The battle that had been raging around me for the last hour was finally nearing its gruesome conclusion. The last of the goblins trembled on his knees before me. The sharp copper blade on my legendary sword, “Double Edge”, glistened in the sun despite the grime and goblin blood encrusting it. It is the strongest, sharpest sword known in all of Edoch, and you’ll hear songs of it in every tavern from coast to coast. It has taken the lives of many creatures, both good and evil, since its creation by The Blacksmith Bard himself 300 years ago. It not just an immaculate killing machine; it’s enchanted to enhance its owner’s prowess in battle by tenfold.

It also won’t shut the fuck up.

“The standards for knights these days are appallingly low. Aren’t you embarrassed? This would’ve ended 30 minutes ago if you could see your own prick past your gut, you fat fuck,” my sword bellowed, loudly enough to be heard across the entire battlefield if not into the village. Knowing the truth in its words, my traveling party erupted into laughter. Even the doomed goblin spent his last seconds chuckling.

“Oh fuck you, Dub,” I muttered.

Anything more only encourages the abuse, and in the 3 months since I paid a crying orc 6 coppers for it (which in retrospect should’ve been suspicious), Dub has already ruined my once proud reputation. It told anyone who would listen about my irritable bowels, small member, and peculiar masturbation habits. I made the mistake of bringing it with me on my last visit to my mother, and I will not repeat the vile things it said of her.

While my family calls me Hector, I used to be known in town as “Sir Quicksplit” for my dexterity with the blade; I’m a fierce warrior even without Dub’s enchantments, and I WAS a knight well respected in all circles of society. After hearing Dub’s stories of my last bout of intestinal distress, my comrades have taken his suggestion of addressing me as “Sir Quickshit”. From his scabbard on my fine leather belt, he announces my every erection to all within earshot. I’ve been told that even the ladies of polite society sometimes refer to me as “Little Hector Erector”. Ironically, wielding a legendary, enchanted sword has the same devastating effects on my reputation as it has on my foes.

I am a sight to behold when wielding Double Edge. I slice through flesh effortlessly, slinging blood off its impeccable copper blade across the battlefield. I dance among my foes, decapitating and maiming them before they even consider striking. Fear fills the eyes of all who gaze upon me as I glide among the bodies, some dead and the rest soon to be dead, once ending the lives of 6 foes with one forceful swing. Until Dub shouts something like “Jab it in them! The gods know the maidens will never let you jab them with that forest of hair hiding your cock” or “his mother shall be wailing the way you did when Seraphina took her leave of you- you know she lies with Sir Thrasher now, right?”. I walk away from the battlefield victorious, only to walk into taverns to hear bards playing the song Dub wrote:

“Sir Hector Erector, strong and quick,

So fat he cannot find his prick,

Near the privvy he must stay,

Lest he shit his britches away,

The maidens will not pay him mind,

And so his hand must pass his time

Double Edge longs for a worthier touch

Are you the next to suck this much? ”

I attempted to sell my glorious yet terrible sword to the local trader, but as soon as he heard Dub’s voice viciously mocking “Sir Quickshit Slowbrain” for being foolish enough to think we would part, he backed out of the sale. I offered my fine blade as a gift, but no one would receive it lest they become the next pariah. I tried to abandon it on the battlefield, but when I returned to my hut, I found a gaping hole in my roof and Double Edge planted firmly in my bed. It seems I’ll be the wielder of Edoch’s finest weapon for years to come. Fuck.