"Conan, a dark plague appears from the east, or maybe the north. What is to be done to save our village?”
Conan will stand in his briefest loincloth and glower fiercely at this threat. Conan finds this works well with most threats. Fear not, for the mighty Conan has the fortitude and ultra soft Sorbent to save us all. Fear not, for the mighty Conan has the fortitude and ultra soft Sorbent to save us all.
"Conan, in these perilous times, what is best in life?"
To crush your enemies and see them driven before you, to claim as your own their enormous piles of toilet paper, and to hear the weeping and the lamentations of those who did not get any toilet paper. This. This is best.
But now that Conan thinks about it, to drive one’s wagon to market, and pull into a parking space at the exact moment the wagon immediately in front of you pulls out, spilling its unfeasibly large load of toilet paper and allowing you to claim the pull-through slot, the fallen toilet rolls, and to ultimately drive away without the inconvenience of reversing, this also pleases Conan.
“But Conan, the plague is already upon us, and savages daily raid our storehouses, making off with all our bags of rice and the Great Scrolls of Sorbent and Quilton.”
By Crom! Does Conan look like some sort of barbarian? Have you not bidet facilities in your village?
"Conan, is there ever any actual reason for buying so much toilet paper?"
Great is Conan’s irritation with this question, and with the lack of bidet facilities it implies. Conan speaks true when he says that only Conan truly needs an infinite scroll of three-ply ultra-soft Sorbent, for pungent is the night soil of his mud dungeon and mighty the river drained by just one flush of his bidet.
But mindful is Conan that once the fear has seized the hearts of men and dulled their senses to all reason, it does make sense to slay all who would challenge him for ownership of even a single roll. After all, he might miss out.
"Conan, I cannot stop touching my face. I fear to rub the plague into mine own eyes. What shall I do?"
When Conan singlehandedly fought and killed hundreds of mercenaries in the thrall of Salome, the witch queen, only to be overwhelmed by sheer numbers, captured and crucified, a night and a day without water he spent on the cross, but still did he possess the strength to pull the nails from his his own hands and feet, to run 10 miles to gather allies for a counterattack. You, a puny weakling, could not do this. But nor could you rub your eyes or nose while crucified. It could be worth a try.
"Conan, I am a casual employee and I fear for my livelihood if confined by the plague."
Conan points out that this is a statement, not a question. But Conan is sympathetic to the plight of lesser men. Not all can be like him, a highly skilled warrior and king of kings, but experienced too in many low and humble trades. If you are to be confined and thus to lose the pittance of your wages, perhaps like Conan you could turn your hand to thieving, piracy, the speaking and reading of profane tongues, or the slaying of a murderous giant such as Baal-Pteor the strangler. It is just a suggestion.
"Conan, we’ve heard rumours that the plague was a cover for a failed Chinese experiment in 5G technology. Any comment on this?"
Conan can neither confirm nor deny that, but he notes that not even Thoth-Amon, the Stygian wizard of great and terrible power, can summon such direful banes as a smart dust chemtrail.
"Conan, sorry, what now?"
Chemtrails, Conan tells you. Composed of smart dust which can be activated by 60GHz mm 5G waves. Did you know that the plague ship the Diamond Princess was equipped with this wavelength of 5G waves? Conan does. He read of this on Goop.
It is known.