HOOTERS

MONSTERS ON MAIN STREET

So yeah: King Alfred cast the spell. Big dramatic scene, angry shouting, swirling shadows, and a forbidden tome bound in something looking suspiciously like cursed goat leather. He thought he was being slick; banishing the queen, her bastard baby, and the eunuchs in one fell swoop of dark magic. Disfiguring them, disgracing them, and letting the villagers do the rest with pitchforks and poor hygiene.

But... you guessed it. He didn’t read the fine print.

Because here’s the thing about spells ripped from the Shadowed Realm: they always come with stipulations. The stipulation for this spell said ‘Side effects may include unimaginable consequences and inconvenient irony.”

If anything, we both know now Alfred was no wise king.

When the smoke cleared and demonic echoes died down, the results were not what he or anyone in the palace expected. Instead of grotesque monsters crawling from the darkness, what emerged after the curse took its full effect were beings just a few inches taller than your average elf, stylishly hunched, with skin pale enough to camouflage with snow, ears almost human and innocent golden eyes as if fallen from the sun.

Beautiful enough not to kill. Ugly enough not to invite for dinner.

And the eunuchs? Oh, the eunuchs were thriving. I mean, imagine going your whole life without a sword in the sheath, and then boom: new form, new focus, and a shiny, fully upgraded third leg. Yeah. Now that’s what I call a curse with benefits.

The first of these new creatures stumbled into the village at dawn. The farmers seeing the pale figures approach, nearly fainted. The elders clutched their salt bags and prayed to every god who might be awake. But when the creatures spoke—softly, clearly, humbly—the villagers hesitated. One helped mend a broken wheel. Another built a wind mill, providing water for the farm. By evening, fear had turned to fascination.

Within a week, the “monsters” were sharing meals with the humans. Within a month, they were teaching blacksmiths how to forge metal that sang. Within a year, they’d built a plough that never rusted, a lantern that refused to go out, and a loom that could weave cloth from morning mist.

So no, the villagers didn’t cast them out. They were welcomed.

The people of Eldrathia, as it turns out, weren’t known for their restraint. Just like the Queen before them, they were creatures of comfort, idleness, and lust; a most troublesome blend of both. (I’d be idle if the land I lived was all green and gold.) When these newcomers started strolling through villages, helping with harvests, fixing tools, and, well… redefining intimacy, things got interesting.

No one remembers exactly who called them hooters. Maybe it was the sighing sound they made when pleased. Maybe it was because of the third leg. Or maybe it was because when one of them laughed, it came out as a low, haunting hoot, like an owl that knew all your secrets. Either way, the name stuck like a tag on a slave.

The hooters fit right in. With minds sharp enough to build what was needed and intuition faster than most, they learned quickly, worked tirelessly, and earned their place faster than anyone could admit. Their skill filled homes, their charm filled fantasies, and soon, their blood began to mix with that of humankind.

By the time anyone noticed how fast the hooter-to-human ratio was shifting, it was too late. The kingdom had changed forever.

Why? Simple. Human women, as it turns out, enjoyed a good hooter-f*****g.

And thus, the curse spread not by magic, but by pleasure—the deadliest contagion of them all.