paranoidofficial - Tumblr blog

paranoidofficial · 9 months

Text

Not A Hedge Wizard, pt. 1 (BONUS CONTENT)

A peek behind the veil of the Mentus Obscura- A local boxing ring for the paranormal in Portland hosts a chance interaction for a wolf and a witch...

Jackson had never seen a giant in person before, but his cousin had been telling him for weeks about The Goliath. 20 Wins, 4 Ties, 0 Losses was where the Goliath stood in the big city in the dense woods, Portland Oregon, The Warehouse. The building was an unassuming concrete and plaster skeleton set right in the center of the industrial district on the west side of town, beyond the bridges and bougie 5 star dine-in’s and gastro-pubs.

“You sure this is the place?” Shelly asked, pointing out to the graffiti-covered warehouse. Jackson slid his hand across the console, and patted her leg.

“Sure as sure can be, dolly. Robert doesn’t spin tales.” he said, in a voice thicker than a briarpatch. Jackson extracted a wad of gum from his mouth, and flicked it out the window, as per instructed. Then, he honked the car once, twice, and then three times, before stepping out and walking to the front of his car. Jackson sat down on the front bumper, setting an envelope out behind the angelic hood ornament on his cherry-red muscle car. Finally, the piece-de-resistance- A fortune cookie, extracted from his front shirt pocket, and set on top of the envelope.

A minute passed. Jackson dug a fingernail into his mud-soaked romeos. The fortune cookie rose off the hood of the car, and the cheap cellophane wrapper shucked. The cookie split in two, and the paper fortune was extracted from its carbohydrate cocoon.

“‘You will find yourself entangled in challenges that you could not foresee coming. Do not lose faith, stay the path’. That’s one fruity fortune, I’ll tell you- Where the hell did you get this?” A voice, nasally and smug, spilled from the thin air in front of Jackson. Half of the fortune cookie crumpled into the man’s mouth, before disappearing into the void.

“Chang’s Diner.” Jackson said.

“Never heard of it- You from around here?”

“Nope. Drove in this morning. Can we wrap this up? I wanna get good seats.”

“Yeah, Yeah. Step out of the car, I’ll get it into the backlot. Head up to the garage- I’ll let them know you’re coming.”

“Great.” Jackson stood up, and rapped on the front hood of the muscle car, winking at Shelly.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“TWO STRIKES FROM GOLIATH- THREE STRIKES FROM GOLIATH - AND COBRA IS ON THE ROPES- and here comes the clutch from Cobra!” The announcer screamed from his plinth, as the crowd bustled and jeered at the decadent orgy of violence.

“Jesus, you see that, Shelly? He’s like- 8 foot tall, how the hell is this a fair fight?” Jackson whisper-yelled into Shelly’s ear, his beefy arm wrapped around her. Shelly shrugged, and gave a smirk.

“Well, of course he’d choose an easy fight.” Shelly remarked.

“What do you mean by that, Walnut?”

“He organizes the fights, Jackson.”

“And? Look at him, up there.” Jackson stated, pointing with his hand curled around a cup of beer. The bell rung- it’s the end of the round, and Goliath is back in his corner, arms outstretched on the ropes. He was huge- a head like a cro-magnon and long, sinewy muscles made of focused practice and a lifetime of violence. Jackson was once fit, tough- a former boxer himself- but age and penmanship had turned his former 6 pack into a keg stand. But the Goliath, a giant, loved to parade his story to anyone who’d listen in the darkened corners of bars and eateries in Portland- A street kid spent too long by himself in junkyards and ghettos, finds himself growing a chin of steel and bones made of stones, and instead of abusing the townsfolk and getting himself burned to death, he makes lemonade out of lemons with one hell of a personal trainer, and a dream.

The bell is struck. To the center, Goliath touched gloves with The Cobra- A shorter, lithe combatant with narrow, snakelike eyes and a pattern of red and black scales running down his chest. His tongue flicked out, lapping in the aroma of the Goliath- Long, forlorn, and bulky. The bout began with Goliath on the assault, baring down on the Cobra with a flurry of jabs and straights, like a tank on a tread. The Cobra, however, weaved a thread of action between each strike, still waiting for his chance to move in, an audible hiss cutting below the din of the crowd.

“Scuzeeeeeee me. I think, You and yer lady friend are in my spot, actually…” A voice between a helium balloon deflating and a drunken cat getting stepped on slurred. Jackson felt Shelly’s hand grab his arm. Her eyes flicked to Jackson’s.

The writer shook his head, and rubbed his nose. Ignore. He’ll go away.

The drunkard leaned down, spilling himself into Shelly’s lap, his hand clenched on her shoulder. He smelled of beer and cheap cigarettes, and his scraggly mop of reddish hair hung off his forehead like moss clinging to bark. Jackson felt his jaw ache. Ignore, Ignore. Ignore.

He pouted, and snorted a line of snot back into his nose. Shelly avoided eye contact, staring right through him. The man leaned back, in a stumbling backstep, and came forward, snapping his fingers in Shelly’s face.

“Wha- Come on, this is MY SEAT! I paid for it, Go ask the gillman at the front, c’mon… Ar’ you enchanted or something?” He demanded. Shelly’s grip tightened on Jackson’s arm. Alright, enough.

“Hey, how about you leave the lady alone, buddy?” Jackson said. The drunkard made eye contact with Jackson, staring at him as if the metal folding chair he sat on had begun to speak.

“Whu- do you even LIVE HERE, Orge?” The drunkard said. Jackson’s fist clenched around his wife's chair. She let out a gentle sigh, and scooted closer to her husband. Jackson raised an eyebrow, a tell he picked up in his youth from the sport- Try it again, and I’ll rip your goddamn heart out.

