Glory and Splendour:: Tales of the Weird

by Alex Miles

  “Oh, for God’s sake …” shouted Livia from downstairs.

  Harvey calculated the odds and decided to walk down to see her. She was in the kitchen, on her knees, bewailing the state of the shopping bags like a Greek heroine.

  “You haven’t got half the things I asked for. It’s so frustrating. I put them down on the list, but they don’t get picked up. I don’t know what else I’m supposed to do. I’m not angry with you. You know I don’t get angry. It’s just that I can’t work out what I’m doing wrong.”

  “We didn’t have the money.”

  “All you need to do is be more careful with the money. You just have to take responsibility.”

  “We could always do the plan B … I mean we could … sell the house and downgrade.”

  “No sweetheart, that subject is closed. We don’t need to sell this house and we don’t want to.”

  “The thing is my love … I don’t want to, but … we are living outside our income. This house is falling apart and we don’t need it. We can’t afford the mortgage repayments. Let’s sell it and move into somewhere smaller. This house is awful, but I can sell it for an awful lot.”

  As she left the room she said, “It’s difficult to reason with you when you are in one of these moods. Let me know when you have calmed down.”

  Mr and Mrs Breeze followed Harvey’s car all the way to Druitt House. He listened to Crustsnout over the phone.

  “To get the sale you need to know the selling point. What do you think these two’s selling point is?”

  “Err … price.”

  “No, I thought we talked about this. These two sell self-help videos. They’re hippies or something. They love all that New Age nature stuff. Commercial hippies. Druitt House has a fantastic garden and it’s in the middle of the countryside and everything. Highlight all those factors to them.”

  “Sorry … Thank you … Yes, sir.”

  “And they’re old, so highlight the fact it’s on a hill and thus easier to walk down. You have to put it out there.”

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t stress about it. There is no sense in letting work worry you.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “But make sure you sell the house.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Give me a bell when you’re done.”

  They had to park a little way from the house. Despite it being in the middle of nowhere, many cars were parked outside. Mr and Mrs Breeze got out of their electric-powered car and looked up at the large, late mock castle that was Druitt House.

  Harvey began the speech he had prepared about the house. He added in tidbits about the surrounding county, nature and other lies that came briefly to mind. They came up to the door and he pounded it with the ornate knocker.

  “I believe the owner is in,” said Harvey.

  Heavy, eager feet came to the door. A small hatch slid open and two excited eyes peered through. “Hi … err … Mr Vanquisher? I’m Harvey Slugsoup from Firm Foundations.”

  The hatch slid back. There was a fumble of many locks being undone. The door opened. Mr Vanquisher was in his forties and grotesquely obese. He wore a T-shirt with some faded, humorous legend on it, long stained with many different kinds of sauce and fluid. The ensemble was set off by the He-Man boxers. His patchy beard covered up the smaller fraction of his facial acne. Many curious objects and substances were peering and oozing through his hair and beard.

  “Salutations!” he said with a lisp.

  “Mr Vanquisher?”

  “’Tis I.”

  “Err … we have come to see the house … please.”

  “Come forward.” He stood aside and let them pass.

  The house was decorated like a kitchen fridge door; half of everything seemed to be homemade. On the walls hung fantasy-based pictures of elves and goblins and mounted alongside were all manner of ornaments, from cups made of tinfoil to cardboard swords. Snippets of Tolkien’s works were scattered over the floor and there was a poster picture labelled, “Garden of Earthly Delights” spread across the place, which Harvey stood in front of so as to shield the buyer’s view. Tiny little figurines of brave warriors battled amongst the shag carpet.

  “Oh! It looks nice, cosy, you know,” said Mrs Breeze.

  “Aye. ’Tis that, ma’am,” said Vanquisher.

  Harvey almost began to comfort the Breezes, but they started to talk about energy to Mr Vanquisher, in a way that seemed favourable to the sale. This went on until Vanquisher beckoned Harvey. “May I converse with you a second, sir?”

