Website closure~
Posted by Dio, February 18 2008, 09:44 PM in Personal
This probably isn't a sudden revelation for many of you, but my writing is officially (at least my GA writing) on hiatus until further notice. After chatting with Myr, I decided the best option was to close my forums and my site here until further notice. It doesn't make sense for me to steal bandwidth when I'm not actively contributing.
I'm not packing my bags and going anywhere, I simply feel that I don't want to string anyone (especially the ever huggable Myr) along when my priorities are elsewhere.
Thank you for reading this udderly (moo) pointless service announcement. 
lurve and huggles
Sandy
LSB XE
Posted by Dio, November 18 2007, 09:18 AM in Mechanics of Writing
I've been searching for some manner to organize all my mountains of notes, timelines, character summaries...etc etc for quite a while now, and (thanks to Lugh) I think I've finally found something worthwhile called Liquid Story Binder. It's open-ended enough that it satisfies most of the niggling annoyances that have made me toss aside other similar programs.
Of course, Lugh just HAD to point it out right in the middle of my Nano writing when I had already thoroughly submerged myself under piles of long-hand notes and printouts. But well...better late than never. It only uses up about 15 megs of memory to run, which is way less than freaking firefox. So, no technical problems even with 342545642 windows inside story binder open. Anyhow, I took a quick run through the help and got started inputting all my notes; six hours later I can happily browse through all my characters and masses of notes on the fly. The search feature is also quite adequate for my needs and you can search through specific areas quite easily.
Only two drawbacks that I'm going to note: drawback #1 is of course that LSB XE is shareware, which means you have thirty days of trial(non-consecutive), then you have to buy it to keep using it. It's a measly 45 bucks though for as many personal copies as you want (for those of us with desktops and laptops who interchange frequently) and you get updates for free for life as far as I can tell. Drawback #2 is that the word processor inside LSB, while functional, holds not a candle to Microsoft word as far as paragraph formatting, and spell/grammar checking go. And when you have hundreds of pages you're trying to format at the same time, that becomes somewhat important. I should mention that it does allow exporting in .rtf, but I have had no trouble simply using storyboard for everything but the actual chapter writing, which for the foreseeable future, will remain in word.
All in all, once you've figured out how malleable everything in the program is, it becomes rather enjoyable to use and much more convenient than lugging around binders to a coffee shop when you want a change of scenery for writing. 
You can also install LSB on a usb drive and use it on any computer...which is also kinda neat...not that I use that feature... 
Here's a link: Liquid Story Binder
-db-
52 998 is the magic number on day ten.
Posted by Dio, November 11 2007, 10:11 AM
As of 11:59pm on Nov. 10th, my wordcount for Nano stood at: 52 998. Which puts me on track for ~158K. Unfortunately, I only have two and a half chapters left before the story ends...so I don't think it's entirely plausible that I'll break the ~168K that I did last year. I'll probably hit 75K by the 15th, then spend the rest of the month editing and rewriting for production.
I can't say I'm too upset about my work ethic. I'm off to go celebrate by slacking off for the rest of the day and give my bleeding stomach a break from coffee and timbits. 
Then maybe I'll think about working off the three pounds I mysteriously gained over ten days...
lots 'o love,
Dio
The Third
Posted by Dio, October 5 2007, 03:16 PM
and
I conned one of the arts guys today to be my evil minion and make me a story icon. I'm so devious. bwahahaha
This should end up as a stand alone novella around 80K (possibly less) when finished.
Can't wait for november.
-db-
----Edit----
Brighter versions:
Better?
NUMB
Posted by Dio, September 16 2007, 09:23 PM in Personal
Juvenile Detention Center, Sandy Hills – May 10th, 1998 (9 years ago)
Clank, went the chains. Clank, shuffle, clank, shuffle, clank. The slow but steady staccato rhythm of his chains and dragging footsteps went uninterrupted as he hobbled down the empty puke-green corridor that exemplified the nation’s detention facilities.
Warm, they said; soothing, they claimed. It was the colour of vomit. Vomit was warm. One out of two was still only fifty percent. They called reminiscing about the last time he had vomited relaxing? Psychologists were full of shit. If he had to stare at these walls for any length of time longer than it took to walk down this goddamn endless hallway, restraining his urge to gouge his own eyes out was going to become difficult.
The guards who shadowed his progress ghosted down the halls in a tight knit box. They all wore the blue and gold uniforms of correction officers, each one with a nightstick and a taser rod, the latter being held warily as they watched him shuffle along. The way they walked, all stiff backed and flickering eyes made him believe the guards didn’t put all that much faith into the chains that encased his wrists and ankles. He had but make one jerky movement and those tasers would be sticking him in places that did not appreciate having fifty-thousand volts forced upon them. He made their legs unsteady and their hands sweaty and white-knuckled. That was power. That was fear. Kaylen savoured the distinctive aroma with an innocuous smile that would not be seen from beneath his long beard.
The corridor came to an abrupt halt and his entourage faced an plain wooden door with a frosted glass window upon which the bold words, ‘Warden’, were emblazoned.
One of the guards knocked on the window before opening the door.
“Inside.” The guard on his right ordered sharply.
“Inside, please.” Kaylen corrected, his voice soft and amiable.
“Get inside, or you’ll regret it,” the man growled back, unaffected by the old man’s considering glance.
Kaylen pursed his lips and gave the man a sad shake of his head. “I am beginning to wonder what sort of manners they teach youngsters these days in school.”
“Inside, butcher. Or I’ll stick you.”
He stiffened for a moment before taking a deep breath and sighing—more for his own predicament than the guard’s tomfoolery. He took a good look at the guard. A man in his mid-thirties by the looks of his receding hairline; a slight paunch above his belt and a uniform that was tight in all the wrong places. Or, in other words: a man to be pitied.
“It’s easy to taunt a man tied hand and foot. Though, I would not look half as satisfied as you were our positions reversed, for I would know that the moment the chains no longer bound the object of my torture, we would be equals. And in the land of equals, it is the strong of mind and body who triumph.” Kaylen wrinkled his nose with displeasure when the man raised his taser rod in reply. “Hmph. Threats are unbecoming of a man in your position.” He muttered. Seeing that his words had little effect but to induce fury in the man, he stepped, without further ado, through the door. He found himself in a painfully cramped waiting room with only two chairs, a small desk, and a petrified woman who was staring with wide eyes at the apparition before her. The guards fanned out. One of them made him stop in the center of the small reception area by yanking on the chain that anchored his neck to the chains handcuffed around his hands and belt.
The receptionist, a lovely woman with hair that looked like spun silk, had turned a rather sickly pale-white. She was whispering frantically into her phone which she had grabbed from the hook the moment she recovered enough of her wits for complex speech. After a moment she told them, in a very small and terribly frightened voice, that the warden would see the prisoner now.
Kaylen stumbled as he was shoved into the room, two of the guards with hands under his armpits. He was jerked to a halt in front of a broad wooden desk that gleamed under the midmorning sunlight that filtered through blinds half-drawn. With only a glance he could already understand what sort of man the warden was. His desk, a large surface, was nearly spotless. The few objects that were on the surface, the lamp, the pen and appropriate holder, a stapler; all had a specific geometric positions. The bookcase that ran along one wall was free of dust and clutter. And the army of books that lined the shelves looked like they had just turned out for morning inspection, not a crease on a single spine. This was a man who obsessed with control. And by the looks of him, he usually got what he wanted.
“Ah, Mister Burry! What a pleasure, do come in.” His voice was polite and friendly. The warden in question moved from behind his desk, his small spectacles gleaming with reflections from the sun behind him and clapped the prisoner on the shoulder, pulling up a chair and dismissing the guards with a brush of his hand.
Kaylen sank into the chair awkwardly and had to force himself not to sigh. It had been a long time since he had sat on a chair like this one, a chair with padding enough to sink into to, and that musty leather smell along with a hint of cigar smoke.
“Forgive me. I would offer you a drink, but I’ve been informed that if I undo those bonds I’m like to find myself sucking up dirt six feet under the earth. I do hope you’ll forgive me.”
If the warden was looking for some sort of reaction to this play of good hospitality, he was going to be sorely disappointed. Kaylen just watched the man, not in a challenging manner, but just looked at him thoroughly. The warden’s smile lessened a bit under this silent scrutiny, but he recovered quickly enough, shrugged and smiled as if nothing was the matter, and returned to sit behind his desk.
