Chapter 7: Do Not Lick the Doorknob
As Finn trudged into town, the wooden planks beneath his feet creaked like they were one wrong step away from total collapse.
The buildings—if you could even call them that—didn’t look built so much as vomited out of the swamp out of spite. Each structure leaned in a different direction, like they were mid-fall in a permanent game of drunk Jenga. Their walls were made of warped, soggy planks that squished when slapped—yes, slapped—and were held together with mold, prayer, and whatever sticky substance the swamp coughed up that morning.
The place looked like a toddler built it out of literal dog shit and disappointment.
Most roofs were slanted or completely caved in, like wet cardboard after a thunderstorm. Some were patched up with lily pads, old tarp scraps, or just piles of moss that had squatter’s rights. The chimneys burped out smoke that smelled suspiciously like boiled frog and wet burlap underwear.
Finn and Majestria exchanged looks. The kind of look that said we could turn around right now and forget this ever happened.
But then—
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Footsteps.
Finn turned, nearly dropping Majestria, just in time to see a local waddling up to them—a hunched, toothless old man in a crooked hat who smelled like a wet dog left in a microwave.
"You folks must be new ’round these parts," he wheezed.
’Of course he sounds country...’