Delivering Your Own Damnation

“I said nothing in response. I couldn’t believe Philip the Fool. Was he supposed to be the guy who makes me a master at the street hustling game? I can still remember how proud (and stupid) he looked. He was not in his typical stage clothes. For the Knave Meetings, he always sported a flamboyantly red cape in the fashion of the King’s. To add to the satire, he crowned his curly red hair with a broken jug. He had found his ticket to immortality via being a footnote in royal history, and he wasn’t going to scalp it.

“‘Look, Philip, there is something I need to tell you. I think I was followed to---’

“He served me a dismissive wave and edited the ending to my confession. ‘It doesn’t matter, Garland. What I need you to do is put on that suit you were going to use to deliver the notice of extortion and, instead, deliver Sir Pelican this letter,’ Philip the Fool said and pulled out the written message in question.

“I slipped him a frown and picked the letter, which was stamped with his own wax seal, out of his hand. I had only one thing to say to him about the matter. ‘When?’



“The next day I headed towards Sir Pelican’s residence clad in my black blackmail suit for my noon meeting. I did, of course, side-step into an alleyway to open the letter before completing the delivery. Philip the Fool’s note to Sir Pelican stated the following communication:

“‘Dear Sir Pelican,

The honorable yet bloated scholars once mused that the only things outnumbering the ears on the walls are the mouths upon the streets. I have been informed through venues, which are optioned by my own devices and must be left unexplored in this polite introduction, that there is an apostate amiss.

I believe, for a quaint retribution on your part, I can provide you with an able body that will distort what the walls hear and sew shut what the streets boom. The recommended servant of whom I suggest is the very messenger before you. His name is Garland, and you have probably already started to ponder his origins by his unique yet dog-eared appearance. Your assumptions relating to that pondering are not incorrect, and, because of such validation, you will no doubt come to the same conclusion that I also wield: your conspiracy cannot be better served.

The fore mentioned retribution I request is not to be counted by the clinks of coins or by land markers staked out. I believe you to be wise along with being educated, and, by default, you are well aware of the grave difference between the two possessions. That said, a night, particularly a night willing to betray the golden moon, should not be trusted. By issuing me payment of the information Garland reaps for you, protection of a thousand cloaked daggers against lines of rusting armor will safeguard your nightly watch.

I thank you in advance for your consideration and for the attention you have already lent this letter. If you should find this proposition promising, send back a confirming reply using your routine messenger, not Garland.

Sincerely at your service,

Philip the Fool


P.S.: You, no doubt, have noted the sour look upon the face of Garland. Being of value of which I have boasted in this letter, he has secretly read this communication before delivering it to you and has resealed the message with a mock seal.’

“And just like that, Philip the Fool had sold me to Sir Pelican.

Dandelion Is No Forgotten Princess

“I didn’t sleep well that night and tossed and turned as much as a person possibly could in a hammock. Who was that girl? I had been doing street hustles and high birth extortions for two years at that point, and, surely, Dandelion and I had never crossed paths. One would think that if she was running the same types of street games, she would have attempted to pick the same pocket as me at some point. She had to have been new to the city, but where did she come from? She certainly was nothing like the girls in the orphanage whom busied themselves with delusions of being forgotten princesses.

“Another question kept sleep elusive. What exactly did she know? She had bragged that, supposedly, she was able to tail me all evening without my detection. If that would have been true, that would mean she would have witnessed the drunken rounds with the intended messenger, picking up the coded letter of assassination, and, most importantly, she would seen me step into Philip the Fool’s carriage. It wouldn’t have taken a genius to guess that the message was read, and if she was truly playing the same sorts of scams, she would already be wise to counterfeit wax seals.

“Who was that Dandelion, besides being extraordinarily irritating, I mean? Who giggles besides six year old children? I am sure her pixie-like figure and all-so-adorable (you know what other adjective starts with the letter ‘a’? Try ‘annoying’.) mannerisms win her points with less experienced guys, but not me. She got lucky with that drop on me, and that is all there is to that story.”

