The Legend of Dan

by Robert Wingfield

  He had played ‘Craft Age Raider Evil Scroll Skater Black Assassins Grand Saints Blox’ to distraction and was starting to get fed up with being shot at by computer sprites; he had long stopped going to the gym and his martial arts club.

  At precisely 12:15, Freya returned from school, and stormed into the bedroom. As she poked the quivering tent of blankets concealing her husband, with her dripping umbrella, she made an observation regarding the fragrance of his nether regions.

  “The bathroom is only next door. You are the laziest person I have ever known. Other people don’t cut themselves off from the world, and everyday hygiene, just because they’ve lost their jobs. You know, other husbands in your position would help with the housework. They’d wash the breakfast plates and prepare lunch; but not you, oh, no not you. You disgust me, you bone-idle good-for-nothing.”

  “I’ll get round to it, dear. Give me time.”

  “And when are you going to get a job?” Freya continued as she got her breath back. “The Lazy Bastards’ allowance you get from levies on the Greek Government will be running out soon.” She pulled the blankets away, and grimaced at the sight.

  Tom spluttered self-consciously. “I know, but there really isn’t any work around; of the sort of thing I do, anyway. I suppose I could move to Nauru. I’m told there’s a staff shortage, what with only 13,000 people on the island, most of whom are tourists.”

  “You know you’ll never leave Scotland.”

  “It’s in my blood.”

  “Along with too much alcohol. How about retraining as a brewer?”

  Tom sat up in bed, a big grin breaking through the stubble on his face. “Brilliant. A micro-brewery. I’ll start my own micro-brewery. You are wonderful, darling.” He lunged to plant a kiss, but she backed off, her face screwed in disgust. “I’ll get on to it right away,” he seemed not to notice the rejection, “by popping down the ‘Toad’ and getting some material study sorted out. You know, talk to the landlord, try the products, draft a business plan...”

  Freya snorted. “I didn’t mean it quite that way.”

  “There’s a market for cheap good ale, especially up here, where EU regulations have killed all the taste and put prohibitive taxes on anything that isn’t wazzy lager. They say it’s the purity of the water.”

  “You should apply some of that said water to your body. Thank Ford I don’t have to sleep in the same room, anymore.”

  Tom grinned.

  “And if you’ve been through my underwear drawer again…”

  Tom blushed and lay back in bed. He put his hands behind his head. “I’ll give it some serious consideration,” he said, “and the ale thing too.”

  “See you do, or I may have to put you down, for health and safety reasons, you understand.”

  “They do say most murders are committed by family members,” said Tom. He eased his body away from the warmth of the bed. “Your noble suggestion has galvanised me into action.” He leapt from the bed and dived into the bathroom.

  Freya heard the click of the bolt, and stared at the heap of covers where he had lain. “And make sure you don’t waste the water,” she shouted. “It doesn’t grow on trees you know.”

  When Tom had finished his shower, he shaved and splashed on a handful of the aftershave he had been given when he was eighteen. “It might be a few years old, but doesn’t have a ‘use-by’ date. I really should finish it up… and then for some breakfast. Has she gone?”

  He checked the house. Freya had already departed, but there was a letter addressed to him on the hall table. “I wonder if it’s a job offer.” He tore it open eagerly, and read:

  Dear Mr $mith (sic).

  We are sorry but your application for the post of postal employee has been unsuccessful. We feel you are overqualified for the role, and cannot offer the salary you deserve, especially when we can outsource mail deliveries to Tuvalu for a quarter of the price.

  Of course, you may say, what about the travel considerations, when I am certainly more locally placed? We reply that mobility comes out of another budget, and therefore does not concern us. Plus the fact that the people over there are so willing, that they are prepared to commute, in their own time, to deliver their normal excellent level of service. This, when they are not selling boiler upgrades, and double-glazing from our acclaimed call centre, of course .

  As per legal requirements, we will keep your details on record for a period of twelve months, and then shred them. Please do not contact us again.

  Yours terminally

  Abrams Tadd

  Regional Director, Nishant Postal Operations.

