Chapter I

Ratfort, the First Blood Elf Paladin

Ratfort's parents knew their son was special. As soon as the young Elf had learned to talk, he spoke of nothing but Paladins. It was Paladins this and Paladins that all the live-long day, until the whole village was charmed.

"If that boy don't grow up to be a Paladin!" said the father after a lesson from his three-year-old son on chastity and the sword.

"Only it ain't fitting," said the mother after the boy had left, "for an Elf of his kind, I mean. Those hoitytoity elves what still knock boots with dwarves and humans can have their druthers and be Paladins. But our son is ours, Jim, and he ain't a body else's. He has to abide by our customs, and there ain't been a Blood Elf Paladin before, no way, no how! Damn!"

"You just let him go on believing, Momma," said Jim. "Just stuff his big mouth with roquefort when he runs on like he did today. The neighbors are startin' to complain, and we ain't done enough to reel 'im in."

"I'll teach 'im, all right, with the bird!" said Momma. "The bird'll reel 'im in."

A few days later, Ratfort was laying out a blanket at the foot of the mountains when his mother appeared down the trail.

"Whud ah you doin'?" he said. "Dis picnic ain't free."

"I'm not here to diddle-daddle, Ratfort -- though you could use a dose of roquefort." The boy cringed, though secretly he had started to like the cheese. "But there's no time. I'm going to release the bird in the mountains."

"Ah you cracked? Dat boid's psycho."

"It's to teach you a lesson about what you can and can't be!" shouted Momma.

"Ah you on about dat again!" cried Ratfort, growing as furious as his mother. "I told you, Momma, I'll be a Paladin even if I hafta eat a thousand of yer damned roquefort cheeses."

"Insolent child!"

"Insolent nothin'! Go ahead and release dat boid, see if I blink! Or was you bluffin'!"

Momma turned on the boy with a raised hand.

Ratfort cackled. "Ah you gonna hit me, da Big Boozler?" he said; Momma froze. "Didn't think so. Cuz if you really was, then I'da been on you like dat, he snapped his little fingers so quick- and furious-like, there'da been nothin' left of yuh for me to pray over in tah-roo Paladin fash-ee-un. UN-DA-STOOD!"

Momma shook with apoplexy. "That bird, Ratfort -- it will teach you good."

"Den I'm ready to learn. Or ain't you got the cannolis to do it!"

A moment later, Momma was peeling up the trail, kicking up dust and floating sinister laughter down the mountainside. Meanwhile, Ratfort resumed his picnic to little event. He was just beginning to forget all about Momma when a metal clang sounded from the peak. Then a spectucular force sent wave after wave of terrible winds across the land.

"What da hell?" Ratfort said and sprang to his feet. "Well if dat don't beat all! Da broad freed da boid."

He watched as a speck erupted into the air and flew toward him. It grew into a monstrous shape. Before it had crossed half the distance between them, it dwarfed the checkers on his blanket. When it reached Ratfort, it would surely stand fifty feet tall, but the young Blood Elf had no desire to see the monster up close. Instead he darted into his picnic basket.

"Skidaddle, boid-brain!" he cried. The wind had stopped and the bird had landed before him, dropping something hard into his hiding place.

"Look at the stone, my child!" the bird said.

"Dis thing what gimped my leg! Watch where you aim dat thing!"

"It is the Paladin Stone," the bird continued. "I have felt your spirit, and it is in accord with legend. You shall be a Paladin in the Orc armies -- you shall be a champion! Now stand from your basket and let the gods shower you with praise!"

"Now you's tellin' me what-how? Your soul is forfeit, boid!" Ratfort cried. In his enclosure he had whittled the wicker basket into a lethal point. As he emerged, the splinter pierced the bird's chest. For an added touch, poison coating the basket flooded the bird's heart, which swelled like a balloon and popped. The feathered giant fell backwards, dead.

"I'd better get outta here," said Ratfort, checking the bird for signs of life. After a quick prayer, he was ready to leave. Wincing from the pain in his leg, and clutching the cherished Paladin Stone, he set off for friendlier lands.