A young werewolf with bright white teeth elbowed Treu, who was just a number two ball away from having the eight ball his sole pool target. They shared a chuckle.

“Oh, shut up,” I said.

“As I was saying, I had a gut feeling that the partnership with Philip the Fool had stumbled unto numbered days, and his talk with me a week after that night of the intercepted letter confirmed my feelings.

“‘Feel free to climb up after you have locked the front door, Garland,’ Philip the Fool said to me between puffs of smoke. A knave meeting had adjourned, which is something always relative when committee members consist of beggars pretending to be lepers, and Philip the Fool was enjoying a hand rolled cigarette while perched upon the rafters of the dining area of the Choking Giant Bar. Seeing that everyone had already been ushered out and that the door was, in fact, already locked and bolted, I jumped up and seating myself across from him in one fluid motion.

“‘What’s on your mind?’ I asked.

“‘Tell me, Garland. What do you think of last week’s midnight message?’

“‘I think that we should stay out of it. I don’t see any direct profit for us. Only headaches.’

“‘You have so much to learn,’ said Philip the Fool. ‘Sometimes the richest profits, the greatest cons, are not the direct ones.’

The Talking Statue and the Giggling Dandelion

“A heel was buried between my shoulder blades and my left arm was pulled behind me before I even had a chance to twist out of the way from a possible second assault. I was in middle of getting the dagger that was literary hidden up my right sleeve when a voice above my attacker and me bellowed.

“‘Dandelion! Enough! This young man has a message for our master.’

“‘That’s right, pal,’ I said, “and I must say that “Dandelion” isn’t the most manly name I have heard today.’

“I felt my left arm be released from its uncomfortable pin, and I spun around ready to fend off a boot to the face from this guy.

“This guy, however, turned out to be this girl: a slander girl of my age with a self satisfied smile spread across her face. The hood to her blue cloak was thrown back, revealing her wild, shoulder length blonde hair. She had green eyes, and she winked down at me.

“Ending her taunt, she pouted her lips and whined, ‘Aw, come on, Sturm. It was so fun chasing him across town. He took forever to catch on that I was even there.’

“I realized she was performing to the statue, or, what I had first mistaken as a statue. The macabre seven foot giant with a war helmet in the shape of a skull wore a silver chest plate, arm, wrist, and shin guards. Both the arm and shin armor had short but menacing spikes spouting along their surfaces. The toes of his heavy boots were horned, and a black Count’s cape ruffled in the night wind. I had never seen a creature like the behemoth that was towering over me, and I had told myself that I would fain courage with a clever pun. I gulped instead.

“‘Do you possess Knight Di’Lando’s letter?’ the monster named Sturm flatly asked me. It was disconcerting to not be able to see his (its) facial expressions, but the always pronounced timing of a lightening strike that lit up the sky behind him made him more frightening.

“I gave a weak nod and handed him the letter.

“I heard laughter behind me. ‘I think he is afraid of you, Sturm!’ Dandelion exclaimed.

“‘You may go now,’ commanded Sturm without looking at me, but, then again, how would I know?

“I stood up and pretended to dust myself off. ‘You know, I could have lost you, Dandelion.’

“‘Oh, I am sure you could have, but you didn’t.’ Dandelion said and waved at me. ‘Ta-ta for now, blue boy,’ she said and giggled her way through Knight Di’ Lando’s front doors. Sturm resumed his stance to the left side of the gate entrance, silent and still.

“I was left with no choice but to return back to my hammock nailed to the pantry walls of the Choking Giant Bar. It was prearranged that Philip the Fool and I would not meet again at the carriage. There was too much risk of drawing suspicion to keep it parked in the middle of market square at night.

“I could have lost her, may I point out. Sure, I will fully admit that I got a little overconfident. But, come on. Usually, the people attempting to follow me couldn’t sneak up on a dead horse, let alone catch me. I admit that Dandelion was good, but not that good.

“After kicking off my boots, I began to dose off in my hammock. Just when I was about to get comfortable enough to dream, I snapped awake in dread. I could see my breath in the cold air when I spoke the poisoned fruit born from my mental revisiting of that night’s events.

