Sally, Part 31
Finally Stacey was able to stand on his own, and Mattias led him to a poorly lit corner of the bar. The three of them sat down and Syrin motioned to the bartender for three drinks. After seeing the glasses Stacey almost said he didn't want one, but then thought better of it when he considered the circumstances.
Mattias started, "We're sorry this has to be done in such a horrible place. I'm sure your nose is driving you crazy." He was right. Stacey was already discerning everything he smelled, but tried to stop when he realized it was mostly beer, piss, vomit, and blood. "But, I'm afraid that what we have to talk to you about is very sensitive."
"Very, sensitive." Syrin's eyes fixed sharply on Stacey's.
"Frankly, if anyone learned about what we're proposing here we'd probably all be hung before we got out of Andrill." Stacey started to look nervously around the room, "Don't worry. The men who come here are no angels, but they aren't the kind to turn us in either."
"That doesn't mean we need to talk loud though. Plenty of paid informants in this city." Syrin kept shifting in his chair and looking toward the door. He stopped when the beers got to the table. After handing one to each of his confederates he took a long drink, but his nerves didn't seem to calm.
Stacey sat in stunned silence. He'd never seen Syrin like this before, and after the past few months on the ship, he didn't know what to make of Mattias or this meeting. "You're probably wondering why we had you come here." Stacey nodded, still looking around the bar. "Do you remember when I told you about Syrin's brother?" Stacey stopped looking around and set his eyes on Mattias.
"Yes, I do."
"Syrin and I think we know where he's ended up, and we plan to break him out. After talking to you about it, and hearing how much it touched you, I thought you'd want to come along. You're also lucky, possibly the luckiest man I've ever met, and to get his brother back from who has him we'll need all the luck we can get."
"A two hundred pound rabbit's foot, that's what we need you for." Syrin still hadn't stopped looking at the door.
"So, are you in, or are you out?"
"And just so you know, if you're out, you'll have to be dead."
Mattias shot Stacey a smile, "So what do you say?"
Stacey only had a moment to think when Syrin stood up, "Looks like we'll have to get our answer later Mattias, we need to make like halflings during conscription."
"What?"
"Scarce."
Thursday, March 15, 2012
Wednesday, March 14, 2012
Michael's Wife
Michael hadn't always hated his wife. I suppose that goes without saying. Who gets married to someone they hate? The hatred came slowly, from a 'honey-do' list, and on to little ways of controlling his life. It could be argued that he was overreacting to a normal marriage, but that's beside the point now, his marriage will never be normal again.
Michael's hatred eventually turned to blood lust. He didn't just want her gone, he wanted her dead, and he wanted to be the one to do it. In time, he plotted a spot for her body in the yard, under a lilac bush, where no one ever went. It would be easy enough to do at night, as his neighbors on both sides were early sleepers, so he knew no one would see him. He just had to think of a way to do it.
It was shortly after their ten year anniversary that Michael saw his opportunity. His wife brought him a screwdriver, asking if he'd hang a picture in their bedroom. He took the tool and examined it closely. It was when his wife asked why he was looking at it that his mind crossed that barrier that separates what we want to do and what we do, and he killed her with the screw driver, and then proceeded to hang the picture that she'd asked him to.
Burying her was as easy as he thought it would be. Arguably, he didn't dig the hole as deep as he should have, but what did it matter? She was dead, didn't have a job, didn't have a family, and didn't have friends. It's not like people would come looking for her. Michael lit a cigarette and chuckled to himself after he put on the last shovelful of dirt. "It's over," he thought to himself, "She's finally gone."
The depth of the burial started to trouble him over the next few weeks though. It rained a couple of times, which brought him to the burial site to make certain that nothing of his wife's could be seen. Eventually, the idea entered his dreams, and he'd go outside to find a hand, or a foot sticking out of the ground, but when he woke up and looked, nothing had changed.