  “That’s somewhat disappointing, but I admire their honesty.” Tom crumpled the paper and dropped it on the floor near the bin, as he’d been taught by his parents. “Now, where is that ‘special’ that Wifey confiscated? I need something to cheer me up after that codified bombshell. Did I see her defending the kitchen sink?”

  He rummaged underneath, and found a litre of ‘Throgmorton’s Palmolive Nightmare’ hidden. “Hah, she never expected me to go anywhere near. I bet she thought it was cunningly hidden.”

  He studied the bottle. “Let me see what to expect. Hmmm, a pale golden brew of exceptional nose and slightly aromatic feet... named thus because Throgmorton, the founder of the brewery, had a dream where he made ale which was too good to sell to the distilleries for production of whiskey. After this, he vowed to keep standards low enough to be of no interest to the traditional users.”

  Tom popped the top off the beer using the edge of the kitchen work surface, and took a gulp. As the low alcohol content started to refresh various parts, he reflected on possible reasons as to why his lot had turned out this way.

  “After all,” he soliloquised, “when I started in Information Technology, it (or IT) was a job for life. I guess life is a lot shorter now.” He took another draught. “You know, I’m sure I could do better, if Freya would stop putting me down, and give me some encouragement instead, and perhaps even help me a bit. I’ll talk to her later.”

  That evening, Freya was marking homework, books spread all over the table, when Tom opened the kitchen door. He felt his legs weaken as her eyes drilled into his skull. He looked quickly away, changing his mind about the confrontation.

  “Was that letter another rejection?” she asked in her usual distant fashion.

  “Yes Dear, coffee, Dear?”

  “Whatever.” Freya ignored him, bowed her head, and continued with her work. As the kettle sang, Tom plucked up courage to look directly at her. Her agile hand was criss-crossing a fluorescent marker pen over the wad of papers. She is not an unattractive woman, he thought, but her short dark hair and horn-rimmed glasses seemed to stereotype her chosen career. He wondered what impression her hard features had on her pupils, and would have been intrigued to know that her nickname was ‘Miss Whiplash’.

  Tom left a coffee with his wife, and headed for the sitting room. He crumpled into a large, threadbare armchair. He felt exhausted but could not relax, as though something momentous was going to happen. He heaved his body into a standing position, reached for the television remote, and collapsed into the chair again. He looked at the figures on the screen, but did not see what they were doing, or hear what they were saying. He picked up the newspaper, and put it down again, irritated by the rustling noise.

  A loud knock at the front door made him jump. Tom remained in his chair, hoping that Freya would answer. He listened intently. Despite his lethargy, he was curious to know who was on the doorstep at this time of night—muggers, burglars, rapists, Jehovah’s Witnesses—anyone would be welcome, but nobody ever visited his house after dark. The door banged for a second time, louder, and more demanding. Freya’s voice boomed out of the kitchen.

  “Answer that, you lazy sod. Do you expect me to do everything? It’s probably someone from your martial arts club come to pay their respects. They phoned while you were asleep, asking where you were. I told them yo
u were dead. Now don’t make me get up...”

  The door banged for a third time, and the house shook. Tom bounded out of the chair as Freya’s stool grated on the kitchen floor. If she got there first, he would be in trouble again. He charged into the hall, tripping over the umbrella stand on his way to operate the porch light, and wrenched open the door.

  “Yes, what...” his words tailed off. As he stared, his bitterness evaporated, and his mouth dropped open. He noticed the shoes first, modern wedges encapsulating delicate feet, and then he let his eyes travel slowly up remarkable legs, and to the mini-toga the girl was wearing. She was tall, about Tom’s height, and her blonde hair fell over smooth bare shoulders. Her steely metallic grey stare and pale flawless complexion made him dizzy. Her eyes, on the same level as his, locked and held him, fascinated.

  She caught a blast of his after-shave, and reeled backwards in shock. Eye contact was broken. Tom shook himself, feeling the spell break. He flicked his eyes back to the perfect face, as her smile slowly returned.

  “Good evening,” she purred. “Kara-Tay.” She offered a perfectly manicured hand in greeting.