Chapter II

Old Friends

Over the next few weeks, Ratfort aged rapidly, such that by the time he reached the nearest Orc city, he was wise and had learned the true ways of the Paladin: holiness, compassion, truth, and zeal. His speech had also improved, and at times he was able to speak quite eloquently, as befitted a Paladin. But the biggest change in his demeanor was that he now favored restraint over violence, and he had begun to regret his past deeds. Now he desired to repent for the murder of the bird, and of his mother, which had transpired shortly afterwards.

"But I needa drink foist, for sure," he said. "Dose Orcs better have bars in deir towns."

When he stepped into the bar, he was surprised to see a Blood Elf already there, clothed in rags and chained to a group of emaciated Orcs.

As Ratfort approached the bar, the one Blood Elf gasped upon seeing the latest arrival. "Ratfort!" he cried.

"Who be dat?" said Ratfort.

The Blood Elf fell upon his old companion, as much as the fetters would permit, and showered him with hugs and kisses. "It's me, Bodine! Don't you remember? Several months back, on the spring equinox, your uncles and I set out to celebrate the first hunt of the season. Yet Orcs were out, too, expecting us, no doubt, and they waylaid our hunting party. My arrows were precise, but the Orcs were numerous. Your uncles died; I saw them fall; and that is why they never returned to the village. Yet I would have gladly shared their fate, had I but stayed unconscious a minute longer. Unfortunately, when I awoke, I found myself turning on a spit above a blazing campfire. Foolishly, I serenaded what I thought was to be my funeral with a mournful Elfsong; the Orcs, realizing I was alive and possessing a glorious heldentenor, released me from the barbecue, only to enslave me and force me to perform at Tauren birthday parties, where they earn a bob per song."

"Uh huh."

"More importantly, Ratfort, the Orcs are losing their battle against the Burning Legion, which has returned, and I desire to help them. I realize now that the Blood Elves and Orcs can only survive if they cooperate and learn to love again. But the Orcs do not trust me, and I am but a slave."

"Are you finished?"

"Stick a fork in me, I'm done." Bodine fell to his knees, taking down with him a few connected slaves, who were too sickly and tired to resist the pull of his chain.

"What are you blubberheads doing?" someone roared.

"That is my slaver! Help me, Ratfort!"

Ratfort was quick to act. He pulled a sack of flour down from the bar and placed it in front of Bodine and himself. When the Orc slaver arrived, he was obstructed by the sack of flour.

"I am Ork the Slaver, and these are my slaves! Move your sack!"

"I ain't movin' nothin'," said Ratfort.

"Move it, or I will!" said Ork.

Ratfort crossed his arms and shook his head.

"Get him, Ratfort!" Bodine cried. "Show him your swift steel."

"I ain't like dat no more," said Ratfort.

"A trained warrior," laughed Ork, "and yet you do not fight?"

"Dat's right," said Ratfort. "Once I was very violent, but now I'm reformed, as dey say. Yep, I took da pledge. Restraint ovah violence, dat's my new M.O. Capeesh?"

"I challenge you!" said Ork. "Defend yourself, or die!"

"I'll accept your challenge," said Ratfort, "but I won't fight back."

"What's this?"

"Dat's right. And yet I'll still win. I only wish you'd reconsider, cuz I love ya like a brother, Ork the Slavah. Dis violence will only get ya killed."

Infuriated, Ork drew his blade, but he did not strike. No, he thought better of it. What if he were to have a richer audience? What if word spread to the highest echelon of the local government that Ork the Slaver would defeat a trained Blood Elf warrior in fair combat? Why, the stewards and the chancellor would see his great victory, and they would reward him.

A smile effaced Ork's grave features. "Yes, that is the way," he said. "We shall meet tomorrow morning in fair combat. Choose your weapon now, and tomorrow come prepared."

"Is dat so? I get to choose? Well, hotdog," said Ratfort. "I choose swords, but of a special variety, ya see. I happened to pass da blacksmith on my way here, and I saw dey was sellin' longswords. Faith and Begora, dey was nice swords! I say we each use one o' dem, but dey has to come from dat blacksmith."