  “Certainly … anything you need,” said Harvey. “Are you two happy to look around … before I give you a tour?”

  “Oh yes. I see there is plenty to see.”

  Harvey took Vanquisher aside.

  “What class are you?” said Vanquisher.

  Harvey laughed unintentionally. “Haha … What?”

  “Whose side are you on?” said Vanquisher, taking a step closer.

  “Why the seller’s, sir … the higher sell, sir … we want the highest amount,” said Harvey with his biggest Firm Foundation patent grin.

  “Whose side are you on?” said Vanquisher again, taking another step closer.

  “Yours, sir. I’m on your side … haha … sorry.” Grinning so much had started to make Harvey’s cheeks ache.

  Vanquisher gave Harvey a big, sweaty, malodorous hug. “Good, good. ’Tis always a fine thing to have another ally!”

  There was a sound from the other room that filled Harvey’s heart with hope. “Oh my … it’s gorgeous!”

  Both he and Vanquisher came back to see the Breezes looking at the garden. For a moment Harvey had to admit that there was something beautiful in this world. The garden glowed with vitality, like some mythical jade paradise. Everywhere was still in keeping with the medieval theme of the house, but with taste. It was decorated with mythical arches, dragon statues, ponds and bridges. No walls could be seen around the perimeter; the path ahead disappearing into some mysterious wooded area. Dragonflies and beautiful birds swarmed.

  “It's fantastic,” she said.

  “I am a powerful Emerald Druid.”

  “Oh my goodness! So what do you use?”

  “Runes and Buffs.”

  “Oh wow! I have my own garden. My chanting doesn’t seem to be helping as much as it used to, but I will try your method if you will show me.”

  “It takes sweat and blood. The garden hasn’t been fed in a while. Do you hear it cry out for feeding, under the wind?”

  “Do you play croquet?” said Mr Breeze, referring to the croquet hammer in Mr Vanquisher’s hand that he had stealthily acquired. It was covered in glue and glitter.

  “This is my Hammer of Gaia. It is what makes my garden grow.”

  “Oh I see … how does it work?” Mrs Breeze was less impressed.

  “The life energy flows through it, then through nature’s jaws and then into the soil.”

  “Oh, I see,” said Mrs Breeze, more comfortable with the mention of “energy”. “I can see you have really put your heart and soul into this garden.”

  “No, but others have.”

  Harvey fancied he heard angry voices from somewhere. He moved away from his companions and crept back along the tat-filled corridor. He swore he could hear some people saying the strangest things.

  “For the King’s Glory!” boomed a voice. It was coming from the tower: a stream of technical gibberish and arcane nonsense. “… why ’tis true thou’s five point four key damage is leet, but is wasted stats if the mob has only seven per cent dodge. Thou’s damage quote should only match the mob and nothing more …”

  Harvey went up the three flights of stairs to find himself in an Aladdin’s cave of technology. Seemingly designed to be dingy, this dark, musty room had no sunshine and was lit by various screens dotted around. The voices came from a four-metre-wide screen and were intolerably loud.

  On the walls were assorted pictures of knights, wizards and mystical creatures that
had Mr Vanquisher’s head superimposed upon them. In general, they seemed to either be surrounded by near naked female-like creatures or vanquished foes.

  Harvey was not sure the Breezes would appreciate this room. He looked up at the screen to see two computer game knights fighting in some endless, stalemated battle, while the impenetrable narration continued. He was hypnotised by the futility of the fighting knights for a few seconds, and then the spell was broken by a shout from Mrs Breeze. He descended the stairs and heard movement in the front room. He came in to see Vanquisher pulling Mrs Breeze’s corpse across the floor towards the garden, leaving a blood-stained trail.

  “Oh, my apologies. How embarrassing! I only just discovered they were the enemy. These two were witches. It must look awfully bad of me.” There was a pause. “You're not an enemy are you?” Another pause. The hammer of Gaia was nearby, covered in blood.

  “Hahaha … er … haha … Oh, no, no!” said Harvey. “I’m on your side. Like I said … Death to witches … I hate those witches!”

