The Miscreant

by Brock Deskins

  “Hey, it could be worse.”

  “You’ve missed two days of school and soiled yourself like a child. How could you do any worse?”

  “You ever hear the expression ‘mudbutt’?”

  “No, and I’m sure I never want to.”

  “You certainly do not, trust me. Since this day is pretty well shot to hell already, I’m going to go hit the baths and change clothes. Cover for me for the rest of my classes, will you?”

  “Cover for you how?”

  “When they call roll, just say ‘here.’”

  “That is never going to work,” Aniston argued.

  “Sure it will. Trust me; most of these professors don’t give a damn if we are there or not. Roll is just a bureaucratic box they have to check. They call out a name, hear a ‘here,’ check it, and move on. The tests are the only things that matter.”

  “It’s the tests we’re worried about, and we are relying on a man who is currently soaked in his own urine.”

  Garran patted the front of his trousers. “It’s dry…”

  Aniston shook his head in disgust and walked away. “Get it together, Holt!”

  “You seem stressed, Aniston,” Garran called out. “I have something to help you relax. Great, now I’m stressed.” He looked back in the direction of his stash, bent and sniffed at his own stink, sighed, and stalked off to his dorm for a change of clothes.

  ***

  “Wake up, Holt.”

  Something heavy dropped onto Garran’s stomach. He opened his eyes, bent his head up from where it rested on his pillow, and saw a plate of food resting on his belly. He sat up carefully and breathed in the aroma.

  “Well, it’s not flowers, but thank you for thinking of me. Does this mean you want to go steady?”

  Aniston flipped him off. “You look like you haven’t eaten in days, and I don’t want you passing out when you do whatever it is you are going to do.”

  “You’ve got the weekend to get it done, Garran,” another of his dormmates said.

  “You guys worry too much.”

  “You do not inspire confidence,” Aniston countered.

  “I’m on it. Look, I’m not even covered in my own piss anymore.”

  “Your mother would be so proud.”

  “You know, I think she might be.”

  Garran did not realize how hungry he was until he started eating. He devoured the laden plate and wished he could go for seconds. Maybe he could find something else to eat during his evening foray. Garran skimmed over one of his textbooks while watching the increasing darkness through the dorm window.

  Whenever he peered over the top of his book, he found Aniston and several of the other students watching him expectantly as if he were about to perform a magic trick. Garran ignored their demanding eyes and kept reading. Several times, Aniston started to speak, but Garran raised a finger and cut off whatever protest he was going to make.

  A bell tolled a single, deep tocsin to signal lights out across the campus. Garran closed his book, set it on the nightstand next to his bed, and stood.

  “Let the witching hour begin,” he declared with a smile.

  Garran threw open the window, stepped onto the ledge, and slid down the drainpipe to avoid those tasked with hall monitor duty. He loped across the manicured lawns until his body issued a stern protest and forced him to walk. His burning lungs insisted that he work on getting into better shape and stop smoking opium, to which Garran’s brain issued a vicious reprimand condemning their treasonous complaints.

  He was just glad that Vivian had an apartment on campus, a luxury usually afforded only to the instructors and key faculty members but, apparently, Dean Kelsey was able to bend the rules to better facilitate bending his secretary. Garran slipped the simple catch securing the shutters and slid open the window to Vivian’s home.

  Careful not to kick over the vase sitting on the small table beneath the window, Garran slithered through the portal and stood inside the dark living room. He found the striker next to a lamp and lit it, turning the wick down so it only cast light a few feet.

  Garran skulked around the room, searching through drawers and cabinets. He took several food items from the pantry, unhitched his trousers, and defiled them before putting them back. His spitefulness satiated, the intruder decided it was best to get down to the real business of his being there. He crept into Vivian’s bedroom and was just able to make out her sleeping form in the bed.

