“Dude, I’m thirsty. You got any milk?”

“All we got is goat milk.”

“You mean that disgusting monstrosity of a beverage, so thick you could mold it into a rope and hang yourself?”

“Yes, of course. Guests need to drink a glass of goat milk every day to appease the great Baphomet, especially if they’re spending the night. Otherwise, he’ll have his minions tie you down in the guest bed (or whatever you’re sleeping on), and soak you in goat milk until the next morning. That’s why the guest bed is basically a flattened bathtub with very sturdy poles at each corner.”

Each boy stared at each other, the host not giving the slightest hint of having the dying urge to burst out laughing, because he didn’t. Because this was serious. Very serious.

“Yeah, I’ll just have some water, then.”

The host gave a slight annoyance, but walked off without passing any judgement.

“Where are you going?”

“Getting some more extra towels for the guest room. You’re going to need them since Baphomet doesn’t allow heathens to bathe.”