“‘She knows I intercepted the message.’

Whatever You Can Do, I Can Do Better

“I didn’t like what Philip the Fool was thinking. He has had shadow ties to many national scandals that were presumed bigger than his social stature, no doubt, but I didn’t think it wise to get mixed up in a royal assassination. People tend to lose their heads in that sort of business, and here I was hunching down as I ran in the rain to deliver a coded message that was to get the heads rolling.

“What did Sir Pelican have against the King, anyway? It is one thing to boast the skill of ink scrolling, but it was entirely a different matter to be, perhaps, the main conspirator behind an unsheathed sword. I wanted nothing to do with this business. It was no fun.

“These thoughts were distracting me as I traveled to Knight Di’Lando’s residence, and I would have figured out that I was being followed earlier if it wasn’t for them.

“The guy was decent at the art of tailing, but he slipped up once by getting too close to his target and letting a pebble skip through a puddle next to me, and that is all I needed. In mid walk, I stopped short and spun around. The guy was within shadows, which wasn’t a hard feat considering there was not even a trace of the moon in the night sky, before I could catch sight of him. There was Pete’s Market wagon, with its serving bar swung up and bolted to cover its windows, to my right about five yards behind me. I was pretty sure he was crouched underneath it.

“I had a decision to make. I was only five minutes away from delivering that message to Knight Di'Lando, but an awful amount of hurt can be done in five minutes. A mad dash could be suicide, so it was best to use my speed to lose him. I started to sprint as if I had decided upon my former plans of dashing, but, after two strides, I brought my flight into the shape of a right angle and bolted in an alleyway.

“It worked. As I made my sharp turn, I caught a glimpse of the guy. Thin. Cloaked.

“Wasting no time in adding another dimension to my flight, I jumped at the wall. All I needed was a split second of traction to propel me to the opposite wall that made up the alley, and I bounded my way upwards. Once I was able to grab hold of a ledge, I hoisted myself up and over the top of Oscar’s Blacksmith Shop. I may be young, but I can tell you how people hinder themselves when trying to lose someone. They look back, which is a lost of valuable time, so I didn’t look back and, instead, continued to jump from rooftop to rooftop.

“When I had finally reached Knight Di’Lando’s residence, a stone structure built into the southwest side of the fortress wall, which divided the King’s castle from the kingdom’s market square, I risked a look behind me. Nobody. Sucker.

“I felt exhilarated as I looked for the bell that I would ring to draw the attention of Knight Di’Lando’s night-watch. As fun as it was to practice my stealth abilities through pick-pocketing and conducting my own tailing of individuals, nothing was as exciting as out maneuvering people trying to catch me. All of the King’s Men, despite their years of training, could never catch me.

“Where is that bell, I thought. There was none. How long has Knight Di’Lando not had a bell? I was positive that he had one the last time I delivered a message to him. Instead, there was a seven foot statue of a guard wearing a skull shaped battle helmet. There must be a way to get the real guard’s attention.

"Before I could investigate any further, I was hit from above.

An Apostate Within a Midnight Carriage

“I showed up in front of Sir Pelican’s front gates a half of an hour before midnight. I would have made it a solid hour, but I had to introduce the intended messenger, a thirteen year old boy with a puffy face somewhere behind a pallet of acne, to the fine yet painful world of drinking. Light weight.

“Little did I know that, by switching places with the boy, I had saved his life.”

I put down my pool stick. Turning to the werewolves, I said, “Whoooo!” while wiggling my fingers.

Frost chuckled the hardest, but Treu just seemed annoyed. “Hey. Kid. Take your shot,” he said instead. I did, and missed a bounce shot into the left side pocket. Treu finally laughed, but probably for different reasons. I continued my tale.

“The night-watch guard, a portly man with a shaggy blonde mustache, labored down the ladder from his post. ‘Wacha’ ya don’ here?’ he croaked at me in a voice stripped from many years of smoking.

“‘I am to pick up a message from Sir Pelican tonight.’