  Paying careful attention to the sound of her breathing, Garran went to the dresser and gently opened the drawers until he found what he was looking for. Slipping a knapsack off his back, he removed all of Vivian’s underwear and stuffed them into the rucksack. He then pulled out the sack containing the crazy prostitute’s knickers and dumped the contents into the drawer. Ensuring that Vivian had no other underwear in a laundry bin or tossed onto the floor, Garran escaped through the door and disappeared into the darkness.

  The faculty apartments were quite far away from the student dorms, so Garran had to endure another jog before taking a position in the bushes ringing the women’s housing. Girls only made up about ten percent of the student population and were all housed in a single unit.

  Unlike the faculty apartments, the women’s dorm had roving patrols keeping a wary eye out on people like Garran. Hunkering down in the bushes planted alongside the building, he lightly shouted for help in as high a voice as he could muster. A young woman opened the door and poked her head out.

  “Hello?” she called into the darkness.

  Garran flung a stone down the side of the building and called out again. The girl gripped a truncheon in her hand and stepped out onto the walk.

  “Hello?” she called out again and took several steps in the direction from which the sound emanated.

  Garran scurried hunched over through the narrow space between the hedge and the side of the building and darted through the door. He immediately had to duck into an alcove when another hall monitor stepped into the corridor and started walking briskly toward the door.

  “Gertrude, is everything okay?”

  The girl Garran had lured outside stepped back through the door and closed it behind her. “Yeah, I just thought I heard something.”

  Garran dashed out of the nook and vanished around a corner as the two girls began talking. He opened the door to one of the dorm rooms and watched for a full minute to ensure everyone was asleep before stepping in. Once inside, Garran went from bunk to bunk, stealing several pairs of underwear from each of the trunks until his rucksack was stuffed full of women’s dainties.

  Deciding that the window would make for an easier escape, Garran opened the latch and slid down the drain just as he had at his own dorm. He glanced up and gave the window a satisfied smile the moment his feet touched the ground.

  “What are you doing?”

  Garran backpedaled and likely would have fallen had the wall not arrested his startled retreat. His eyes wide, he stared dumbfounded at the girl he thought he had tricked near the door.

  “Who are you and what are you doing?”

  “I’m…um…my name’s Martin. I’m a prefect over at Hayworth House.”

  “Tell me what you are doing before I scream for help.”

  Garran glanced over his shoulder and sighed. “I was stealing underwear. How did you catch me?”

  “You aren’t as sneaky as you think you are.”

  “Apparently. Why didn’t you tell on me when you saw me?”

  Gertrude shrugged. “I was bored and thought you might be interesting. Why would you risk getting thrown out of school just to steal our panties?”

  “I’m a hopeless deviant. I have these urges, and stealing underwear is the only way I’ve found to satisfy them.”

  Gertrude stepped a little closer and traced a line down Garran’s chest with her finger. Garran could just make out her smile through the darkness. “Maybe I can help you find a better way to banish your demons.”

  “Oh…uh, sorry, I’m als
o a hopeless fancy boy, but my friend Garran would love to do some demon taming with you. He won’t even care that you’re a little chunky and plain.”

  Gertrude stepped back and scowled. “Chunky and plain?”

  “I’m sorry, see, I’m terrible with women, but Garran now, he’s a master with them. He knows how to do things you wouldn’t even think of.”

  “Really? Isn’t a garen some kind of fish?”

  “Maybe, but I’m sure it’s spelled different. The point is, he’d love to meet you, but I can’t introduce you two if I get caught out here.”

  “What will I tell the girls when they find all their knickers gone in the morning? I’m going to look like a total screw-up and get in trouble.”

  “You aren’t the only one I slipped past tonight. Give me a few minutes’ head start then go up to your dorm room, discover the missing articles, and get the campus constabulary to come after me. Tell them you saw me outside but didn’t know I had been inside until you found the missing underwear.”

  “You want me to turn you in?”

  “Definitely.”

  “Why? They will expel you.”

  “I can’t control this urge, and I’m a coward as well as a deviant. It’s the only way to stop me and get the help I desperately need.”

  “Why do I need to wait? I could turn you in now. It would be much more convincing.”