“I see you’re bursting with questions. As would any man who’s been pulled from death row at the whim of a complete stranger. Imagine, finding yourself in a place like this, a reprieve that may or may not last—it must be trying being in your position.” Seeing that Kaylen had no intention of replying, the warden continued. “Yes, well, the fact of the matter is, I think we can help each other out. Ah!” He pulled his spectacles off his nose, and began polishing them with a small cloth he pulled from the pocket of his suit-coat; an almost absent-minded gesture. “I’ve forgotten my manners. I am Dr. Richard Greene. That’s a doctor of psychology, if you’re at all curious. And you,” he said, replacing the specs and squinting over at his visitor, “are the infamous Kaylen Burry: A once renowned martial artist who studied in China and Japan with many of the great masters of our time. I’ve even heard that you developed your own style, completely original and derived from hundreds of other fighting styles. Is there any truth to the rumour?” When again, his guest remained silent, the warden frowned. “Well, not much of a talkative fellow, are you?”
“You have yet to ask a question I will answer.” Kaylen replied evenly. “I find that letting men who enjoy talking, the opportunity to talk, a wonderful source of information. Surely, as a doctor of the psychological arts, you are well aware of such techniques?”
“Of course!” The Doctor’s eyes came alight with interest and curiosity. “I did not realize you were also a learned man, Mr. Burry. Yes, listening can be an effective method with patients who are outgoing by nature, though convincing the quiet and indrawn ones can always be a welcome challenge—but sometimes silence is just as informative, yes?” He readjusted his spectacles on his nose. “Your point is valid none the less. It is difficult to speak or to write without giving away a bit of ourselves for the world to digest. So, tell me; have you gleaned anything of particular interest?”
“Nothing about the reason I have been brought here. Although I’d hate to interrupt your little game of cat and mouse, so please, do continue.”
A great harrumph from the doctor announced his displeasure. “I believe you are a man who is direct and to the point. You are a man who is a prototypical type A personality. That is what I am looking for, a man who can get things done.”
“I’m afraid I don’t follow.” The jangle of chains was loud in the room as Kaylen lifted his hands helplessly for the doctor to observe. “As you can see, I am not in a position to help anyone, much less myself.”
“Indeed.” A twinkle had begun to form in the doctor’s eye, but it was quickly hidden when he pushed himself to his feet and turned to look out the window. “Do you believe that man is essentially good, or evil, Mr. Burry?”
The question surprised him. Doctor Greene had obviously just switched tracks. Kaylen leaned back in his chair and rested his hands on his knees. He shut his eyes to avoid looking at the bright sunlight while he thought. It was something he had not thought about for many years, but the answer surfaced quickly enough.
“That, is a trick question.”
“Was it?” Came the enigmatic reply.
This was precisely the reason why Kaylen disliked Psychologists.
“It was. Man is neither good nor evil. Man is a container, equally able to do good and to do evil. Man is only good if he is taught to be good, just as a man may do great evil if he is forced or twisted by suffering. There is no inherent goodness or evilness in man, so your question is incomplete. Do men choose to be evil or good as they will? Are not some drawn more to adhere the principles of good than evil by nature? Are we all blessed with the power to choose a path of good or evil, equal and separate from our own wills? Perhaps choice is not choice at all, rather it is dictated by a higher power—genetics, or divine path as one’s beliefs dictate—I don’t know. And to that—or those, I should say—I’m afraid I have no answer.”
The silence filtered through the room. A thoughtful period where the only sound was the ticking of the small clock set somewhere behind his seat. He found his throat rather dry and began wishing that he had a glass of water—or while he was wishing for things, perhaps a glass of Bordeaux, red—and a cigar. If wishes were pennies…
“And are you, Mr. Burry, a man full of evil?” the doctor asked in a most abrupt manner. He could hear the doctor as his clothes rustled nearby, presumably to settle where he now leaned on the desk.
“I’m not sure.” He replied honestly. “If you can tell me that you’ve heard an evil man confess that he truly believed himself evil, then you may find an honest note when I tell you that, indeed, I am not an evil man; I am simply a man gifted in the art of killing. I made a mistake—a mistake I now must pay for with my own life. A single moment of ill-judgement. It happens to everyone, you know—moments of poor judgement, I mean. The difference and consequence between those with great power, and those without is inequitable! When such a moment happens to someone unimportant or weak it is beneath notice, however, when a man full of power or prestige has such an episode, the results tend to be far more…memorable.”
“Executing thirty men with your bare hands is rather memorable,” said the doctor dryly.
Kaylen cracked an eye open. The Doctor had his arms crossed on his chest, a small frown marring his otherwise sympathetic expression. “Surely you did not move me across the country to discuss my moral dilemma?”
“No, of course not. You must forgive my small lapse. As a doctor, my thirst for knowledge is insatiable.” He stood and looked Kaylen up and down. “I brought you here because I have a proposition for you. One that will get you off death row permanently—not a pardon, not even I can pull that off, but you would stay here at this facility for the rest of your life. And if what I’ve heard is true of death row, this place might as well be the promised land.”
Kaylen shrugged. “I am a man who has resigned himself to and for death, doctor. You would be cruel to give me a glimpse of the blue sky only to rip it away after your little test concludes. Hope is a merciless mistress. Are you to be her whip? Then go, flay me and send me back to my personal hell. I’ve become rather attached to the five by five paces I can take back and forth across it.”
“I want you to teach.”
His own mirthless laughter filled the room. “Me? Teach? Doctor, you have the wrong man. I am no teacher. I am a killer.”
“A soldier kills,” the doctor pointed out. “A soldier that may one day retire and teach others. It does not make him less of a soldier.”
“A soldier kills because he must. I killed because I wanted. Society sees us differently.” He sighed then, and shook his head. “I am not willing to debate this with you.”
“You have made up your mind and I haven’t even quite explained what I wanted!” The doctor said with a frustrated rush. “I want you to teach some kids to respect violence, by teaching them your…what is it that the Japanese call it? Your ‘nindo’, way of the warrior, was it? Or is it ‘bushido’? Something of the like.”
His eyes rose slowly and studied the doctor whose face held no hints of deception, only a faint hint of an emotion Kaylen couldn’t place at that moment. Regret? Shame? Frustration? Perhaps a mix of all three. He gritted his teeth before he answered.
“You would have me teach a bunch of juvenile delinquents the art of killing? Have you gone mad?”
“I assure you, I am not joking around,” said the doctor, his face turning pensive a moment before his entire frame seemed to slump under an unbearable weight. “I don’t want you to teach them how to kill. I want you to teach them how to respect strength and force—and eventually life. That is the point of learning a martial art isn’t it? Not just the physical act, but the philosophy behind it.”
“Surely there are better teachers out there than me.” He scoffed. “Ones who perhaps haven’t betrayed their own principles? I would be a hypocrite to teach such ideals.”
“They will relate to a man like you. You are one of them. You have seen the bottom of the barrel.”
“Maybe I’ll kill them when you’re not looking. You can’t trust me.”
“You could,” the doctor admitted, “but you won’t.”
“Maybe I want to die.”
“An animal cannot override its own instincts for self-preservation. If you truly wanted to die, you wouldn’t have let them catch you all those years ago.”
Kaylen felt amusement course through him. He quirked his lips. “Doctor, are you calling me an animal?”
“Does that offend you?” The Doctor inquired. “Humans have yet to evolve past their own instincts completely. We have a natural sense of self-preservation. I include myself in such an accusation.”
Kaylen laughed. This man was quite amusing for a head-doctor. “So, it is in my best interests to accept such an offer, is it? In the interest of self-preservation, of course. And what do you get out of this doctor?”
“A chance to save lives that would otherwise be wasted.”
The reply was so leaden with sadness and grief that Kaylen looked up to study the doctor intensely. The doctor didn’t say anything for a long period, he seemed to just stare at the floor, a slightly edgy and reflective set of emotions playing on his face. Eventually he sighed and looked up.
“The boys here are violent, coarse, and rude. They are the armpit of society. They are shoved into my hands until they are eighteen and then released back into the world as if there was nothing the matter with them in the first place. I am barely given enough funds to function, let alone attempt to rehabilitate them or educate them—and I grow frustrated and weary with my inability to help them. More that seventy percent of the boys who spend time behind these walls end up returning to prison within a year, and another ten percent just end up in a gutter. If you can give them some self-respect and discipline, even if it’s just one ward who learns and understands who wouldn’t have otherwise, one child who changes his life, wouldn’t that make the effort all worthwhile?
