Category Archives: pecuiar

Cities within Cities.

Docked and feet back on familiar ground I was approached by two stout fellows wearing peculiar badges on the left breast pockets of their police uniforms.
‘Lord Game…’ said the taller of the two, both bowing their heads fractionally.

I was immediately taken back. These officers certainly knew who I was, it seemed.

‘Your presence is required by the Crown. If you would please accompany us to the City-

‘Hang on a minute there…mister officer. I’ve been away for almost two years, now I ain’t going nowhere till I’m good and ready, especially not for any fucking King of England!’ 

The men frowned, then shared a look. It seemed that I had missunderstood something here.

‘Forgive me Lord Game, it is not King George who summons you.’

The marines milled passed us and wooped into the arms of their loving families. Most of them avoided looking in our direction. I avoided giving a fuck. 

The oddly dressed police men waited, glances swapping back and forth. I wouldn’t say they were nervous, but, I don’t know, something wasn’t right about this picture. 

I zeroed in on the one who hadn’t said a word yet. ‘Talk then!’ I startled him. ‘Who has the fucking audacity to summon me, right fucking now, the precise moment I land-

‘The Crown!’ he blurted, cheeks flushing red. 

Some of the marines began ushering their families away from our little gathering as quickly as they could. I didn’t blame them.

‘Begging your pardon Lord Game,’ recovered the officer, stumbling over his apologetic mumbling. He stepped forward, fancy paper outstretched.

I noticed the coat of arms, “The City Of London”, in the top left corner. One word across the middle: Kratzenstien

I frowned at that word. Maybe I would finally find out who plucked me from the abyss of eternal unrest? I wasn’t holding my breath, not that that would kill me if I did, but something stirred. I felt hopeful.

Belatedly I felt ashamed that I hadn’t even spared a single thought for the tongeless surgeon who stitched me back together. I wondered what he was doing now. Then I thought of Claric…I turned away from the memory of my old friend. 

I conceded with a nod. The officers deflated in unison. I mused that now they looked even shorter. Dwarf secret policemen. Ha!

I gave the letter back to the gloved hand of the taller officer. 

‘The carriage awaits, Lord-

‘Look, it’s just Henry or Game, if you must, I ain’t putting up with all that Lord and Sir shit, all right?’ I think they smiled as I barged past them and into the waiting carriage, also festooned with the coat of arms of the City of London.

I don’t know what they found so funny.

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Course Correction


Image courtesy fo giphy.com

So there we were, wounded, tails tucked, racing across the atlantic to meet Napoleon head on; minus a General; minus all morale. 
The Americans had rallied at North Point, a little late if you ask me, but still, they weren’t chuffed that we’d burnt down their headquarters…we thought the fighting was over. 

Poor ol’ Bobby Ross had his balls blasted off. That left the troops dismayed. Lack of active reconnaissance had left us a little flat-footed. 

The lads were “sir”-ing Claric. It seemed in my absence he had been elevated from the humble rank of court jester. 

Admiral Claric, they confirmed, ordered us straight through the night and on to Fort M’ Henry, the last and most formidable gateway. A statement true in more ways than one. 

There it seemed the true American resistance awaited. They claimed the battle. The empire was sent scurrying. 

Claric, it seemed, had fallen. I refuse to believe he was slain. I almost refused to board the last Ship before it left the mortar pocked harbour. Almost, but truth is I didn’t have much choice. We were chased off by bullet and mortar fire. 

The topic of immortality never actually came up between us, me and Claric, believe it or not, but I knew that he was at least 300 years to the good. Somehow I suspected he was much, much older. Perversely, I found myself wondering where his hip flask lay. Wondering if it too had fallen to the icy depths of the harbour..perhaps some poor soul would find it one day and drink in the sweet cursed beor. Maybe that someone would be me. I would be so lucky.

The HMS Endymion quickly mutinied into a festering barge of egos. We had practically evolved into pirates! The crew needed a leader, a new general, a king – no, not a king, a President! God knows I hate the crown. Yes, the word President had a good ring to it. After all, they brought me back for one job, did they not? One order of business: to kill. And if anybody was going to be president of the killing business it would be me surely? Henry fucking Game.