  “I, I’ll probably return to training next week.” Tom took the hand, itself an exquisite work of art, in his own, and tried to shake it. Her grip was firm, her skin soft, cool and dry, and the shake she returned, strong. Electricity seemed to run up and down Tom’s body. If only he’d known what was to come, but he was baffled, picking his brains as to which of his karate associates had a partner like this. “Or is she a new recruit?” he wondered. “God, I’ve got to get back to training. Karate? Is she asking about my martial arts? Perhaps I can impress her with my grading.”

  “Er, Second Dan,” he blurted out loud.

  “I see,” she said, looking slightly puzzled. “Then, Second Dan, if that is your name, I think perhaps we should call you ‘Two-Dan’, a simpler nom-de-guerre to strike terror into the fibre of our foes, don’t you think?” She straightened her back and took a firm hold of his arm. “Two-Dan, I have seen the future, and you are essential to avert the disaster. We have much to do. You will come with me.”

  “I will?” he said. “I thought the group never met on a Thursday. Are you sure you are associated with the club?”

  “I am not comprehending you,” said the girl. “Will you come, or do I have to drag you?”

  “I’ll come,” he said, “if you insist.” His eyes took in her body again, and she took his hand and towed him outside. He vaguely heard Freya’s muffled shouts of “Who is it? Are you going to keep them standing out there all day?” and “Answer me, you slob!”

  It had stopped raining. Tom was now in a daze of thoughts about lady footballers, and failed to notice the large silver cylinder shimmering in the middle of his rose-bed, until he was stepping through a panel in its side. He even failed to look back to see Freya staring through the net curtains of the front room window. Had his recent and too frequent fantasies sent him over the edge? Now, he had gone blind perhaps, and was seeing large tin-cans and gorgeous women in his rose garden; did that sound likely?

  The hatch slid closed behind them, and an instant later the cylinder shimmered and vanished, leaving nothing but a patch of flattened flowers.

  Freya gaped at the disappearance of the machine. She rushed outside to where it had been, glanced at the damage to the rose bed, and ran to the front gate. She looked up and down the road. “Tom, where are you? Come back... you bastard. Just you wait. I suppose I’d better call Mike at the club. He’ll know where they’ve gone.” She sniffed a few times, and then went back into the house to pick up the telephone.

  Smorgs-Board

  The idyll is shaken.

  Vac gets his end away.

  T

  he edge of the dense and beautiful forest around the clearing on a distant planet was silent. Nothing moved, apart from a pair of rabbit-panda-kitten-deer-like Esoomorcim, small and adorable, browsing on the succulent foliage. Almost imperceptibly, a Smak root forced its way through the surface. The Smak, a carnivorous plant, lived entirely underground, except for the roots, which roamed the surface, seeking its main food, animal life-forms. Anything would do, as long as it was meat. The plant soundlessly probed the air, homed in and snaked towards the Esoomorcim.

  One of the creatures lifted its head, and if anyone had been watching, they’d have observed, “Awwwwww, I need one of those to cuddle.” It scented the air nervously. The root froze, detecting the movement. For a few moments, the Esoomorcim poised for flight, but when no apparent sign of danger materialised, they returned to their delicate browsing. The plant continued its stealthy extension across the forest floor, like a giant earthworm. It was right behind them. It reared up for the strike, ready to drive in its deadly poison. If anyone had been watching they’d have said, “Nooooo!”

  Someone was watching. A bowstring twanged. The root thrashed wildly, pinned firmly to a tree trunk by an arrow. The Esoomorcim bolted for the safety of the deep woods, as the ground heaved upwards. The bulk of the Smak came to the surface in an attempt to free itself. Within seconds, the deadly root structure had completely filled the clearing.

  A tall male humanoid, dressed in light metallic armour, burst from cover. Without hesitation, he started hacking his way into the writhing mass with a broad metal blade. The thrashing tendrils attempted to inject him with their poison, as he struggled to free a flask of ‘Ghoolipp’, a strong tannic acid solution in herb juices, from his belt. One of the roots jabbed under his guard as he fought off others. The point hit his armour, and he gasped as the dent pushed into his chest. His blade flashed, and that danger was over. A sticky black liquid dripped down his breastplate. He made another slash at an attacking root, and suddenly the flask came free. He inverted it, soaking the brown liquid over the central stem of the Smak. Instantly, the plant recoiled. It heaved violently a few times and then lay twitching gently, paralysed and half-covered in earth.

