Unidentified Funny Objects 2

by Silverberg, Robert

  It was just like that damned elf to screw me out of my hours while giving me a case with a hundred plaintiffs. The jury was looking at a legion of young, hurt faces like some giant box of puppies who all needed good homes. Luc Brawnshield was on the stand, his acne-free, handsome face telling the story of how this old man descended on his meager farm, urging the boy to step into his destiny. Luc had dived in, working his fingers to the bone doing odd jobs for ducats. He washed horses, sold Troll Scout brownies, and donned a wig to work as a bar wench, earning four and a half of the five installment payments for Cleave, apparently the most out of any of the farmboys, but not enough. And all for nothing.

  Crap. When Luc’s eyes brimmed with tears as he talked about how the men of the bar called him flat-chested, everyone in the jury box brought out tissues.

  Screw this. Orcs don’t go down without a fight. Unless it’s a death march. Lots of us go down on death marches. And Luc Brawnshield was making this case feel like one. I was gonna make this guy pay. It was my witness.

  Me: How do you know my client?

  Luc: He came to my farm and said I was the Chosen One.

  Me: What’d he specifically say about the Chosen One?

  Luc: He said the Chosen One would emerge to vanquish the coming evil and that I was he.

  Me: How do you know he wasn’t just identifying your gender?

  Luc: Huh?

  Me: You are he. And I’m he. The only ones who are she’s in the courtroom are a couple jurors and Llevar, judging by the high voice and stylish purse. Are you not a guy?

  Luc: I’m a guy.

  Me: Is destiny like a pair of shoes?

  Luc: Huh?

  Me: You said my client told you to “step into your destiny.” So I’m wondering; does destiny feel like a pair of shoes? Is destiny comfortable? Does destiny provide proper arch support?

  Luc: Um… maybe?

  Me: Tell me, according to you, how does one step into their destiny?

  Luc: I don’t know. It just kind of happens, I guess.

  Me: If it just kinda happens, why’d you work all those jobs?

  Luc: I… I thought I was stepping into my destiny.

  Me: No. You think destiny just kinda happens, so it don’t matter whether you’re working yourself stupid or plopping down on your ass to watch it grow fatter, destiny’s still gonna happen. Do you know what happens when you try to rush destiny?

  Luc: You get swindled by an old man claiming to be an all-powerful seer?

  Me: No, you get called flat-chested by a room full of dudes looking at a flat ass chest!

  The magistrate brought down his hammer, which was a good thing this time. It was starting to feel like the old days, what with me towering over a farmboy at my mercy. I was a second away from grabbing him by the shirt and throwing him into a slave cart when the hammer hit. That’s when I remembered we hadn’t burned his village down and that I had no further questions.

  I figured Llevar would have no more witnesses seeing as he had had Luc speak for over a hundred people. Nope. The elf stood up holding a sheathed sword, jewels encrusted throughout its hilt.

  “Your Honor, I would like to call Cleave to the stand.”

  The magistrate looked at Llevar with the same expression that must’ve been on my face.

  “Cleave is a talking sword,” Llevar said, “gods-blessed, forged to cut through the forces of darkness and, in this case, provide invaluable testimony.”

  “I’ll allow it,” the magistrate said.

  Llevar pulled Cleave out of its sheath, revealing a sword that seemed to reflect every ray of light in the room. The crowd of farmboys oohed in awe. Llevar propped the sword, point up, on the witness chair.

  “Hello, Cleave.”

  “Whattup.” The voice definitely came from the sword, and the light it reflected seemed to shimmer a bit when it spoke.

  “State your name for the court.”

  “Cleavon Daggarious Rumbleskins Jackson. Folks call me Cleave—Mr. Jackson if you nasty.”

  “Well, Cleave, could you tell us a little bit about yourself?”

  “I was made long ago by monk-clerics using some mystic ass secrets. I’m talking them rare metals like unobtainium, triple-platinum, and hardas-hellium. They blinged me out so you could see a sword shining. I’m the only weapon in the world that can cut the dog shit out of ultimate evil, which is why I need to be in the hands of the Chosen One.”