I emerged from the thin shadow of my cabin, the wet cutting across the steel of my purpose. 

The chief bully was a marine known as Spike. He had taken the captain’s quarters for his war-room. He had guards by his door. Smart man. They eyed me as I wandered close. 

I nodded to them as I paused to peer out across the waters; not another vessel in sight…Our original orders, as given by Rear Admiral Claric, or whatever they called him, were to return to London, gather fresh supplies and then topple the nuisance of Napoleon. The crew had voiced other ideas shortly after Claric didn’t arrive on board…

I was happy to hold my tongue, keep to the shadows, but nothing stirs a mans stomach like the harsh Atlantic. I was owed a debt, a payment of French blood. 

The ‘Americans’ were not my enemy. I realised this as soon as I set eyes on one. They were no Iroquios, shit, they were basically us! Fucking colonised English, Irish and Europeans! 

That war was a war of merchant captilasm. 

Meanwhile I seeked revenge against those that had stolen the centuries from me. Gold was a soft and relatively useless artifact when weighed against the ledger of vengance.

The only way I could see the slate wiped clean was through this Bonaparte fellow, this little Beehive fucker who’d run amok in Francais, bleeding beneath my cold hard steel. The old way. You know I like to see a man’s light snuffed with my own eyes. Bullets are too efficient, too detached. Bullets are for cowards.

I straightened up from the rail and grebbed deep over the side. Cracking my neck both ways I turned to the marines and smiled. 

Fingers twitched toward holstered weapons. A moment was all the chance they would get. 

All I needed to do was line up the biggest of them, Spike the marine. The others would fall like dominos, they always do. 


1814

  
It was a clear dark night, not a star in sight. 

At the time I remember thinking how odd it was. In hindsight however, I now know it was the Gods at work, disgusted, turning their backs on what we were about to do. What is the antonym for annuit coeptis? 

 Knowing what I know now, I can’t help but think that I should have taken advantage of that moment…as for the night, well, for perhaps the first time since the dawn of mankind, the Earth, our planet was unmonitored. Shame really…

The boarder traipsed miles behind us, along with a steady trail of dead american scouts. Breadcrumbs. We crept through the outter reaches of Washington DC, the dark on our side. The dark-side indeed. A crecent moon provided the only glow in the tarred canvas above, but fuck did that moon glow. Another sign, we assumed… 

General Ross’s men had approached from the east, we took the northern most direct route whilst the rest of the navy oozed in from the west. Resistance was pathetically futile and thin. These fat americans thought themselves too far away to be touched by evil, but they forget…I was there when the Iroquois settled with the French. Evil was born here. Fuck, it had practically mass reproduced and infected the whole sodding country. Now evil had evolved and  flourished into something spectacular…astonishing.

My ankle still plagued me and it was cold. Bad combination. The men, “Royal Marines” Ross had said they were called, were a fucking tough bunch. Not a peep. Every man one of them would have had an oar aboard my vessel if I still had it. 

Claric had dispersed toward New York,an indigenous Irish contingency down there apparently, perhaps one of the Merks had moved that way after Newfoundland? 

It was the year 1814 and Henry Game was about to have him a fire. Then try to put it out by pissing on the flames…

The last bit was a joke…not funny? Well, trust me when I say that you had to be there.

 


The Warm-up.

‘Is this really necessary? It’s not like anyone gives a sh-‘

    He let the hatch drop with a crack, leaving me be in the rickety bowels of the ship. Or at least I believed myself alone.

   ‘Ye should’n take it to heart, mi lord. Huih.’

   I recognised the slur. ‘You too eh? Though as far as you’re concerned: I can’t say I blame ’em. Pig fuckers. But to stow me away, me! I’m the tip of the fuckin’ spear!’

   He laughed, congestedly, before chugging on something wet. ‘Aye, sometimes, mi ol’ bean, it seems like us mythics are nothin’ but slurried story. Yet here we are: the pissant’s phantoms, shitting and sleeping besides the rest of ’em…huih!’

