Of Gods & Grunts

by Kyrell Kendrick

  "You killed the previous Voice," she said, looking me straight in the eyes.

  "That was ancient history," I said, playing innocent. "Also, it's been like one and a half years. How come I haven’t heard from Bolokbal since then?"

  She explained to me like I just fell off of the turnip truck, "We," she opened her arms, gesturing to the crowd, "do not evoke the evil. Those who speak its name are cursed unless they are the Voice to Mortals."

  "Yeah?" I asked.

  "Yes," she said. "I have seen the curse myself."

  I stepped towards the All-State guy and shouted, "Hey asshole, tell bollock's balls to shave his beard. He tickled my nutsack when he was sucking my cock last night."

  Have you ever seen those parts in a movie when a woman faints because of something she's seen or heard? I shit you not, at least two women straight-up hit dirt when I called that out.

  It took a few seconds for that amazing baritone to respond.

  "I would see the face of the man who dares to insult my god before I execute him for his insolence," he called.

  I quickly flipped my selector to semi. I wasn't interested in wasting any more ammo, especially not on some religious nut, but I also didn't want to, you know, die.

  The crowd parted before me, like Moses parting the Red Sea, but instead of the promised land, I got one hundred percent asshole.

  He saw me, and a look of shock hit him hard. He then recomposed himself.

  "You wanna do the man dance? First dance is yours," I threatened. Way of the Gun, by the way, is a very underrated movie.

  He looked at me, confused, and then his tone changed immediately.

  "Is it not uncivil to insult another man's divine?" he said in that sweet baritone.

  I have to admit the guy looked good too. He was clean-shaven, blond hair, blue-eyed, stood taller than me, and I could go to sleep every night listening to him tell me bedtime stories.

  "Is it not uncivil to try to sell these fine people a load of shit?" I retorted.

  A few laughs in the crowd were quickly stifled.

  "I offer them the promise of safety, full stomachs, and a just society.”

  "Yeah, I heard about the safety you promised, I also heard you sacrificed the High Priest's daughters.”

  I searched his face for any sign or reaction but received none. I didn't want to debate the guy; I just needed to deflate him a little.

  A few gasps.

  "Rumors, unsubstantiated, and nefarious rumors spread by enemies," he called back.

  Many people quickly nodded their heads, and to be fair, I had no idea if the rumors were true or not. If they were true, I would have shot the dude straight in the face.

  "Listen, my guy," I said, wanting to end the encounter so I could get on with my day. "Rumors, no rumors, doesn't really matter. But I know horse shit when I hear it, and I sure as fuck ain't going to let some fanatic get this city worked up."

  "Who are you to make such demands?" he asked, looking for the crowd's support.

  And he was right. I wasn't the King of Teletha; I was just some guy pushing my weight around because I didn't like what I was hearing, but I also had a reputation to uphold, and the guy needed to be knocked down a peg or two.

  "I'm the guy that's gonna raw dog you if you step out of line," I said to more than one look of confusion.

  He just stared at me, attempting to get me to look away first.

  I stared back. Every instinct told me to put a bullet through his head.

  Every bit of rational thought told me that would be murder.

  A hand grabbed my upper arm, and I spun to see Cloy looking at me with concern.

  "Let's go," she said, ushering me away.

  I stalked off, annoyed at what had just happened. The guy was an asshole, but he wasn't doing anything wrong, just preaching.

  Looking back, and had I been smarter, I would have just shot him. Sometimes you should go with your gut.

  Thankfully the rest of the jaunt was conducted in silence, and I eventually found myself in Beverly Hills, home to the wealthy merchants, nobles, wannabe wizards, priests, and even a few dignitaries from other nations.

  No one else called it Beverly Hills, but what do you name a street that has actual cobblestone instead of packed shit and mud?

  Teletha didn't have street names, just areas, so it was difficult to say go up Main Street or take a right at Rodeo Drive. I ended up wandering.

  "What are you looking for?" Cloy asked.

