Wrongalot and Mushroom Majesty rolled their lasagna chariot into the next town, a bustling village known as Debatable Hollow, famous for its tavern called The Whining Philosopher. Inside, debates raged daily over anything and everything, from the morality of pineapple on pizza to whether squirrels were secretly plotting world domination.
As they entered, Wrongalot was immediately drawn to a heated argument at the central table. A man with a mustache so long it doubled as a scarf was pounding his fist on the table. "I'm telling you, forks are the superior utensil! Who needs spoons?!"
His opponent, a woman who wore a colander on her head like a battle helmet, sneered. "You, sir, have clearly never tried to eat soup with a fork. SPOONS FOREVER!"
Wrongalot hesitated, then leaned over to Mushroom Majesty. "I feel like we've wandered into a medieval version of Twitter."
Nearby, another table held an intense group debating history. One scholar stood, clutching a goblet, and declared, "The Roman Empire never truly fell! It simply rebranded itself as a tourist destination!"
"I object!" shouted another. "The Romans didn't rebrand—they just moved to modern corporations. Have you SEEN how aggressive Caesar Salad marketing is?"
Wrongalot snickered but decided to stay out of it. He approached the bar, where the bartender, a man wearing a toga, cowboy boots, and an apron that read "I'm here to stir the pot," greeted him.
"Welcome to The Whining Philosopher! What'll it be? A pint of logic or a plate of hypocrisy?"
"I'll take... water?" Wrongalot said cautiously.
"BO'ELE OF WOTER COMIN' RIGHT UP!" the bartender yelled, mimicking a questionable accent. He then handed Wrongalot a bottle labeled "Possibly Drinkable Liquid."
"Thanks?" Wrongalot said, sipping it hesitantly.
The debates around the room grew louder.
One patron stood on a chair and proclaimed, "I say we bring back the guillotine for influencers who post pictures of their food before eating it!"
The crowd cheered in agreement.
A man with a lute strummed dramatically. "But if we guillotine the influencers, how will we know which cafes serve overpriced avocado toast?"
Another cheer erupted, though it was less enthusiastic.
Meanwhile, a group in the corner was discussing philosophy.
"I propose that all of existence is just one big simulation," a young man with wild hair declared. "We're all NPCs in some cosmic teenager's badly coded video game!"
"Oh, please," scoffed an elderly woman. "If we're NPCs, then why is my arthritis this realistic?!"
The room erupted into laughter, and someone shouted, "Patch notes when, Devs?!"
At that moment, a well-dressed man with slicked-back hair entered the tavern. He exuded an air of self-importance and carried a scroll with the words "Official Census Taker" stamped in gold.
"Ladies and gentlemen," the man said, raising his hands, "I come bearing grave news. Our census reveals a disturbing fact: only 10% of you know what taxes are for!"
The room fell silent.
Then a drunk patron slurred, "They're for paying the king's Netflix subscription, right?"
Laughter erupted again, but the census taker frowned. "No, they're for roads, public services, and the occasional jousting tournament. And if you don't start paying them, you'll all be arrested!"
Wrongalot raised an eyebrow. "Arrested by who? This town doesn't even have a sheriff."
The census taker smirked. "Oh, we outsourced law enforcement to the geese in the park. They've been deputized!"
As if on cue, the tavern door burst open, and a flock of angry geese waddled in, their beady eyes scanning the room for potential tax evaders.
Chaos ensued. People dove under tables, spilled their drinks, and threw loaves of bread as bribes. The geese honked aggressively, their honks sounding suspiciously like the word "PAY!"
Wrongalot grabbed his pool noodle sword and stood on a chair. "This is ridiculous! Since when do geese enforce laws?!"
The bartender shrugged. "Since the Romans outsourced to Greece. It's all connected if you think about it."
Wrongalot wasn't thinking about it. He was too busy trying to fend off a particularly feisty goose that had latched onto his tunic. Mushroom Majesty, meanwhile, was calmly eating a mushroom off the bar as if nothing unusual was happening.
The census taker climbed onto the bar and shouted, "Surrender your coins, or face the wrath of the honking empire!"
A patron yelled, "Not the Honking Empire! I thought they were just a myth!"
Wrongalot groaned. "You people seriously need better hobbies."
One by one, patrons threw coins at the geese, who collected them in tiny saddlebags strapped to their backs. When the geese were satisfied, they waddled out of the tavern, leaving a trail of feathers and honking threats behind them.
The census taker dusted off his scroll. "Another successful tax collection!" He turned to Wrongalot. "And you, sir, are welcome to leave this village... after you pay your dues."
"I don't have any money," Wrongalot said honestly.
The census taker's smile faltered. "Then you'll have to work it off. We need someone to clean the latrines."
Wrongalot sighed. "Fine. But only if you keep the geese out of my business."
The tavern cheered as Wrongalot was handed a mop and a questionable set of gloves. Mushroom Majesty followed him, bleating smugly, clearly amused by his predicament.
As Wrongalot scrubbed the latrines, he muttered to himself, "I traveled through Rome, survived Greece, and now I'm here cleaning toilets. Is this what heroes are supposed to do?"
The goat bleated in agreement, possibly mocking him.
"Well," Wrongalot said with a resigned shrug, "at least there aren't any more geese."
Just then, a single honk echoed ominously in the distance.