The Nerd Turned Conqueror: A Fantasy Harem Adventure Read online

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Epilogue

  The Nerd Turned Conqueror

  A Fantasy Harem Adventure

  by Oscar Reeds

  The Nerd Turned Conqueror

  Copyright © 2018 Oscar Reeds

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission from the author.

  Chapter 1

  I’ve always been alone and friendless. That shouldn’t really surprise anyone, though. Ever since I can remember, I’ve had trouble earning as much as a sigh of sympathy from…well, from anyone.

  It wasn’t easy, growing up in rural Georgia. Especially in a town like Knee Dahcologne. The crappy town has barely five thousand people to its name. Five thousand, and none of them someone who will reach the history books. Honestly, I’m surprised it still doesn’t have a sign that would fit anywhere in early Simpsons or South Park. “You’re now entering Knee Dahcologne, Home of utter mediocrity.” The biggest event that I recall that ever happened in this town was when the deputy mayor of the town over came to a failed attempt at a cabbage festival. Our town can’t even grow cabbage. The tallest building happens to be private property and it’s one of seventy-six summer homes of Donald Trump Jr. Say what you want about him, but he sure knows how to pick summer homes.

  So yeah. Knee Dahcologne. Don’t ask me about the etymology of that dumb name. Not even the local historians know. And when I say “local historians,” I mean the less-than-apt history teachers (two of them) and a librarian whose own library card expired when the first library in the history of libraries closed down. All in all, the biggest success of a local Dahcolognean is much like the biggest success of an Eastern European person – leaving his or her place of residence. I had dreams of leaving too. Sadly, those dreams got shattered over and over again rather easily.

  You see, having an alcoholic father is horrific. Booze everywhere, empty bottles flying around, the TV being perpetually on even if the program running on it is of utter disinterest even to the people who made it… Yeah, it ain’t fun.

  Now, having a junkie father is worse. He is constantly nervous, on edge, ready to crack at the slightest hint of discomfort. And naturally, the child bears the brunt of the blows. True, he doesn’t hit with a bottle, but he does take rather large swings with any nearby object, sometimes a home pet, if a pet manages to survive.

  Still, a father with PTSD is possibly the worst. He constantly replays every single attack from Iraq or Syria, worried that a towelhead might swing a Molotov at him, or a rock, or a bullet the size of a toddler. No sleep, no respite, no rest, no real connection to the rest of the world. Hiring is thus non-existent, and he has to make by with social handouts, which are miserable.

  Wonderful examples of fatherhood. I was lucky enough to have a three-for-one deal.

  My mother might have been better, they said. After all, she did leave the bastard, who managed to win custody somehow. Yeah, most people default to that – “yer mum must’ve been a saint.” Indeed. Normally they didn’t bother to ask why she left in the first place. Let’s just say that the scar I still have just under my throat wasn’t from me using a knife improperly, it was from her failing to use it properly. Not a big fan of children, my mother.

  But I was lucky enough to earn some understanding from my peers. They understood that they could mess with me on a daily basis without any repercussions. And I will give you three guesses as to what the main preoccupation of young prepubescent boys in a rural Georgian shithole is. Well imagine your shock – it’s football. I remember taking the pigskin to the face as early as…well, early middle school. Bob Haggard kept flinging it at me. And everyone, everyone laughed. Yes, even the nerdy kids. Why not? Better for Conrad Genial to get a ball to the face than them. Conrad Genital, as Haggard called me. Yes, even way back then.

  But old Genital didn’t give up. He didn’t give up on being a loser on all fronts. During high school years, old Genital grew up to be a portly fellow, kind of like a 2XL beach ball – soft, hollow, easy to punch into the air and after the season for ball-thwacking is done with, easily discarded. My hair didn’t help me out either (the ladies just loooooove the greasy, Garbage Pail kid dark, short locks), and my two chins weren’t too happy to welcome the third. Acne, well…you could call me the major acne distributor of Continental United States. I had every size and shape, and naturally, every single one would burst and bleed prematurely. I had no money for treatment, and moreover I couldn’t tell which acne would burst first – the ones Haggard and his mates kept smacking at on the right side of my face, or the ones my dear old dad would beat with a bottle or a broken butt of the gun on my left side. Hell, during high school, our geography teacher would routinely use me as an example of how erosion works. Naturally, everyone who felt comfortable about it laughed, and anyone who didn’t pretended not to listen. That kind of sympathy was the only kind of sympathy I ever received – one that’s just basic, one where you can’t stand to see a fellow human suffer, even if you find him or her repulsive. And the bare minimum that felt this not-quite-sympathy still found me repulsive. The one girl in class that was from a different town, Melissa, barely looked at me when she asked me to borrow a pen once and just as disgustedly returned it. I could smell the cleansing liquid on it. She disinfected it before use.

  Yes, that all sounds quite impressively false. How can a kid suffer so much, with literally no valve to let off steam, you ask? Well, let me correct you first – this type of mental and physical Pit of Tartarus continued well into my eighteenth year on this planet. That’s right. I was an eighteen-year-old, fat, pimpled, maladjusted, poor, beaten, single, and hated wimp. Conrad Genial, in a sense, became synonymous with the very town of Knee Dahcologne – literally everything died with me.