  Llevar paced back and forth as the sword talked, nodding appreciatively. He stopped and looked at the jury as he spoke to the sword. “So you were specifically designed to be wielded by the Chosen One to vanquish evil.”

  “Damn straight,” the sword shimmer-spoke. “In the Chosen One’s hands I take out ultimate evil and all the lil’ evils that wanna get froggy. Like that orc there in the dirty rags. I was made to slide right through his ass like a hot roll that needs butterin’.”

  Llevar continued to look at the jury. “What would you say to a whole room of men who were all told they were the Chosen One?”

  “I’d call ninety-nine percent of them suckers. It ain’t hard math, baby. Ain’t but one Chosen One.”

  Llevar had no further questions, which made this sword my witness. I didn’t know exactly what I wanted to ask it, I just knew I wasn’t going to let it talk smack about me on the stand like that. I stood up and got started.

  Me: So, you go by Cleave?

  Cleave: Yo, why you talking to me, son? Shouldn’t I be in your stomach right now, laughing while you die around me?

  Me: I ain’t your son.

  Cleave: I don’t know, B. I’ve stuck more unwed, single orc girls in one night than you have your whole life. That makes me the expert. Yo, you need to listen to the experts.

  Me: Speaking of experts, how much experience do you have being wielded by the Chosen One while he’s vanquishing the ultimate evil?

  Cleave: Word? You trying to question my pedigree? I keeps it real, son, been reppin’ this game my whole life. See that’s the difference between real weaponry and fake citizenry. You started life getting massaged through a soft birth canal. Me? I started my life getting beat with hammers over a forge, catching a real ass whipping. I ain’t no punk.

  Me: So by the numbers, that would make the times the Chosen One has used you to end the ultimate evil as… ?

  Cleave: It ain’t happened yet.

  Me: If it ain’t happened, how do you know it’s supposed to happen?

  Cleave: Cause I’m a talking sword, yo! You don’t make things like me as party favors. You only pull Cleave out the pocket when you wanna cleave something, ya feel me? The old heads knew that, that’s why they wrote that prophecy about the Chosen One breaking out the one and only Mr. Jackson here and getting nasty on some evil. And on some stupid, which is why I can’t wait to put an edge in you.

  Me: Seeing how you got no legs, it’s gonna have to wait, sword. Have you actually read the prophecy?

  Cleave: Don’t you need eyes for that? What, they making sword-Braille now?

  Me: I’ll take that as a no.

  Cleave: You pressin’ on the wrong one, son. If you ain’t got no more questions, you need to step.

  Me: I got one more question. You a punk ass sword. Oh wait, that wasn’t a question. OK, why are you sitting on a chair shimmer-speaking instead of out reppin’ this game? Don’t bother, I already answered this… ’cause you a punk ass sword. No further questions.

  Llevar got up and retrieved Cleave, sticking it in its sheath while it was still talking about what it was gonna do to me. The prosecution’s case rested, which meant it was my turn. I looked over to my right at Algus Truthseer, sitting there crumpled like he was getting paid by the wrinkle. I looked up at the magistrate.

  “Recess?”

  “No.”

  The way I saw it, I needed Algus on the stand. I mean, I hadn’t proved he hadn’t intentionally swindled a small nation of farmboys out of all their money. And in this courtroom, only Algus was gonna vouch for Algus.
I figured I could wrangle him in the right direction if I handled him with soft paws. He was simply passionate about his vision of darkness, not unlike the Dark Lord Blooddrencher. Man, could that overlord motivate. I called Algus to the stand.

  Me: Is darkness rising?

  Algus: Darkness… is rising!

  Me: How great is the need for the Chosen One?

  Algus: The need is great!

  Me: These sound like desperate times. And what do desperate times call for?

  Algus: Mail order brides!

  Me: Maybe. That’s a desperate measure, no matter how you look at it. Would you say desperation drove you to find the Chosen One?