"So be it!" cackled Ork, elated by Ratfort's cooperation. "And I'll leave my slaves with you tonight, since you're so charitable. Maybe you'll do the favor of feeding them for me. Oh, and the Elf sings a lovely funeral song. You might find it appropriate."

Ork left laughing, his innocent spirit exuding a childlike confidence, and that was how Ratfort would always dearly remember him.

Chapter III

Oh My, A Duel!

"You're limping, Ratfort!" Bodine cried. Since he could not be separated from the other slaves without the slaver's key, Bodine and the others moved as a group.

"Yeah, some freaky boid wanged me with dis precious nut." He took the rock out of his satchel.

"It is the Paladin Stone! Then you-- truly-- it can only mean--"

"I'm a Paladin, all right," said Ratfort. "Da foist of my kind; ain't dat a prize."

"But if you will not fight back, and if your leg is injured, then what does it matter? You cannot possibly win. All is lost!" Ratfort did not respond. "Will you win?" Bodine asked curiously.

"Does Linguini taste good?" Ratfort spat. His companion was silent. "Do I gotta beat it into your head? O'course I'll win. Now rest your walkin'-sticks here, jackass. When you're all rested, head down to da church. It looks like dis. And the steeple, it looks like dis. Den make like da parson and pray. If you's gonna travel with me, den you bettah take on some good habits like dat. Den, most importenly, deliver dis letter to da priest and meet me outside da ironmonger's or do I gotta tell ya twice!"

Bodine and the slaves did as Ratfort said. They found the church, prayed, and felt cleansed. Then they found the priest and handed him the letter. He was very irritated at first, because they had interrupted his pizza dinner. But when he finally read the letter to himself, his eyes flashed with wonder.

"Read it to us, please!" Bodine said, and the priest, white-faced, complied.

"'Dear Fodder,' it reads: 'forgive me, and why not? I killed a boid and the broad what squeezed me out. Now I repent, and I'm a convert, for sure. Paladin, in fact. Even gotta stone what proves it. Who says I don't?' signed, 'da Big Boozler.'"

The priest fainted dead-away, slumping over the letter and spilling his drink. Bodine and the slaves, who were trained medics, rushed to support him. Presently a bite of pizza was massaged down his throat, and the hearty taste revived him.

"Is he forgiven?" Bodine asked.

"He is more than forgiven--" the priest gasped; "he is our savior!"

Bodine started the Hallelujahs. The slaves joined in even before the priest could get the word out. As their cries shook the hallowed vestibule, slices of pizza flew into the air like confetti, and everyone in earshot joined the celebration. It wasn't until a parishioner slipped on the spilled drink that the mood was dampened. After the last rites, Bodine and the slaves returned to the ironmonger, black with the mood of death, but heartened by the priest's recognition.

"What did da priest say?" Ratfort asked. A sly wink told them that he already knew.

But Bodine and the slaves were no longer in a celebratory mood. They saw that Ratfort was not yet armed.

"I ain't gonna buy no sword, no way, no how," said Ratfort. "Don't need one!" There was nothing they could do to convince him otherwise.

The group slept in an inn that night, worried about their peoples' fate. Would their savior be lost so early in his career? Was their pizza party all for naught? They cried most of the night and suckled each others' thumbs for comfort, unable to face the possibility that, by believing in such an unlikely hero, the wool had been pulled over their tear-filled eyes.

When the others had quieted and mostly fallen asleep, Bodine, still wide awake, did something he had never done before that day. He prayed. "Help my friend, Jesus," he said, then found the hypnogogic release of a stranger's thumb.

The next morning, Ratfort's company arrived at the scene of combat. The hero had already guessed Ork's intentions, so he was not surprised to see such a crowd; but Bodine and the slaves were star-struck by such a royal presence. To Ratfort's amusement, the slaves sneakily made their way to the royal bleachers. Eventually they wound up sitting behind the king himself, and, unnoticed, they waved to Ratfort, and hid their unbelieving smiles behind their trembling hands.