   I didn’t speak for several minutes, thinking while the vessel lurched to one side. Something heavy bounced across the planks, sliding hard against my arse cheek. Claric’s hip flask. A great thirst seized me. Suddenly all I desired was to taste the contents of the flask that never ran dry…well, if anything, I really wanted to see if it actually held an alcoholic substance within. I never trusted that he was drunk all the time. It seemed like an act; and a damned convenient one played all too often. Nobody expects too much of a drunk.

   Claric’s fumbling in the dark stopped.The silence pressed against the dark.

   I located the stopper and eased it free. The smell that hit me took my mind reeling back to my days at the Monastery…sweet beor. I raised the flask to my mouth then hesitated. Claric’s nectar breath kissed hot on my cheek.

   ‘I wouldn’, not unless ye wanna end up a Claricuan. It’s a damned thirsty honour let me tell yer.’

   I lowered the flask, my arm feeling almost weightless as Claric took the flask from me.

   Noisily he chugged down the sweet smelling liquid.

   I realised that I had been holding my breath as I heard Claric’s muffled crawl back across the cargo deck. The ship steadied as the sails were lowered. Through the walkway above, orders were given to man the oars. 

   I sensed that the air tasted familiar, fresher even? I looked at Claric – who stared into the depth of his flask like a dying man searches for the meaning of life – and smiled; contradictory to my emotions; I wondered if we were all slaves to our past?

   The hatch lifted, showering us in a heavy vapour. If Claric felt it he showed no sign of it. I, on the other hand, cursed and threatened vehemiently, you know, the way I do. 

   ‘You’re best staying down there,’till we at least get past the last check-point anyway. All it’d take is one body count. No, Game, just fucking shut your mouth and wait.’

   And just like that the hatch slammed back shut.

   The soft hissing of Claric’s laughter haunted us into the land of Canada. Well, laughing or crying, I couldn’t quite tell. Soon enough my feet would be back on frozen ground and ready to march south to fuck the Americans in the ass, good ‘n proper.


Cataclysmic Comet

  
It branded itself upon the moonless night, eclipsing each star in it’s wake. It was a sight to behold. A sight to prove an existence beyond our skies and domed prison. A sight that is lost in the modern technological age.

I closed my eyes and breathed in the humid air, turning my back on the ripples of Windermere. The meeting had been set here, by the waystone on the east shore, and so I patiently waited. My left foot clicked when I rolled the front of my toes in a circular motion…something wasn’t right about it. But, I was whole again and breathing in the stagnation from the scummy shore. Unlike good ol’ Humpty, who, by the way, isn’t a fucking egg. Who the fuck decided Humpty Dumpty was an egg? And, more to the point why would you try to put a shattered egg back together? 

It felt good being back, allowing my mind to wonder, attaching itself to the back of the burning inferno trailing across the black sky and hurtling through the distorted reflections of the lake.

The comet heralded a change in times. In a way It seemed to be ushering in the dawn of the industrial revolution as we fell into it’s vice-like-grip. The age of the machine. The cogs of capitalism. The religion of despicabilities. Sacrificial offerings of true freedom. It heralded a change in me too, at least in my perceptions. The French had taught me the most valuable lesson. It’s true, they did, they taught me that I wasn’t unstoppable. Bastards.

A crunching on the pebbled beach behind me drew my eyes from the brilliance in the sky. Two shadows approached, one of them, through its egg-like shape I recognised as Claric, while the other, somewhat narrower shadow, beside him I did not. 

Claric and the stranger stopped short, lingering around ten feet away from me, whispering and mumbling to one another.

After several minutes I grew impatient. ‘Ahem!’ I began, tactfully, ‘do I have bad breath or something?’

Claric laughed and playfully slapped the back of the other man, he did not laugh. 

Together they approached, now I could see their faces beneath their trenched jackets. I continued to wait.

‘Take it in Ross, it’s not all that often you catch the Game wrong footed,’ slurred Claric to the other gentleman.