Perhaps the most disturbing of his dreams is when he went to look and saw her face unearthed. When he checked closer, her eyes flashed open, and he was panting in his bed with sweat pouring down his face. He began to question his resolve. Was killing her truly the best idea? Surely he didn't want her in his life anymore, but this constant worry, these nightmares. It had to stop, or he'd surely go mad.
Several months after the burial, he decided that his worries would be gone if he simply dug up the body and buried it at a greater depth. That surely would stop the nightmares. Once again, in the dark of night, he took his shovel and his lantern out to the lilac bush. He dug for nearly three hours, but never hit the body. There was no other lilac bush in his yard, and he had only dug for one hour when he first dug the spot. Where was she? His mind raced frantically. Had someone seen him and dug her up afterward? Had he dug under a different bush? No. He knew no one would have seen him, and he chose the lilac bush deliberately. Quickly, he filled in the hole and headed toward the house.
That night, the nightmares had increased in horror tenfold. He no longer saw her buried, but she walked his home, a decomposing zombie that never stopped looking for him. Always though, he woke in a cold sweat, alone. Morning finally came. 'Exhausted' barely describes what he felt as he drug himself out of bed. He was out of plans. Apparently, her body was no longer in his possession. Perhaps he'd have to go through court proceedings after all.
Just as this thought came to him, he heard something stirring downstairs. His first thought was that he was being robbed, so he stumbled down the stairs as quickly as he could and ran into the kitchen. What he saw there terrified him more than any group of robbers ever could, because there, at the stove, was the long, curly hair of his wife. He dared not approach, for fear that she would turn, and it would be another zombie of his dreams. Finally, she turned, her face exactly as it was before he had defiled it with a screwdriver. "Michael, come sit down. I made pancakes." Her smile was genuine, but that did not ease Michael's mind. He did as he was told though.
Michael couldn't look at her as he waited at the table for his pancakes. The scene was not unique, she had made him pancakes every Saturday morning that they had been married, but that was before she had her skull impaled with a screwdriver.
"Do you want butter one them?" She asked every Saturday morning, even though the answer never changed. Michael grunted, and she put on the butter. Just as she always had, she walked them over to the table and set his down in front of him, and then walked with hers to her seat at the table. "Michael." His head snapped up from his plate to see her smiling there, "I know what you did to me." His stomach went empty, and he could feel the blood leave his face. She took a bite of pancake, chewed slowly, never losing her smile or eye contact, swallowed, and then finished her thought, "It wasn't very nice of you. All I wanted was a picture hung." His throat got dry, and her smile got bigger, "I promise I'll never ask you to do that again." Finally he was able to swallow, but could now see what he figured to be all of her teeth, "But I can promise one more thing, Buddy: I'm never leaving."
Michael's hatred eventually turned to blood lust. He didn't just want her gone, he wanted her dead, and he wanted to be the one to do it. In time, he plotted a spot for her body in the yard, under a lilac bush, where no one ever went. It would be easy enough to do at night, as his neighbors on both sides were early sleepers, so he knew no one would see him. He just had to think of a way to do it.
It was shortly after their ten year anniversary that Michael saw his opportunity. His wife brought him a screwdriver, asking if he'd hang a picture in their bedroom. He took the tool and examined it closely. It was when his wife asked why he was looking at it that his mind crossed that barrier that separates what we want to do and what we do, and he killed her with the screw driver, and then proceeded to hang the picture that she'd asked him to.
Burying her was as easy as he thought it would be. Arguably, he didn't dig the hole as deep as he should have, but what did it matter? She was dead, didn't have a job, didn't have a family, and didn't have friends. It's not like people would come looking for her. Michael lit a cigarette and chuckled to himself after he put on the last shovelful of dirt. "It's over," he thought to himself, "She's finally gone."
The depth of the burial started to trouble him over the next few weeks though. It rained a couple of times, which brought him to the burial site to make certain that nothing of his wife's could be seen. Eventually, the idea entered his dreams, and he'd go outside to find a hand, or a foot sticking out of the ground, but when he woke up and looked, nothing had changed.