  Garran shook his head. “No, that won’t work. I need to get off before they take me away.”

  “You really are sick.”

  “I am, but will you help me?”

  “You’ll tell your friend about me before you get caught?”

  “Definitely,” Garran promised. “I’ll leave a trail for the constables to find.”

  “Okay.”

  Garran smiled, leaned down, and kissed her quickly on the lips before sprinting off into the night. He pulled up in front of his house and made sure the coast was clear before darting inside and heading straight for Martin’s room. His house also had hall monitors, but they were not nearly as vigilant as the girls were, and it was easy for him to slip past them.

  He opened Martin’s door and pried out the wadded paper he had used to keep it from locking properly, before entering and closing it behind him. Martin lay unconscious on his bed gripping his manhood due to the strong dose of rapture root extract mixed with opium Garran had Aniston slip him at dinner.

  Using rapture root was a risky scheme. Not enough and Martin would simply have been euphoric and unusually amorous. Too much and it would have constricted his veins and arteries so much it killed him.

  “Ah, Martin, you make it too easy for me,” Garran said and went to work creating his crime scene.

  ***

  Campus Constable Commander Elric led two of his men across the grounds toward Hayworth House. The pervert had left a trail of undergarments leading straight to the dorm, making it a simple task to find the perpetrator. He thought he might have to wake the entire dorm to perform a search, but the thief left a pair of the purloined panties sticking out from under the door. His surprise at so easily finding the deviant was compounded when he realized this was a prefect’s room.

  Commander Elric rapped on the door. “Campus constabulary; open the door.”

  Martin’s subconscious heard the pounding, and he forced his eyes to open. He tried to command his body to move, but it resisted his dictates. Only with great effort and concentration was he able to get out of bed and force his shaking legs to support his weight.

  Commander Elric nodded to his men, turned the handle, and barged into the room. Martin blinked at the intruders, desperately trying to clear the fog from his head.

  “Prefect, you need to come with us.”

  “Wha—what’s happening?”

  “I think you know precisely what is happening. You sneaked into the women’s dorm and made off with their unmentionables.”

  Martin cast his eyes around the room. Women’s undergarments were strewn about and covered his bed. “No, there must be some mistake. I didn’t take anyone’s underwear.”

  Elric pointed at Martin’s midriff and swirled his finger in the air. Sir, you have a pair hanging off your…”

  Martin looked down at the silk dainties displayed on his mainmast like a ship’s pennant. “This is all wrong,” he mumbled.

  “It is very wrong. Let’s get some trousers on you.”

  Garran peered around the dorm room’s doorway and saw the officers lead Martin away. He smiled as he watched Martin vacate what would soon be his room.

  CHAPTER 6

  Garran woke with great reluctance. He cursed the sun streaming through the window and assaulting his eyes. He saved several choice words for his dormmates who were using the weekend to catch up on some sleep. Chasing the fog from his head with a stiff drink, Garran rolled out of bed and got dressed.

  “Good morning, labias and genitals,” Garran sang as he stood in the doorway. “It is a new day with a new choice in leadership. I hope I can count on your votes.”

  Garran ducked a haphazardly thrown shoe. “Go eat shit, Holt, and let us sleep or you won’t get any of our damn votes.”

  Garran walked to the far end of the dorm and performed an exaggerated march back to the doorway. “Allow that to soak in so as to remind you of what your every waking morning will be like if I do not have my own room.”

  “What are you talking abou—oh my god! What the hell, man? Someone open a window!”

  “Remember, a fresh start to a new day begins with your vote. Vote Holt for prefect! Toodles!”

  Several shoes went flying through the doorway as Garran strode down the hall. He crossed the grounds to a secluded area Victor had chosen for his training. Still aching from the drubbing Aniston had given him, he was not looking forward to another day of arms training. Garran found Victor waiting in the clearing, his agitation clearly written on his face.

  “You’re late.”

  “You’re ugly. Are you here to train me or just tell the time?”