I rolled my foot around again, testily, it clicked. ‘What am I doing here Claric?’

This time it was the small man who laughed, ‘he’s a bit cock sure o’himself, ey, Claricuan?’

Another Irishman, I noticed. I was outnumbered. Too many Irishmen made me uncomfortable, especially when in England. ‘Claric, who the fuck is this little bastard?’ The heat beginning to rise in my face.

The “little bastard” stepped forward, his face about as serious as anyones I have ever see. ‘I am General Robert Ross, Mr Game, and as o’ tree days ago, the Empire  has enemies on both side o’ the Atlantic.’

‘General?’ I frowned, mainly directing my question at Claric who was quietly sipping at a hip flask. If he heard me he chose to ignore it.

General Ross bristled as he advanced another step.’Listen to me Game, you’ve been brought back t’ help us win these wars.’

I took note of the plural. However, I was still totally at a loss, almost two hundred and fifty years had passed since I was last knocking around. Back then Britain had virtually ruled supreme. I wondered who these multiple enemies could be, maybe the Spanish, obviously the French, but I couldn’t think who else? “Both sides o’ the Atlantic” he had said. 

Maybe my face gave me away as he laughed a flat and empty laugh. ‘Ah, but you know nothing do you?’

I didn’t appreciate his tone, if I’m honest, but he was correct so I kept my mouth shut. See! I told you I was a changed man!

‘It hasn’t been ‘officially’ announced yet, but, The United States o’ America have attacked two o’ our trading vessels, made plans t’ occupy Canada and have had the decision t’ declare war on us, on us! If you can believe it? Passed through Congress earlier this week.’

‘United States?’ I let slip, accidentally.

‘Two-hundred and fifty years is a long time. Entire countries can be born, yet still the Game can’t die? Huih!!’ Charmed in Claric between sips.

‘So who’s the other enemy then?’ I asked the General.

He looked back at me like he had just seen me eating shit. ‘Napoleon, of course!’ he snapped.

‘Two-hundred and, o’forget it.’ I began turning away from the General, ‘who and what the fuck is Napoleon?’

Claric’s face lit up as he gazed at the comet. ‘French. It could not be more perfect for you. Huih!!’

‘So let me get this right, my enemies are French and American, really?’

‘Call it a birthday present,’ teased Claric, his attentions turning back up to the great comet. 

I smiled, breathing in the chilled night. The comet really was a beautiful sight. 


Trojan Destiny

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Image courtesy of: http://kellyoshi.deviantart.com/art/Spear-of-Destiny-368344846

‘Ifrit, please, for crying out loud, in English! I’m tired of constantly having to contextualise your sentences’. I growled whilst continuing to examine the blade. This Ifrit sure was a chatter-box!
‘Is this what you wished for?’ Repeated the Ifrit, still currently wearing a skin.
‘It seems to be,’ I pondered, distracted in deep thought. ‘But I suppose there’s only one way to really authen…’ I trailed, pulling my glove off and tentatively placing my naked finger to the tip of it. My skin burned and spat, like hot metal when you piss on it. I smiled, this was the real thing, my finger burned like fuck – but still, I smiled, I had finally found it, kind of. And I knew that the Tyrant wanted it, more than wanted it, he fucking massacred entire villages searching for it…a plan was beginning to formulate.
‘It will destroy the blood of El, like us. Why would you choose to keep it close?’
The Ifrit was nervous, she backed away from me as I put my glove back on and dropped the blade into a white bone container – another wish granted. I loved cheating.
‘I keep it because my enemy wants it. I keep it because then there is one less thing out there that can kill me. I keep it because I mean to use it’.
‘The spear of Destiny should be destroyed, not kept as an object of fancy’. Objected the Ifrit, venomously. She was afraid, she had every right to be. This could kill her, would kill her, does kill her.
Smoke had begun to wisp off of her, her skin, it was fucking burning out. She would have to kill again, or, she would have to remain hidden. And hiding was not apart of my plan.
The Ifrit paced back and forth, snake like, naked feet slapping on the tiled floor.
‘You go and find a new skin. Come back by dawn.’ I muttered, and with a pop she was gone.
That just left me alone with the power of Destiny in my lap.
I sucked the raw wound on the tip of my finger and plotted my next move. With a pop the Ifrit had returned. It had only been two minutes. I smiled in approval as I looked over the new skin. The little boy, seven maybe eight years of age, smiled back. This would work perfectly. The Ifrit slunk away, all crab-like, into the darkest corner of the room. He was still watching me, smiling at me. I turned away. Why did I have to get lumbered with the fucking clingy djinn?
I continued to suckle, knowing that if I turned over, the freak would be watching me. The spear of Destiny never left my side that night.