Perhaps the most disturbing of his dreams is when he went to look and saw her face unearthed. When he checked closer, her eyes flashed open, and he was panting in his bed with sweat pouring down his face. He began to question his resolve. Was killing her truly the best idea? Surely he didn't want her in his life anymore, but this constant worry, these nightmares. It had to stop, or he'd surely go mad.
Several months after the burial, he decided that his worries would be gone if he simply dug up the body and buried it at a greater depth. That surely would stop the nightmares. Once again, in the dark of night, he took his shovel and his lantern out to the lilac bush. He dug for nearly three hours, but never hit the body. There was no other lilac bush in his yard, and he had only dug for one hour when he first dug the spot. Where was she? His mind raced frantically. Had someone seen him and dug her up afterward? Had he dug under a different bush? No. He knew no one would have seen him, and he chose the lilac bush deliberately. Quickly, he filled in the hole and headed toward the house.
That night, the nightmares had increased in horror tenfold. He no longer saw her buried, but she walked his home, a decomposing zombie that never stopped looking for him. Always though, he woke in a cold sweat, alone. Morning finally came. 'Exhausted' barely describes what he felt as he drug himself out of bed. He was out of plans. Apparently, her body was no longer in his possession. Perhaps he'd have to go through court proceedings after all.
Just as this thought came to him, he heard something stirring downstairs. His first thought was that he was being robbed, so he stumbled down the stairs as quickly as he could and ran into the kitchen. What he saw there terrified him more than any group of robbers ever could, because there, at the stove, was the long, curly hair of his wife. He dared not approach, for fear that she would turn, and it would be another zombie of his dreams. Finally, she turned, her face exactly as it was before he had defiled it with a screwdriver. "Michael, come sit down. I made pancakes." Her smile was genuine, but that did not ease Michael's mind. He did as he was told though.
Michael couldn't look at her as he waited at the table for his pancakes. The scene was not unique, she had made him pancakes every Saturday morning that they had been married, but that was before she had her skull impaled with a screwdriver.
"Do you want butter one them?" She asked every Saturday morning, even though the answer never changed. Michael grunted, and she put on the butter. Just as she always had, she walked them over to the table and set his down in front of him, and then walked with hers to her seat at the table. "Michael." His head snapped up from his plate to see her smiling there, "I know what you did to me." His stomach went empty, and he could feel the blood leave his face. She took a bite of pancake, chewed slowly, never losing her smile or eye contact, swallowed, and then finished her thought, "It wasn't very nice of you. All I wanted was a picture hung." His throat got dry, and her smile got bigger, "I promise I'll never ask you to do that again." Finally he was able to swallow, but could now see what he figured to be all of her teeth, "But I can promise one more thing, Buddy: I'm never leaving."
Tuesday, March 13, 2012
Sall, Part 31
Sally, Part 30.
New enterprise? It seemed certain now. Stacey was about to become a slave. Maybe he'd be sold as a cook though. That wouldn't be too bad. It'd basically be like being a cook for a ship. Mattias looked over at Syrin, who wasn't quite and quick to believe that Stacey's stumbling in was a good omen. "Are you sure you're okay Stacey?"
Mattias slapped Stacey on the back, "Of course he's okay. Just look at him. Color's even coming back into his cheeks."
"I'm just not sure he's the right guy for the job."
"How can you not be sure? You saw how he dealt with those pirates."
"A drunken gorilla would have had the same effect."
Mattias turned sober, "Syrin. I'm telling you, this is the man for the job."At this Syrin looked down, obviously unconvinced, but wasn't about to question Mattias. Mattias grinned again, "Trust me Syrin, Stacey's our man. Why, just as soon as he gets a little more color we'll talk about what we brought him to this fine establishment for.
