I was thrown out of the Helinian Temple when I was three, old enough to survive. They didn’t kill me as a baby, didn’t want to upset Grymblor. Superstitious fools, like he’d give a shit if I was snuffed out of existence. Gods don’t like splitters.

Nobody likes Splitters. That’s not me whining, that’s me telling a fact. I mean have you ever thought about how a splitter comes into being? You think pinks like fucking greens? In my line of work I’ve seen pinks stick their pecker into pretty much anything with a pulse. Some aren’t even fussy about the pulse. Some will pay a fortune to feel a pink pulse stop mid-fuck. But have you ever seen a green whore? It’s the bristles that put pinks off. While pinks gets a nice soft cushion of hair between their leg, orcs get bristles. Thick, black and sharp, angled so they lock green cocks into green cunnies. Your soft pink peckers get torn to shreds. Ask any stupid little prick who’s been fooled into fucking one by his mates. It goes in alright, then it don’t wanna come out. Green sows laugh about the pink cocks they’ve skinned. Green men don’t pay for sex, if they want it they take it. So, no market for green whores. Not that a green would ever work for a Splitter. We’re no more green than a turd they shat out in the woods. Greens don’t like splitters

How do you think splitters come into existence? Pink seed don’t grow in green but green sometimes grows in pink. Mostly these days the greens keep to themselves. But a few years back, when there were fewer pinks, orc warriors would fuck anything they found still alive after their raids. Their bristles mince soft pink cunnies. No pink sow that’s been green-fucked will ever forget it. Sometimes they heal. More often they bleed to death or die a few days later, putrid green slime dripping down their legs. The survivors prayed that the seed wouldn’t take. If it took, it was a death sentence. Splitters aren’t as big as green shoats but they’re bigger than anything a pink sow can survive squeezing out.

That’s where I come from.

My father butchered pink men raped the women and I split a pink sow in half on the way out.

Pinks don’t like splitters.

But they don’t need to like me. They need to fear me. They need to know that they don’t fuck with G’Thun. Then they need to know that I control the sows in Greenburn. If a pink wants to stick his pecker in something, I’m the splitter he pays. If a sow wants to sell her cunny I’m the splitter she gives half the money to. Thirty years it’s taken me to teach Greenburn that.

I was nothing when I came to here. Town was small enough that it didn’t get a kingdom guard station. Big enough that kids lived in the gutters. I was the lowest of them. The stinking splitter, beaten, spat at and bung-fucked by the older kids. I was too small to fight them off. But I remembered who beat me. Who spat at me. Who bung fucked me.

Then I grew. By the time I was eleven I was as big as most pink men. By the time I was thirteen I owned the gutter. It was me that beat, me who spat. It was me who bung fucked, me who made the rules. It was me who found every pink I remembered from when I was the lowest. It was me that ate their fucking hearts. It was me who took over their little businesses. By the time I was fifteen I owned the streets from dockside to the market square. They knew not to fuck with G’Thun, even the new kingdom guards knew not to venture east of the market after dark.

I in no way made or own the wonderful picture that accompanies this post.

If you did make it, or own it and would like to be acknowledged please let me know.