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Twins in Death: Chapter Six – Part Three

Twins in Death

A Tale of The Weirdo

By Brett N. Lashuay

 

 

Chapter Six: To Plan a Meeting

 

 

June 5th, 1655

11:09 a.m.

 

            Captain Roberts sat outside his home in Arabella and looked at the bottle of brandy. He hadn’t had a drink in what felt like a thousand years, though it was actually twenty. It wasn’t that he wanted to drink the brandy exactly. It was calling to him because it wanted him to drink it. He drank when he was bored, or despondent, and he was both now. He looked at the bottle and turned away from it, not wanting to drink. He would not drink today. He knew that. He kept the bottle around for this reason, to make sure he wouldn’t drink it.

 

            “Captain Roberts!” A man called from down the street.

 

            “Who is that?” Roberts asked.

 

            “I’ve come looking for you.” He was about the same size as the captain. “You are Captain Roberts?”

 

            “I’ve retired.” Roberts said.

 

            “You’re Spanish?”

 

            “So what?” Roberts asked standing.

 

            “I just hadn’t expected… it’s not important.”

 

            Roberts looked at the odd man, dressed in clothes he didn’t recognize. He wore and odd long coat of some gray material he didn’t recognize and of a cut he found bizarre. The man also wore a strange gray hat. Roberts looked around and then up at the man.

 

            “Who are you?” He asked.

 

            “I understand you’re quite good with a sword.” He said. “In fact, you’re the best man with a rapier that ever was. That’s not conjecture, that’s clearly a fact, otherwise I wouldn’t be here.”

 

            “What?”

 

            “I need to learn sword fighting.” He said. “I need you to teach me.”

 

            “Why should I teach you anything?” Roberts asked.

 

            “Because I need to learn what you know.” He said. “I’ve been allocated six months to learn from you.”

 

            “You couldn’t learn to fight like me in anything like six months.” Roberts said. “Besides I am not what I once was.”

 

            “It’s only your reflexes have slowed a little, that won’t matter.” He replied. “I know how to fight already. I understand you’re supposed to teach me the rest of it.”

 

            “You know how to fight some?”

 

            “Plenty.” He said.

 

            “You could show me then?”

 

            “You have swords?”

 

            “I have swords, come inside.”

 

            The aging sailor and the man in the strange clothes entered his house. There were three swords on a table, Captain Roberts walked towards them and picked up a rapier with a longer than usual handle. He touched the other rapier on the table and the man picked that up.

 

            “Close quarters.” The man said.

 

            “It will help me determine if I should bother with you.” Roberts said tossing the sword into his left hand and taking a stance. “Begin.”

 

            It’s hard to talk about two men fencing in a small room of a Spanish sailor’s home. The blades zipped back and forth and the two men failed to hurt each other for the most part. It wasn’t even like it was a particularly long fight, Roberts was clearly the victor. In fact a good witness could see that before the two of them started.

 

            The man in the strange clothing was beaten back to a table against the wall. He slung his foot under the leg and tried to bring him self up by bracing his foot against the leg. The leg came away though and his leg swung out and struck Roberts on the hip as the table fell. The man crashed to the floor and banged his head, causing a stream of profanity to come in English. The Spaniard listened, trying to work out the words. He hadn’t had to speak English for some time, since moving back to Spain, but he was sure some of the words weren’t being used right. Still he had lasted longer than most anyone else, and might be worth the effort.

 

            “Twenty five seconds.” Captain Roberts said. “Not bad actually. What is your name?”

 

            “I’m called The Weirdo.” The Weirdo said standing up.

 

            “Very well.” Captain Roberts said. “I will teach you. It will only take six months to teach you what I know, but it could take the rest of your life to master it.”

 

            “I’ve got time for that.” The Weirdo said touching his head, looking for blood.

 

 

October 23rd, 2002

10:43 p.m.

 

            Davey hadn’t gone to the emergency room, and he was beginning to think that was a mistake. He couldn’t actually move his arm, and it was beginning to swell and turn a disturbing shade of purple. It also hurt a lot, an awful lot. The morphine had helped, but not enough. He thought about giving himself another shot but he could never get the amounts right when he did it.

 

            “Davey.” A voice said in his dark room.

 

            He hadn’t heard the man enter, but he was pretty stoned by now. His eyes swung around and he tried to find the source of the voice in the dark. He couldn’t manage to keep his eyes open though, and was beginning to wonder if what P-Mang said was morphine really was.