“He gave me a long look of distrust. ‘Wai’ here jus’ one momen’,’ he said and shuffled away from my view. Fifteen minutes went by before he returned. ‘The Master said da’ you have a password for me.’

“‘The password is “apostate”.’

“The guard just glared at me. I made a shooing gesture with my hands. He grumbled, and disappeared for another quarter of an hour. It was just enough time to reflect on what I would do to the Acne Wonder if it turned out he lied about the password. I’ll kill him, I thought, if he hasn’t already choked on his own vomit.

“The night-watch huff and puffed his way back to the front gates for a final time and handed an envelope to me through the bars with a sour look on his face. I left without thanking him.

“I made a detour back into Philip the Fool’s carriage. Philip the Fool was disguised as a Count: complete with a fine black cloak, a hat, and a gentleman’s walking cane with a brass handle shaped as a roaring lion’s head. He had a thin moustache penciled on his face and leather dress gloves covering his hands.

“‘Nice look,’ I said and handed him the message. He broke the wax seal and started reading. ‘What does it say?’

“‘Shh’ was his only response as he kept reading. I gave up and looked out the carriage window, noting that the weather had turned into rain. When I heard him fold back up the letter, I posed my question again. ‘Apparently, Sir Pelican is a radical. A high brow radical, but a radical nevertheless,’ Philip the Fool told me while I was busy resealing the message with my own counterfeit wax seal. Philip the Fool continued, ‘For some deeded estate out in the country, Knight Di' Lando has agreed to chronicle the daily routine of the King.’

“‘Smells like an assassination. The letter says all that?’ I asked.

“‘In code, yes.’

“‘Code? Great. It is going to be awfully hard to use the communication as blackmail, then. Pelican is stupid to trust the Di’Lando with this plot. That is the problem with these armchair political types. They are great at trading veiled barbs in Parliament, but brain dead when it comes to any action. I give Pelican a year. By then, Di’Lando will milk everything he can get from the old man without getting his own innocence in the matter muddled. Anyway. Can we get anything out of this?’

“It was Philip the Fool’s turn to ponder at the rain from the carriage window. ‘Without a doubt.’

Philip the Fool, A Choking Giant, and the Deceptive Pair of Slacks

“Philip the Fool, still hunched over and his left arm twisted in a rather uncomfortable way from his street routine, came into my boarding room, a mice infested walk-in pantry located in the back of the bar where he would conduct his knave meetings. See? No rats. I was already moving on up in the world.

“‘A message is being hand delivered by a foot messenger at midnight tonight. Do you have a seal of Duke Pelican?’

“I flipped close my pocket knife blade and blew the wax shavings from the bottom of a scarlet candle. ‘Just finished. Duke Pelican, huh? He seems pretty clean. So that begs the next question. What well tailored slimeball is supposed to be receiving the message?’

“Philip the Fool straightened up to an upright position and rubbed at an ache in his lower back that didn’t seem fake. ‘Knight Di’ Lando.’

“‘That would explain it. Sort of.’ I said. I swung my legs down from my hammock so I was in a sitting position and slid the carved candle into a draw string pouch slumped on the floor that housed various assortments of counterfeit wax seals. ‘It doesn’t explain what Pelican would possibly want with Di’ Lando.’

“‘Maybe he doesn’t wash his wrinkled hands as much as we think. Either way, just make sure you get that letter from the messenger before it reaches Di’ Lando’s place.’

“‘Consider it done.’ Philip the Fool had started to remove himself from my doorway when I added, ‘I think you are forgetting something.’

“‘Oh? And what’s that?’ he said, half turned.

“I gestured a thumb at a pair of black slacks covered in dried mud that hung from a stretch of rafter. ‘I need a few coins to get them cleaned.’

“Philip the Fool thinned his lips in annoyance for a moment before removing two copper coins hidden behind a soiled head bandage and flicked them at me. As I caught them, he said, ‘Be more careful this time,’ and left.

