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Twins in Death: Chapter Seven – Part Two

Twins in Death

A Tale of The Weirdo

By Brett N. Lashuay

 

 

Chapter Seven: Face to Face

 

 

June 2nd, 841

12:49 p.m.

England

 

            The mêlée was not a joust, not by any stretch of the imagination. It was the forerunner of a joust perhaps, but not a joust. It was not a contest of one man against another man. Rather it was two miniature armies pitted against each other. The field was just that, a large empty meadow that on any other day would serve the kings sheep. Today though, the two armies held sway, and fought against each other. It wasn’t exactly the ideal of courtly chivalry rather it was a bloody mess. There were already six men dead, and another twenty or so who would likely die before the sun rose tomorrow. The blades were blunted and the clubs and sticks had large balls of wool wrapped around them, but they were still deadly weapons. The swords had merely been turned into clubs and even with the heavy wool a blow of sufficient force could kill. There were also rocks and horses and just mean-spiritedness about. The field was beginning to look like a real battlefield, but no one seemed disturbed by this. The Weirdo looked around for a single disapproving glance, but when one man actually managed to take another’s arm off, the crowd roared with approval. He didn’t disapprove as such, it wasn’t his place to, but he knew he should.

 

            The Weirdo watched the horses run back and forth, and watched her face as they charged back and forth. She seemed entranced as he rode past her, his coal black curls rolling out under his helmet. He looked at the hair, and then at her face. She and he were sitting together near the field, her husband sitting far apart from them. A feeling of unease came over him when he looked at her face and then at the face of her husband. He didn’t notice her though, he just watched his men ride around.

 

            “Don’t you think he’s magnificent?” She asked him. “Isn’t he?”

 

            “Yes.” The Weirdo said looking over at her husband again.

 

            Her husband sat on the raised seat, watching the match between the two knights. The two of them watched the single man who had taken her heart as he sat stride his horse. He knew that they were both watching the same man, with different goals in mind. His eyes went back up to her husband, and noticed that not once had he looked at her. She had looked oft times at him, but he hadn’t noticed her at all. He was far too interested in the game that was going on in front of him to notice what The Weirdo was seeing. He was seeing it though, watching her eyes follow his friend.

 

            “He is something isn’t he?” The Weirdo asked and looked at her. “Very virile I’d imagine.”

 

            “Would you?” She asked, looking at him sidelong.

 

            “I would guess he’d not spend all day watching the match, never giving a glance to his lady. Someone like him probably has a great beast deep inside him.” He had a few misgivings about encouraging such a thing, but what did it matter? If he brought down the kingdom it was only going to happen anyway.

 

            “I’m glad someone thinks so.” She whispered to him, sounding relieved. “I’ve been sneaking away with him at night.”

 

            “Have you now?” He asked, somewhat relieved.

 

            “He’s not just good in the saddle you know.” She said smiling. “He’s quite a ride himself. A mighty stallion that one should not attempt to geld.”

 

            She giggled into her hand and he looked at her through slitted eyes. He was relived though. It wasn’t to be his suggestion that brought down the country. The event had already begun, so the ball was well rolling by now. He looked at her gasp as her knight took a blow to the back. He leveled himself and remained steady though. The Weirdo watched as he caught the reigns and righted himself, turning to meet out vengeance towards the man who nearly de-horsed him. His eyes then noticed the woman watching the two of them.

 

            She didn’t look angry, or annoyed, nor even triumphant, but simply interested. He thought that though she was across the field, in the other set of spectators seats, she knew what they were talking about. He looked at her and her eyes flicked away as soon as she noticed him watching her. Her hands came together to clap for another of the knights as he rode past the stands with a helmet in his hand. She looked back at him, noticing he was still watching, and nodded to him.

 

            She knew, and he knew she knew. She knew and there would be the problem, he had nothing to do with it. He was leaving in a few days anyway, his time here was just about up. He looked at the woman to his right again her face was flushed as her champion knocked the last man down. He stabbed the remains of his lance into the air and pulled his helmet off. His face was covered in sweat and his hair was invisible because of the cloth coif that padded his skull. He tugged the coif off and the mass of black curls barely managed to move, plastered to his skull from sweat. He threw these things down along with his gloves and raked his hair back, revealing the moment that made her weak. He looked at her and could sense her arousal, in every line of her face.

           

            He looked back at the woman across the field and saw that her eyes were watching them again. The sister of the cuckolded husband watched the adulterous wife as she watched her lover. She raised her hand in salute to him, and he back to her. He was going to have to talk to her, find out what she knew before he went. He would also have to find out what she intended to do with her knowledge. Then he realized he already knew, he knew and he would have to live with that. Besides it wasn’t his problem, not really. He was going to leave in just a few days, and this would all be just another memory.

 

            He looked at the beautiful woman to his right again, and thought about her tragedy. She was going to have one no doubt, unless the books were all wrong. He wondered if perhaps they were. He thought he would like to come back later and find out, but knew he wouldn’t be allowed to. He was here to learn, not to interact. It was only by the impossibility of stopping it that he became a part of the local society for the brief time of his stay, if you call eight and a half years a brief stay.

 

 

October 24, 2002

3:05 p.m.

 

            The Weirdo didn’t go directly to Rockefeller plaza, but rather he drove by it first. He didn’t know what he was looking for exactly. Perhaps he just wanted to find the lay of the land. This was of course ridiculous because he knew how the land laid. Rockefeller plaza had lain the same way for years, and didn’t look to change too much in the near future. Not only that, but The Weirdo had lived in New York for years and knew most the streets like the back of his hand.

