How To Avoid Death On A Daily Basis: Book Three

by V. Moody

  Eventually, though, Ween would come up with a plan. Unless, of course, he had been told to wait for me to make my move first, which would be great since I planned to do absolutely nothing. Everything relied on Little Chicken, assuming he hadn’t taken his chance to leg it and disappear over the horizon.

  As I sat there, I noticed my hand was remarkably clean considering all the blood that had passed through my fingers recently. Had I wiped it off without thinking? Or had Jenny’s claim to be injured been an elaborate ruse to be intimate with me? It was pleasing to think she’d go to such lengths to get me to fiddle with her bits, but how likely was it really? Wishful thinking.

  Jenny slipped into the booth beside me and leaned on my shoulder. “What you doing?” There was plenty of room for her to spread out, but she chose to sit as close to me as possible. I didn’t mind it.

  “I was, er…” A guy staring at his hand after it had recently been in a girl’s pants probably didn’t give off the cool, laid back vibe I was hoping to send out. Maybe one step above “Hey, smell my finger.” I put my hand under the table like it didn’t belong me.

  “Just so we’re clear,” she said, “what happened upstairs was a medical emergency.”

  “I know. Why else would you let me put my hand down there?”

  There was a long pause. “I’d appreciate if you didn’t tell the others about it.”

  “Sure, no problem. Is it alright if I think about it when I’m by myself?”

  There was an even longer pause. “If you want.”

  Not the answer I was expecting. I turned to look at her. “I mean, it’s not like you could stop me, but thanks for the green light.”

  She shrugged. “Makes no difference to me.”

  It was a fair point. But I have to admit to feeling a tiny bit disappointed by her lack of concern. Perhaps she really did only see me as a useful medical device.

  The bar staff were stationed at the windows, peering through the shutter slats. Snoring filled the room, topped off by the occasional involuntary fart. I sat with my elbows on the table, thinking about how to get out of Dargot without getting caught up in whatever scheme Gullen was cooking up. I could always try old faithful—running away—but I doubted it would work against Gullen. Or his dogs.

  Jenny joined in the snoring. Apparently the threat of a horrible death at the hands of violent ruffians wasn’t worth losing sleep over.

  The chances of my plan working weren’t bad, but they weren’t great, either. If this was a game, I’d have any number of skills and abilities to help. Stealth, AoE, persuasion… there’d be six different escape routes and a secret door in the basement—which I could find with my detect skill. But all I had was a door with a bunch of nutters on the other side.

  I aimlessly started pressing invisible buttons. I had given up on the idea of this being a game, but I had learned magic in a random fashion, so maybe this would be the same. Which reminded me, I had to figure out how I’d managed to create that flash of light without using any finger movements.

  Beep boop beep.

  My hands froze in mid-air. That noise… Could it be....

  I tapped the area in front of me with a finger. Beep. “Oh for fuck’s sake.” I turned to Jenny.

  “Beep. Boop.” She grinned at me.

  “Really? You had to get my hopes up just so you could watch them crash and burn?”

  “The crash and burn is the best part,” she said. Girls are cruel. “I asked Maurice why you keep doing that, and he said you think this might be some kind of virtual reality game.”

  “It’s possible.”

  “I don’t think so. I’ve tried Occulus Rift and I can tell you, it isn’t like this. It’s shit.”

  “Is it? I’ve heard it’s quite—”

  “Shit. It’s very, very shit. But even if this is some advanced VR simulation, why do you think there would be an invisible control panel? Why wouldn’t it be voice activated?”

  “Sorry, what?” Idiot. I’d completely forgotten about voice commands.

  “Have you ever played computer games?”

  It’s not fun having your video game prowess looked down on. Even more so when it’s by a girl. Sexist? Yeah, but still true.

  “Status screen,” I said. Nothing happened. “Control panel.” Nothing. “Open window.”

  “Open sesame,” said Jenny.

  “User Interface on.”

  “Let there be light.”

  “You aren’t helping,” I said.

  “How do you know? It could be a special password. Show me the money! Ooh, did you see that? I think I saw something.” She was mocking me and thoroughly enjoying herself while she did it. “Maybe it’s Maybelline.”

  I was saved from further psychological mauling by one of the sleepers on the pub floor. He

  suddenly sat up and said “Eh? What’s going on here?”

  The other men all sat up, almost in unison, like this had been the prearranged signal to rise from their slumber. The men looked around, confused and still a bit groggy.

  “Everyone get up. On your feet.” Enwye went round helping them up. Once he’d done that, he told them what had happened in the last few hours. This caused shock and disbelief. Which turned into anger and fear. Which, inevitably, led to whining and complaining.

  “Calm down, throwing a hissy fit won’t do any good,” said Enwye

  “This is madness,” said Bushy Beard. His previous faith in his good buddy Crunchy had disappeared. “We can’t stay here forever.”