Stacey reeled and started looking around the 'fine' establishment. It was obviously a meeting place for the low lives of Andrill. The beams were rotting, the glasses were dirty, and it was hard to tell if the barkeep had ever touched soap... or water for that matter. Stacey's puke wasn't even cleaned. A large man even walked in it while Mattias was trying to convince Syrin of Stacey's worth. To be fair though, it really didn't change the look of the floor, or the smell, so maybe there really wasn't a reason to clean it. The Mace and Sword seemed like a perfect place for them to talk about selling men to the highest bidder, but by what Mattias had said, Stacey wasn't going to be sold, but lent out, or worse, maybe they were going to ask him to be a partner. Stacey wasn't sure which idea he disliked more.
New enterprise? It seemed certain now. Stacey was about to become a slave. Maybe he'd be sold as a cook though. That wouldn't be too bad. It'd basically be like being a cook for a ship. Mattias looked over at Syrin, who wasn't quite and quick to believe that Stacey's stumbling in was a good omen. "Are you sure you're okay Stacey?"
Mattias slapped Stacey on the back, "Of course he's okay. Just look at him. Color's even coming back into his cheeks."
"I'm just not sure he's the right guy for the job."
"How can you not be sure? You saw how he dealt with those pirates."
"A drunken gorilla would have had the same effect."
Mattias turned sober, "Syrin. I'm telling you, this is the man for the job."At this Syrin looked down, obviously unconvinced, but wasn't about to question Mattias. Mattias grinned again, "Trust me Syrin, Stacey's our man. Why, just as soon as he gets a little more color we'll talk about what we brought him to this fine establishment for.
Stacey reeled and started looking around the 'fine' establishment. It was obviously a meeting place for the low lives of Andrill. The beams were rotting, the glasses were dirty, and it was hard to tell if the barkeep had ever touched soap... or water for that matter. Stacey's puke wasn't even cleaned. A large man even walked in it while Mattias was trying to convince Syrin of Stacey's worth. To be fair though, it really didn't change the look of the floor, or the smell, so maybe there really wasn't a reason to clean it. The Mace and Sword seemed like a perfect place for them to talk about selling men to the highest bidder, but by what Mattias had said, Stacey wasn't going to be sold, but lent out, or worse, maybe they were going to ask him to be a partner. Stacey wasn't sure which idea he disliked more.
Monday, March 12, 2012
How Daylight Savings Actually Came to Be
The door slammed shut and brought Deborah from the pages of her book, "Oh, hello Ben." Benjamin didn't answer. He walked slowly into the parlor, dropped his briefcase and collapsed into his chair. "Ben, what's wrong?"
Ben took off his bifocals and rubbed his eyes, "I'm just so tired of the guys looking to me to answer every little problem."
"Oh... could you not answer this one?"
"No, but only because there is no answer. For some reason, they've decided that 'something' needs to be done about the time not always matching up with the sun."
"What?" Ben wasn't sure if Deborah didn't understand the problem or if she was as flabbergasted as he was at their stupidity.
"They say the farmers can't get as much done in the day because they wake up before the sun, and their hands quit before the sun's gone down because it's time for them to go home."
"Is this really a problem the Government needs to get involved in?"
"No. Why should we? Why don't the farmers just wake up with the sun, and tell their hands that they work until the sun goes down? The whole thing's ridiculous."
"So what do they want to do?"
"Nothing yet, or at least I hope nothing."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, when they brought it to me, I made a joke, and they didn't start laughing until I did."
"What was the joke?"
"Oh, I said that twice a year we should change the time an hour so people wake up an extra hour when the sun is out longer."
"Well, that's not that funny. Maybe that's why they didn't laugh."
"Maybe... hopefully. I'd hate to be remembered as the guy who came up with something stupid like that."
"Ben, you've come up with bifocals, you've done some incredible work with electricity, and you worked on The Declaration of Independence, surely no one will think you came up with something this ridiculous."
Ben took off his bifocals and rubbed his eyes, "I'm just so tired of the guys looking to me to answer every little problem."
"Oh... could you not answer this one?"
"No, but only because there is no answer. For some reason, they've decided that 'something' needs to be done about the time not always matching up with the sun."
"What?" Ben wasn't sure if Deborah didn't understand the problem or if she was as flabbergasted as he was at their stupidity.