"Silly gooses!" Ratfort said.

"Where is Ork the Slaver?" the king's herald cried. "He said there would be a duel here, at this appointed time!"

"He left for the blacksmith not half an hour ago!" said a member of Ork's party.

"He is late, for sure. Dare he make me, the king's herald, wait?"

The crowd roared with disapproval. The king's herald was a beloved figure, and they shared his disappointment. "Terry!" they all cried. "Stay strong, Terry!"

Despite their encouragement, Terry the King's Herald stood aside and sat on the lowest bleacher, where he could hang his head. "I try so hard to coordinate these events, but it just seems like no one cares."

"No, Terry, no!" the crowd said. Ratfort walked over to Terry and patted his head, thus winning the crowd's admiration. "Ork the Slaver has hurt Terry's feelings! Ork the Slaver must die!" they chanted.

Just then, stretched out on a gurney carried by four Taurens, the body of Ork the Slaver arrived on the scene, gruesomely contorted by a longsword that protruded from his unseeing eye.

"What has happened?" the king cried from the bleachers.

"I'll spill my beans!" said Ratfort. "I ain't no killer anymore, and I refused to tango with dis here Ork the Slaver. But I did accept his challenge. I knew I would win, cuz I have brains like some kinda freakin' genius. See, I chose da blacksmith's longswords for our battle royale cuz I saw da blacksmith had tags on all his weapons. Dey all said to avoid contact wid yer eyeballs. Well, before Ork showed up to purchase his sword, I hit up da blacksmith and made off wid all da tags. Now you see how things played out, and it was solid gold from dere. Ork didn't have da benefit of da warnin', and he had a li'l accident."

"But why would you refuse to fight?" the king asked, entirely charmed.

"Cuz I'm a Paladin, like it matters! Dat's how we do things."

"Pinch me! Did he say he is a Paladin?" the king said.

Ratfort laughed. Bodine and the slaves patted the king's shoulder, cheerily comforting him in his brief moment of confusion. "And I got proof up da ass in dis here stone," said Ratfort. There was a moment of suspicion and overwhelming doubt -- a second of deriding laughter. In fact, the king had almost stood down and waved the imposter aside -- nearly ordered the Elf to be killed on the spot. But in an instant, the confusion was replaced by unbridled joy and understanding.

"Well ain't that somethin', the Paladin Stone!" the royals cried. Ratfort had delivered, and the king was thoroughly stuffed.

Chapter IV

The VPL

The slaver's key was never found. Bodine and the slaves were collectively given the honorary title of The Keeper of Gates, and they remained Ratfort's companions. Meanwhile, Ratfort was given full control of the Orc armies. More importantly, his diplomatic ties attracted Blood Elves from his village, who relayed the stories of their extravagant welcomes to their superiors in the government. At first, Blood Elf diplomats in need of a vacation were sent to be pampered by the Orcs, but pretty soon the political implications became apparent, and the visits became more important.

It was around this time that Anzibar showed up. What or who he was, no one could quite say, except that he was hideously ugly, having the worst qualities of Orcs, Taurens, and Trolls combined. His pink flesh was mottled by gray spots and was almost entirely covered by brown hairs as thick as a rug's tassels. He walked with an odd sway, nearly toppling over at times from his own weight and wayward height.

With Anzibar came great knowledge, for he seemed to know much about Ratfort and the Paladin Stone. "It is not just a rock," Anzibar said at their first meeting. "Inside is a prize integral to your purpose. The Stone is like an egg in that, if nursed properly, it will eventually hatch and reward you with a reflection of your own self. It is your own flesh and blood."

Ratfort arranged for the Stone to be forced open next week. In the meantime, he, Anzibar, Bodine and the slaves were to make a trip to Duluth, the mecca of Blood Elf society.

When they arrived at the Zeppelin airport, the hero saw what Anzibar was wearing: a pair of purple pants several sizes too small for modesty, which Ratfort found embarrassing. As the others approached the desk, Ratfort remained in the doorway. "Do you mean to wear dose pay-ants?" he asked.

