"Montana. Just Montana," the burly detective said as the bar stool he was sitting on collapsed underneath him. He remained in his sitting position, his supersized rear cushioned only by air, the swamp detective too proud a man to allow the routine caving of his furniture to disrupt his intent to sit down and relax himself. It was such a common experience that at this point, he was as comfortable seating himself on nothing as he was on actual furniture. His tiny legs had grown to easily withstand the strain of the faked sitting position which he often had to maintain while attempting to talk to women in shady bars. The woman watched him, bemused, her eyes cold. Out of character, you'd think, if you knew who she was.

"Your shirt's not tucked in."

"I... uh... what?" Montana scratched his head, turned to the left, got a solid glimpse of Ambra's threatening visage.

"Your shirt. It's untucked." Her voice was sharp, now, like broken glass, the last syllable turning almost shrill.

Montana stared at her, hand still idly scratching his miniscule head. The bar was silent. Montana looked around, noticed how prim and proper the entirety of the once-familiar bar was, noticed how much had changed since his last visit, a week ago.

"Did, uh... did you change up management, or...?"

Ambra's glass shattered in her hand, and Montana's head instantly snapped towards her. "Oh shit," he screamed, and immediately slammed his entire body mass into hers as she pulled her staff of radiance from between her cleavage and began draining him. The two of them crashed into the ground, Montana on top of her. "You did it," he screamed into her face, manly slobber spraying her features. "You were the crook of Saskenee Bay!"

"The king mistook me for a mere servant girl," Ambra growled through clenched teeth, "but he didn't realize that I would be his undoing! This entire rabble of unsophisticated sycophants will rue the day they dared defy the etiqu-"

He punched her on the side of the head, hard, screamed, "It wasn't the king who poisoned his daughter! It was you! You tried to make it look like ISIC was dating all of the kitchen staff, when really they were your servants, smuggling valuables out from under his nose while you gained resources! He was about to discover the plot, so you had to put him away. So you killed his daughter and framed him for it. I'm taking you away, villain."

He breathed heavy, fury in his eyes, looked down at Ambra.

She was dead.

"Well done, detective!" The king himself strolled into the room, patted Montana on the back, once. Twice. Again, but this time was much harder. He continued patting Montana on the back for some time like this, strangely gentle blows massaging his back.

"Excuse me, but... what are you doing," Montana asked, as the blows on his back became heavier and heavier.

"Ah, apologies, friend, but I just hit level five! El Dragooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooon," he screamed, and in one hit broke his spine, laying his dead body on top of Ambra's.

"What you didn't realize, my dear, dear detective, was that -I- hired Ambra to frame me for the death of my daughter, so that you could uncover that I was framed! Now I will be stripped of my glory, sent to work the slave pits of Ekkunar, where I will return to the glory fighting days of my youth. For I am El Dragon, the once and future champ!"

======

Later that night, El Dragon came home, brow heavy with sweat. He could feel himself losing levels from his previous encounter, knew he'd be weak enough that the next fight would be as time-consuming as the last one was. He hadn't wanted to kill the detective. Montana was a good man. A strong man. They had played poker together, drunk together, even traded wives. Or rather, traded wife. For in an entirely legitimate transaction, El Dragon had proposed to Montana's avian lover and stolen her heart, and the day after they were married. It was a festive celebration, and Montana spent the entire wedding going around, asking people if the wedding was really taking place, and whether or not he was just hallucinating.

They still player poker after that, but he could feel the sadness in Montana's heart. It would teach him to not trade away the things he loved for mere pennies. It was a shame that he had to take that secret to the grave! So many things El Dragon could have taught him, if he were only a little less dead.

Still, even if he had just killed the man, they were still friends.

As soon as El Dragon got to the doorstep, the door opened, and a half dozen extremely muscular chicks ran out of the house. El Dragon knelt down, let the baby birds gather in his arms, and screamed, "My little luchadores! And luchadorette!" (He had only one daughter, who he named Benedict, after her mother, Benedict.) Holding his brood in his arms, he turned to his wife. "How were things at home?"

"Fine," Benedict cooed, voice lispy. "The salesman came over to sell his Ekkunar shoeshine, again. I told him to bird off. I don't think he got it."

"Where is he," El Dragon replied, "Did you... acquire his merchandise?"

"Some merchandise," Benedict replied. "The entire house smells like his armpits."

"And what a glorious odor it is, my love. The smell of a man! A tiny, pathetic little man. But a man!"

=====

When El Dragon walked into the room, he was wearing hard leather, a horse whip in his hand, masculine nipples protruding powerfully. He cracked the whip, looked down at Boldur.

"Hello, salesman. My wife told me you've come back, to convince us to sample your 'merchandise'."

"BOLDUR LOVES AXE!"

"You won't have your axe, little man. But you can have El Dragon's wood!"

He ripped his his mask off, revealing his gruesome, unthinkable face, his pants bursting open instantaneously, and Boldur screamed, "BOLDUR DID NOT ASK FOR THIS! WHY?! WHEN WILL SCIENCE SAVE US!"

And El Dragon threw him to the ground, pinned his arms behind his back, smelled that strong armpit musk. "I am science," he whispered. "Now face the might of my magnificent robot arms!"

Then suddenly, icy bullets dug into his spine, and he turned around, catching a fistful of cold lead. It was Montana. "You were dead! How is this possible?!"

"You can't put a big jerk down... with such a tiny fist. Your daughter... I will avenge... her... if it's the last thing i do! I'm going to win my wife back... and put you down, like the savage tyrant you are, king!"

El Dragon ran a clothesline towards Montana, bullets ripping through him, righteous fury in his eyes, and he grabbed Montana by the neck, pinned him against the wall, made him drop his minigun. "No...not like this..."

Benedict was watching, carrying her chicks with her, a single tear dropping from her avian eye. To see her lover past and lover present at eachother's throats... 'now's the only time I can tell him,' Benedict thought.

"El Dragon! The kids... they're not yours... they're Montana's! I'm sorry..."

And El Dragon recoiled in shock, dropped Montana to the ground. "What?! Not possible!"

"End of the line, dooder!" And Montana rammed El Dragon, knocking him away, and grabbed his minigun, then spun it up right into El Dragon's face, shooting him until there was nothing left but pure science. He stood for for several minutes, firing into El Dragon's skull, letting science vaporize into the air. Benedict walked up to him, watching him, and said, "Montana... I'm so sorry for leaving you..."

And Montana sighed, wearily, said, "And I'm so sorry... for everything I did, Benedict... to you, and the kids... oh god, I'm so exhausted... I feel like I could..."

"Montana?!"