  “That’s true” said Enwye. “Come sun up, Crunchy will have the authority to demand entrance. Nothing I can do about it. He’s still a member of the Dargot Army, even if he is a total dirtbag.”

  There was some more grumbling about this.

  “But his plan was probably to grab you all when you were shit-faced and get you to sign the papers without knowing what it was you were signing. You ain’t drunk now, so he can’t make you sign nothing.”

  I doubted it would be that easy, but the men seemed mollified and made optimistic noises. Until, that is, there was a loud banging on the door.

  “Who is it?” shouted Enwye.

  “This is Corporal Ween of Her Majesty’s Royal Infantry, Third Division. Under the City Provisions Act, I demand entry to these premises.” He sounded very formal and officious.

  “Yes, yes, I know the drill.” Enwye unbarred the door and opened it. The men all backed away.

  Corporal Ween stood in the doorway looking very pleased with himself.

  “Hello, Ween,” said Enwye without a trace of friendliness. “You’re welcome to check my licence and stores, but first you’ll have let these customers leave.” He shoved Ween aside and motioned for the men to leave. They were nervous and unsure of what they’d find on the other side of the door, but they slowly walked through it. At the end of the line were me and Jenny. Seemed like as good a time to leave as any.

  Outside, the sun’s early rays presented us with an ominous scene. The wagons formed a semi-circle blocking us in, and all around the perimeter were large men carrying clubs. I did a quick head count and made it fifteen of them—it looked like he’d called in reinforcements— against twelve scared men with hangovers, a barman and three staff members, and us two.

  “Wh-what’s all this?” said Bushy.

  “Now, now, don’t look so worried. I just want a quiet word, that’s all.”

  I pushed my way through the men. “Well, I’ll be off then.”

  “Wait a minute,” said Ween. “This is official Army business. You’ll have to wait until we’re done.”

  “No, I won’t. You can do what you want, but it’s got nothing to do with me, so out of the way, Crunchy.”

  Roly-poly Crunchy who enjoyed a joke and a laugh was not coming out to play. Instead, I had his evil twin Corporal Creepy staring me down.

  “You may be a Visitor and all,” he said, eyeing me up like a lamb chop, “but you’ll do as I say if you want to avoid upsetting my friends.”r />
  I did have a weapon and could possibly take out one or two of the carpenters if I got lucky, but I didn’t really fancy it.

  “I think you’ve got it wrong,” I said. “I won’t be your opponent today. They will.” I nodded towards the men behind him.

  He turned, didn’t see anything untowards at first, and then walked over to the wagons, pushing the carpenters out of the way.

  It was hard to see clearly because of the way the wagons were positioned, but coming down the street was a crowd. A large crowd of women and children.

  “Wait a minute” said Bushy, suddenly looking twice as afraid as he had a moment ago. “Is that… Oh shit. What’s my wife doing here?”

  23. Stone Cold

  Despite my general poor attitude towards women, especially those around my own age, I don’t see females as inferior to males. In some cases, they are superior.

  Men have a history of abusing women. Of taking advantage of them and forcing them to do things they don’t want to. But women have their own way of righting the balance. They may not be stronger or faster or be able to park cars in a perfectly reasonable parking space, but one thing is certainly to their advantage: they made us. And creators know their creations better than anyone.

  The relationship between men and older women—not just their own mothers, but all mothers—is a complicated one. Doesn’t matter if it’s a loving, adoring mother or a cruel, vindictive one. You can’t treat them however you want. You can’t say, “Look, old woman, this is how it is and if you don’t like it, scram.” Try it. Enjoy the utter devastation as your psyche implodes from a simple look of disappointment.

  The women marching towards us were of all different ages. Some carried babies. Some dragged toddlers behind them. Most were of an age where doing your hair and makeup before you go out was not so much of a priority. Am I saying some women let themselves go once they’re married and have kids? Of course not, I would never say something like that.

  Corporal Ween and his goons watched with baffled looks as the women formed a circle around them. I had sent Little Chicken to gather the men’s families, but there were far too many women here. There had to be at least a hundred. They surrounded Ween and his men and pinned them down with very harsh glaring—a surprisingly effective containment technique. I could feel my balls shrinking and they weren’t even looking at me.

  A figure stepped out from the crowd. She was probably the smallest woman there, definitely the oldest. Her hair was pure white and her face was heavy with wrinkles. A large mole sat on the side of her nose daring you to mention it. Her back was hunched and she hobbled forward using a crooked branch as a walking stick.

  “What do you think you’re doing, Ween?” She had the voice of a forty-a-day smoker.

  “Mama Ivy, I’m just doing my job. You all, you need to get back to your homes. You can’t be interfering with me performing my duties.” I think he was trying to make it sound like a threat, but it came out more like a nervous plea.

  “Your duty, is it? Your duty to take these boys away from their families? I see, I see. And what about their duty to provide for their kin. How will they put food on the table if they’re off fighting ogres and goblins and what have you?”