  But more to the point, as fantastic as my story might sound, it gets weirder. Oh yeah! It gets a whole heap of weirder, and you’ll see what I mean the minute I’m done feeling sorry for my old self.

  Right, so the whole chain of whatthefuckery started with the first party I ever got invited to. Yes, one local girl, Janine Porter, actually approached me and invited me to her house party. The parents were out of town, the liqueur store was nearby, there was a pond close to her yard too – a little further away was a small forest – and everyone that was everyone was going there. It was meant to be an out-and-about orgy. I’d say I was surprised, but I really wasn’t – the minute some of these girls turned 18, the adults around the town started sticking it in them. And I’m talking an orgy of ghastly proportions – old men boned barely legal skanks, parents did it with daughters, married men dragged them in for threesomes, the lot. Smaller towns like mine tend to be a cesspool for degeneracy. Hell, my own family situation would be proof enough.

  Naturally, I knew her invite was a trap. It wasn’t hard to notice everyone snickering in the background, and it wasn’t hard to deduce that she wanted me there to perform some monumental prank which would result in me feeling a bit more like a sack of shit. And you’d think that I said “no” at her invite, that I did a decisive deed and removed myself from the scene like kebab from premises (Google this reference, I can’t be bothered to explain). But no. I
nodded and walked away, mentally noting the time and place of the party.

  Let’s be clear – I never intended to go. But with father of the year material yelling at me to go die in a ditch, the choice for spending an evening was clear. Yet, my old man still felt I needed convincing.

  “You little shit…” he said. “You utter, disgusting, putrid piece of shit.” I was surprised he knew what the word ‘putrid’ meant. “You’re the reason I’m in this fucking mess.” And there was the bottle of Schnapps, right there on my cheek, and then on the floor, right next to my cheek again. “You’re old enough now! Go and get a goddamn job and pay for this mess!” He pointed to our lovely home. I don’t have to tell you that dogs were afraid to take a shit in there. “Don’t fucking come back until you’ve got some fucking money!”

  I still can’t decide what hurt more, his boot up my ass when I flew out the door, or the suitcase on my head which he threw behind me, followed by what little clothing I had, as well as my schoolbooks.

  “Don’t come back.” Parting words from a wise man.

  And there I was, heading to the party of Janine Porter. No, not with suitcase in hand, as I decided to just leave it there. The party would probably be the last place anyone would see me. I wasn’t yet sure whether to kill myself or just go into begging for cash. I was sure, however, of keeping only one thing with me, that being an old, barely working GameBoy Color. I found it on an old garage sale, managed to fix it somehow, and I kept replaying Pokemon on it. It was my sole companion, as it gave me some much needed rest and respite from my father, my school, my environment, and my lack of friends. That’s why I kept it at my side instead of keeping it anywhere in the house. And that’s why it kept surviving every onslaught of violence and mockery. But my GameBoy wasn’t the only thing I was sure of. I was also sure of where I was going at that moment. It was the party. My first and, in all likelihood, last.

  The walk to it was brusque. A few cars passed me by, with my classmates yelling insults at me, sneering. It was a common practice, but now it felt louder. They were indeed in the party mood. And the party was in full swing when I arrived. At least twenty of soon-to-be-graduates were outside, skinny-dipping in the pond and drinking insanely, and at least six of those twenty were not really high schoolers…or even under thirty-five, for that matter. The minute they saw me, they hollered, with that weird fist-pumping action that football fans do, mock-cheering me. One of them called out for Janine, who, I shit you not, came out in a tiny shirt and a thong. She had clearly been drinking, based on her breath, and clearly had taken one too many cocks in her ass, based on her walk.

  “Hey theeeeere…Conrad,” she mock-flirted. All I could really do was sighing.

  “Hey, Janine.”

  “You wanna…yknow…” she chortled, giving away that she had other intentions behind what she was about to ask. She knew I knew. She didn’t care. Nor did I, frankly. “Ywannaget in n…like, do stuff?”

  “Sure, I guess.”

  And so we entered. Two rooms over and already there were moans. I could clearly see Haggard sticking it into Darlene while fingering Stella on the side. Stella was on her knees, sucking on Peter’s not particularly large cock, while Peter himself spanked Debbie, who was bent over and licking Haggard’s nuts. They, of course, noticed me. But what I didn’t notice was at least two girls, each in one corner of the room opposite this orgy, toying with themselves. And one of them was Melissa. She kind of felt ashamed when she spotted me, though I can’t begin to imagine why. None of the other participants seemed to bother her.

  Janine planted me in a special seat on the couch, where I had the honor of staring into Haggard’s hairy ass. She smirked.

  “You get to watch while we do what you’ll never do…” she barely uttered this, then dropped to her knees and joined Debbie in her testicle licking extravaganza. Haggard merely laughed, then ripped a fart in my general direction which, I must admit, fascinatingly didn’t prevent the girls around him from feeling aroused by him.

