"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.
"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.
LOOK WHO CAME: