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Tales Of The Drake: A Child Born Bare

“I heard he survived the Cockatrice’s death-gaze, and sliced it’s head clean off!” Haganrich had spat through his teeth, spewing mutton across the round table as Jop lept out of his seat to protest.

“Oh yeah Rich? And he did that with his magical blade that turns into a dragon?” Haganrich slouched in his chair, realizing the absurdity of the tale but just as quickly found his posture and pointed a finger at his best friend Jop.

“I know it’s mad Jop, but it’s true! Blimey, me goddamn cousin Rawkin saw the Drake himself!” Jop began giggling through the pint of lager pressed on his teeth.

“Your lying cheatin, sunova bitch cousin Rawkin?” Jop licked his teeth and grew a smile. “Yeah I believe Rawkin believes he saw that! Believes it’ll help him gain some favor and maybe a coin with you.”

“Well how else do you explain all the rumors? There has to be some basis Jop!”

“There’s some destined hero, born of a prophecy, running around with a talking sword?” Haganrich made a dumbfounded face once more.

“He must of been born of the gods, a silver spoon AND golden fork to boot in his gullet!” A third voice joined in.

“Wrong!” Jop and Rich turned their heads to a very small, hooded man, sitting at the bar. His nose, the only feature protruding from under the hood, was bulbous and almost green in color.

“What did you say?” Rich asked.

“He’s wrong, all wrong, very wrong.” Jop threw an arm around the shoulder of his chair, excited at the thought of another idiot to condescend to.

“And what am I wrong about-” Jop looked the stranger up and down, or what he could, “-Little man?” The hooded figure snickered and snarled and lept from his high-top chair, prancing across the room with pointed shoes. A small palm opened on the table. “Information you seek, and a coin to spare? Give it to Meek! And the story I’ll share!” Jop looked to Rich and shrugged his brows, and Rich moved a coin of his own to the small hand.

“Seems Rawkin has become quite the actor, Rich.” Jop relaxed in his chair and watched the small man.

‘I am no Thespian! I am Meek! But Machiavellian, for coins I speak!” Jop stared at the man for a moment.

“What?” The small hand quickly moved the coin inside its robe and the man shook both his extremities about.

“Yes, yes! We speak of the Drake, and all the tales he’s spun along the way!” The small hands contorted into shapes and smoke grew from the impact they caused as they slammed together.

“Jop! What is he doing?” Richs face lay wide alongside Jops as the image of a child formed in the cloud.

“The Drake you see, was not rich, but born of trifling, stifling, stitch! No silver spoon or golden ware, a true and through, child born bare!” An image of a man on a battlefield grew from the shape of the child now, cascading into a bed-ridden woman, before showing the child a little older, set beside a window “His father killed, his mother ill, poor sweet child upon a sill. A commander arrived, whisked away the child, AH-HA! A new life!” A man in armor lifted the child in the smoke and as he rose, a young man he became. “Through determination and poise, he grew from a boy! But tragedy and strife, tore the man from his life!” The smoke turned red as a dragon wrapped itself around the head of the now man. “A crown of thorns, a throne of horns! The great Raygon, he now adorned.” The cloud formed again into a man on a battlefield, but this time it was the child and not his father. He had fallen to his knees, grasping someone in his hands. “Once a great ally, Lombard the brave, grew to a bad guy, Lombard the black! Killing his newfound family and friends, turning the drake from amends.” An image of a white haired man, almost feminine in beauty showed through the smoke, with a wry smile. The face caught a flame, burning away in embers. “Fire and brimstone, might and ire, for Lombard, the Drake prepares, a funeral pyre!” The dragon, last seen as a crown was now a hulking, sharp, beast, saddled by the Drake himself, holding a blade and fiery red locks. The cloud dispersed in hot air, bellowing across the table, slapping Jop and Rich in the face. They were both now leaning forward, full attention on Meek, the small, magic casting man.

“H-how.. Who are you?” Jop lurched back realizing he may be in some danger, but Rich peered closer at the man. The hood washed back revealing a green dome, with pointed ears and prickled jaws, a goblin through and through.

“A traveling talesman, I am Meek! Of my masters story do I speak!” He clicked his tongue and snapped a finger. “Payed well I am, to spread the word, of which my master says must be heard!” Meek grimaced, hanging low across the table, his fangs placing Rich farther back now in his chair. “Tell one, tell all! My master exclaimed, that he, The Drake, hunts for Lombards pain!”