  Harvey looked around for a weapon. There were many, but they all seemed to be made of tinfoil and cardboard.

  “Oh, good, good!” Then thinking a moment, “Are you sure?”

  “Quite sure. Hammers and nature and all that. I can’t get enough of it … Think it’s great. Well, all’s well that ends well then … I’ll just be off …”

  “If you are an ally we should confirm our friendship with a chant. What is the King’s Battle cry?”

  “Umm … err …” Vanquisher picked up the hammer. It looked like heavier than a usual croquet mallet. “… for … the King’s … Glory.”

  “Brother Harvey! You should have told me on your arrival and I would have greeted you with a flagon of mead.”

  Harvey received another inescapable hug.

  “Oh, there is no need to do that for me. Well, seeing as all is good here, I better get going.”

  Harvey tried to make his way to the door, but Vanquisher blocked his path and Harvey grimaced again.

  “Can I request some aid?” said Vanquisher.

  “Umm … sure.”

  “I need you to help me get these witches into the Jaws of Nature. This witch is very fat and heavy.”

  “Umm …”

  “It would mean so much to me. We are both citizens of Gamalon are we not?” Vanquisher stood immovable.

  “Sure. Why not?”

  “Assist me in carting this outside. I have taken all the plunder.”

  They carried the body out into the garden, past the body of Mr Breeze.

  The “Jaws of Nature” turned out to be a wood chipper, which Vanquisher used to make compost. Harvey watched as Mr Vanquisher fed Mrs Breeze’s body into the machine and Harvey was given the job of sprinkling some herbs and saying magic words during the ritual. He would have thought that mincing two corpses would be a messy business. He was right.

  “One must become one with nature,” Vanquisher observed, as he mixed the sludge that came out of the Jaws of Nature with regular compost. “’Tis not my garden a beauty? The gluttonous witch’s fat will make her grow big and strong.”

  “It's lovely. It has lots of personality.”

  “Oh yes. She is high maintenance though, a jealous mistress. I will sprinkle the life around the garden when I don’t have guests. You will join me for tea and biscuits?”

  “Oh, but I must be off, you know. I must tend to my own garden. They don’t cannibalise by themselves, you know.”

  “But I insist.”

  “You insist?”

  “I insist.”

  Harvey went into the front room while Mr Vanquisher made the tea. Harvey looked toward the door and calculated his chances. He sat down. Vanquisher came in and put a massive mug of tea in front of him.

  “So tell me, Brother Harvey, how long have you been playing ‘Life Fantasy Quest’?”

  “Oh, just a little, but not enough to answer any kind of in-depth questions on it.”

  “What kind of computer do you have?”

  A pause. “It’s black … Plasma.”

  “What is your class?”

  There was a pause. “The same as yours.”

  “An Emerald Druid, too, aye. I warm to you more and more. Your trade craft?”

  A pause.

  “What level are you?”

  “Oh … I’m stuck on level ten.”

  Vanquisher lent back and stroked his beard like a wise sage. “So small …” He unconsciously wiped his hands on his shorts.

  “I wish I could play more. To be honest, my wife doesn’t let me play much.”

  “Wooooow! You have a wife?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is she nice?”

  “She’s okay.”

  “Really?” said Vanquisher, disappointed.

  “No.”

  “A job and a wife? Those are the natural enemies of the game. Hmm, I tell you what, give me your username and I will level you.”

  “My username? HSLUGSOUP … I think.”

  “I will add you and level you.”

  “Great.”

  “Don’t you like your tea?”

  Harvey looked suspiciously at the cup in his hand and chipped off the biggest chunk of dried cheese encrusted around the rim. “It’s just cooling.”

  “I insist.”

  Harvey weighed up his chances again. He downed the scalding hot liquid in one go. He swayed a little to settle himself and looked for something to take away the taste of fish.

  “Oh dear, is that the time?” he choked. “I really must be going.”