  “That’s… that’s not my concern. We’re fighting a war. There won’t be any tables to put food on if the monsters aren’t stopped.” He turned away from Granny Grimface and appealed to the crowd. “You... you should be proud of your boys for protecting this city. This city is your home. We need to fight to safeguard our home.”

  “Oh, Ween,” said Mama Ivy. She seemed very tired and frail, barely managing to stay upright as she bent down, tottering with one hand gripping the stick, the leathery texture of her fingers almost matching the gnarled wood, to pick up a fist-sized rock lying on the ground. “We’re more than capable of protecting our home. Especially from men like you.”

  A common insult among guys is to accuse one another of ‘throwing like a girl’. It is, of course, unfair to label all womankind as terrible throwers. It’s a way of suppressing an entire gender with casual jokes and put-downs and in that regard, it’s quite effective. Confidence greatly affects performance. I’d guess Mama Ivy had never been too bothered by mean words.

  She didn’t throw like a girl. She didn’t even throw like a boy. She threw like a pitcher in the MLB. Once the rock left her hand, I didn’t see it again until it bounced off Ween’s forehead.

  He staggered backwards, his eye darting around like he couldn’t tell where the blow had come from. He reached up and touched the blood pouring from the nasty gash.

  The women all suddenly had rocks in their hands. Even the children, those who were big enough, had stones gripped in their tiny fists.

  The men beside me shrank back. They were pale and their expressions were somewhere between horror and pity. Many of them looked away.

  “We should go,” said Jenny, gulping.

  She started to edge past me but I grabbed her by the arm. “No. We should stay and watch.”

  She gave me a questioning look and then winced. I was holding her arm too tightly, but I didn’t let go. And she didn’t ask me to.

  In hindsight, there were probably a number of ways the men inside that circle of rage could have escaped. Form a tight unit and punch a hole through the wall of women. Start beating everyone in sight and cause panic. Take a child hostage and threaten to do nasty thing if the crowd didn’t disperse. But they did none of those things.

  Once the rocks started flying, only one of the carpenters tried to make a break for it, rushing headlong into the ranks of women. He was quickly swallowed up and ripped to pieces.

  I don’t know if you’ve ever seen a stoning, but it’s far more gruesome than you can imagine. Some countries still use it as a form of punishment because those countries are run by sociopaths. Not even a person guilty of the worst crime deserves a death like that.

  Why didn’t they fight back? Why didn’t they try to get away? When I came up with the idea to send for the families of the men trapped in the Pickled Gherkin, I thought it would shame Ween into backing off. Some industrial-grade nagging to put him in his place. I hadn’t expected this.

  In the midst of it all stood Mama Ivy. Her face showed not one iota of sympathy. Her eyes remained on the men as they sank to their knees, as they dropped to the ground, as they begged for mercy. She wasn’t enjoying it. She wasn’t pleased with the outcome. She was just seeing the job through to the end.

  She raised a withered, deformed finger and the rocks stopped flying. She walked, tilting from side to side like a duck with terrible arthritis, and prodded Ween’s prostrate body with her stick. He didn’t respond. She spat on him.

  This was apparently the signal for everyone to go home. They all turned and walked back the way they had come. The men with us hurried to catch up. Mama Ivy was the last one. She waddled off, but then stopped and turned to look at me. Directly at me.

  I did what anyone would in that situation. I pulled Jenny across so she was in front of me.

  Now, you may think hiding behind a girl isn’t the act of a true hero, to which I would respond by suggesting you go fuck yourself. This little old lady had just orchestrated the execution of sixteen men, and she’d managed to keep them frozen in place to receive their punishment simply by staring at them. She made Medusa look like some bint with a funny haircut.

  Mama Ivy pierced me with her gaze and my knees buckled. I would have fallen if I hadn’t held onto Jenny. Then she turned around and hobbled off.

  “Did you just use me as a human shield?” said Jenny.

  “What? No.” I let go of her. Behind us the door to the Pickled Gherkin was closed. In front of us were a bunch of bloody and tattered corpses.

  “Can we go now?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  We walked through the empty, early morning streets.

  “I don’t know why you wanted to watch that. Probably give me nightmares.”

  “Good,” I said.
“It should give you nightmares. That all happened because of you.”

  She stopped. “That’s not very fair. It’s not like the alternative outcome was any better. People would have died either way. At least the ones who suffered deserved it.”

  “And you’re fine with that, are you? You get to decide who lives and dies?”

  “I’m not the one who summoned Lilith’s Army of the Damned.”

  “Don’t try to shift the blame onto me,” I said. “You’re the one who stood on a table and started this. And I don’t give a shit about those guys lying back there. You’re right, they got what they deserved. But what about all those people you turned into killers today. Just because you had no idea what would happen, doesn’t mean you aren’t responsible. Do you think they’ll walk away from this unchanged? You think those kids throwing stones won’t be affected?”