Eliwood's hands began to shake. He was in the middle of the most badass of delicate activities: knitting himself a silver codpiece out of the fossilized eyelashes of long-dead dragons, using two blades sharpened to diamond-like points as needles. The codpiece was to be wrought in the image of his dear mother's face, for love of one's mother is the most badass of all. And Sweet Elimine knew he loved his mother.

But as Eliwood worked he missed a stitch. Dimensions teetering on the brink of space and time spiraled out of alignment and entire worlds blinked out of the vast hippy patchwork quilt that is reality; with a single click from his knitting rapiers the worlds of a hundred thousand alien peoples were catapulted into a field of existence where only strobe lights illumined the darkness and ravemasters ruled the dizzying miasma, snorting cocaine through their spiraling bellybuttons.

Sweat poured down Eliwood's face. If he made another error, then an entire fraction of life in the universe would be condemned to umbilical crack forevermore. Plus, his mother's porous cheek skins might not be symmetrical. So much was on the line.

He worked in silence on the top of the highest mountain in the world, his concentration so extreme it was like a gay monk and hardass mercenary had babies. That extreme. His knitting rapiers dueled each other desperately, throwing their long, hard forms against each other again and again and again, growing moist with the sweat of Eliwood's hands...


The codpiece was completed!

In his ecstasy Eliwood punched the universe in half.

Next he pole-vaulted onto his steed, a miniature unicorn roughly the size of Bulgar, and together they mounted his steam-punk airliner and ascended into nirvana. The great iridescent banner that was his steed's tail whipped with all the fury of a thousand primary colors, and mighty prisms of saline angel tears rained in their immortal wake.

Two Earth-days later he alighted on a banister of finger noodles. He was at his summer home, where sunlight perpetually warmed the ground with its aestival deathrays. The gardens were festooned with fucklilies; in the corridors, legions of women draped themselves over flower power-esque 70s skateboards, clad only in bitchery and nakedness. But Eliwood had no eyes for them. He only ever had eyeballs for his hell-kitten, which he fed from the spare satchel of ocular tissue he kept at his hip. It trotted after him, thunderously purring up unholy melodies that would shame the gods of death metal back into their very cradles.

When he walked right the fuck into the main hall, his vision was senselessly and brutally molested by the sight of a woman. It was Lady Lyndis.

His woman. Hell yes.

A chorus of scabtastic priests rattled their musty throat cords in the background, while nude babies strumming harps tornadoed through the air. All was bathed in an ethereal light as their eyes met and nuclear explosions went off underground, setting off a stampede of exceptionally cool robotic stilts around a floating racetrack nearby.

"Ooh, Eliwood, ooh~"

"Lyndis, ooh~"

Eliwood put on his shiny new codpiece. It sparkled in the reddish-burgundy light. In order to activate it, he hip-thrusted the sound barrier to oblivion, and immediately proceeded to dry-hump the ever-loving shit out of Lady Lyndis, for it is not really sex if all the clothes are on, and only a true badass waits for marriage.