The drunkard’s eye twitched. His chapped lips pursed, and flattened, and bulged?

“Uuuuuuuuuurp.”

From beyond his lips came forth a thin, brownish slime that slipped out from his clenched mouth. Then, the bulbous frogging of his cheeks, and then, the release. It splattered down the lap of Shelly’s cornflower yellow dress, staining it a dark green with spots of bright fluorescent orange. Fragments of corn puffs and pretzel bites clung to the loose fabric. With the patience of a saint, Shelly took a deep, long inhale through her nose, and held her breath in a caught scream.

“OOOOOOOH THE BIG GUYS MAD NOW!!!” Screamed the announcer, as the Goliath took a withering punch to the nose. His lips flared, the blood-red mouth-guard clenched under his molars.

Jackson stood up, and kicked his chair back, stepping beyond Shelly. His fingers ached under the clench of his thumb. His neck cracked and warped, and his canines screeched against his lower teeth. The drunkard stumbled back, wiping the vomit off his mouth with the back of his hand. Jackson’s hair bristled- COWARD.

“Hey, man, I uh- No harm done, take my seat-” The soon-to-be-deadman eulogized. Jackson’s fist cocked back, and he gave a hungry grin. A thin, beastal pant was building in his chest, his coiled prey drive waking up and stretching for a walk.

For a moment, Jackson feels bad. Ding goes the bell.

The drunkard fell, his nose crushed under the werewolves fist. He panted, and slobbered, and crawled away like a roach with dementia. The crowd gave him a wary glance, and resumed their observation of the real fight, while Jackson lifted the man by the back collar of his jacket, like a dog by the scruff of his neck. Jackson flipped his phone out of his pocket, rapidly dialing a number, and kicked open the front glass door of the arena.

“Wait, Wait, you can’t fuckin’ kill me, I’m a witch, I’m a witch, I’m a witch.” He sobbed, clutching Jackson’s arm in his sweaty palms.

“Calm down. I’m not going to kill you. Give me your address, and your name.” Jackson barked. The drunkard gulped, and responded.

“I live in Gresham- Fuck, man, please- I’m- I’m Instanbul. Jus- let me go.” Istanbul cried.

“What a name. Hello?” Jackson responded, before hopping back on his phone.

“RunWyld Cabs, Portland. Who am I speaking to?”

“Jackson Brun-Hilde. I need a car for my friend…” Jackson winced. “Istanbul.”

“Uh… huh. Where are you?” The operator said. Jackson rattled off the address of the Arena, and dropped the witch to the floor. His body made a firm thwack against the cracked concrete.

“Alright, where you going, sir?” The operator said.

“Nowhere. You’ll be taking my drunk friend here home, wherever that is.”

“Is he awake? Can you ask him for his address?”

Jackson leaned down, and grabbed the back of the drunkard’s neck, raising him off the concrete. Snot ran down his nose, and his breathes rasped through his lips. Jackson put the flip-phone against Istanbul's ear, and motioned for him to talk.

“H-Hello? Yeah, uh… umm… 7334 NE Terrance… Yeah, Northside… Ok. Ummmm… Yeah, I’ll have a credit card…” He sputtered. Jackson looked down at the hedge-wizard- covered in dirt, blood smeared across his forehead- and felt a pang of guilt. The wolfman sat down on the curb next to the drunkard, and sighed.

“Jesus, you’re a mess. What’s the big idea of trying to raise a fight at an unfortunate’s hideaway, anyways? I thought you guys were above it all.”

The Hedge Wizard crawled forward and swung his legs up into a fetal position. His chin was crushed between his kneecaps. His gaze narrowed forward, the glare of a man struggling not to dry heave.

“You stole my seat, man. I just wanted my seat back.”

“Bullshit, I had been glued to 20C since the show started, and your enchanted ass never showed up.”

“... 20C?”

“20C.”

“... I was in the wrong section. Goddammit. I’m sorry for vomiting on your gals dress.”

Istanbul rested his head on top of his knees, looking over at Jackson. An apology from a wizard was like an admission of guilt from a politician- rare, and shockingly sincere when it happens. Jackson’s neck unknotted, and he sighed.

“It’s alright. Just pay for the dry cleaning bill. You said you lived at 7334 NE Terrance? Eh, here.” Jackson said, reaching for his wallet.

A manila white business card sat on top of Istanbul's tan corduroy pants. On it read, in great bold letters,

Jackson Brun-Hilde

Author

“Huh, A lycan that writes.” Istanbul said.

“Wow, a hedge wizard without manners.” Jackson said.

“Not a hedge wizard. Didn’t say your kind couldn’t, just figured you’d prefer something a bit more…”

“Animalistic? Wolfy?”

“Look, I get it. Sorry.”

The Taxi Cab honked as it approached, and opened its back door to the drunken witch. Istanbul stood up, and waddled to the open door, slipping inside it’s carriage. His head set against the window, and the cab drove off, leaving Jackson alone in the chill night.

A loud, booming cheer echoed through the lobby, surprising Jackson. Faintly, above the din of the rapturous crowd, a count could be heard- “7, 8, 9, 10, KNOCKOUT!!! THE GOLIATH HAS DONE IT AGAIN! THE COBRA IS OUT COLD ON THE MAT!”

Jackson scoffed, and ran a hand through his loose hair. Whatever. He’d push the doors of the lobby back open, and meet his wife again, determined to salvage the evening back from the strange drunken hedge wizard. It wouldn’t be until the next morning that he’d even remember he gave his business card to the little man.

#horror #paranoid #writing #short story #mystery #magic #urban fantasy

1 note · View note