  I managed to watch this whole ordeal for about five minutes, after which I whipped out my GameBoy and started playing. That’s right. That meme image of people making out where one lad sits in a Pikachu cosplay and strings a Nintendo Wii plastic guitar? That was me, at that moment. I didn’t mind the loud moans and the rough groans. Nor did I care when both Haggard and Peter flung their used condoms on my head. It was, in fact, when Haggard decided to talk to me when I started to pay attention.

  “Well, well, Genital,” he grinned. “GameBoy, huh? You don’t really care about sex, huh, you dumb fuck virgin shit?”

  He was always a wordsmith, that one.

  “How’s’about we take that GameBoy from you, then?”

  Which is what he did. I squealed for a moment, but then I managed to keep my cool as Haggard broke my GameBoy in half, spat in it, rubbed his still-cum-drenched cock onto it, then threw it on the ground, stepped on it several times, and finally spilled some half-drunk beer on top.

  “And now you can be a man,” he said, pointlessly triumphant.

  But much to his surprise, and that of all others, I didn’t really make a fuss. I merely got up, dusted myself off, and went for the exit. I can bet that this pissed him off good, but for some reason, Melissa ran over and stopped him from raising his fist at me. Peter merely hurled a half-baked insult, and the group unanimously decided to get back to fucking.

  On my way out, I passed my Philosophy teacher, a man of fifty-nine, wearing a collar and a ball-gag, being dragged by that same collar by a fifteen-year-old freshgirl called Stacy. She was also wearing a spiked strapon. I really didn’t care where they would wind up, as both managed to insult me in passing. I went past the pond, and then past the furthest person from the party itself, a local hobo who was sleeping pleasantly, mainly because he managed to get a decent blowjob from Janine mere minutes prior to me arriving. Don’t ask me how I know this.

  And I know, I know, I said that weirder stuff happened. But this party was nowhere near close to what came next.

  So there I was, in the little patch of woodland, just slowly making my way towards anything that could potentially end my life. And there it was, in the distance, atop a downed log. It was a wolf. A nice, big, silverback wolf. I have no idea what species it was, I just know that the Direwolves from Game of Thrones ain’t got shit on this one. This wolf howled the minute it saw me, and I could hear the entire party behind me lock itself inside in fear. Wolves weren’t exactly common in our town, but they weren’t rare, either. A few would appear from time to time, cause some havoc, and then leave. But I didn’t want this one to leave. I wanted it, I wanted HIM to finish me off. So I approached, and it gnarled. But I kept approaching, and it kept growling. And I kept on approaching, but then – it got silent. We were just staring at each other there, and, I shit you not, the wolf nodded at me. Kind of like in a silent agreement. I was confused.

  But what confused me more was his next move. He dug his paw into the ground, and then pointed at it with his snout. I bent over, and sure enough – something was glinting in there. The minute I touched it, I felt a surge. A weird surge, like a small shock from an electrical toy buzzer. I looked up, and sure enough, the wolf was a few yards away, looking at me briefly and then running off into the woods. I picked up the object, and it was a very weird, very…Nordic-like pendant. It was long and slim, but it wasn’t hammer-shaped. I cleaned up some of it, and decided to put it around my neck, just for shits and giggles. After all, this could end up costing me a pretty penny at any pawn shop, or even a museum.

  But I immediately had a change of heart when the pendant made my whole damn body flash bright green.

  I won’t hide the fact that I pissed myself. I also won’t hide the fact that I screamed like a little girl. But then, as quickly as the lightshow came about, it subsided. I still had the dirt-covered pendant around my neck, but my body…my body felt…occupied.

  “Fucking hell…” I stammered.


  “Poor choice of words,” someone in my head responded. I barely contained my shock.

  “Who’s there?!”

  “You won’t see me if you’re trying to look for me with your eyes, kid,” that same something replied, annoyed at me for some reason.

  “Well, where the hell are you?”

  “You’ll learn soon enough.”

  I needed to splash my face with some water. Clearly I was hallucinating. Maybe it was the fumes from Haggard’s fart, or the rubbery scent of used condoms. Or maybe all of those beatings finally made me snap and my brain was at long last losing the capacity to transfer data properly. But the moment I approached the little stream that was pissing out of the forest, I screamed girlishly again. Right there beside me was a Viking-looking man with small braids and a long hair. The beard was impressive, as were the eyebrows. As was his muscle-bound physique. He looked pissed, and moreover – ethereal.

  “Who the hell are you?!” I screamed.

  “Norman,” he replied. “And you and I will have words, young man.”

  Chapter 2

  Norman was a chatty fellow. Now that I could see him without the assistance of a reflection, we got down to talking.

  “So, Norman was it?”

  “Yes, I am Norman.”

  “Where do you come from?”

  “My life is too complex and too long for me to explain it to you in finer detail.”

  “Can’t I get a rough estimate?”

  “It counts in the thousands of years…or at least one.”

  I didn’t much like these cryptic responses.

  “So why were you in that pendant? Are you like a magical genie? Do I get some wishes?”

  “Are you as dense as much as you’re fat, boy?” I always hated being called ‘boy.’ Or ‘kid,’ for that matter.

  “What do you—”

  “I am not a wish-granting ghost. Or rather, I am not THAT kind of wish-granting ghost.”