“I believe you are a man who let himself be caught because his morals dictated that he should be punished for his crimes. But simply being punished is only half of what it takes for redemption, Mr. Burry. Perhaps you may find such redemption by teaching others to prevent them from falling as you have fallen. Teach them to live with honour. Will you do this for them?”
Teach children? Him? The idea might once have been offensive. But now? Hmm…it had a strange sort of appeal. Kaylen realized that his muscles were tense—perhaps with excitement? He had yet to find an inheritor for his style of martial arts. He had resigned himself long ago to letting his creation die along with him.
“If I agree to this, I will only do it with under certain conditions,” Kaylen said finally. The doctor motioned him on. “First off, I will only teach a small group. You will let me select all the members of the group without interference.” When the doctor nodded, Kaylen continued. “Second, you will not interfere with my teaching methods. If you give me a class, I’ll do whatever I see fit to them. I expect no outside interference—that means, if I start beating the stuffing out of some punk, no-one stops me.”
“I can agree to that so long as there are no deaths and no maiming occurs.”
“Nothing permanent. I’ll also require equipment.”
The doctor put on a strained grimace. “My budget is severely limited, Mr. Burry. I cannot make any promises, but if you make a list I will see what I can do. Is that all?”
Kaylen shrugged. “For now. I might think of something later.”
“Then, we have a deal?”
“I’ll let you know once I’ve seen the kids.” The warden’s nod was brisk, but he couldn’t hide the sparkle of excitement behind those eyes of his. “Now, what are the chances of getting a hot shower, a shave, and a hair-cut?”
“I rather thought the Neanderthal look suited you, Mr. Burry. Have you had a change of mind?”
“If you must know,” Kaylen growled, “They wouldn’t let me near anything sharp on death row. I was forced to eat all my meals with a plastic spoon.” A spork. Who in the hell invented such a stupid and useless utensil? It mocked him every time he picked one up.
The warden’s grin was entirely too humouring for his liking. “I’ll see what I can do. And after that, I’ll let you see your prospective new wards.”
Shelby
Posted by Dio, August 9 2007, 10:20 AM in Personal
------------------------------
|A drabble I wrote this morning|
------------------------------
Tribute to my friend Shelby 
----------------------------
When waking up after a night of inebriated excess, (that's 'getting shitfaced' for the rest of us urban plebs) one should ask oneself several very important questions in that first instance of consciousness that will dictate a course of action that may very well salvage an otherwise questionably questionable situation that may or may not have ended in complete and utter disaster with a capital 'D'. (Got all that?)
It just so happened that this very concept (or a vague 'in-not-so-many-words' interpretation thereof) passed through Shelby's head (along with several large eighteen-wheelers who happened to be using their engines to brake while sounding their horns in pointedly random, yet incredibly head-throbbing and obnoxious patterns geared with malicious intent) just as he became aware that: yes, he was still alive and: no, he had absolutely no recollection of the previous 'insert random number' hours of his short life.
The first question was always a doozy. Shelby, in his pain-induced haze, shifted slightly on the—yes, that is a bed, ooh soft—and discovered that—oh my, even got the sheets to cover me…and…barf free? Score.—and after a small bit of fumbling with his hands over his cord-thin hips he discovered the answer to the urgent question he set out to answer in the first place:
Kidneys all present and accounted for, Sir!
One down, two to go.
The second question was a bit harder, for it required complex thought. Recalling previous events was always tricky. It would have to wait until his brain decided to arrest the neurons who hijacked the jackhammers pounding against his skull and inform his inner ear's union (otherwise known as the barf regulator) that this strike was not conducive to bodily survival and general sanitation. He swallowed the bitter taste in his mouth and decided to skip forward to question number three; which, more conveniently, was slightly easier to answer without complex thought: Where am I?
Shelby opened his eyes from his position on his back and let his head slump to the side. A jumble of blurry colors assaulted his vision until he realized that he was so wrapped up in the sheets that it had covered his head. After freeing himself from the strangely slippery sheets (with minimum groaning on his part for the disturbing of his throbbing head), Shelby was forced to squint against the sudden onslaught of sunlight that poured into the currently not-in-focus room. Using complex techniques such as the 'blink rapidly to moisten eyes', and 'squint like old dude looking for his dentures', Shelby was able to gain a vague answer to the first part of the important third question.
This room…is not my apartment.
Indeed. The first clue was of course, the fact that he only had one window in his small studio apartment where this one had five—five ridiculous windows that stretched from the navy-blue carpet all the way to the way-too-high ceiling-built-for-giants. In fact, this was just a bedroom. An entire room dedicated to sleeping! With a bed the size of Rhode Island—And, are those curtains? Yup, you're not in Kansas anymore, Dorthy! Shelby had never owned a pair of curtains in his life (well they were blinds actually, but who was he to notice such things in his state?). The second clue as to his location was, of course, the furniture; the strange gleaming dark wood furniture that looked as if it had been mistakenly polished in place of someone's favorite mid-life crisis sports car. Two chairs, a desk, and a large chest of drawers with a strange lacy doily on top. And on the opposing wall hung, quite possibly, the largest plasma television Shelby had ever seen—it was obviously set up to be easily watched from the bed. The other notable and incredibly strange feature was the large seamless mirror that doubled as the bed's headboard and continued up the wall onto the ceiling over the bed. For a moment, Shelby's imagination got the better of him again as he wondered if he had watched himself in those mirrors, absolutely shit-faced, as he f**ked whomever owned this flat.
With a somewhat urgent glance, it was then that Shelby answered the latter part of the third question, which went something like this: "If this isn't my apartment, and I'm sleeping in someone else's bed…with whom did I just sleep?"
To this, with somewhat mixed feelings, Shelby discovered a second lump to his right, covered completely with sheets. And while Shelby was subduing his urge to groan and/or vomit all over the bed (and by association the sheets whose cost was probably the equivalent GDP of most African nations), he noted in the back on his mind (the teeny tiny itsy bitsy part that was currently able to function in a somewhat logical manner) that the previously identified 'lump', was much, much larger than that of his own 'lump'. This meant one of two things: He had, A) unwittingly slept with a whale; or 
slept with the captain of the female shot-put team. And while 'B' wasn't such a bad mental picture, 'A' produced an image so intrinsically disturbing that Shelby managed to forget for one second that his head felt like it was being abused by an overly excited five hundred pound wombat, in order that his few functioning neurons get together for an emergency support group session where it was decided (in that split second) that perhaps it was in his best interest to just not risk discovering the answer to that potentially 'whale' of a question and instead just quietly slip from the bed, gather his clothes (or a sheet, or…okay, at this point he was willing to just grab the strange doily off the chest of drawers, tie it to his loins Tarzan-style, and use an electric extension cord to shimmy out the nearest window) all in order to scrape together what little self-respect remained in the aftermath of his post-drinking expedition.
And while the plan was a sound one in theory, the manner in which he carried it out was somewhat lacking in finesse. He managed to disentangle himself from the sheets with little difficulty, but when it came to sliding over the end of the bed, Shelby made the untimely mistake of attempting to look around for any sign of his clothes. What he didn't expect was the sharp shooting pain that started from his backside and shot burning flares of burning up his spine all the way to his already overloaded head. His vision swam as the room seemed to stand on its head (his head?) before he tumbled unceremoniously off the bed onto a carpet that was not quite plush enough for any real cushioning. The loud, reflexive groan that came unbidden from deep in his chest did not help matters either.
In such discomfort Shelby was, that while he did register that something on the bed was making rather suspicious rustling noises as sheets slid against warm flesh, he couldn't muster up the energy to care. Besides, the doily was far too high to reach and this room didn't even have an extension cord! It was much easier to just not think and lie in a heap on the uncomfortably grating carpet.
It was only natural, then, that when a large black dog bounded off the bed to investigate his hopelessly Jello-like bed-companion, who lay on the floor doing his best puddle imitation, that the dog thrust his big wet nose into the crick of his neck, snuffle, lick several times, before letting out a high-pitch whine of distress and bark of innocent bafflement. A bark which promptly caused stars to flash before Shelby's vision—and just as the floor and ceiling had begun to right themselves, too!
