My parents called Fort Pants a heaven on earth, the last bastion of spirituality and self-expression in the West. But damn were these guys rude. I was hideously disfigured and completely nude, but this was 2015! You’d think people would be more accepting by now. When I finally finished the long trek to town, all I wanted was a glass of water and maybe some bandages for my bleeding feet. But when I stopped for a drink at the tavern, all I got served was the revulsion of every patron and server.

“It’s a m-monster!”, squeaked the elderly British woman.

“It’s a ghoul!”, gasped the Portuguese teenager.

“A devil, an evil, a fool!

He’s a ghost, he’s a zombie,

A rotten no-good brainless mummy!

Go away Mr. Monster, your heart’s full of hatred,

You bastard, you dastard, you’re everyone’s most hated!”

I left before they could get to the chorus. Sure I was ugly, but I didn’t think I was break-into-song-and-dance ugly. Walking along the path out of town, I caught a glance at myself in the river. To be honest, my face wasn’t that bad. It could even be considered an improvement in some areas. My hair had burned off and my skin melted to resemble the cratered surface of Mars, all red and craggy and dusty. But baldness was coming in style, and I’d always wanted a tan, so I wasn’t too upset. Thankfully, my previously bulbous and vulgar nose had melted off in the fire. Now I can breathe through a more aerodynamic crack in my face. And though my lips had fused together into a lumpish mass, I’d always admired the strong and silent types. And it wasn’t like I couldn’t open them at all. Half of my lips were freed, I could still eat and scream just fine. It wasn’t that bad.

On my way back to the tavern, I chanced a glance at a passerby and froze. I knew the man, could recognize his moustache anywhere. His name was Richard Dick, captain of our thirty-third mercenary company. If he was in town, it means his lackeys were too. They must be combing the neighboring areas, looking for me. I should’ve anticipated this. If they’re here, there’s no way I could stay in town without being noticed. I’d been horribly disfigured and all, but surely they’d still recognize my general aura, the ungodly grace and eminence of my every movement. I ducked under some bushes and watched the man enter the tavern. Even at this distance I could hear the singing inside. There’s no way Dick doesn’t at least feel compelled to join in, and then I’d be fucked. I had to disappear.

I spent the rest of the day sneaking around the town perimeter, scouting out the situation. It’s true that mercenaries had infiltrated the town, and posters of my still-skinned face hung on every telephone pole, billboard, and milk carton. My family reacted faster than I’d expected. Luckily, my new makeover had little resemblance to my old face, so I didn’t need to worry about any townsfolk recognizing me. I spent that first night under the village bridge, out of sight and relatively safe. This was during the summer, so the climate was still warm and dry enough to not die of exposure. Still, I was in need of clothing, and a good source of food. I felt strangely sated after waking up, so much so that I didn’t feel hungry for much of that first day, but this was sure to change. However, that was a worry for another day. That night, I could sleep content under free skies.

It turned out that life was easier than expected. My skin, burned off by the fire, regrew thicker, tougher, and leatherier than before. My hair, previously limited to my head and ballsack, returned with a passion, coating every area of my body but my palms, soles, and face in coarse, black hair. I no longer needed clothing, I was my clothing. My mouth, disfigured from the fire, regrew itself a crimson, three-foot-long, serpentine tongue capable of speech. While I had trouble finding food at first, I soon learned to leverage this latter gift and the small-mindedness of the townsfolk to my advantage. Anyone who wanted to cross my bridge had to pay the toll, and the toll was paid in food or blood. The blood part was a bluff, of course, but these people would believe anything. I lived comfortably under the bridge for the next three months, free of detection by any mercs or monster hunters, growing fat on the close-mindedness of the townsfolk. But all good things must come to an end.

It happened one day when I heard the passing of little boots overtop my bridge. This was all routine now, so quite lazily I bellowed “Who’s that tip-tapping over my bridge!?”

“Who said that? It’s only me! little boy Jim from across the street!”

“This is my bridge, you insolent child! I’ll eat you with salsa, medium-mild!”

“Oh no, Mr. Troll, please let me be! I don’t want to be eaten, I want to go free!”

“You make a good point, so I’ll let you pass. On just one condition, that now I shall ask. My belly is rumbling, I’m dying to eat! Feed me a morsel, you’ll pass on your feet!”

“Okay Mr. Troll, that’s easy to do! I’ll run to my home, I’ll cook you a stew!”

“You must and you’d better, if you’ve a right head- bring that good stew or I’ll eat you instead!” Then I did my best cackle and settled back down into the water.

Well, Jim returned, but not with a stew. I surfaced when I heard the passing of heavy boots overhead and leaped on top, hoping for a face full of stew but ending with a face full of pain. The club-wielding inquisitor stepped back, and said to Jim “Thanks for fetching me, boy. Take your silver and go.”

Inquisitors. Muscle-bound enforcers of the Church. I should’ve known those cunts were onto me.

“Inquisitors.” I spat through a mouth full of blood. “Should’ve known you cunts were onto me.”

“How could we not be? You’ve got the whole town terrified, freak, and now you’ll answer for your crimes!”

“What? No! I can’t go to prison! How will I change the world with a criminal record!?”

But it was too late. He tied me up with chains that not even my trollish strength could break, then looped those around his horse. And like that, he rode into town, dragging me behind for all to see. From every open doorway and window, villagers would gather to ogle and even cheer. My last sight of this sunlit world was that of a familiar moustached face looking down from a tavern balcony. Then the gates closed, and I was thrown into the dark dungeon.

They lead me down a labyrinth of stairs and concrete passageways before finally ending in an unlit chamber full of dog cages.

“This is your stop, freak. Tell the confessor I said hi.”

Then they stuffed me in a cage, locked the door, and left me to the dark.