  "There's supposed to be an awesome tinkerer, holed up in a shop somewhere off the main thoroughfare. Can't pronounce his name," I said, walking and looking.

  "Tagaveindaloius?" she asked.

  "Sounds right," I said, "You've heard of him?"

  "Everyone knows him," she said, smiling. "He made a device that can tell you exactly where the sun is, any day of the year."

  "Yeah, we have things like that," I said, looking down at my watch. The daylight in Teletha ranged from twelve to six hours, depending on the time of the month, which made my very cheap Timex watch almost worthless.

  "I think I remember where he lives, follow me," she said.

  Within minutes we were standing in front of a beautifully weird shop. It was like something out of Harry Potter. Exaggerated slopes on the roof, oversized shingles, real glass, and a door half my height all said eccentric gnome.

  "This has gotta be it," I said, taking in the scene.

  "It is," she confirmed.

  A little bell hung from a brass pole with a string hanging down to the handle. The bell was at eye level, and I contemplated just flicking it with my finger but decided I needed to make a decent impression. I bent down and pulled the string.

  A small chime sounded, and after a few moments, the front door opened.

  The voice wasn't nearly as high pitched as I imagined it should be.

  "Can I help you?" he spoke in Telethan, but with an accent that I could only describe as deeply German. Coming up to my knee, a pronounced nose, large ears, and large eyes rounded out the diminutive creature.

  "Yeah," I said, not wasting time, "I need something duplicated."

  "I cannot duplicate magical things," he said, studying me.

  "It's not magical," I said, producing a single round of ammo.

  He pulled out a magnifying glass, and studied the round in my hand, and then said, "Come in." As he turned to enter, he hit something on the inside of the wall, and the door grew to my height.

  Magic is weird, and I don't like it, but I can say sometimes it comes in handy.

  The gnome strode inside his workshop, which had all manner of gear-driven clocks, toys, baubles, and other assorted junk. Many of the items made weird noises, like bells or whistles, while some seemed to do nothing other than rotate slowly. It was hard to make heads or tails of it, but I did find it very interesting. Even better than the view, however, was that beautiful smell of oil.

  It smelled just like Hoppes Number Nine.

  "Amazing," I said, complimenting the place.

  "Yes, well, I do try, now please the object?" he said, placing a small green felt mat on the counter.

  I put the cartridge on the mat and watched intensely as he examined, poked, and prodded.

  "The tip removes from the cylinder?" he asked.

  I nodded.

  "The tip is made of copper, but the case is made of something different? An alloy of copper, I think," he said, peering intently through his magnifying glass.

  I nodded excitedly again.

  "The button on the rear, is it silver?" he asked, picking the round-up and looking at the back. "Also, this foreign writing, are they runes? I cannot duplicate magic," he said frowning.

  "No, the writing isn't important, and the button isn't silver. It's called a primer," I said. I then went into significant detail on how a bullet works. I'll save you the boredom.

  Cloy sat back and watched intently, apparently not interested in the many wondrous, albeit inane, objects that decorated the works
hop.

  "Copper is easy to acquire, but I do not know what the case is mixed with. Also, the gunpowder, as you call it, should be easily replicated with flash powder but may not act accordingly," he said, still examining the round.

  "OK?" I said, hoping for good news.

  "The biggest problem is this primer. I know of nothing that can explode by being hit," he said dourly.

  "Damn," I cursed.

  "It's not all lost," he said, brightening, "There is one who might know."

  "Where is he?" I asked eagerly.

  "Caramondon Hall," he said, looking up at me.

  Cloy fired off a small sigh.

  I smiled and shook my head because I had no idea where the hell Caramondon Hall was.

  "It is home, for me and my kind," he said.

  "Let me guess," I started, "It's not in Teletha."

  He shook his head, "It is under a mountain, far to the west."

  I stood up and closed my eyes.

  "How much to make everything but the primers?" I asked.

  "The cases will be the most expensive. I need to figure out what they are made of," he said expectantly.

  "No idea, just know its copper and something. Maybe tin?" I guessed.