"Stupid mutt!"
"Shelby, off!" Ordered a disembodied voice somewhere in the general facility of the door he had glanced earlier. "Get off him, boy! Damn it, how did you sneak in here? And—oh for heaven's sake. Look at your hair on these sheets. I told you…NOT ON THE BED!"
The cold wetness of the dog's tongue and nose became blessedly absent as the dog was pulled off him. Shelby propped himself up on the bed as he watched with the mute disinterest, one hand covering his eyes to filter light, of one who has a massive headache, as the stranger practically kicked the dog out the door and shut it swiftly. He then turned and regarded the now semi-gelatinous mass of the 'other' Shelby on his floor, and winced sympathetically.
"Don't move. I'll go grab you some meds and some water."
Like I was going to get up and start dancing—ooooh! Meds! GIMMEGIMME GIMME!!
Shelby gratefully accepted the proffered glass and unlabelled pills when the man returned from the bathroom (one blue, one red—colors that made Shelby think of Alice in Wonderland), and promptly broke the cardinal rule of accepting drugs from a perfect stranger when he downed both the pills and the entire contents of the glass in several desperate gulps—whew! Frankly, he couldn't be bothered even if he had shrunk to the size of a pea. Doing battle with evil dust mites could be just the change in scenery he needed. It would also stop the current sopping shame that coursed through his veins and engorged the sensitive capillaries in his face.
I have the same name…as his dog—how humiliating!
"How are you feeling?"
"Getting there…head still hurts. Room stopped spinning though." Shelby answered between pants for breath. As the ache in his head began to soothe, he risked opening one eye to peer through the cracks in his fingers at his would be hero and provider of magic pills. An older man, even crouched at his side he seemed to loom; short brown hair was trimmed neatly but tousled from sleep; along with sharp eyes of brown and grey met his inspection without a trace of recognition sparking inside Shelby's mind (although given most of his neurons were still on strike, that might occur sometime later). As far as he was concerned, he had never in this life seen this man before—not in this life. A weighty stone of dread nestled itself in his stomach as he quickly took in the man's solid frame—no paunch on this one—though he looked to be in his early thirties, if he judged correctly. While not outright intimidating, he certainly wasn't someone Shelby wanted to mess with. Like—if he had just f**ked this guy's daughter kind of 'messing' with.
"Where am I?" Shelby managed to croak, finally, after he handed the glass back.
"My apartment. You don't remember?" The man had the gall to look amused at this revelation. His eyes appeared to twinkle in the way-too-bright sunlight. "I'm not surprised with how much you drank last night. I had you pegged for not getting out of bed today at all. You look positively evil with eyes as red as yours." Shelby only grunted. "No matter. I didn't know where else to take you in your condition, so I just brought you home."
"Right. Now where's the nearest bus-stop. I need to check in with my boss."
"Do you speak Portuguese?"
"I'm sorry…what?"
"Well if you're planning on taking the bus, which I don't advise in your current situation, you'll need to speak Portugese."
Shelby blinked a couple times. "…huh?"
"Allow me to elaborate: to answer your first question, I'll say around 400 miles. That's if you don't get abducted by bandits first, or ripped to shreds by a baboon, or eaten by any of the other local fauna," said the man with a very thoughtful expression. Then he rose and held out a hand. "Breakfast?"
Shelby, wondering if he had imagined the entire conversation, grabbed his knees protectively. "Um. I'm naked. And I could have just sworn you informed me that I'm not in the United States of America any longer."
"I think I have a bathrobe here somewhere, gimme one sec." The man walked over to the bathroom again, this time reemerging with a black bathrobe that looked like it was made of velvet or somesuch, with fancy gold stitching on the pockets with the initials C.B.
Not particularly caring what it looked like, Shelby lurched to his feet, wincing as his rear-end again burst into spectacular pain and wrapped the robe tightly around his frame as best he could. The man, seeing what an ill-fit his large robe made on Shelby's sleek build, was chuckling to himself in a manner that made Shelby's head throb all the more.
"Thanks, I guess."
"Come on, the maid was already by and she made us breakfast," he said, slinging an arm around Shelby's shoulders and guiding him to the door. The big mutt was waiting for them on the other side wearing a most petulant expression, however, when it caught sight of Shelby he began barking happily and attempted to jump up onto his new friend. Shelby wasn't quite sure what the dog was trying to accomplish, but its owner shoved it aside with a laugh. "Shelby—off you big mutt! I swear, usually he's the most antisocial dog when it comes to anyone except me. Then you come along and he's all buddy-buddy. Dogs!"
"I have the same name as your dog." Shelby couldn't quite bring himself to get past that mental snag.
The man winced. "Yeah. Well, cheer up! I don't want you to cry about it like you did last night."
At the mention of those magical words: 'last night', Shelby's mind abruptly cleared itself of the fuzz that had been interfering with his thoughts. Now...how to broach such a sensitive subject. "Yeah…about last night…"
"What about last night?" The way he intoned those words offhand, made it almost baiting. Meanwhile, the man guided him through a lavish living room into the sparkling kitchen area where he was helped onto one of the counter stools. The stranger turned his back and began piling two plates full of eggs, bacon, sausages, and pancakes from containers lined up on the counter that looked suspiciously like the ones seen in hotel buffets. When the man plunked a plate down in front of him and took a seat directly to his right, Shelby mustered his courage.
"I mean…who-are-you-and-why-am-I-in-your-apartment!" He blurted.
The bigger man had a fork loaded with eggs nearly to his mouth when Shelby made this pronouncement, eliciting a pause before he burst into a fit of spontaneous laughter.
"You…you really…don't remember?" He managed between mouthfuls of air.
"What? What's so funny?"
When the man had calmed enough to speak again, he said: "What's the last thing you remember?"
"Um…I remember I attended a conference with my boss and his business partners in the afternoon. I don't think that went so well because I seem to remember a fair bit of yelling at me was involved—then I remember going into the hotel bar to let off some steam and…yeah…" Shelby scrunched his forehead as he tried to remember any events after—but it was all one gigantic blur of events that didn't quite make any sense.
The man looked concerned now; the corners of his lips were down-turned. "Hmm."
"Hmm?" repeated Shelby with a squeak.
"Sorry. I was just thinking."
"Thinking…?"
"Yeah. Hmm, this is a little awkward."
The tightness in Shelby's stomach was back. The man placed his fork on his plate and met Shelby's curious gaze.
"Last night we met at the bar and you broke down crying telling me how you had just gotten fired for absolutely no reason other than your boss was having a hissy-fit, and how you were already late on your rent payments, and how your 'best friend' had just run off with a twenty-thousand dollar loan he swore he was going to pay you back with interest-"
Shelby, who had been chewing idly on a corner of a pancake felt his face redden as the man continued.
"-and then you went on to tell me about your family and how they see you as one gigantic failure-"
"I…I think I can imagine the rest." Shelby interrupted faintly as he hid his face in his hands. "I'm so sorry. I mean…what you must have thought about me…"
"Yeah…so then I paid you a hundred thousand dollars so I could own you for a month." He added as an unimportant addendum to his story and returned to his food.
Shelby's mouth flopped open and he sputtered a "Wh…wh-what?"
"Did you know that you're extremely horny when under the influence of alcohol? You practically raped me last night. I don't think I've ever come into another man's ass so many times in one night." He sighed and reached down to rub the front of his pants. "Frankly, I'm surprised you can even walk today. I was sore just peeing this morning."
"I…you? I? You!?" Shelby waved his hands distractedly. "We?"
Despite uttering absolute rubbish, the man seemed to understand what he was trying to convey with limited mental powers and took pity on Shelby's pleading eyes.
"Oh yes. And from the amount you screamed, I take it you enjoyed it quite a bit. You kept saying something about how getting f**ked in the rain was very romantic. Although we nearly scared the life out of Maria when she came out onto the verandah wondering if we wanted any dinner." Shelby's jaw clicked shut as the man turned to smile kindly on him. "How are the pancakes?"
"Quite good actu—don't change the subject!"
"It's best maybe if you take things in slowly. I don't want you to hyperventilate or start crying again."
"I'm not gay."
"Of course not. You're just a man who likes to be f**ked up the ass. I'm completely with you on that one. It's actually quite refreshing to f**K someone who doesn't act like a complete fruitcake. Added to the fact that you admitted you're a self-proclaimed virgin when it comes to anal sex, and I had fun letting you ride me bareback."