 

            He parked the car and walked away, knowing the car wouldn’t be there to get ticketed later. The car would be where he wanted it to be when he wanted it to be there. What the car did on its own time has always been thought to be its own business. He walked into the plaza and looked down at the statue of Prometheus.  It wasn’t yet time for the ice rink to be frozen over yet so there was still a lunch café there. Tables with large white and yellow umbrellas at each one declared that this area belonged to the Seagram’s distillery company. This ownership was declared across the hanging flap of each umbrella where the word Seagram’s was followed by a small R in a circle declaring the trademark was registered.

 

            A few dead leaves tumbled through the concrete covered area towards him, picked up from the street in a small tornado of wind that could only be discerned by the leaves fluttering around in it. They spun in their tight circle, moving in towards him as he watched them move. The cyclone died and the leaves scattered around him. He bent down and picked one of them up. It was the leaf of a maple tree, or had been once. Now it had turned brown, curled in on itself and was so sapped of moisture that it had become hard and brittle. He closed his hand on it, relishing in the feeling of it crumbling in his hand, he moved his fingers back and forth across his palm, shredding the leave to tiny pieces. When he opened his hand, tiny flecks of brown leaf tumbled from his hand, caught by the slight breeze that was left of the cyclone and floated away.

 

            There wasn’t a large crowd at this time of day, but there were people in the Plaza. There wasn’t really a large crowd, but Rockefeller center wasn’t deserted either, not really deserted. Not that it’s ever what a person would call deserted, by any stretch of the words meaning. The Weirdo wouldn’t have called it deserted. Even though there is suspicion that The Weirdo had spent his entire life in cities it’s obvious to any outside observer that he had not. The main difference being the definition of deserted.

 

            In a city dwellers mind, an empty street is one where there are no people for some way. It’s a street where you can’t see anyone at this moment even though you know that there are plenty of people about. In fact a city dweller is likely to get a little nervous walking down a street that genuinely doesn’t have any one on it.

 

            In The Weirdo’s mind deserted meant that there were no people anywhere. He never thought of any place in New York City as devoid of people. There was never an empty street, or a truly deserted park. There were always people around here. You were never really alone in the city. You were alone in the country, where you could be on a road for miles before seeing anyone else. That is what deserted meant to him. It can be surmised by this, that he must have at least grown up in a suburban if not a rural environment.

 

            Still, even for an urban environment, the place wasn’t deserted.

 

            “So I’m here.” The Weirdo muttered, and concentrated on his surroundings. He tired to feel himself, somewhere out there.

 

            He stretched his mind out and tried to find something like himself, without it being himself. He found he could do it, but he couldn’t lock it down. It he could figure out where this man was he might be able to track him. The feeling was fuzzy, and he suspected that what he was feeling was himself. He would have to meet this man face to face. He had been told they had turned him up to eleven, which would create a slightly different resonance. If he could lock that feeling in, he could find this Loki McCrazypants person.

 

            He stood alone in the middle of the plaza and looked around, trying to locate the feeling he was having. He saw a member of the Streetz Thugaz standing at the edge of the Plaza, which was odd since their territory ended far north of the plaza, in Harlem to be precise. He looked to another side and saw a member of the South City Dragons who weren’t supposed to venture outside of Chinatown standing with a member of the New Dead Rabbits. This was particularly odd because the two groups had been at war with each other the last he knew. After he kicked the Mob out of town, The Weirdo had been concentrating on gang violence. This had required learning every group, and the constantly shifting affiliations. He had to admit though, he hadn’t been around much in the last few months and perhaps something might have happened.

 

            They didn’t seem to be guarding, or even trying to block him in. It looked to him like they were just observing, wanting to see what happened. He could see the expression of anticipation on their faces. He also thought he saw a look of dubiousness, as if they expected that this little event would prove something once and for all.

 

            Loki, for his part, knew what was being proven. They had seen Davey and P-Mang’s bodies earlier, and they had understood why that had to be done. It wasn’t, he had carefully explained, because of some perceived failure. It was because they had gone against the specific instructions he had given. He had wanted only one thing, for no one to be able to verify The Weirdo’s whereabouts and Davey had prevented it. They understood he thought, but now that wasn’t enough.

 

            He had to hold his own against his brother now, his big bad brother. The Weirdo had a lot more physical mass than he did. Even from here that much was obvious. Loki looked at his own narrow shoulders in the glass of the window and compared them to The Weirdo’s, four floors down. He looked at the phone in his hand, and touched the send button. He didn’t actually depress it, just touched it. He wondered if he should climb out the window before he called, or should he call and talk while climbing? He looked at The Weirdo again and then at the corner where he expected to steady himself. The ledge at that recessed corner was a little wider than the rest, and he could get his shots off more easily. He touched the rifle and opened the window. He didn’t climb out just yet, but he was ready to.

 

            He looked at the powerful man in the gray coat and took in a deep breath. He might have worked out longer, but Loki had natural talent. He had more than natural talent, he and P-Mang had been testing it lately in secret, which of course was the real reason P-Mang had to die. P-Mang had been the only one who knew that he wasn’t sure what the full extent of his powers were. Now that they were sure what they were, P-Mang had needed to go in order to better give the sort of impression Loki had been giving. He pressed the send button and slid the earpiece into his ear a little deeper.

 

© 2012 Autumn Knight Productions

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March 24, 2013 - Posted by | Fiction | ,

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