"They say the farmers can't get as much done in the day because they wake up before the sun, and their hands quit before the sun's gone down because it's time for them to go home."
"Is this really a problem the Government needs to get involved in?"
"No. Why should we? Why don't the farmers just wake up with the sun, and tell their hands that they work until the sun goes down? The whole thing's ridiculous."
"So what do they want to do?"
"Nothing yet, or at least I hope nothing."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, when they brought it to me, I made a joke, and they didn't start laughing until I did."
"What was the joke?"
"Oh, I said that twice a year we should change the time an hour so people wake up an extra hour when the sun is out longer."
"Well, that's not that funny. Maybe that's why they didn't laugh."
"Maybe... hopefully. I'd hate to be remembered as the guy who came up with something stupid like that."
"Ben, you've come up with bifocals, you've done some incredible work with electricity, and you worked on The Declaration of Independence, surely no one will think you came up with something this ridiculous."
Friday, March 9, 2012
Sally, Part 30
Sally, Part 29
If Stacey wasn't already dizzy enough, this certainly put him over the edge. He could feel the room spin, and then suddenly go dark. When his eyes opened again everything was blurry. Slowly, his eyelids opened and closed until he could finally see the face of Mattias right above him and Syrin standing a little behind.
"There he is. Goodness Stacey, you gave us quite a scare." Mattias was grinning from ear to ear. At the sight of him Stacey's stomach lurched and he quickly rolled to throw up on the dirty, wooden floor. "Whoa! What happened to you?"
Stacey's head reeled as he tried to think of something, anything to say that would sound plausible and not give him away. He started talking, hoping something might come to him, "Um... well, I was walking through Andrill..."
"Yes?"
Nothing was coming. Stacey could feel himself start to panic when the bar keep unwittingly came to his rescue, "Why, I'll bet it was those damn kids."
Mattias looked at him, surprised. "Those 'damned' kids?"
"Uh, yes sir. They've been drugging people and robbin' 'em."
Stacey grabbed on to the story like it was his last breath, "Yeah. I only vaguely remember, but I think some kids stabbed me with something."
"That's odd, people been sayin' they put somethin' over your mouth."
"Uh, that's... that's what I meant."
Mattias gave Stacey a questioning look, "Kids huh? Well, it's good your here at any rate. Amazing that you were somehow able to remember to come here even after being poisoned, but maybe this is fate's way of letting us know that our new enterprise is the right one."
If Stacey wasn't already dizzy enough, this certainly put him over the edge. He could feel the room spin, and then suddenly go dark. When his eyes opened again everything was blurry. Slowly, his eyelids opened and closed until he could finally see the face of Mattias right above him and Syrin standing a little behind.
"There he is. Goodness Stacey, you gave us quite a scare." Mattias was grinning from ear to ear. At the sight of him Stacey's stomach lurched and he quickly rolled to throw up on the dirty, wooden floor. "Whoa! What happened to you?"
Stacey's head reeled as he tried to think of something, anything to say that would sound plausible and not give him away. He started talking, hoping something might come to him, "Um... well, I was walking through Andrill..."
"Yes?"
Nothing was coming. Stacey could feel himself start to panic when the bar keep unwittingly came to his rescue, "Why, I'll bet it was those damn kids."
Mattias looked at him, surprised. "Those 'damned' kids?"
"Uh, yes sir. They've been drugging people and robbin' 'em."
Stacey grabbed on to the story like it was his last breath, "Yeah. I only vaguely remember, but I think some kids stabbed me with something."
"That's odd, people been sayin' they put somethin' over your mouth."
"Uh, that's... that's what I meant."
Mattias gave Stacey a questioning look, "Kids huh? Well, it's good your here at any rate. Amazing that you were somehow able to remember to come here even after being poisoned, but maybe this is fate's way of letting us know that our new enterprise is the right one."