"Bare-what?"
He looked thoughtful for a moment before he shook his head. "Maybe its best if you didn't get too hung up on that part. I shouldn't have mentioned that. Are you feeling alright?"
"I'm feeling a little nauseous. What did you expect!? I wake up after getting drunk to find out a complete stranger who—I don't even know your name yet! Has f**ked me up the ass so hard I could barely walk this morning without painkillers! What am I supposed to think? What am I supposed to do!"
"You could…finish breakfast?"
"Not hungry."
"We could…take a walk in the rainforest?"
"I told you, I'm sore down…I'm sorry. Rainforest?"
"Oh? Oh yes, that's right. While you were sleeping for a bit we flew down to Rio de Janeiro on my private jet. Customs were awful. You'd think they'd never seen an unconscious man being carried by another man before. Can you believe they thought I was kidnapping you?"
"I…I'm where!?"
"Brazil. In the middle of nowhere really. Just a small bit of land my family owns. We turned it into a super exclusive resort for high-rollers. The nearest city is 400 miles south of here. No-one speaks English though, you'd have to brush up on your Portuguese."
Shelby slipped off the stool and slammed open the door to the living room where he promptly tripped over the other Shelby, who had been lying sunning himself five steps from the door, and tumbled once again to the floor. Shelby stumbled to his feet and shoved the heavy glass sliding door that led out to the balcony open and hurried to the railing. What confronted him nearly made his heart stop. If he looked to the east, all he could see was a greenish-blue rolling ocean that glittered in the sunlight, whitecaps rolling up and breaking near the pearly-white sandy beaches of the bay. Turning his head north was a few other building in the same clearing as the ten story hotel-like building which he found himself atop, and then beyond that a sea of green. Trees, bigger than anything he'd ever seen in his whole entire life bathed sleepily beneath the hot afternoon sun. A small road that led from the compound was swallowed by the mottled green and brown depths as it wove its way inland.
"The name's Caleb, by the way. Caleb Blake. I insist you call me Caleb." The man had joined him and leaned with his back to the wondrous rolling waves so he could smile at Shelby.
"Caleb." Shelby repeated dumbly. "I've been f**ked by a man named Caleb and I'm in his hotel room somewhere in the depths of Brazil." But at least he still had his kidneys! Shelby felt his vision go slightly blurry as tears gathered in the corners of his eyes.
"Couldn't you say something like: 'I've been ravished by the most devilishly handsome Adonis who goes by the name of Caleb.' It sounds ever so much more romantic."
Forcefully, he blinked away the tears. Well, this wasn't so bad. At least, Shelby couldn't remember being f**ked. So that was just like not being f**ked in the first place! Yeah! It never happened. Happened? What happened? EXACTLY!
One deep breath and exhalation later, Shelby found his wits—with a little help from the painkillers Caleb had given him earlier, of course.
"I'm sorry. I'm still very confused. Why me? I'm not into guys. I mean, not that I have anything against guys loving guys, it's just—that's not me." Shelby explained slowly.
"That's fine."
"It's fine?"
"We've gone over this before. I gave you money, you became mine for a month."
"Umm…about that. Could I maybe…"
"No refunds. And by the way, that annoyed frown of yours makes me want to ravish you."
Shelby hastily tried to fake a neutral expression again with little success. "This is like kidnapping!"
"Frustrated anguish…yes, that's sexy too—something about that petulance of yours. Listen, it's a business deal, more like. Come on, inside with you. Your skin is pale as milk and you probably burn like a tomato." Caleb grabbed his arm and pulled him back inside, shutting the door behind him. Shelby tried to wrench his arm free, but Caleb's stronger grip remained as he was dragged into the bedroom again and shoved into the bathroom with an order to shower while Caleb 'made arrangements'. Shelby fumed as he washed. He had sold his body for a hundred thousand dollars for a month. An abrupt thought crossed his mind then. What if this Caleb bloke was lying? What if, for all intents and purposes, none of what Caleb claimed to have happened really happened. Maybe he had been kidnapped.
Shelby had worked himself into such a fury by the time he dried himself, he didn't even realize that he was putting on clothing someone had left for him that just happened to be in his perfect size—and he even managed to keep his furious thoughts fresh and angsty right up until he walked out of the bathroom to find Caleb sitting on the bed watching what, at first glance, was a porn video. The voice on the tape, however, was rather painfully recognizable.
"Where do you want me to put it Shelby?"
"Mmmm, put it in my ass! Oh God it's so big. f**K me! Harder! Harder!" The on-screen Shelby impersonator begged. The real Shelby instantly flushed red as he watched himself, apparently in Caleb's private jet, as he straddled the man in his seat. Caleb must have been taking the video because it was up close and personal frontal shot as he impaled himself on the man's sex with avid furor. The flushed, sweaty look of bliss on his face told a rather disturbing story.
With a loud click, the screen went blank. Caleb was smirking as he stood. "I've got over five hours of video like that. Feel free to borrow it anytime. It's quite a stimulating watch."
The words that Caleb wanted to speak caught in his throat. He growled instead. "You…took…video?"
"Well, I'd hate for you to run off with my money without me getting my fix of Shelby. You think I'm going to let you run off after having you as my little sex kitten for one night? I think not."
"I'm not like that! I wouldn't cheat you. I'll give you back your money and we can forget this whole thing ever happened."
"You really want to leave."
"Is that so strange!?" Shelby yelled.
"Very well, we shall leave tomorrow and you can refund all my money. Of course, I will be posting this video anonymously on several free amateur porn sites as soon as you do. But if you don't mind then…"
"You'll what!?" Shelby squeaked. "You can't do that! I'll sue."
"And what'll you pay your laywer with? Sex? You don't have any money. I had someone investigate you while you slept. You have a thousand dollars to your name. One phonecall from me and I can have your credit card revoked, I can have you evicted from your apartment, and I can make it so you never get a decent job again." He said in a quiet yet stern voice. "But I really don't want to if I don't have to."
"Well, that's something."
"I'm glad you've decided to stay."
"A rock is something too. Not terribly useful. I hear they make wonderful paper-weights."
"I wonder what your parents would think after seeing this video?" Caleb tapped his chin thoughtfully.
"…come to think of it; I've always wanted to visit Brazil. I've heard wonderful things about mangos and cannibals and such."
Caleb ruffled his hair playfully. "Good boy. Now, we have a lot to do today, so we had best get going. Now, normally I'd say something silly like, 'you had better look like you're enjoying yourself, or else!'—but as I said earlier—that angsty grit of your teeth and flare of your small nose is remarkably cute so I'll let you be creative."
"I don't even know you, and already I hate you."
"Hate fuels passion!" Caleb could say such ridiculous things with a straight face.
"Let me know when you figure out how to fuel a car with hate…then we'll talk."
"…would you like to talk about how I fuelled you up last night?"
Shelby forced a smile that showed far too much enamel to be considered friendly. "I'm smiling! I'm smiling, dammit!"
---
|TBC|
---
Oh yeah, Kat says hello to everyone, and she wrote this poem for you:
Fun fun in the sun,
on the moon,
in my room,
click click boom.
Yeahh...anyways. I'll try to write the conclusion tommorrow morning.
-db-
p.s. I'm not dead.
The story that got rewritten in a very strange way
Posted by Dio, June 7 2007, 01:46 PM in Personal
This is Dio. See Dio write. Write Dio write! See Dio write on sugar/caffeine high and no sleep. Go Dio go! ---------------------------------------------------------
If I had thought yesterday was bad, I was wrong. Yesterday was a dream, and I had woken up this morning to a nightmare.
Yes, how very cliché. That's exactly how I would start my autobiography, yes. Mmm. I smiled to myself, pleased that I had made some headway on the story of my life. A very difficult skill to learn, smiling only to oneself; so difficult and clever in fact, most people who happened to see the smile thought it was for them and that was clearly a ridiculous misconception. No-one was more important than myself. Duh.
It was all Daerid's fault. It was! I did feel slightly guilty blaming him, but it was his fault after all. I mean, Daerid, the poor fellow, was dead. But don't get the wrong idea that that small piece lessens the gravity of his actions any or the consequences thereof—that's what I kept telling myself. It's only right to blame him. I have just cause. And it annoys me to no end that the damn man had gone and offed himself! Yes, it's also true I had no-one else to blame but myself, but who the hell in their right mind blames themselves when they could blame someone dead who had lost the power to retort?
