.

“…Kill…?” he rasped.

“See?” I said, turning back to the ceiling. “He’s a minimalist. No vision. What’s our five-year plan? Total subjugation of the living? Then what? We just stand around? Have you considered the logistical nightmare of governing a continent when your entire army has the organizational skills of a dropped bag of breadsticks?”

The Lich King’s voice took on a dangerous edge. “INSOLENT BONE-BAG! I DID NOT PLUCK YOUR SOUL FROM THE AETHER FOR PHILOSOPHICAL DEBATE! I BESTOWED UPON YOU THE GIFT OF ETERNAL UNLIFE AND THE TITLE OF ‘THE STRONGEST!’ NOW, YOU WILL TAKE YOUR DIVINE BONE BLADE AND PROVE YOUR WORTH IN THE ARENA!”

A sword of pure white bone materialized in front of me, clattering to the obsidian floor.

I bent over, my spine popping in a satisfying way—one of the few perks of the new form—and picked it up. It was exquisitely balanced, humming with dark energy. I gave it a practice swing. It felt… okay. A bit showy.

“Right. The arena. To prove my worth,” I said, resting the sword on my shoulder bone. “Just one more question, O Mighty Summoner.”

A long-suffering sigh echoed through the chamber. “WHAT?”

“Is there any grass in the arena?”