"Well, why not?" Anzibar said.

"C'mere. Here's a mirrah, you tart. Are we seein' da same thing?"

"I believe so."

"You're goin' ta change, Anzibar. I ain't goin' nowhere wid you lookin' like dat."

"What's wrong with how I look?"

"Ah you as blind as you is stupid?"

"You're being ridiculous!" said Anzibar. "Just tell me what's wrong. However obvious it is to you, it isn't obvious to me."

Ratfort rolled his eyes and sidled up to Anzibar to whisper: "You got some V.P.L. goin' on."

"--the hell?"

"Visible panty line, idiot!"

Anzibar studied himself in the mirror. He had to admit that Ratfort was right, but he didn't care. "I like how I look, and we're ready to leave. If you can find seamless underpants, then by all means, you can criticize. Thank you for your concern, but I've made my choice."

"Like hell!" said Ratfort. "To someone on da ground, we don't look any different up in da air. But since dose pants are so god-awful poiple, anyone down below'll see 'em. And dey might think I'm da one wearin' 'em."

Finally Anzibar saw things Ratfort's way. He changed out of the pants on the spot and replaced them with a fetching skirt and stockings. Upon seeing the change, everyone agreed that Ratfort had been right all along. Bodine especially complimented Ratfort's discerning eye for fashion.

Afterwards the trip to Duluth went off without a hitch. It was a marvellous trip and a marvellous place, as everyone kept reminding one another. They wouldn't have if it had been true. But the truth never came out those first few days, and Ratfort alone avoided embellishing his enjoyment. When the others spoke of the fun they were having, the hero remained silent, until Bodine finally pressed his luck, so eager was he to validate what they all hoped was true.

"Ratfort! You've been silent for so long. Wouldn't you say this is a lovely place? Please, Ratfort?"

Within seconds, the illusion was destroyed. Ratfort stared back for some time. He needn't have said anything; his silence spoke volumes. But speak he did, almost in tears from the agony of their plight. "Dis place… it c-could suck da life outta a natal w-ward. I just need a moment."

In the end, the support of the Blood Elves was secured, and the two armies were joined, with Ratfort as their leader. Ratfort, in his endless wisdom, made his first tactical decision, to surrender Duluth to the enemy and retreat to the Orc frontlines. Everybody agreed it was a brilliant move -- everybody who was somebody.

Chapter V

Raise Your Hand if You're a Traitor

News of the first Blood Elf Paladin spread across the entire land. Even what Anzibar had said of the Paladin Stone had trickled to some circles, much to the Horde's chagrin. They were increasingly fearful of the Stone and how it might affect the war's outcome. Though they were winning battles, pushing their way further into the Burning Legion's territory (which they called the 'Terroritory'), they thought the Stone might spell ruin, especially if Ratfort carried out his plan to open it prematurely.

"Do you really wish to go on with this?" Anzibar asked. The Orc leaders were assembled together to witness the act, which was billed as a humdinger of a state gathering, with a panto for a second act. Ratfort rose to the occasion by dressing in his most opulent robe.

"With dis crowd, I can't back out now," said Ratfort, taking his place at the head of the party. "They's pumped, and unless I can swap out da Stone wid some cake and ice cream, dey gonna have my nuts."

"As I have said, I ate all the cake and ice cream."

"No, you said we was all out," said Ratfort. "But I'm glad you finally owned up to it. Now maybe I remember receiving yer protection money all of a sudden."

"Thank you."

Ratfort placed the Paladin Stone on an anvil, and the crowd backed away in wonder. "Let's pop dis Ravioli open," he said.

With one fell karate-chop, Ratfort split the Stone, with its two halves falling outward, revealing a red, meaty center.

"What da hell is dis?" Ratfort said, taking the meat out of the Paladin Stone. It had the consistency of raw ground beef. "Da thing wasn't even half done, da spicy meatball!"