My first transformation, the result of a sick practical joke; thought it was funny at the time, Daerid did. Well, I certainly wasn't laughing. The depravity of the situation was gnawing at the very core of my being, which granted, was rather twisted to begin with, but this new tightness in my stomach was again, his fault, and the man was dead so I was denied even the simple pleasure of telling it to his face how much of my current situation I could lay on his bloody shoulders. I was outraged enough to scream, but that would draw attention, so I compromised by glaring at a small shrimp of a beggar who was nursing a tall banded mug filled with something frothy beside me until he started muttering darkly and got up to move to a different stool.
Satisfying. Now bark like a dog!
Oh dear. I was cackling again. No Shadzie, don't DO that. People might start to think you're crazy or something. Think happy thoughts. Think about squirrels; yeah, squirrels! Think about twisting their heads off. Oh, my; much better!
I mean, I could still lay all of my current problems on Daerid's shoulders even now, it was his head that had gone missing--nasty run-in with a sword last I heard—but the mental image of myself talking to a headless corpse just made my stomach twist into knots all that much more. I'm not bloody crazy, at least, not yet! In mental knots maybe, that might someday develop into a mortal case of pretzel thoughts—but not crazy!
Damn the man to hell! I kept thinking no matter how much I tried not thinking. That's the problem with trying not to think. No matter how much I willed myself not to ponder my situation and the bastard who had put me there, I couldn't but help thinking about what I was trying so hard not to think about—if you catch my drift. The human mind is truly complex. Perhaps that's why I had often sought refuge by plunging my head deep within the sopping refuge of a keg of mediocre beer.
The room I was in was dark, and suited my mood impeccably. It was just big enough so that I didn't quite feel cramped, and poorly enough lit with dripping candles and a sputtering fireplace so I could lose myself in the shadows.
Lose myself in shadows. Oh! Brilliant. Pardon me, I seem to be lost? Could you point me towards the light? What is this, some sort of 'holier than thou' imagery? Please! I was hiding.
Lost?
Me?
…
Pfff.
Hiding or not; if the room had been any brighter I was certain that the few patrons that littered the mostly vacant commons room would have thought me suffering under a veil of moody black—or shadows or some such equally dark and brooding garment that matched my thoughts. As it was I was sitting—well, slouching; Daerid was dead so I had no reason to sit straight anymore—at the bar, my back to the disorganised cram of wooden tables and chairs of which no two were alike—brown, black, rotting green, some chipped, others in pieces. A gambler wouldn't have dared bet his chances on most of the furniture in the messy Inn's commons, but there were fools aplenty who frequented a place like this. I had noticed a fair number on the way in, all men with hollow eyes, their heads hung stubbornly over piss-like beer and wine long soured, sitting in small groups dicing or playing cards. They perked their heads up as I whirled past, and most had all blinked rapidly in disbelief trying to clear addled brains, shaken pock-marked heads, and crammed their noses back into their drinks. But I could hear their whispers.
The red bitch is back.
Even the air was foul, one breath was enough to make me gag. It was fortunate that my stomach was one tight ball of nervous cramped muscle or else my own vomit may have joined the slimy, mildew sodden floor. At least, I was fairly sure that slimy yellowish goo was mold of some sort, I hadn't exactly gotten down on my hands and knees for a sniff and a lick. It was also fortunate my dress came with a small handy perfumed kerchief, I had scoffed at it earlier, determined to hate every costume that I was forced to wear, but the awful stench had me pressing the scented fabric to my nose until it was numb, and everything smelled of flowers and spices. I wouldn't be caught dead doing something girlish like that in my own body. Gods bless the red dress.
Thunk
Another roughly carved wooden mug sloshed half its frothy contents onto the rough wooden countertop when it was deposited in front of me by the bartender—a potbellied man with a dirty, sweat-stained white shirt and crumpled brown apron who looked as if he had not shaved for several days. Shaved, HA! From the smell he hadn't bathed since Duke Morrow's death last spring. And I was being generous! He scooped up the old mug with barely a glance before he was off to tend the other men growling for more swill. I had only paid for the first one I seemed to remember, and had no intention of getting a second, but he just had kept them coming, never demanding another copper. He was trying to get me drunk. Me? Drunk? The thought was ridic…no, now that I think about it I seem to recall some foggy event last summer. Ah, yes. That had been Daerid's fault too. That rat bastard! The more I thought about him, the more I realized how much I hated him!
Regardless, I had the bartender foiled like..um…like something that had been completely bamboozled into believing a fireant made for a good guard dog. Yes. Fireants as guard dogs. Excellent. I must add that to my plans to destroy the world. Although, where it would fit in was dubious, still, it sounded devilish and clever. I wondered if they could be trained. Ah, perchance I would dwell on them later.
The bartender's very eyes made me feel filthy—the way they flicked, in no particular order, from my face to my slender hands wrapped around the rough mug, to my chest—especially my chest. Ugh, I felt a shudder run down my back, after I caught him watching me as he pretended to rummage beneath the counter.
Hello!? I'm a guy. GEE YOO WHY. GUY. I couldn't tell him that, naturally. I just felt better knowing I was that much smarter than he was. You fat tub of human refuse!
I had to think for a moment to remember how many drinks had passed my stake on the chipped and battered counter-top; this was the eighth mug since I had stomped up and plopped myself down on the sturdiest looking stool that I could find. I glanced surreptitiously up and down the counter-top, but as yet none of the glum patrons had noticed the growing wet puddle of brew that had been steadily collecting under my stool as the night lengthened. Well, I say puddle, but it was more of a lake if I cared for semantics. I was helplessly trapped on my island of dryness. I would eventually be forced to send smoke signals for a rescue, but that could wait. One sip of the first beer had convinced me that nothing, nothing was worth getting drunk on that foul brew. So as soon as another arrived, between my legs it went. No-one was the wiser. Ha! I was being so clever my chest was aching with the desire to tell everyone how clever I was being, even though I couldn't. I'm sure you know the feeling.
I had more important matters at hand in any case. I was here on business. The most important of business around, I was convinced. In the form I was currently stuck in, just a couple of sips really would have floored me and I had to be sharp. Sharp like a real sharp knife. Oh, that was good too. I should remember that one. I was in no mood to mourn over thoughts of my upcoming autobiography though, I realized. I just needed to get my hands on some demon-stone, and everything would be normal again…well, as normal as things ever got around a body-snatcher like myself, I reflected glumly. Yes, glum. I was glum. I was stuck on a deserted island/stool in a lake/puddle of raw spirits. I was glum bordering on homicidal.
Ah, I wonder if one could hypothetically get inebriated off fumes. Oh dear. Why had that thought taken so long to come to me now that I was trapped, smelling the foulness? Fool of a brain! GHADS!
A conversation caught my ear from beside me. Two hooded and cloaked figures were hunched together, whispering so they didn't disturb the blanket of misery that hung damply over the room. Pretending I couldn't hear, I frowned to take a long draught from my now-empty mug, all the while straining my ears for anything of interest. Information was sometimes as good or better than coin in your pocket, I had learned. It paid to be informed. Sometimes others paid to be informed. Sometimes not. Still, I was not one to pass up business opportunities no matter how…unpleasant the surroundings.
"Bloody damned cursed weather." The first one was saying in a hoarse voice that was so deep I felt my stomach rumbling in resonance. He spoke slowly and thoroughly, as if weighing every word. "Never had a rainy season this bloody long before. Dark days mark me, dark days. I shan't be surprised when I wake up one day and find those Godless demons have stolen the sun."
Godless demons, an amusing thought; like trying to tell someone how water was wet. Maybe God was devil-less. Whooops. God, if you're listening, please don't hate me. It's hard to control all my thoughts okay? No smiting. Down boy. And while we're on the subject, how does one go about stealing the sun? I shan't even ask whether it will fit in my pocket. Ah well!
I had to mentally slap myself to pay attention to the conversation again.