  "That is bronze," he said.

  "Well, that's why you're the pro," I said, and then asked, "How much?"

  "Without the primers, two clacks each," he said.

  I cringed a little. That wasn't cheap. "How much if I give you the casings?"

  "Do you have some of the casings?" he asked, looking up at me.

  I dumped sixty-seven shells on his counter.

  "How many do you plan on purchasing? I was expecting maybe five," he said.

  "Thinking like two-hundred," I replied, shrugging.

  "With that many, I should be able to get the cost down to five clips each, with the casings, and one and a half clacks for all new," he said, grabbing an empty casing and comparing it to the live round.

  "Swell," I said, and turned around to leave, but before I left, I remembered I needed a name.

  "Who's the contact in Caramondon Hall?" I asked.

  "Legosheinasheliegh," he said.

  I pulled out my pad and pen and handed it to him. "Write it down, please?"

  After three minutes of him thoroughly examining my US Government-issued Skillcraft ballpoint pen and the green write in the rain notebook, I finally had a name.

  "You ever been to Caramondon Hall?" I asked Cloy as we made our way down the street.

  "No, but I've always wanted to go," she replied chipperly.

  "Of course," I replied with a fake smile. "Of course."

  Chapter 13

  The process of gathering food, supplies, and a donkey for the trip to Caramondon hall was surprisingly easy. Cloy was moderately adept at spending money, no surprise, and also had a decent understanding of what was required for a long journey.

  We wasted no time. Teletha has four major roads, all headed in a cardinal direction. So we put our backs to the sun and stepped off.

  The roads near Teletha were dangerous in the dark, so we rode hard for the first day. The travelers we passed were just merchants headed to trade, or refugees from one village or another that eventually receded into obscurity.

  Fifty or so miles later, we stopped at a nice copse of trees away from the road.

  Cloy collected old sticks, and a couple of logs, while I unsaddled the horses. The ride was rough on them, and I wanted to make sure they were well-rested for the next day.

  Unlike the last time I was on a trip, I didn't bother to hide my tracks or try to be clandestine at all. The copse was a well-traveled location, and a ring of gypsies or whatever the politically correct term was, had encamped in the location.

  "Welcome travelers," a plump human woman with silver hair and a smooth face said, approaching us.

  "Hi," I responded, putting on my best smile. The lady reminded me of a grandmother, not my grandmother per se, but definitely someones.

  She opened her arms, and with a warm smile, and said, "The Telanathi offer you a warm fire, soft bed, clean water, and sustenance."

  "Um, thanks," I replied clumsily. In Teletha, nothing is free. As that one super famous economist who my professor told me about once said, there ain't no such thing as a free lunch. "I have some clacks," I offered.

  She gave me a, I'm not mad, just disappointed smile. "The Telanathi require and request no payment for our hospitality. We just desire a story at our fire, and spear at our wall should the need arise."

  You ever just like someone. Like, have you ever been to a small town in Europe or a village in Africa and met an old dude that you just want to hang out with? Not wanting to either insult the group or pass up some hot food, I smiled, threw the saddle back on Rover, without strapping it, and led the horse and the donkey towards the circle of wagons.

  Cloy soon caught up and whispered in my ear, "What's going on?"

  "Got invited to hang with them tonight," I said, not bothering to whisper.

  Cloy gave me a weird look but then ran back to grab her mare.

  After ten minutes of being peddled around the camp like a long lost grandson, I found myself sitting with my back to a log, in front of a beautiful fire, eating the Telethan equivalent of a turkey leg, and drinking a mug of hot something. That something had more than a little bit of alcohol.

  I glanced over to check on my four-legged friends and saw Rover and Cloy's mare being brushed down, while the donkey, who I named donkey, had the attention of a handful of kids.

  One of the Telenathi busted out a violin or whatever the Telethan equivalent was, and started to play.

  Cloy plopped down beside me, a giant turkey leg in one hand, and a large mug of awesome in the other.