[steviebbooks-blog]

A Grease Stain In Time: Vol 1

“Yes, of course, one second…” Teresa Mangione made her way timidly up her stairs, her own stairs. Her steps were light, and fragile, like the placement of her hair, standing tall in a bulbous round bump on the middle of her head. A black mass pressed down hard on her like a force from satan himself. Each step up sounded less like the wood creaking and more like the cries of pained, dead men. A ghoulish “Nooooooo!” and a weak, yet demanding “Gooooo Awaaaaay”. Teresa’s face seemed to grow pale, despite the pastel pinks and blues lining her eyes and lips. Her voice called out, up and over the wall of darkness.

“Tony! Phone!” It was no quiet call mind you, but all that returned in reply sounded back muffled and off topic.

“Regrets… I’ve had a few…” She had to stop her ascension up the stairs to think, as if doing both might warrant a sit down and a cigarette, like after a night dancing with her girl-friends.

“My way? That’s definitely not Frank Sinatra’s voice though.” She continued up, and at the top, she stopped again at the door. Her hand hovered pensively over the golden handle, its rounded chasis clinking and shuttering and popping like a real live teeny bopper seeing Madonna on stage or Harrison Ford on screen. She moved her hand back and hovered it by the middle of the door, before striking it twice.

KNOCK KNOCK.

The music grew louder as if shouting at her, telling her to “FUCK OFF”.

KNOCK KNOCK

Again the music barked back, like a mad dog, like that festering mutt Cujo “FUCK OFF, LEAVE, I SAID FUCK OFF”.

She kneeded her hands like dough and lifted the right to knock again. The door swung open, and a bushel of smoke rushed out hitting Teresa in the face, causing a cough, and the void screamed! “MY WAAAAAAAAY!” Her son stood, off-set, leaning on one leg, shirtless, his small pink nipples perked and his black hair greased back with the blood of innocent virgins, a smoke hanging from his lips, and a crimson red electric Fender named Lacey, hung on his shoulder. His head remained cocked back, and his fangs, chomping on the cigarette filter, muffled his voice.

“Fuck you want?” Teresa caught her breath and met eyes with her son. Her eyes darted to and fro, catching THEIR breath, and her mind conjured up a reaction. ATTACK! She slapped a hand across the side of the demons face, knocking the cigarette to the ground, putting it out miraculously. She turned, to hide the tears forming in her eyes, from fear of retaliation.

“Your Pop pops on the phone, and I told you not to smoke.” Tony’s face un-clinched from its twisted, post slap position and smirked.

“Love ya too mom!” He grabbed the smoke off the floor, to save for later, and lightly, slowly, even tenderly, removed the Fender from his shoulder and placed it on his bed. In moments Tony was downstairs, donning a shirt now that read “The Damned” in bright yellow words and housed four young men’s faces covered in cake remnants. Teresa was holding the phone tightly and placed it into Tony’s boney fingers with two hands, and a whisper.

“You be nice, he turns eighty today.” Tony took the phone in his grasp and eyed his mom with that same smirk but she didn’t let go. The two locked eyes again for a moment, Teresa looking intent at her ingrate with fierce brown bulbs. He laughed a “What???” as her grip loosened and he pulled the cord in his other hand. He placed the receiver to his ear and watched his mom, watching him. An old course voice quailed from the phone.

“Anthony?” The young devil stretched his lips again in self indulgence as he looked into his mother’s eyes and said “The fuck do you want” Teresa began slamming limp hands down on Tony as he laughed and talked again. “Yeah, yeah what’s up old man?”

“It’s my birthday…” He took long breaths between couples of words. “Wanted to hear your voice”.

“Yeah, well happy birthday, you heard my voice.” Tony attempted to put the phone down but the old man said that thing, he always said.

“You keep your nose clean Anthony... I’ll be seeing you.” He held the phone to his face and the fire in his bones heated and heated, but he didn’t let it burn. No, he gave the phone to his mom and grabbed his leathers.

“Tony, where you going now!” Teresa called watching her son slam the coat closet shut as he put on that god awful leather jack she hated, the damned thing with its rainbow colored “69”s and melting zombie face patches. Tony swung the front door open, the sun beating through the hole now created, making his greased head shine.

“Didn’t ya hear ma? I’m keeping my nose clean!”

To Be Continued.