His companion snorted softly and threw back his head to drain the contents of his mug and slammed it back on the splinter-ridden bar top. His laugh was gravely, and without mirth. "Bloody damn right. Heard the latest out of the Guard? Sticks, you remember him eh? That son-of-a-whore who uses the weighted dice? Bloody bastard took me for three silvers last night." He finished the last in an angry mutter before he continued louder, "Tol' me that the clans in the east 'er fightin' again, a right bloody mess he told me. Shouldn't su'prise me to find out a onea thems responsible for this ungodly weather. They say the city of Winter's Heart may be calling up conscripts sometime soon. Ill news for the provinces if that's true. Don't know an honest farmer whose as liken to lost a coupl'a sons for an Earl they pretend doesn't exist, for a war they shouldn't be fightin' in in tha first place. Dark days I say, dark bloody days."
Old news that, the part about the demon clans fighting. I didn't know what exactly I was expecting. Gran's Pike was in the middle of a long deserted chain of valleys, strategic only in the minds of its hundred odd residents. It did get a fair amount of travellers, and there were several Inns to choose from, but aside from the leaky roofs of the Inns, there were scant other buildings to be seen, the rest of the town was a gathering of shanties, straw and the like--horribly cold in the winter I was convinced. It was the smell that grated. Mining towns always did. The air was foul with smelting fumes, and the people stank like they bathed in it—if they bothered to bathe at all. Gran's Pike was not the sort of town I would choose to make my home. I made a mental note to torch it to the ground once I beat my soon to be incarnated evil invincible army into loyal submission.
But like I said, this was business--business with a particular man who was due into town one of these days. A horrible man! Well his name was horribly unpronounceable anyways, that made him horrible in my books. I had to struggle to remember it for a while. Ephganistarn? I think that's his name. Or maybe that was the country he came from…who could be sure! I could always just slur it together and blame the piss-swill I was being force-fed. The earlier this man came the better for me, I don't think I could stand any more of these greasy leers the more sober slobs in this dung-heap for one more day. It had to be today, I kept telling myself…and the beers kept coming in the meantime.
As darkness fell a shabbily dressed fellow in yellows and greens came out of the back with a wood flute of some sort. Soon the place was filled with off-key voices singing whatever they damn well pleased; not a one of them singing in time with anyone else. It was charming… almost… in a rustic 'I'm going to stab myself in the eye' sort of way. I had heard better from the worst Inn in Greyfryar, my hometown. The entire town of Gran's Pike wouldn't have even filled up one square block of Greyfryar. The brawls were no better. Anyone who got into a brawl was promptly roller-pinned over the head by the cook, who came out to deal with the rowdier ones. Tame compared to some of what I'd seen done in dark corners of the city. Oh dear, and speaking of the cook; just imagine the bartender, now make him taller, broader in the shoulders, a hundred pounds heavier with a great bushy beard and a half-chewed cigar stuck in the corner of his fat purplish lips, and you have a spitting image of the man, who ironically enough, also liked to spit a lot, especially on men with too much gaff and not nearly enough guff. After the first couple of fights, no-one was quite drunk enough to bring themselves to face the roller-pin wielding giant who doubled as the chef again. I'd be the first to admit that he scared me when he took off his little 'formerly white last lifetime' cook's hat and bowed to me, and wished that I'd 'have a wonderful evenin' '. I very nearly fell off my stool. I didn't though. I didn't want to drown in the lake. I had a vague feeling of someone once telling me not to drink and swim; not to mention swimming in the drink without the metaphorical context it suggested.
I had started to clench my hands as they lay on the splintered bar, but I made myself relax with a sigh. This was just like every other bloody night I had been here…well…minus all the groping. The cook, bless his soul, had put an end to that sort of business after the first incident. The hooligan should be thankful the cook had gotten there quickly, he was about to find a stiletto blade lodged between his ribs if he hadn't ceased and desisted post-haste. The goose egg on the back of the fool's head when he woke was a cheap price to pay by comparison to finding out one had a new breathing hole out his heart.
I'm a man.
Yup, I had to keep telling myself that every once in a great while. A man. Well, a boy really. But that sounded so much less intimidating! I'll be sixteen in the next fortnight or so. Now here's the rub, I'm stuck in the body of a woman.
I know. It sounds silly doesn't it? Ok, laugh it up. I'll wait here.
…
…
Ok, it's not that funny. And I'm the one drinking this pigswill, not you. Well, sipping…all right, I had ONE sip, don't rub it in. One sip is all it takes for goodness' sake.
Maybe it was...funny, I mean. I had started to cackle a little myself, which earned me some dark looks from the rest of the room. That shut me up. Laughter was a sound that definitely did not belong in a place like this. Especially not when it drew looks that set my blood boiling and a small voice in the back of my mind screaming, 'KILL THEM ALL BEFORE THEY KILL YOU!' How they even heard me over that grating warbling that was trying to hold a tune was absolutely beyond me. It sounded to me as if someone was trying to string a cat out over an open fire with an angry canary stuck in its maw. It was dark and angry sounding though, so I guess it belonged here more than me and my headdress.
Oops? Did you catch it that time? I did it again, I said 'headdress' but I meant 'my red dress'. I'm in denial you see. I'm pretending I'm a savage to keep my secret identity…um…secret from myself. I suppose it's impossible to hide anything from you though, sharp as you are. I had a part to play, I didn't think any of the other ill matching rags most of the occupants had on could beg the same excuse. Frankly, I thought the whole lot of the smelly bastards would look better buck naked. That's 'nake' like 'make' followed by 'Ed', the name. None of that pansy 'naakkkid' I hear all the time, leave that at the door please, I'll not have it in my mind!
With a start I planted my hands on the bar to steady myself. I mean, I had been talking to myself again. In fact, I had been talking to someone inside my head. Lunacy. That was never a good sign. I eyed my cup warily, which was full again. When had that happened? I wondered angrily. Damn it all, I thought I had been sipping an empty glass. I turned my ire (read: evil eye) on the bartender, who was right in choosing to ignore me. I still had work to do on that look all women seem to posses. Maybe I didn't quite have the airs or the age yet—I might as well have been waggling my eyebrows at him. He had become rather apt in his slyness over the past couple of days, after all the practice he'd been getting. Whenever I found a new mug appearing in front of me he would saunter over to an unoccupied portion of the bar and pull up his foul apron, and start polishing the bar top, as if there were some dire spill that needed tending--with his full and utmost attention. Gods, how thick did he think I was? Life and death stains? He was just spreading dirt anyhow, the moron. I'd rather kiss a leper. I was seriously considering leaving.
"You smell familiar." A voice suddenly interrupted my inner monologue. I nearly fell off the stool again, precariously balanced as I was, but I managed to keep some semblance of control over my body and covered the motion by smoothing the bright red material over my knees. Satisfied with my performance and salvaged dignity I turned my glare over to the stranger who had sat down beside me. Men were already turning to treat the newcomer with some wary stares. There was an unwritten rule that by silent consent, everyone had agreed to over the past couple of days, mainly: don't sit beside the red bitch. It was generally the best way to keep the peace. I had a really bad feeling this was going to end in absolute disaster. Who was I kidding, at that moment I would have enjoyed skinning him alive if only so his screams would smother that horrible background singing I was enduring. The canary apparently, objected to being cooked alive. How uppity of the little beast.
He was a strange looking fellow, covered in a baggy and well-worn green and black mottled cloak, the hood pulled so low over his face that I couldn't even make out his nose much less the rest of his face. Unless this guy was hiding stilts under that cloak of his, this wasn't the man I was looking for. He was much too tall. For all I cared he could crawl back under the rock he came from. Smell indeed. "I don't smell at all thank you very much. Now mind your own business." I snapped angrily. Now I really have heard every single pickup line on this side of the ocean, I thought to myself bitterly. Oh, what I wouldn't give to be back in my real body right about now and eating stawberries. Boy, I loved strawberries, almost as much as I loved squishing small bugs with my index finger. Run fool run! Oh! Oh! You almost made it that time!! Wanna try again? No? Oh, I see. You're dead. Pity. Now stop that sulky twitching and die properly.
Apparently, the cold shoulder hadn't quite been cold enough for this bloke. He was leaning closer, and he was making a very strange sound, as if he were sniffing the air. "No, I'm sure of it, you smell like one of us. But that's impossible." His voice was only at the level of a whisper, so I had to strain my ears to hear him. As soon as he spoke I felt my eyes narrow, my entire body tensed. This was not a human under the cloak.
I had met demons before. I had even killed them on occasion. But the bounty had never been quite worth the trouble one went through to kill a demon. Luckily the majority of them didn't take an active part in making the human race suffer more than it was already. We managed to torture ourselves on our own very well without anyone's help, thank you very much! They were more interested in killing off each other, and gaining territory. Humans were nothing more than animals to many of them.