“With the coins in hand, I listened to floorboards creak as he practiced his stagger until he was safely gone from The Choking Giant Bar. I counted to ten in my head before getting up, walking to the opposite wall that was hidden in shadow by the slanted angle of ceiling, and removing a perfectly pressed pair of black slacks. I hooked the clothes hanger the clean pants were hanging from on the rafter next to the suit and pulled away the mud covered pair. What looked like old slacks were actually a deceptively folded torn piece of black fabric I had gotten from a disregarded commoner's cloak.

“I held up the prop and smiled to myself.

‘The Fool falls for it every time.’

Extortion with a Street Smile

It suddenly came to my attention that I had the whole bar of furry patrons for an audience. With their respective drinks in their paws, Frost’s pack of werewolves had moved from their barstools or creaking table chairs to surround the pool table. No. Scratch that. They were surrounding me.

They were all wearing wolfish grins, which, in my humble opinion, werewolves rely on that expression a little too often. Oh, and there was a rather strong musk in the air.

“It’s your turn, Garland,” said Frost while Treu rested his head on his folded hands, which were resting upon his pool stick. He was already enjoying the afterglow of his near future win. “But take your time, and feel free to share your story first.”

“Okay, don’t get your tails in a bunch, guys,” I quipped.

I forewarn all of you readers that what I told those werewolves that night may be a little embellished, but, then again, so is all of what I have to say.

“As probably all of you have already guessed, the dense forests and fields of cattle manure are typically not my party scene. I was raised in an orphanage within Belfry, the industrial sector of the largest city of O’Dia, until two years ago. That was around the time I had decided to myself that mopping five levels of hardwood floors and bashing in heads of rats with the rest of the parentless lice carriers while a staff of five fat women who cackled their way through a day of sipping tea and sharing moronic gossip just wasn’t my scene, either.

“I snuck out of a window one night after lifting some cash from the head nurse’s purse and continued to practice my pick pocketing craft on the streets for a couple months. I almost got arrested and returned back to the orphanage several times due to my pension for gravitating to the wealthy Hilltop district of the city. Authorities seem to have no problem leaving a fifteen year old boy among the company of gypsies, prostitutes, and murderers on the lamp as long as it is hidden from sensitive eyes of the privileged.

“It wasn’t long before I found out that running unsavory errands for people got me more money. It also marked my ascent up the social ladder.

“Philip the Fool, a middle aged man who pretended to be suffering from a severe case of bone-twist (he actually was taking full advantage of being double jointed) by day and oversaw an underground thief guild by night, employed my errand services on a regular bases. Everyone, like those tea bag dipping hogs back at the orphanage, would gossip about the elite’s sex life, but the aristocrats would truly become undone by the amount of evidence Philip the Fool possessed in regards to their scandalous affairs and his willingness to use it for profit. Most of these inspirations of hush money came about through intercepted messages, and that is where I came in. I would swipe the letters, and Philip the Fool would provide me with a suit to deliver the extortion to their doorsteps the next day with a well dressed smile.”

Betting on a Pissing Contest

Treu, who towered at nearly six and a half feet and a good head taller than me, was lanky, and had a permanent smirk etched upon his muzzle that suggested that he knew more than anyone else in the room, or, at least, he thought himself mighty clever for thinking himself so.

“Hey there, Treu,” I said with a quick nod---the international handshake guys use when attempting to be cool with each other.

“You think you can beat our new friend Garland here?” Frost extended his pool stick out to Treu.

Pretending to not notice his chief’s gesture, Treu selected a slightly longer stick that was leaning against a cedar wall next to the skeletonal remains of a long deceased pool stick rack.

With his back still turned towards the wall, Treu said, “Who knows. With all the defeats we have had at the fangs of the Reische Family,” he turned around to match cunning eyes with Frost, “maybe it’s my turn to slip up.”

“I don’t think your pride can let you lose, despite your mediocre playing.”

I gave a cough. When that didn’t break the tension or end the uncomfortable silence between the two, I slapped down a handful of irregular sized coins. “Twenty shillings says you can’t do what Frost just did.”

It worked. The appearance of money always does. Not that I didn’t find their little pissing contest fascinating. I was mulling over how much of the conflict and the choosing of Treu to play me for money were acts in the hustle, and how much of it was actual conflict. If much of it was the latter, I could use it for my own amusement.