Thursday, March 8, 2012
Sniper Rifle
I'm really not sure why I bought it. I guess maybe I thought it might be fun to show to my friends, but I never did. I remember looking for it online, wondering if "Sniper Rifle" was a keyword that might get you tagged by the government. It didn't take long for me to find the Remington 700 VTR. The $700 it would cost didn't deter me. I lived in a one room apartment (if it could even be called that) in the attic of a house that had been remodeled to have multiple residents. 107 1/3, Baker's street was my official address, the kind of place UPS has a hard time finding. Rent was only $150 a month plus utilities, I spent very little on food, and I worked nights mixing drinks at "Feint," a popular nightclub only a few blocks from my house. I didn't have much in my life, but disposable income was not hard to come by.
It came on a Tuesday, just as I was waking up for the day. I heard the man in brown shorts come jogging up the long, straight, wooden staircase that led to my door. He knocked and ran right back down. When I opened it, I really didn't know what to do with it. I spent an extra $500 on a scope, but then had to look on the internet to figure out how to mount it. It took a few hours, but I finally figured it out. I also ordered a box of bullets, and a bag to carry it in. Again, why did I think I was going to carry it anywhere? I didn't shoot guns. I didn't have friends who shot guns, but I loaded my rifle just the same and looked into the scope. All I saw was wall, and it made me sick when I tried to move it so I could see something other than white. When I pulled my eye out, I looked to my right and saw the one window in my whole apartment. I didn't think about how it might look, I just wanted to find somewhere to test the scope, so I opened my window and stuck the barrel out. This worked much better. I was able to see up and down my street, and was amazed at how close everything looked.
That night I put my gun back in its case and went to work. The next day I woke up, and decided to look out my window again. I noticed a jogger, which I easily followed with my scope. I also saw some kids playing, a man getting dressed through a window, and several people in cars who were all easy to see and follow around.
It quickly became an obsession. I loved looking down that scope. It was fun to try and figure out what people were doing, or saying. The rifle felt good against my shoulder too. It seemed to fit me. It took a few months, but eventually the gun didn't feel so heavy, and I was able to look for longer. It was three months to the day that finger ever touched the trigger. I had just been holding the stock with both my hands. Maybe I should have ordered a telescope instead. But my finger being one the trigger wasn't a problem right? I was never going to shoot anyone, it just felt right for it to be there. I wasn't a killer. I wasn't going to shoot anyone, right? Right?
It came on a Tuesday, just as I was waking up for the day. I heard the man in brown shorts come jogging up the long, straight, wooden staircase that led to my door. He knocked and ran right back down. When I opened it, I really didn't know what to do with it. I spent an extra $500 on a scope, but then had to look on the internet to figure out how to mount it. It took a few hours, but I finally figured it out. I also ordered a box of bullets, and a bag to carry it in. Again, why did I think I was going to carry it anywhere? I didn't shoot guns. I didn't have friends who shot guns, but I loaded my rifle just the same and looked into the scope. All I saw was wall, and it made me sick when I tried to move it so I could see something other than white. When I pulled my eye out, I looked to my right and saw the one window in my whole apartment. I didn't think about how it might look, I just wanted to find somewhere to test the scope, so I opened my window and stuck the barrel out. This worked much better. I was able to see up and down my street, and was amazed at how close everything looked.
That night I put my gun back in its case and went to work. The next day I woke up, and decided to look out my window again. I noticed a jogger, which I easily followed with my scope. I also saw some kids playing, a man getting dressed through a window, and several people in cars who were all easy to see and follow around.
It quickly became an obsession. I loved looking down that scope. It was fun to try and figure out what people were doing, or saying. The rifle felt good against my shoulder too. It seemed to fit me. It took a few months, but eventually the gun didn't feel so heavy, and I was able to look for longer. It was three months to the day that finger ever touched the trigger. I had just been holding the stock with both my hands. Maybe I should have ordered a telescope instead. But my finger being one the trigger wasn't a problem right? I was never going to shoot anyone, it just felt right for it to be there. I wasn't a killer. I wasn't going to shoot anyone, right? Right?