  Algus: Yes! He must step into his destiny and vanquish the penultimate evil!

  Me: Sounds deep.

  Algus: It is indeed very deep, dear defender of the public. Just as you have been appointed by this very court to represent us downtrodden souls who lack the capability, knowledge, and wit to speak eloquently on our own behalves, so too has the Chosen One been appointed by destiny herself to represent all the besotted races throughout the Seven Realms from the ever-growing reach of dark, immortal forces whose near-insurmountable power lies beyond the strength of normal mortals. My mission is one of serious gravity and the utmost urgency.

  Me: Um… OK. So, you didn’t intentionally swindle any of these farmboys?

  Algus: No.

  I had no further questions. And for the first time since I took this damn case, I felt good about the outcome. I turned it over to Llevar, but not without first showing him the backside of my middle finger, real discreet like. Let him argue that.

  Llevar launched out of his seat, scowling. He headed over to the witness stand.

  “Algus Truthseer, how did you of all people know these dark times are ‘a-comin’’,” Llevar said, his fingers curling into quotes as he spoke, “and only the Chosen One can save us?”

  Algus cleared his throat. “I foresaw it.”

  “If you foresaw it, why didn’t you go straight to the one and only Chosen One?”

  “I’m old. I don’t, um… foresee so good.”

  “Cataracts in your prophetic sight, eh? So, why charge for the sword instead of giving it away? After all, the need is great, right?”

  “Operating costs! Restocking fees! The need is great!”

  “Right,” Llevar said, his nose scrunching up in disgust. “And what were you planning to do with all that money from all these poor farmboys?”

  “I have not yet received that vision,” Algus said. “When the vision is clear, the way is clear. When the way is clear, people drink too much and have carriage accidents. Ends a lot of budding romances, carriage accidents. Not on my watch!”

  “No further questions,” Llevar said, in almost a sing-song voice. He turned to me, his smile deep, his middle finger extended discreetly.

  This was bad. My defense rested like a dead bear. Now was time for closing arguments, which only twisted the knife-like feeling in my gut. While Llevar argued that the crafty old bastard knowingly and willfully took all these poor folks’ money, I envisioned life in the dungeon with perpetual Quiet Hours and without the satisfaction of having a win over Llevar’s high and mighty elvish ass.

  I felt like I had committed suicide. Why didn’t I see that a real seer could’ve just seen who the Chosen One was to begin with? I guess because I figured he wasn’t a real seer to begin with. But I couldn’t put that in my final argument.

  I looked at Algus, wincing in his chair as Llevar called him depraved, predatory, geriatric. What if he was a real seer? If I could believe it, maybe the jury could, too. I had to try; it was my turn to close. I stood up, remembering not to smile because pointy orc teeth disturb the fair races.

  “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, you may be thinking my client don’t know jack squat about the Chosen One. When you really think about it, who does? Prophecies ain’t exactly written in keen detail… they’re scrawled down, half-assed mutterings from eccentric old kooks, people who are arguably just as old and kooky as my client.

  “You may also be thinking, ‘those poor farmboys.’ They were just minding their own business, raking and hoeing and generally being dirty and poor, when they got the call to be the Chosen One. Now instead of thinking about the harvest, their little heads are full of notions of adventures and quests.

  “That’s some bullshit; their heads were already full of notions of adventures and quests. They’re farmboys! Their lives suck. You think this courtroom would be packed with billionaire playboys if the call for the Chosen One went out to them? These dudes couldn’t wait to get off the farm and being the Chosen One was the perfect excuse.

  “So here they all are, itching for adventure and quests, but for all we know collecting five easy installments of 99 ducats is the quest. What do you think’s harder for a farmboy to do, something that requires physical exertion or getting that dough? Farmboys have time and desire to practice sword fights and archery, what they ain’t got is money! If you can’t afford to wield the mighty Cleave, the epic sword I will soon urinate on, then you damn sure can’t afford to go risking your life tackling evil.