  The hunter rested, leaning on the defeated Smak, for a few minutes, and wiping the sweat off his face with a red-spotted handkerchief. Then he stretched, and removed the final part of his Smak-hunting kit from a backpack. The foldable shovel made easy work of digging the central stem of the plant out of the ground. The man chopped off the longer roots and threw them into the forest to the waiting Esoomorcim, who fell on them, and chewed them up with obvious enjoyment. He planted his sword and bow into the disturbed earth as a signpost for the rest of his tribe when they returned for the leftovers and then shouldered the core of the plant. The village would eat well tonight (well, Smak, anyway).

  A seventh sense clanged alarm bells in the man's head3. He dropped the lifeless Smak heart, and crept silently through the trees towards where his senses told him there was something amiss. He caught his breath as he observed a number of the squat, swarthy other humanoid race, the Smorgs, crowded round a small cooking fire. There was a general babble as they discussed a meeting agenda, the price of coal, where their main force had got to, and why they had not kept this rendezvous. Historically the Smorg is the sworn enemy of the Skagan; both will attack on sight, because the Skagans, like Vac, detest anyone who doesn’t bathe three times a day, and the Smorgs can’t stand the smell of carbolic soap. As he had the advantage of surprise, Vac had no alternative but to frenzy. He grabbed the remaining weapon he had with him, his shovel, and waded in.

  He gave the Skagan battle-cry. “Glory, sex and death, preferably in that order,” he shouted, as he attacked.

  The forest echoed with the sound of sprung steel against bone. The makeshift weapon cracked the skull of the nearest Smorg before it knew they were under attack. No movement was wasted as the hunter became an efficient killing machine. The surviving Smorgs rallied, and formed into defensive positions, drawing the short broadswords favoured by their race. When they realised that the attack force comprised a single Skagan, they grinned. Long canine teeth added to their animal appearance, as they advanced deliberately in formation, muttering about ‘due
diligence’ and the ‘documented way to approach the situation’.

  The hunter leaped forward, shovel lashing out, but the Smorgs engaged doggedly, whirling their swords in circles round their heads, and shouting their own battle cries. “Health and safety, core competency, bleeding edge...”

  The hunter was half as tall again as any Smorg, and used his superior reach to great advantage. Stepping backwards for more room, he parried the first thrusts. The Smorgs rushed in again. The man half turned as they attacked, and again the shovel made contact with bone.

  Despite his skill, he was forced backwards to avoid the ferocious attacks of the survivors. His foot caught on a tree stump, tipping him on to the ground. The Smorgs gave a shout of victory, “Deep dive, incentivize, incentivize,” and charged in for the kill. The hunter scythed his foot through their ankles, and brought some down. The shovel did its duty. The remaining Smorg recovered his breath and ran, to be quickly felled, as Vac’s expertly hurled implement caught him in the back.

  “A good day's work,” said the hunter, with satisfaction. “Vac will have many women tonight as a reward for his bravery. Food and sex; what a great way to spend the evening.”4

  Vac dusted himself down, and proceeded to heap the dead Smorgs on to their own campfire. They burnt brightly and were nothing but ashes in a few minutes.

  “It is what they would have wanted,” he said to himself. “But what are Smorgs doing on our side of the Great River? The Skagans and the Smorgs have lived separate lives for many generations since the Inordinate Wars. This is designated Skagan territory.” Vac shook his head. “I can’t be bothered wasting time wondering about that. I’m a warrior, not a bloody philosopher. Hunting, cracking heads and sex is my business. The Elder will be informed. An answer will be forthcoming. I also have some serious posing scheduled for when I return. I think there are one or two of the tribe females I haven’t shagged… this week... so far. Better check the image…” He removed a small mirror from his pack and regarded his reflection. “Something missing... I know.” A smear of blood on his cheek completed the desired effect. With a grunt of approval, he returned to collect the Smak heart, and set off for the village.