Wednesday, March 7, 2012
Sally, Part 29
Sally, Part 28
The boy was still talking when Stacey walked away. The horizon seemed to sway within the framework of Stacey's hazy vision. He was trying not to cry, as he staggered down streets and occasionally into people. He couldn't hold back anymore and started to call out, "Sally! Sally! Sally, where are you?" Of course, he got no answer, but strange looks, and the occasional murmur of 'crazy' or 'drunk.'
It had been years, but Stacey could still remember the face of that little baby. The way he drank from the makeshift bottle, the way he stayed so quiet, as if he knew that a sound would get them both killed, the way he cooed and smiled, Stacey remembered it all as he staggered through the street. He didn't stop either. He went past the market, down alleyways, through districts, and even through the forbidden roads where no one but thieves and murderers dared tread, but if whatever was making him call out and stumble as he did was catching, no sane person wanted to get near it, so Stacey went on undisturbed, tears streaming down his face.
As pictures of Sally, and what Stacey thought Sally might be one day passed before him, a feeling of loneliness grew within him. Surely, he could not go back to the ship now, nor did he want to. He had no food to bring, so his crimes would be obvious. This meant though, that he had no crew. He had no family. And now, he had no Sally. He had never felt more alone, and his mind couldn't stop going over each fact until, if he could have figured out how, he would have torn his brain from his skull and be done with thinking all together.
Just as he thought of removing his thinking apparatus, he tripped and fell flat on his over-sized nose. If he'd had more wits about him, he would have noticed people openly laughing at him, but when he lifted his head, he saw what appeared to be a blessing from The Gods, and refused to take it as anything other. It was the next best thing to ripping out his brain, it was the pub. If ever a man needed to forget, it was him. If ever a man needed to stop thinking, it was him. As quick as he could, he lifted himself off the earth and marched into that bar.
Wide, he swung the door open, and took three steps in when he noticed who was at the bar. "Stacey! I was beginning to wonder if you'd come at all." Stacey had wandered into none other than The Mace and Sword, the place Mattias told him to go after he was done buying the food, and there he sat, having an ale with Syrin.
The boy was still talking when Stacey walked away. The horizon seemed to sway within the framework of Stacey's hazy vision. He was trying not to cry, as he staggered down streets and occasionally into people. He couldn't hold back anymore and started to call out, "Sally! Sally! Sally, where are you?" Of course, he got no answer, but strange looks, and the occasional murmur of 'crazy' or 'drunk.'
It had been years, but Stacey could still remember the face of that little baby. The way he drank from the makeshift bottle, the way he stayed so quiet, as if he knew that a sound would get them both killed, the way he cooed and smiled, Stacey remembered it all as he staggered through the street. He didn't stop either. He went past the market, down alleyways, through districts, and even through the forbidden roads where no one but thieves and murderers dared tread, but if whatever was making him call out and stumble as he did was catching, no sane person wanted to get near it, so Stacey went on undisturbed, tears streaming down his face.
As pictures of Sally, and what Stacey thought Sally might be one day passed before him, a feeling of loneliness grew within him. Surely, he could not go back to the ship now, nor did he want to. He had no food to bring, so his crimes would be obvious. This meant though, that he had no crew. He had no family. And now, he had no Sally. He had never felt more alone, and his mind couldn't stop going over each fact until, if he could have figured out how, he would have torn his brain from his skull and be done with thinking all together.
Just as he thought of removing his thinking apparatus, he tripped and fell flat on his over-sized nose. If he'd had more wits about him, he would have noticed people openly laughing at him, but when he lifted his head, he saw what appeared to be a blessing from The Gods, and refused to take it as anything other. It was the next best thing to ripping out his brain, it was the pub. If ever a man needed to forget, it was him. If ever a man needed to stop thinking, it was him. As quick as he could, he lifted himself off the earth and marched into that bar.
Wide, he swung the door open, and took three steps in when he noticed who was at the bar. "Stacey! I was beginning to wonder if you'd come at all." Stacey had wandered into none other than The Mace and Sword, the place Mattias told him to go after he was done buying the food, and there he sat, having an ale with Syrin.
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