  "Not sure what you said, but I'm glad you said it," she said through a half-full mouth.

  "They just wanted a story," I said, drinking a swig of warm cider mead. The alcohol was amazing, not too sweet, not too bitter. It had nutmeg and cinnamon with hints of honey. It also went straight to my head.

  She looked over at me and smiled. Pieces of poultry still hanging on her teeth. It wasn't disgusting, but actually kinda cute.

  The music grew louder, and I watched as the Telenathi started to dance. It was like a cross between a line dance and a jig. Two women and two men stepped in choreographed time as the, I think, fiddler is more accurate, played.

  Cloy stood and offered a hand, "I wanna dance."

  "People in hell want ice water," I said seriously.

  Look, it's not like I didn't want to dance with Cloy or any other pretty girl, it's just that I can't dance. Like at all. I have zero rhythm, zero moves, and zero chance of ever wooing a girl by dancing.

  She laughed just a little too hard at my joke, bowed slightly to me, and found a willing partner of her own.

  The two bounced and hopped in perfect time with the music.

  Out of habit, concern, or some other subconscious drive, I found my hand on my M4 with my thumb on the selector switch.

  Coming to my senses, I purposefully moved both my hands back to my mug and took a long sip like I was shooting some stupid Folger's commercial.

  Damn, that alcohol was good.

  Magron, the silver-haired grandmother, brought a small stool over and gracefully sat a few feet away from me.

  "You seem to be enjoying yourself?" she said.

  "I'm having a great time," I said, raising my mug.

  "And your neck is clean," she noted.

  I thought that was a weird statement to make, but I nodded.

  She beamed a bright smile and then beckoned over a young woman.

  Sergeant Flynn, my Alpha Team leader, had this theory on women. There are four types of women in your life; your family members, like your mom, aunt, sister, etc. Women that are nothing to you, like the one-eyed strippers who hang out at the Pink Bunny on Victory Drive. The women, who you would give just about anything to bang, but definitely wouldn't actually date. And then there are
the women you would give anything to date. They're the women you would actually try for. The ones you would take home to mom and grandma. The ones you would go to church for.

  Kayanaki was the latter. She was beautiful, with bright eyes, perfect skin, jet black hair, and a smile that would melt any man's heart.

  "This is Kayanaki," Magron said. "She is unpromised."

  "Um," I said like a highschooler staring at a cheerleader, "Hi."

  Kayanaki bashfully looked down and replied, "Hi."

  "Who's this then?" Cloy said, plopping down next to me.

  "Kayanaki," I said, and then added, "She's unpromised."

  "Is she?" Cloy asked rhetorically. "Isn't that…" she let the sentence hang.

  Magron immediately interjected loudly, "A story was promised."

  "Unlike her," Cloy quipped.

  The music stopped mid-beat, and all of the Telenathi formed a horseshoe around Cloy and me. Pads were placed on the ground, and soon I had the most attentive audience I had ever seen.

  Kayanaki took up residence immediately to my front and left, with Magron sitting directly behind her.

  I swallowed and looked around. Fifty or so strangers waited patiently for me to start blabbing about something.

  "Well," I said nervously, "What type of story do you want to hear?"

  Kayanaki spoke softly, "One with a happy ending."

  Cloy whispered in my ear again, "Just make something up; they don't care if it's real, they just want to hear something new."

  "Right," I said swallowing.

  Have you ever had fifty strangers staring at you, hanging on your every word? Let me just say; I would rather be in an ambush than try to tell a story again. Seriously I have no idea how the hell all those motivational speakers or stand up comedians even do it.

  "Right," I said again, searching my memory. "A story," I said to myself. Then it hit me. I could tell any story from any movie or book or show I have ever seen.

  "Right," I said once more, and then proceeded to weave the most epic tale I could possibly imagine.

  "Once upon a time, there was a little man, like a gnome, called Frodo," I began.

  Thirty minutes later, and I had completely butchered The Lord of the Rings to such an extent that I was sure Tolkien was going to reach through the cosmos and choke slam my ass.