 

            “Huh?” Davey asked, his eyes fluttering as he looked into the dark room.

 

            “What did I tell everyone? Did I say keep an eye out for him but don’t actually let him make a scene? Did I say make sure where he was but don’t let anyone draw attention to him?”

            “Yeah.” Davey said.

 

            “And you decided to pick on the gook why?”

 

            “Fucking gooks.” Davey said, trying his best not to get lost in the haze of morphine.

 

            “Idiot.” The owner of the voice rushed forward and grabbed his arm.

 

            The pain was immediate, and caused Davey to scream. Not that screaming did much good in this part of town. Davey had been surprised at how little noise the man made, maybe he was a ghost. He looked up into the face of the man holding his arm. It was the face of the man who had twisted his arm earlier. He had held him down on the ground and ripped his arm up. He was wearing red now, but it was the same guy.

 

            “Don’t hurt me again.” He said.

 

            “You even tried to press charges.” The man said. “I wanted it to be impossible to confirm his whereabouts. And you made it perfectly easy to verify.”

 

            “My arm.” Davey whined.

 

            “Oh we’ll talk about the arm.” He said. “We’re gonna talk about that fucking arm.”       

 

            “You broke my arm already.” Davey said through his stoned haze.

 

            “No, he did, and you fucked it up.” The man said, “And now an example must be made.”

 

 

October 23rd, 2002

11:26 p.m.

 

            The Weirdo sat with a half empty bottle of what he was sure was scotch on the table next to him. There was a glass, which was half-empty next to him, or was it half full? The Weirdo answered it by gulping down what was left and making it totally empty. This also described the way he was feeling at the moment, completely empty.

 

            To say The Weirdo had a moment of clarity would be a lie. The Weirdo was a consummate clear thinker. In fact, he had a mind unfortunately clear of illusions. His mind cut through visual magic like a hot knife through cold air. He had to concentrate to be fooled. He didn’t approach anything with illusions he was one of those people who saw the world for what it was.

 

            Strip away all the illusions, pull away all the lies you tell yourself, get rid of all those little things that let you sleep at night, and you find The Weirdo staring back at you. Consequently, he didn’t sleep well at night. He had seen the bodies, had learned their names, and now he would remember them forever. If he was having a good moment their faces would come unbidden from the depths of his mind and remind him that they were dead. They weren’t just something that was covered in a sheet in a movie. They were graphic, and they smelled, and their open eyes always looked at him. He always found it odd that the completely stationary eyes of a corpse could manage to follow him around the room.

 

            He was trying to learn to fool himself, trying to learn to forget. He was trying to remember what innocence and stupidity felt like, but felt that perhaps he had never really been innocent or stupid. He wanted to not be so in tune with the world, wanted not to know. It was all he could do to keep himself from screaming with rage. He was too tired to scream right now, but he could feel the scream right below his neck bones, hiding deep in his throat and wanting to burst out. He could feel it all wanting to come up and it was only his lack of energy at the moment that kept him from destroying the entire world.

 

            He wanted to fit in with the normal world, with all the conceits that wish entailed. He could move and be accepted in any social sphere he entered, but he only fit in with the people in this house. He wanted to forget about saving those people and just have a good time with them. The really great problem was he couldn’t stand to be around most of them. He almost hated some of them, for their willful ignorance, for their pride in that ignorance, for just being alive sometimes.

 

            The Weirdo really believed in honesty, in the chivalric code. He believed in the right way of doing things. He was for the betterment of all mankind. The problem was mankind was too busy sticking it to their neighbors before their neighbors could stick it to them. He often wondered if there was something he could do, perhaps force the Gods to change the basic make up of the human mind. Then perhaps, mankind could finally enter the time of peace and harmony that is so oft promised by the dreamy writers or prose and pomp.

 

            He lifted the bottle and poured himself another drink, ignoring that the bottle was empty and forcing the neck of the bottle to flow forth anyway. He could do that sometimes, create liquids from thin air. He didn’t really know much about how to control it, but he could make things from time to time if he bent his will to it. It was just little things though, and it never seemed like they were things of consequence. He lifted the invented liquid in its glass and drank it. He didn’t do this with any ritual, or any sort of game that alcoholics might play. He simply did it with the movement of someone who wanted to see sobriety go away forever, and ever, and ever.

 

            He was going to fail of course, but he had to try.

 

 

© 2012 Autumn Knight Productions

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March 1, 2013 - Posted by | Photo | ,

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