Trojan Gift

Delirious, largely attributed to the copious amounts of salt ingested, and positively crispy, everywhere, I spied shelter from the whipping sand and ruthless sun, needless to say I invaded it. I’d like to say I conquered it at full gallop, striding in, chest puffed out in defiance all righteous and just – but the truth is a little less…epic. In reality I whimpered through the askew mouth, suspiciously accessible, on the lowest outcrop of viscous desert crag.
From this position I could see everything…miles and miles of endless sand, maybe something else, I couldn’t be certain- no, just more sand.
I had no idea how far I had travelled, or, from which direction. I could have been running in circles, probably was, she could have already passed me by now.
If Gift three was still out there – still alive, still hunting me – then she’s madder than a chicken in Kiev.
At the time I just assumed she had given up, or died, either one was more preferable than the truth. The truth, huh! What the fuck does that even mean?
The skin pulled across my back painfully, perfectly insinc with the shrinkage of my scrotum. (Did you forget I was naked?)
The cave was growing colder the further I explored it. Fortunately, large splits in the roof of the tunnel allowed shafts of light to cut across the darkness, ripping through the fabric of timeless rest, making it possible to see reasonably well. If I hadn’t been so wearisome, so naked, maybe I would have been alarmed by the fact no animals, or even the evidence of animals, dwelled within this serendipitous respite, as it were though, I continued, ignorant, into the cold depths.
Beams like sheets of golden shine sliced through, intermittently, perhaps even more frequent but still the tunnel grew darker and colder.
A squelching sound penetrated through the stillness deep within the shadow. I stopped, reacting mainly to the hairs on my arms and neck hackling. Suddenly the shadow shifted and a pale foot appeared on the dust coated rock. That was when I realised that the shadow wasn’t a shadow. My heart thumped painfully as I scrambled backwards, upwards, in the direction I had just come, never daring to take my eyes from the huge blackness that was unfurling before me.
It appeared to have been crouching over something, a body, a women. She wasn’t wearing much and a bloodied blade lay helpless besides her.
Smoke filled my mouth. It was fuming, like fire, and it had unfolded to its potential. I expected it to come at me but it didn’t. Instead something else happened, it spoke to me in a language forgotten by men, in letters that do not exist today.
In the interest of clarity I will translate, as literally as possible.
It said, ‘spawn of Shaitan. Given you come to punish, or live on me reward?’
I struggled to fully understand what had just happened. He used the name of my father, the true name, which cannot ever truly be translated, as with all things of that nature. I noticed now that it was afraid of me. I smiled, relaxing a little.
‘I need clothes.’ It was the first thing that came to mind, more of a thought really but before I could say another word the black monster had ripped open the space between us.
My breath caught in my throat as the air sucked through the tear like a vacuum. Then, suddenly as it happened, it stopped, and before me was a neatly folded pile of clothes. Exactly as I had imagined in fact. I picked up the white shirt and tried it on for size, the fit was perfect, of course it was! What else do you expect from a Genie, or at least that was what I figured.
The black monster’s ripped wings wrapped around itself for a moment before shaking, violently, then dissipating in wisps of smoke, revealing a perfectly healthy looking, Gift three.
She cocked her head to one side.
I laughed, maybe the drugs hadn’t worn off after all!
‘You need clothes too.’

To be continued…