"Oh, horror of horrors!" Bodine and the slaves cried. "It was too early! We have destroyed it!"

"DID I SAY YOU COULD TALK!" Ratfort buried his nose in the meat. "Smells like death."

The Orc chieftains shouted in despair. They were surely lost: their armies, their land, their lives, and a few of them were just plain bored. But when a chilling laugh overpowered their entire din, they became fearful and quiet.

"Fools!" Anzibar roared, doubling over with mirth. "You have desecrated your noble office. The Paladin Stone is destroyed, and so too is the Blood Elf Paladin."

"What's dat mean?"

"It means you cannot lead these armies and live," Anzibar hissed with relished menace. "You are stripped -- stripped! -- of your legendary powers."

Ratfort boiled with rage. "You's got some chutzpah! You want I should stretch'ah da face!"

The Orcs leapt forward and grabbed the creature by his hairy arms. "Try as you might," Anzibar said. "You would only further tarnish your profession. Either way, the Burning Legion shall prevail!"

Ratfort stood to his full height. As the rising shadow eclipsed him, Anzibar's eyes widened.

"You rat me out! If you're a spoi, den you're gonna be punished."

"What will you do with me?" Anzibar spat. He pushed the Orcs away, standing with affected dignity. None had the stomach to touch his leathery hide again.

Ratfort was like a bedded rock, strong and willful, and presently a blank canvas to the anxious onlookers. When Anzibar's will began to wear away, Ratfort finally showed a bit of emotion, smiling wolfishly -- and tearing away at what remained of Anzibar's calm composure. Then, slowly, Ratfort untied his robes. With one hand on each side of the velvet trim, he opened the liveried cloth and revealed beneath it his naked body and a big, black dick.

"Spread dat ass."

Chapter VI

The Mouse and the Devil

Three days later, Ratfort emerged from his nuptials carrying an ordinary mouse.

Bodine and the slaves said, "What are you doing with that mouse?"

"Dis is Anzibar," said Ratfort.

Anzibar balled up his paws and sopped his tears. "Ratfort taught me to love again," he said. "You see, when my land was overrun by the Burning Legion, I organized an army of my brethren to attack the enemy. But the vile fiends captured us and turned us into monsters. They taught us to hate, until we grew, and grew, filled by hate. Pretty soon the hate became like a spacesuit of hate that covered our bodies and kept the hate and everything else bottled up inside our bodies. They made us bathe three times a day, and every time, our hair and our skin would absorb the bathwater, and of course the spacesuit of hate kept it all inside. The last time I saw my mice-brothers, some were twenty feet tall, and all fought on the side of the Burning Legion."

"That's a good yarn," said Bodine. "But you're on our side now, right?"

"Yes, I am!" squeaked Anzibar. "Ratfort released my hate and now I'm filled with love. I want to love everything."

"Wonderful!" said Bodine, laughing. "Now pray that you might be saved, in Jesus' name!"

"PRAY!" screamed Ratfort.

"What!" Anzibar said, in shock.

"PRAY!" screamed Ratfort.

"But--"

"PRAY!" screamed Ratfort.

"This is wonderful!" said Anzibar. "Ratfort, if you haven't lost your zeal, then all is not lost. You may still be a Paladin!"

"Poifect," said Ratfort. "I'll need dose special powahs tomorrah. We gots a big battle planned."

"Of course!" said Anzibar. "Bodine and I shall pray together. Why don't you pray to Jesus Christ for mercy?"

When Ratfort had left, Anzibar quickly appealed to Bodine. "Hurry! Where is the Paladin Stone and the meat?"

"It's in the kitchen, why?"

"There's no time to lose!"

Bodine and the slaves raced after Anzibar. Meanwhile, Ratfort had retired to his bed. He now dreamed of the battle that was to come -- a usual sort of dream for him. But things soon took an eerie turn. Suddenly his body was made of ground beef, and he found himself levitating a few feet above the ground.

His legs were heavy beyond belief. His upper body wanted to float upward, while his legs weighed him down. Before realizing what was happening, he split at the middle, with his body, floating topsy-turvy upside down, gliding toward the clouds, and his legs falling through a chasm in the earth.