  “No, no. I had a truly joyous instance. You will stay a little longer. You didn’t tell me your trade craft?”

  A pause.

  “Your profession is a house seller?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did you come to that?”

  “Umm … lesser of two evils, I guess.” They sat in silence for a minute. Vanquisher dribbled a little and began swinging the hammer like a pendulum. “How did you come to your profession, as a … superhero?” said Harvey.

  “I used to have a human profession you know. Hated it. I was a noob in life. But then I got the game. It was amazing. I played and played. I didn’t go into work. They sent me letters and I didn’t even bother opening them. I quested and quested. I could go for days without food or sleep, right up until I had the heart attack. But when I woke up in hospital I had transformed into the glory you see before you. Mother Earth had consumed me and I had become Orogan the Vanquisher. And since then I have become famous. I have saved this existence as we know it twenty-seven times.”

  “Fascinating,” said Harvey – and noticed with some surprise that he felt a little jealous.

  “What do you think of my druid dinosaur metamorphosis?” said Mr Vanquisher, jumping up onto a chair hands outstretched and roaring.

  “Oh, brilliant, brilliant! Much better than mine.”

  “Well, you are just a level ten. Here, come and look at my armour.” Vanquisher pulled Harvey up and pushed him up the stairs, which creaked under the bulk. They came into the tower room together. “What do you think of the Vanquishing Lair?”

  “Oh, it’s certainly … fabulous.”

  “Epic isn’t it? Here. Watch!” Vanquisher jumped into his chair. He put on a headset and began bashing at the keyboard with tremendous dexterity. He began to speak in the familiar claptrap and after a few minutes Harvey realised that he was in some kind of trance. It was clear Vanquisher had forgotten all about him and was fully transformed into a Druid. Harvey crept away down the stairs and pulled at the door. It was jammed. There was a bit of panicked fumbling before a solid, careful kick opened it for him.

  Harvey sprinted down the hill and saw the unexpected and, unusually, welcome car of Crustsnout. Flustered, out of breath and red of face he ran up to Crustsnout’s car and furiously banged on the windscreen.

  “Talk to me. I was passing when I realised you had been here some time. Did they buy?”

  “Mr
Vanquisher is a psycho and a murderer. Oh God! He killed them both. I thought he was going to kill me. He killed them with a croquet mallet and turned them into compost to feed his man-eating garden and there was blood everywhere!”

  “Yes, this is an issue.”

  “I’ll phone the police now.” Harvey took out his phone.

  “A murder will cut a property’s price in half. Is that a company phone?”

  “What? Yes … But it’s free to phone the police, isn’t it?”

  “Wait, wait! Let me think for a moment before we do anything. We have to be pragmatic about this. Listen; get into the car a second.”

  “But …”

  “Harvo, put the phone away and get in the car!”

  Harvey got into the passenger seat.

  “Listen, nobody wants to buy a murder house. I have been on these kinds of waters before. And I’m not going to make the same mistakes again. The truth is the world never wants transparency. Well, I suppose they do, but they want transparency and perfection. We can’t give both, so we give them perfection. I gave them transparency before and I ended up … well, here.”

  “But this guy killed two people!”

  “I know … I know it’s a bit weird, but there is a backdoor solution here. There is a lot of pressure from the top to get this house sold. It doesn’t hurt if we go to the police post-sale does it?”

  “We could go to jail.”

  “We know nothing about it! Look here, read that …” He took out a clipboard and pulled from it the PIP. “Read there.”

  “But …”

  “Read!”

  “‘I will sell the Druitt House within a month at asking price.’ But …”

  “And what did we both agree would happen if you didn’t sell it?” There was a pause. “But is that outcome going to be deliverable for us if you go to the police?” Crustsnout paused to let this sink in. “That would be a career-limiting move. Listen, I’m learning from my past mistakes. You need to learn from yours. The sooner you sell this house, the sooner we can go to the police. You know, you’ve got to take more ownership. It’s not Mr Vanquisher’s skill-set to sell the house, it is yours. Think of your family!”