"There are people here who might make your stay unpleasant if they found out what hides beneath that cloak, Janku." I hissed back angrily, using a rather insulting term that referred to his kind. Janku, from the old demon tongue, roughly translated meant 'unwanted' or 'forgotten'. Of all the people I had to run into, it just had to be one of the demonkind; A high-ranking demon indeed if he could take the form of a human, either that or a half-demon, an outcast with mixed parentage that neither race would bother claiming. From his hunched sort of haunted posture, I hastened to guess it was the latter: A half-demon. They could be just as powerful as any demon, more so in many cases, and all of them had a severe inferiority complex. Just my bloody luck.
"Be wary of your tone with me human. You reek of Demonstone" came the cool reply, he had tilted his head to one side as if fascinated with me.
Bingo. A full-blooded demon would never mention Demonstone, they were too stuck-up to recognize the stone's power. I had been right. Janku indeed. Half-demons were always after Demonstone, always wanting more power. Okay, I wanted more power. But I was responsible! I shuddered to think what this half-demon might do if he got his hands on Demonstone. It would be dangerous if he ever thought that I might have some. And that was precisely the reason I was here tonight, Demonstone. A stone one could only collect from the heart of a full-blooded demon. This Janku was trying to ruin all my carefully laid plans!! Rude, that's what this was. Not a thought for others. Downright selfish, one might say.
"This is my island, get off! You'll never cross my moat!!!" Mwahaha! Oh, no. I hadn't meant to say that out loud. I cleared my throat in the awkward silence. "Listen…uh…stranger, unless you want to find a knife between your ribs, I suggest you take your wild accusations and sail elsewhere. I'm not in the mood. Nor would these folk take kindly to find out what sits in their midst." I said sternly, but quietly as I could, the alarm I felt masked well by my voice. And with that I got up, hitched up my dress, and moved several seats down, ignoring the small sloshes and the soggy feeling of my now soaked shoes. He did not follow, but the small hollow between my bared shoulder-blades had started itching incessantly. Keep your eyes to yourself, ruddy half-demons.
The cook had stuck his head out of the smoky kitchen, probably wondering what all the grumbling was about. He gave the hooded man a hard stare and chomped in a threatening fashion on the butt of his mangled cigar before turning to me and raising his thick bushy eyebrows questioningly. I shook my head airily and returned my focus to my drink, which had once again, mystically refilled itself. Now that I think about it, I hadn't even brought my drink with me. Yet here it was. I turned to frown at the Barkeeper, but he was off polishing the counter again, the dumb bloke. I revised my opinion of him. He wasn't getting good; he was already brilliant. A stupid talent that. Sneaky bastard. He was planning something. That stupid little dwarf better be here soon, or else another body was going to find itself alarmingly short of blood.
Well, might as well start building another island. With the cheery thought of fortifying my new castle, between my legs it went.
How long I waited I couldn't be certain. It was dark out, and my neck was getting cramps from turning every time I felt a draft on my shoulders, checking out any newcomers. By this time, I was also wearing out my welcome. I think the bartender had finally caught onto my little game. I must have gone through eighteen mugs, and he was eyeing me out of the corner of his yellowish eyes, a bitter grin on his lips. It was almost enough for me to get the urge to jump over the counter and ram one of the throwing needles I had in my hair into his eyes and scramble his brains…if he had any. The bar was almost deserted now. My ocean of spirits travelled quite a ways. I felt the glimmer of pride in my creation. I named him the River of Poopy—after his invigorating smell.
Enough was enough, I decided. My contact wasn't coming tonight. Not only could I not say his name, but he was untrustworthy on top of it. Just golden. I was definitely going to have to kill him next I saw him. It was now a matter of principle. I was a man of principles after all—if not a man at the present, I was in bloody spirit.
I sighed, and just as I was about to stand, I could hear the distinct squeak of the hinges of the knotted door that led outside behind my back. Owing to the fact that I had accidentally indulged in a few sips throughout the parade of spirits, not to mention all the inhaling, it didn't take that much acting to pretend to fall back down into my chair with a squeak of surprise as soon as I made out that distinctive high-pitched whining I had been straining to hear all night.
"…I ask you to keep the mud off my boots and look, LOOK AT THEM ERNIE! See those marks, the ones NOT black, those would be spatters of mud. Your fault! And this hole in my cloak, it wasn't a mouse or a moth now was it? I BET YOU KNOW WHERE I'M GOING WITH THIS!!" The high-pitched voice continued, it sounded to my ears as if the man in question were speaking with a mash of tealeaves stuck up his nose. It was the singularly most annoying voice I had possibly ever had the displeasure of hearing again. "Now finish what you're doing and wait in the stable. I'll be back to watch you lick them clean, EVEN IF I HAVE TO STEP IN HORSE SHIT TO TEACH YOU A BLOODY LESSON."
I could hear the man stomp, heck, I could feel the floor shake as he cleaned his boots off at the door. I turned with the rest of the room to stare at the noisy intruder. The door squeaked shut behind him. The music had stopped, I realized. Everything had. Even the noise from the kitchen had ceased as the cook and his two scullion-boys had popped their heads out the doorway to spy the strange intruder.
He was just as ugly as I remember the last time I had seen him. If the circumstances had been any different, the commons might have burst into laughter. The stranger, whose name I refused to even contemplate for fear of getting another headache, was short, fat and exceedingly ugly. Whatever mother had cursed his short stature had doubly blessed his horizontal presence. I got embarrassed just watching him. If he was a pup, I'd have drowned him for fear he'd cursed the rest of the litter. But from the way he was glaring at every-single man in the room down his short, pug-like nose, you couldn't tell he was only four feet high. He was dressed in a veritable melange of bits and pieces he looked to have scrounged from a carnival. Reds, oranges, lights blues and greens adorned his pudginess, my eyes had started to water just looking at him. Thick luxurious looking leather boots covered most of his twisted legs, and they were filthy and dripping wet from the rain. A nasty taste was crawling its way back up my throat, I grabbed the mug behind me and took a long, and most unladylike draught from it before slamming it back on the counter-top. He reminded me of a pig with its snout missing. His broad, gnarled features looked obscene with such a small nose.
The sound drew his haughty eyes to my own. The recognition wasn't mutual. I was a complete stranger as far as he was concerned. But I was the only woman in the place, and that was important. All the dwarf comprehended was that he was supposed to meet a girl at this Inn, and I had remained unchallenged on that particular claim all night.
He must have noted my look of seething disgust, because he sneered over at me and spread his arms wide, setting his feet shoulder-width apart and with the sleaziest voice he could muster said, "Like what you see bitch?" His unsteady waddle took him through the middle of the commons towards me. Suppressing the urge to hurl all over the little man, I forced a smile onto my lips.
He beat me to the punch though, "So, you're the bitch I'm supposed to meet eh?" he said, not even bothering to lower his voice. I wanted to stab the little pig right then and there. But business came first. The stabbing…well…that might come later. I had to have something to look forward too.
I glanced around the room quickly, but it seemed the show was over, the music had started again, and all manner of men had turned back to nurse their drinks, if grudgingly. And if I thought their scowls were a little deeper and some of them had the makings of suppressed grins, I just put it down to my wild paranoid imagination.
"Not here," I hissed back angrily standing and smoothing the red folds over my taught belly. "Follow me, I have a room." I had to wade to dry land before I could lead him up the stairs. But not before I bid a bittersweet farewell to my river of poopy.
He was laughing for some reason I couldn't fathom, but whatever it was, his laughter certainly quickened my steps. I hated to think what the rest of the Inn thought he might be doing with a woman in one of the upstairs rooms, in fact, I was trying very hard not too, but my cheeks burned anyways. That was just…SICK. I'd sooner f**K a real pig.
As I tromped unhappily up the stairs under the eyes of most of the people who flooded the room, I had a sudden thought to look for the stranger at the bar, the half-demon who'd been harassing me earlier, but his seat was empty. Strange, I didn't see him get up. I could only guess he had lost interest or had drowned in the lake, thankfully. Dead bodies were such a hassle to dispose of, maybe not as much here as it might be in a bigger city like Winter's Heart, but even this place had a code of ethics of sorts. I'm not sure the owner would appreciate my fine artistry, the local guard even less.