A short time later, he had landed on the sun itself, and was browning nicely when a Troll shot out from the fiery surface in a blaze of fire.

"Who be dat?" Ratfort said, hopelessly cooking away.

"I'm Jeffy, the Troll that made the Paladin Stone so many centuries ago!"

"Where are my walkin'-sticks, ya damned jackass?"

Jeffy shook his head. "I ought to sic a seal on you for such language, Ratfort. Did you know that the Paladin Stone is just a croquette?"

"Yeah."

"But what you didn't know is, there was nothing in the middle. It was hollow when I made it! A powerful wizard put a spell on it -- a transmigration spell! It was decided that the soul of the chosen owner would find its way inside. There, the soul would simmer over time and become strong, and cooked through, until nothing could stop it!"

"I'm bored by all dis!" said Ratfort.

"Listen, you fool! When you broke the Stone open, you ruined part of your soul! Now part of you is rancid, rotting away, like your legs are now, in the fiery pits of hell!"

"Let me go dere. I wanna get 'em."

Jeffy was taken aback, awed by Ratfort's heroic spirit. "Shall you? Amazing! But you cannot move yourself, unless…"

A moment later, Ratfort's meaty body was fixed up with parts from a goblin steam-tank. "Dank you, Jeffy."

Ratfort rolled into Hell on a tracklayer, firing arrows and artillery rounds. He was a crack shot. But when he reached Satan's inner sanctum, the shoddy panelling on the floor made him lose control of his mechanical parts and he rolled over. "Pezzo di merda!"

Satan was as surprised to see Ratfort as Ratfort was to survive the crash, but he was quick to recover from a shock. "Ah, Ratfort, old boy!" he said smoothly, waving a fresh sandwich under his flaring, red nostrils. "Your problem is that you gave up roquefort. Yes, why don't you have some? On a sandwich!"

"NEVER!" cried Ratfort. "PRAY WITH ME, SATAN!"

"What!"

"REPENT! -- I am the first Blood Elf Paladin, and I beseech you to return my legs and save your soul!"

Satan's training kicked in. It was just a procedure now; he had been prepared for this occasion. He flipped a switch beside his devilish throne and took off down a tangled hallway.

"You wanna cross me, DA BIG BOOZLER!" Ratfort cried. He pushed himself off the ground with the power of his arms, then took off on his hands, chasing Satan in a prolonged handstand. When he had the devil in his sights, he launched himself into the air, turning a corner and splattering Satan's midsection against a slow-opening door.

"It… didn't have to end this way…!" Satan gasped.

"Da walkin'-sticks!"

"Tell me I am saved!" Satan cried.

"DA LEGS FOIST!"

"Here… here! Save my soul!"

Ratfort re-attached the limbs. "Sporty and shaved, like a primadonna! Ehh, I'll learn ta love 'em as much as I love bel canto!"

"Ratfort…" Satan pleaded, blood pouring from his mouth. His eyes glazed over and took on a lifeless quality.

Ratfort knelt beside the red figure and crossed the both of their chests. "Yer all right, kid."

"Praise Jesus…" wept Satan.

Chapter VII

When Ratfort awoke, he felt refreshed. But to his horror, his arms and legs were restrained. "What da hell is dis?"

"Hush!" Bodine and the slaves said. Anzibar was rolling a wad of meat up the hero's pumping chest.

"What ah you guys doin'? What am I, chopped livah?"

"Not a sound!" Bodine said. "Every time you cry out, we take a finger. Thumbs first! I'm sorry, Ratfort…"

"Explain!"

Anzibar had pushed the meat as far as Ratfort's chin. "It is a theory I have. You see, the Paladin Stone is integral to your powers, and the only way to make the Paladin Stone whole again is to return its contents to your body. You have to eat what was inside, Ratfort!"

"Dat's crazy!" Ratfort screamed. A minute later, he was deliriously murmuring in pain, a thumb on the floor.

