"Jazzy D. Funkington suffers no fools, and he sure as hell don't suffer no motherfucking dragons."
The year was 1977. Jimmy Carter was residing in the White House, disco was just beginning its terrible, glittery rein over the heart of the nation’s music scene, and international jewel thief Jazzy D. Funkington was falling through an interdimensional portal after a diamond heist gone awry. For reasons the scientists of the day could only classify as "some real Twilight Zone shit," the world's most prominent playboy/sticky-fingered filcher/Taekwondo expert found himself transported from the swanky streets outside a Paris museum to the cold, harsh woods of a land called Skyrim.
This is his story.
This man made the unfortunate mistake of wearing clothes that Jazzy needed.
Jazzy’s first night in Skyrim would have been considered a tumultuous one by the standards of any mortal man, but for Jazzy a near-execution interrupted by an attack from a mythological reptilian monster was simply business as usual. Uninterested in whatever rebellion threatened to tear the populace apart, Jazzy set out on the first step of his epic journey with only two goals in mind – to acquire riches and bitches. This was not only the title of his bestselling autobiography, but the two longstanding tenements of the Funkington family that were the reason Jazzy was the self-made man who had once made love to a trio of Swedish supermodels after
he had swiped their ruby studded mink coats.
After hours spent hunting a wide assortment of Skyrim wildlife in search of the animal best suited for making love on in front of a fire place, Jazzy stumbled upon what one had to be generous to refer to as “civilization.” The town of Whiterun was certainly a town in the strictest sense of the word, but the lack of a respectable night club or an alley to shoot dice in did not bode well for his fortunes there. Nevertheless, Jazzy spent the evening hooking a brother up with the local tavern’s finest hooch, punching a woman in the face until she proclaimed her unyielding service to him, and being assigned dragon slaying duty by Carl Balgruuf, the town’s top turkey.
Jazzy, seen here testing a bear's carcass for form and comfort.
When informed that the “C” in Carl was actually a soft “J,” Jazzy calmly informed the Little Lord Fauntleroy-looking pimp, “The only soft J’s I deal with are the ones immediately preceded by a ‘B.’ Motherfucker, you Carl.”
While Jazzy’s heroic act was simply a front to allow him access to Carl’s highly ransackable castle, the man's single greatest flaw was his vanity. He could not turn down such a tempting feat of badassery. Surely if he were to defeat the draconian beast that threatened Whiterun, the town would erect a statue of his massive balls out of pure gold – which he could then steal and sell at a considerable profit. Already assured of his victory, Jazzy strode confidently into the night, a dispatch of Whiterun guards and Carl’s finest looking elf at his back.
It wasn’t long after reaching the besieged watchtower, the site of the dragon’s attack, that the terrible creature revealed itself. As it took off into the night sky, its wings spread out across the star streaked blackness like twin harbingers of doom, the guards unsheathed their weapons and readied for battle. The dark elf commanded the warriors to begin their assault, crying out for them to claim the dragon’s head.
“Be cool, elf honkey!”
The tremendous beast’s fearsome roar filled the frigid Skyrim air, but it was Jazzy’s words that quieted the rabble. He stepped forward, flexing his muscles hard enough to rip himself completely out of his woefully suede-free outfit. His clothes burst into tatters and scattered in the wind, abs chiseled out of concrete and several generations of racial injustice glistening in the moonlight. “You can’t just kill it. A dragon that fine you got to romance first.”
"Shh, girl, be cool. You about to get Jazzed."
What happened next was an act so indescribable that even a team of the Bards College’s greatest scholars writing every minute of every day for the next five hundred years could not even fathom to capture it in a song. Through the sheer power of his own funk, Jazzy overcame the raging monster using methods that had bedded an endless number of heiresses, air hostesses, foreign dignitaries, and skanks from around the block. The dragon thrashed wildly, but was no match for Jazzy’s soothing touch. It spat fire hot enough to melt the strongest Dwarven metal, but they were no match for the flames of Jazzy’s libido. It stared with eyes full of bloodthirst and malice into the very soul of the man who defied it, but its gaze was no match for Jazzy’s smoldering blue eyes.
Jazzy slayed the dragon not with force or magic or any other such destructive means. He felled the great menace with a power it could never hope to understand – the love of an upstanding black gentleman.
"Was it as good for you as it was for me? No, because there ain't nothing as good as being with me."
As the awestruck guards gathered around the corpse of the slain behemoth, murmurs passed between them about the reappearance of a legend.
“Dragonborn?” Jazzy asked. “More like dragon dead, which is what every one of them scaly motherfuckers are going to be if they step to me again, knowhaimsayin?”
Jazzy lifted his hand for the high five, but received no skin in return, as not a single warrior knew what he was saying.