  Victor grinned, but Garran got the uneasy feeling that only part of it displayed any sort of amusement. “Grab that sword over there and we’ll begin your lessons.”

  Garran saw a sword in its sheath leaning against a small maple tree. He had taken a few steps toward it when Victor slapped him on the back of the head with the flat of his blade. Garran took an involuntary step forward and clapped a hand to the back of his head.

  “Ow, what the hell?”

  “Lesson number one; don’t be a smartass.”

  Garran rubbed his head and reached for the sword. “Sorry, I’m not a morning person.”

  The agent’s sword smacked against his backside. “Lesson two; never turn your back on an enemy.”

  The student rubbed his stinging posterior with both hands. “I didn’t realize we were enemies.”

  “We sure as hell ain’t friends, and even friends are enemies when they’re holding a sword to your neck.”

  “Are these really lessons, or do you just get off causing me pain?”

  “A little of both but mostly the latter. Draw your sword and set yourself.”

  Without taking his eyes off his opponent, Garran slid the blade from the sheath. “Hey, these are sharp.”

  “Of course they are they’re swords not salamis.”

  “In school they are dulled. We aren’t wearing armor?”

  “We’re agents not soldiers. We’re supposed to be smart enough not to put our flesh in the path of sharp and pointy things. Now set yourself.”

  Garran splayed his feet about shoulder width apart and pointed his toes in the direction of his foe. “How’s this?”

  “Great if your goal is to knock apples off the branches with a stick. Lower your blade, widen your stance, and hunch down a bit. Relax. You have all your joints locked in place, and you’re squeezing the hilt too tight. Hold it like you do your prick when you abuse yourself.”

  Garran grinned. “If that’s the key to swordsmanship, then I should have it m
astered by the end of the day.”

  Victor laughed. “It ain’t, but it’s a start.”

  The agent lunged, knocked Garran’s sword aside, and whacked him on the right shoulder before withdrawing. Garran growled and set himself again, rolling his wounded shoulder. Deciding that going on the offense was going to be more productive, he waded in and swung his blade with wild abandon.

  Victor easily parried the strokes and soon put Garran back on the defensive. He knocked Garran’s blade out wide and again smacked him on the hip with a backhand blow before the student could bring his sword around to block it.

  “Use your momentum to bring your blade back in line. Don’t try to arrest the swing and reverse it. It takes too much time and wastes energy. When someone knocks your blade out wide, it’s often faster and easier to just complete the loop, but that means you have to learn where the next strike will land by watching his movements. The slightest muscle twitch will give away his next move if you know what to look for.”

  For several minutes, Garran and Victor danced around the clearing, but Garran still took more hits than he blocked, and his muscles were quickly failing.

  “You’re supposed to be a transcended, so transcend already. What are you waiting for?”

  “I don’t know how to do it. Last time, it just happened. I was about to die,” Garran answered with labored breath.

  “Well, that’s easy enough to recreate.”

  Victor’s attack became more concerted. He stopped checking his swings, and Garran saw the change in his movements and the intent in his eyes. A second “brain” seemed to awaken in his sword hand, and he began to move a bit quicker. He stopped thinking about what to do and followed his arm’s instincts. Despite the sudden improvement, he could still not defeat Victor’s superior skill and deadly intent.

  Victor’s next slash slipped past his guard and opened a long, bloody line in Garran’s shirt. The cut stung and welled up blood. Real fear took ahold of him, and his heart’s pounding doubled its cadence. Victor seemed to check his follow-up attack, but then Garran noticed a bird flying by, its wings beating impossibly slow.

  He grinned, knowing he had just slipped into the swifter currents of time, and went on the attack. Garran’s smile vanished when Victor’s sword flashed into motion once more and intercepted his stroke. The agent stole Garran’s smile and wore it as his own as he too willed his body and mind to transcend. The two fighters spun, leapt, and slashed around the clearing in an incredible display of speed and ferocity. Since Garran was still raw as a swordsman, Victor’s skill prevailed even in this space between time and was never in danger of losing the upper hand.