"We can't let you stop us, or alert the others!" Bodine said, wiping a layer of sweat from Ratfort's forehead and shedding a tear. "Please, Ratfort, understand…. It's for the good of the world."

Anzibar pushed the meat into Ratfort's mouth. Their task was made easier by the hero's deliberate chewing. From this, they supposed that Ratfort had seen things their way, though his expressionless face betrayed neither compliance nor disapproval. When the meat was entirely consumed, Ratfort sunk into a coma.

"What have you done!" Bodine cried.

"It was our only hope!" Anzibar said.

"Let's get out of here!" the slaves shouted.

Chapter VIII

E. Coli

The next day, Ratfort was discovered sick in bed. Having some medical training, the slaves arrived, feigned ignorance, and began treating the hero's mysterious illness. It became apparent that Ratfort had a particularly violent strain of E. Coli.

As the battle waged not far off, Bodine and Anzibar watched over Ratfort day and night. Messages arrived occasionally, briefing the companions on the battle. To their delight, the Burning Legion was being forced back, yet nothing could tear their minds off Ratfort. For every message they received, they sent back word that their glorious leader was deathly ill and terribly incontintent.

It was hoped that with the meat, Ratfort would also pass the infection. But there was no such luck. When the meat emerged, black and calcified, the slaves knew it had secreted all its poison.

On the tenth night, Ratfort awoke for the last time. "Who be dat?" he said.

"It is I, your faithful servant, Bodine!"

"And I, Anzibar!"

"And we, the slaves! We are all here!"

"Dat Paladin Stone shell… you still got it wid ya?"

"Of course!" Anzibar cried. "It is here in this drawer. I am so sorry what we did to you, Ratfort. But if you are awake, then surely you are improving! This is a miracle!"
"Shuddup yer mouth," said the hero. "Dis is da end of Ratfort Rico. Grind up dat Paladin Stone, real good-like, capeesh? Spread da dust ovah da Blood Elf land, like ya plantin' seeds. Da way of da Paladin will get into da land, and a whole new generation of Blood Elf Paladin's'll sprout up like wildflowahs, and dey owe it all to me, da Big Boozler."

A few hours later, Ratfort passed quietly away, around the same time that news arrived of the Burning Legion's defeat. It was a succesful battle, for sure, but the war was far from over. Victory was bittersweet, especially after news of Ratfort's passing reached the troops.

Ratfort was buried in his hometown, along with his digested Paladin Stone meat, which might be needed by future generations, but which no one would volunteer to keep. A fair was held in his honor, with a parade scheduled for the last day, and a large painting of Ratfort's smiling face was blown up to the size of a castle for the event. Balloons filled the air, and everyone feasted on roquefort cheese and funnel cake, Ratfort's favorite foods.

Midway through the fair, Momma's remains were discovered in a shallow grave, and the villagers re-buried her alongside Ratfort. Near Momma they found a cache of stolen arms, and there was some talk over whether these had been buried by Ratfort. Later, a loose floor panel was removed from Ratfort's old bedroom. A team of detectives reported in a press conference that they had discovered a makeshift crypt underneath, filled with enough grisly evidence to effectively close every cold and open case in the district's books.

Yet the people's support was unwavering, until the bodies were removed. Every person in the village seemed to be connected in some way to at least one of the victims. There wasn't a person in town who didn't have a brother, sister, mother, daughter, father, son, uncle, or aunt in Ratfort's carnival of souls. To top everything off, at least half of the murders were recent -- even after his conversion, Ratfort the first Blood Elf Paladin had been sneaking home to kill villagers!

In the end, the parade was cancelled and the fair closed, all with unanimous approval. The giant poster of Ratfort's beaming face became an unbearable oppressor, and many did not survive its short reign, dying at their own hands before work crews could de-construct it. Anticipating the spate of Blood Elf Paladins that would arise thanks to Ratfort's blighting their sacred land, everyone decided to kill Blood Elf Paladins on sight, and anyone who followed in Ratfort's footsteps, it was agreed, was a sick bastard.

HALLELUJAH