  “We’ll never know if collecting payment was the quest to bring out the Chosen One… cause none of them actually completed the quest, something that would’ve separated the farmboys from the farm men. Since we can’t know the mysteries of the prophecies or the mysterious ways of the prophets, then we can’t say for sure that my client did anything criminal. If you got doubts, you gotta let him go.”

  I rested my case. After an hour of deliberation, the jury came back with a verdict. Algus Truthseer was a free old kook.

  A legion of farmboys booed. Luc Brawnshield stood up, fixed a blonde wig to his head and shouted “I can still complete the quest!” before dashing out of the courtroom. Just like that, the courtroom emptied with farmboys running with new fire under their asses.

  Llevar gave me a high elf scowl, which to me is the twin sister of a high elf smile. “This isn’t over,” he said before storming off.

  It was just as well he left before I could gloat. I wasn’t in pro form ’cause I hadn’t had a bathroom break since leaving the dungeon. Luckily, Llevar had left Cleave in its sheath on the prosecutor’s table. I smiled.

  Time to make one prophecy come true.

  Story Notes:

  This is my fourth story set in Seven Realms, a fantasy world that takes typical tropes and fantasy stereotypes and turns them on their ear. It's also the second Seven Realms story to feature Anglewood, a character so good at being bad I couldn't resist seeing him again.

  When he found out how hard it was to win a writing award, James Beamon decided to settle for being one of the only writers he can think of with six-pack abs. Now he writes less fiction because he's always at the gym. It also keeps him in fighting shape, which is beneficial since his day job as a defense contractor takes him to places where running and ducking are oftentimes a great idea. Currently he's in Afghanistan.

  THE WIGGY TURPIN AFFAIR

  By Wade Albert White

  It all started the day the first apple trees blossomed on the moon. I had just finished a contract to assassinate some government-type chappy from the Lunar Council and was enjoying the one week turnover period the Agency allows between assignments before returning to Earth. Even the most ruthless of killers requires a little R&R once in a while, not to mention I could claim all the expenses on my tax forms. Besides, I absolutely detest space travel.

  So there I was, stretched out in leisurely fashion on a chesterfield in the Trudeau Suite of Moonbase Zeta, enjoying an ancient tome on the art of electrocution. It was quite the thriller. High voltage, higher voltage, local brown-out
level voltage. Who says science can’t be fun.

  Then Humbert entered.

  Humbert is my robotic butler and a bit of an odd looking fellow, what with the headlamp eyes and barrel legs and all. Tends to startle guests and plays havoc with pacemakers, but since I don’t really care for company anyway it usually works out in the end.

  “There is a connection for you on the VID phone, Ms. Wackrill,” he said.

  His facial features were, as always, completely inert.

  I yawned. “Remind them I’m on my turnover.”

  “It is not the Agency, madam.”

  “Then I’m not here at all.”

  “I believe it is a call of a personal nature.”

  “Well, I’m not inclined to have nature personally call me right now, so tell it to go away.”

  “The gentleman was rather insistent, I’m afraid.”

  I threw down the book. “Oh, for the love of—Who is it then?”

  “From Earth. A Mr. ‘Wiggy’ Turpin.”

  Wingham Beasley Turpin, of the Dorchester Turpins, no less. He and I had attended grammar school together and on through to undergraduate classes until he ventured off into classical music and I took up serious study of close knife fighting and death by a thousand paper cuts. Wiggy was sort of the runt of the litter, but a quick wit and better than me at maths. We still exchanged Christmas cards every year.

  I reached over and flicked on the end table monitor. Wiggy’s rather bovine features rezzed into view.

  “Ashleigh, darling,” he trilled, “how’s the hair?”

  Did I forget to mention he had a hair fixation? I suppose I thought the nickname rather gave it away. Toupees, extensions, you name it. It was a fetish gone wild, and not for the betterment of all humankind, let me tell you.

  “My hair is perfectly normal,” I answered, “and yours?”

  “A smash, Ash. An absolute tootle on the noodle. This week it’s green.”