Reality Fix - Lucifer's Crown

by tantan

bed.

  He got off the curricle sloppily, and took a few halting steps. He heard the sound of laughter and the clinking of glasses from within the inn and ran into it.

  "Anything you've got…neat!" he said to the bar man.

  "Yes me lord… at once! Would me lord care to sit in the parlour?"

  "Not necessary," replied Thomas. "Drink…now. Please!"

  "Coming right up" said the bar keeper and proceeded to pour some strange concoction into a glass.

  Thomas finished his blue brew in one gulp and slowly fainted onto the ground, his eyes tightly shut, hands and arms sweating profusely.

  The barkeeper shook his head and muttered disparagingly about snotty nobles not being able to hold their drinks. He carried Thomas into an empty guest room and left him there to sleep it off.

  A Sobering Talent

  A little later Hearthoff entered the bar room. He glanced at one of the locals who was a big fat man and went to his table. "Excuse me sir," he said, "it looks like you have quite a stomach. You must have a tremendous capacity for alcohol."

  "That I do," said the man. "Spicy Mcloaf's the name. Best damn constitution for the brew in town!"

  "You don't say," said Hearthoff looking interested. "I was voted best in London actually. Would you care for a little wager?"

  One of Hearthoff's talents was in remaining sober no matter how much he drank. He heartily hated this talent of his since he didn't get to enjoy the effects of his drink like most other people did, but he had used it to his advantage many times. He could rightfully boast that he had the best stomach for alcohol in the world.

  As always, Hearthoff won this drinking competition making Mcloaf pay for all the drink and food Hearthoff could eat. Apart from the nutritional winnings, Hearthoff had also won a place in every drinker's heart in the inn. They quickly surrounded Hearthoff and offered to buy him more drinks, wondering when he would collapse like Mcloaf just had.

  "Its all about concentration," lied Hearthoff to the crowd. "Concentrate on drinking your entire life and it becomes like water, a natural part of your body."

  This left the room in stitches of laughter even though it wasn't very funny. Sadly, drunks don't have a very good sense of humour, and they usually aren't funny when they're trying to be. It's only when they don't intend it that they're uproariously hilarious. But the laughter wasn't only due to the alcohol and their lousy sense of humour. It was another one of Hearthoff's talents. Whenever he said anything with a certain expression on his face, it made everything he said seem the most hilarious thing in the world. During his Noxford interview he had said, "I killed your grandmother," to one of the interviewer's questions, just to test if he still had full use of this talent. This had left the interviewer in fits of laughter and a guaranteed spot in Noxford for the 'rum old chap'.

  "Anyway" said Hearthoff to the bar room in general. "I'm looking for a certain person who lives in these parts. A Laird McShooflee."

  The room instantly lost its gaiety. A few people shivered. All of them looked down at their shoes hoping that by concentrating on something else they would forget about this reference to the Laird.

  The barkeeper guided Hearthoff to the parlour. "What would you be wanting with the Laird?" he asked. "He'll probably not be having anything to do with your likes. A mad man he be. You don't want anything to be doing with him either. He keeps to his self most times. Praise be to the Lord for that," the barkeeper quickly made the sign of the cross.

  "Oh! He'll see me," Hearthoff chuckled. "He's promised to kill me. So he'll definitely want to see me."

  The barkeeper looked at him as if he'd suddenly gone mad. "Well then," said the barkeeper. "I don't see why you want to see him."

  "Because I have to. It's one of those things."

  "What things?" asked the barkeeper, interested despite himself.

  "A matter of life or death."

  "Your death probably," the barkeeper muttered softly under his breath. "Then I think you should wait till Spicy Mcloaf gets up and ask him. He does work for the Laird though he never talks about it."

  "All right" said Hearthoff cheerfully, "here's to Spicy Mcloaf's recovery," downing a glass of whiskey.

  The Scamp and the Chamberpot

  Thomas woke up to find the strange, dirty face of an urchin boy hovering over him.

  "Lor. I though you were dead," said the urchin boy.

  "I wish I was," groaned Thomas, covering his eyes with his hands.

  "The fancy gentleman in the taproom told me to wake you up," said the urchin boy, who was none other than the shepherd boy Peter fully recovered from last night's binge.

  "Hearthoff? Oh God! That wasn't a nightmare after all. Just give me a few minutes," he said and dozed off back to sleep again.

  "He said that if you didn't get up that I was to douse you," said Peter, apparently enjoying his role as Thomas' tormenter.