“Twenty, huh? Has the drinking already made you that loose with your money?” Treu said while returning the attention of both his gaze and smirk to me. “You are on, kid. You can put down the bet anytime, Frost.”

The leader of the werewolf pack opened a leather pouch tied around his waist just above his long tailed loincloth, and, in a neat single stack, placed his bet on the railing next to my own coinage while saying, “You aren’t bad, city kid. This is truly a gamble.”

The whole “kid” routine was really getting on my nerves. Besides, Frost paid far too much attention to dropping that bet on the table, and now I had made their con. Treu was good. He was fan-freakin’-tastic, most likely. Hoping I would play and bet loosely with new found determination due to hurt pride, Frost was attempting to sell the idea that he, in sporting nature, had handed the bet down to a lesser player while, in truth, he had played me to gauge my skill level and then pick Treu, his ringer, to secure the win. I wasn’t sure if the conflict between them was part of it. Perhaps, he was aware of the possibility that I would suspect the hustle so he was faking doubt over whether or not his ringer would purposely lose the match to embarrass his leader, yet rival. There was only one way to find out, but I needed to buy a little more time.

“Go ahead and break, Treu.”

Not arguing, Treu walked himself and his stick to the kitchen end of the pool table, ducking his head beneath a candle stick hanging from the ceiling along the way. Bending his lean body over to take aim at the cue ball, he said, “So, tell us, kid. What racket did you cause with Reische nest?”

He broke. Two solid balls---the two and the six---sank into the same pocket.

Bastard.

Werewolves Are Poor Pool Players

I don't understand how a pack of humanoid wolves are not able to laugh at themselves. Guys, you are completely covered by hair and are prone to embarrassing bouts of hacking up fur balls.

Last Saturday night, I really thought things were going well with my new friends, the Armbrust Forest Werewolves. We did have a common enemy, after all. Even prior to the second pint of root ale being poured in a shabby shack pretending to be a tavern, which, in turn, was within a petite clearing of a forest trying its best to mime a town, I was pronouncing my own distain for the ever social elite vampires with confidence only lent by spiked merriment.

"At least you chums travel in packs," I said to Frost. Frost appeared to be the leader of the pack. He was significantly older, or, at least, his watchful eyes peering out from a skull of gray fur suggested wisdom earned only through experience of age. A leather necklace of teeth hung around his neck, and, while his pack sported short loincloths of muted colors, Frost's hung all the way to his ankles and was bright red in tone. He was long in the tooth, and it was yellow.

“You may have a point there,” Frost said as he leaned into his shot with his pool stick’s tip hovering behind the chipped cue ball, “but what were you doing mingling with the likes of the Reische Family, anyway? Dying to lend them some blood?” He sank the eight ball into the right corner pocket and gave me, of course, a wolfish grin. .

“Good game. If you are done warming up, maybe we could get to some real playing. You got anything to wager, kid?” Frost had a habit of pretending to be too preoccupied with whatever he was doing to make eye contact with whomever he was attempting to hustle. In this case, he was looking down at his pool stick as he rechalked the tip. Good. Detail noted.

“Oh, I got away with a chunk of their change. I don’t know, though, Frost,” I said. “After the skill you just displayed? Why on O’Dia would I bet against you?”

He chuckles. “No, no, no. Not me. Where would be the sport in that? How about Treu over there?” Looking over his right shoulder, he yells across the bar to a beast having his drink poured by one trembling bartender. “Hey! Treu! Want to devour a human?” Looking back at me with a wink, he adds, “in a game of pool.”

“Sure, Frost, I’ll take the blue kid’s money,” Treu answered as he swaggered over to the pool table as he passed splintered oak tables surrounded by hooting pack animals. He gulped down the poison in a single swallow, threw the empty glass over his back, which shattered against the head of one of his brothers to the growing amusement of the other werewolves, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Let’s see what the lad can do.”

I have violently blue hair. I should’ve told you that before. Yes, the unnatural color is natural in my case. I don’t know why, but I will get to all that later. Probably.