  "Just try it, you little…"

  Peter took a pot from near the bedside and poured its contents over Thomas' face. Unfortunately for Thomas, the pot was a chamber pot which hadn't been cleaned for sometime.

  "Aargh!" yelled Thomas, "I'm going to kill you!"

  "I'm sorry," cried Peter, jumping backwards to avoid Thomas' fists. "I thought it was water. Honestly, I did. You can go clean yourself out back. I'll help if you like. And, you did dare me!" exclaimed Peter, trying very hard to make amends.

  "No thank you, you… you…"

  Peter shrugged and went back to the tap room before Thomas could find an appropriate swear word.

  Some time later, Thomas entered the tap room dressed in a new set of clothes with murder in his eyes. Grin and bear it, he thought, grin and bear it. He walked with intent to where Hearthoff was sitting and half said half yelled with a manic smile plastered on his face, "Now look here sir! I've had enough of this damn backwater place with absolutely no plumbing and God alone knows what kind of drinks. I'm going…"

  "Ah," said Hearthoff, interrupting Thomas' tirade. He wrinkled his nose and said, "the lad told me you were awake. Now come. There's not a minute to waste."

  "But…hold on!" said Thomas.

  "Can't lad. Time is of the essence now." He sauntered off to the curricle outside, followed by Thomas, Peter and Spicy Mcloaf.

  "What's this fiend doing here?" asked Thomas, pointing at Peter, who was climbing onto the back of the curricle with Mary's lamb.

  "He's coming with us. Thinks we can help him, poor lad."

  "Help him with what?" asked Thomas forgetting his own indignation.

  "His lady love had been kidnapped by witches, and I promised we'd help him."

  "Witches? No! We aren't helping him. We're going back to Mondon. I don't want anything to do with witches and God alone knows what else."

  "Calm down. It wasn't witches, I'm sure. Just humour the poor lad. We'll find his girl in the countryside somewhere. Or, if my suspicions are correct, she's already where we're headed."

  "And where are we headed?" asked Thomas.

  "You'll see."

  "Grin and bear it," Thomas growled under his breath.

  "What was that lad?"

  "I asked, 'are we near it', Sir?"

  "Yes lad. Very near now."

  Hearthoff cracked his whip and followed Spicy Mcloaf's horse to the Laird's castle.

  Claymores are soooo Last Century

  "You!" cried the Laird, pointing at Hearthoff with a trembling finger, face red with rage, ignoring Peter, Thomas, and the lamb who were shrinking within themselves to avoid being noticed.

  "It's a pleasure to see you too Shooflee," said Hearthoff, holding his arms outstretched for a hug. "It has been a while, hasn't it?"

  Shooflee debated whether to punch the socks off Hearthoff, or question him further. Curiosity won. "What are you doing in my castle?" he asked. "I swore that the next time I saw you I'd have my claymore scraping your guts, and pricking out your eyeballs for billiard balls."

  "Claymores?" sighed Hearthoff. "Rapiers are the thing now Sh
ooflee. You've got to move with the times. And we need your help. It concerns you as well. In fact, it concerns you more than it does us. Are you concerned Shooflee?"

  "Stop with this farce of a conversation and get on with it," Shooflee growled.

  "All right! I'll enlighten you, and in return you'll let bygones be bygones."

  Shooflee possessed more intelligence than people credited his big hefty frame for. He decided he wanted to learn more before getting his sword out of the storage room.

  "Laird Shooflee. Or Lord. You can choose which. And this had better be a matter of great concern Hearthoff, or else…" He allowed Hearthoff to guide him to the ante chamber where they talked for an hour, while the butler brought refreshments for Peter, Thomas and the lamb (at Peter's insistence).

  "All right, it's settled," cried Hearthoff from the other room.

  "You get to keep your eyeballs," shouted Shooflee. "For now," he added.

  Hearthoff and Shooflee spat on their hands and shook. They then returned to the hall where Peter, Thomas and the lamb were finishing their drinks contentedly.

  "It's settled. Get a good night's rest. We've got one hell of a journey tomorrow."

  Thomas turned to Hearthoff with a questioning look.

  "You'll find out tomorrow, laddie," said Hearthoff. "I'm too tired to answer any questions now. Good night everyone." He rushed up the stairs like he owned the place and disappeared from view.

  Thomas sighed. "If I could get that man to answer a single question," he said, "it would be a miracle".

  The laird guffawed, "Right you are son. If Hearthoff answers a single question that matters, then I'll run through the town naked." He guffawed again and sipped contentedly on his scotch,