They became amazingly drunk with the young man, then took shots of Sniper’s Kiss, a harsh brew laced with opium that a Ranger had developed during the Smith War. The young con made sure they had a good time, but Perseval decided he did not like him. He didn’t like it that Erb and Jack had been ready to kill him one moment, but then as soon as they had been let in on how the scam worked, they were ready to laugh at his tales of how he took advantage of people. The young con always seemed to have an excuse; nothing was ever his fault. Perseval became more and more drunk and when it grew dark and he lost track of time, he finally accused the con of setting them up for another scam.
“Get real!” said the con. “You guys are too poor for that. Get a job and fill your wallet out a bit, then we’ll talk.”
Before Perseval could respond, the entire bar shook as several older veterans belted out a patriotic war song. Perseval was scared of the men, with their hard faces and thick scars, and he realized that these were the men that the Pontius Officials said wanted to sneak into Pontius and kill him, his mother, and everyone he knew. Then Perseval was further confused when a mob of average-looking people joined the hardened soldiers. Several even had tears in their eyes. The drink caught up with him, his mind shifted, and all of a sudden it seemed that he knew the words of the song before he even heard them. Floored by the strange experience, he lost track of Erb and Jack, who were busy making a series of mistakes that would soon ruin their friendship.
While Perseval sat in a stupor, Jack blacked out, ran across the street, found a merchant still dealing, and sold his rings and necklace for Valley coins. Jack later found himself gambling, spinning the Fate Wheel with a group of farmers and bank clerks and an Entertainer. He was winning. Overjoyed, he bought the men a round of drinks and they declared their friendship. When Jack lost all of his money on a turn of Fate, he promised a farmer that he would win it all back if given a chance. The farmer reluctantly conceded when Jack lied about having a job with Miss Oliver, the Miss Oliver, a woman revered as a hero in the Valley. Jack lost and lost again and then lost some more, and when another man joined the game and heard Jack’s story, he said that he knew for a fact that Miss Oliver had retired and had in her employment only a half dozen serving girls and a single butler. He had met them all and Jack was not one of them. The Valliers were enraged that Jack would misuse the name of a hero. At that moment Erb came out of a stupor and saw Jack surrounded by large men shouting at him. Afraid for his friend, Erb grabbed a chair, tossed it into the group, and entered the fray. Jack secured his own safety by curling up into a fetal position, but a rough dogman who worked as a butcher broke Erb’s arm before a gang of Enforcers could break up the fight.
The owner of the bar swore a great many oaths and Perseval woke from a stupor of his own just in time to see Erb, Jack, and a few others thrown out of the bar. The arguing continued. The Enforcers, a team of hairy, brutish men and dogmen, found that Erb had no money, nor any job at all, in order to pay a doctor to tend his arm. So it was that while some farmers and clerks calmly discussed the enslavement of poor Jack, several Enforcers sat on top of Erb while one brute yanked and set his arm then and there. Tears burned through Perseval’s face as his friend screamed in agony, and when the young con explained to Perseval that it was a part of their job, Perseval pushed the monster away and ran until he became lost in the dark streets of Lucy’s Forge and left the screams of the drunk and the mad far behind.
***
Perseval sat in a dark, quiet alleyway, processing the alcohol and the horror of it all until the sun rose. When the sky was blue and he saw people calmly walking to work, he felt tired and pathetic. Not daring to sleep for fear that someone would take advantage of him, he wandered the town all that day, seeing little, and once he sold the very last of his cheap jewels and silver bits, he bought a sandwich, ate it without tasting it, and watched the sun disappear over the treetops. He inquired at the bar about his friends, but none could say where they were.
Late that night Perseval found an open space in the town, lit with torches hiding behind a wall of mist. In the middle of the space was a tall statue of marble traced with golden lines. He knelt beneath it. The statue was a beautiful, slender woman, and a plaque at its base read
FREYJA
TAKEN FROM HER HOME
FOUGHT TO MAKE A BETTER ONE
The statue’s creation was attributed to the King of the Black Valley.
Anger burned away the numb shock that had guided him all day. The word home cut him to the marrow, and the idea that the king of this place could make something beautiful in a land populated by violent, manipulative cretins twisted his guts and made him sick.
But what could he do? Even if he found this monstrous king, what would he do? Yell at him? Knock him down? Kill him? It was no different from Pontius… no, it was worse than Pontius. Here, evil was more real. People openly delighted in darkness. Begging for mother’s forgiveness was nothing compared to living in this hell, and so he vowed to return home.
Just then he looked around and saw several huddled forms lying on the ground. A wiry old dogman in a ragged suit shuffled toward him, then said, “Down on ya luck?” Perseval said nothing, and so the old dog said, “Down on ya luck,” before he laid down once more. Perseval settled down on the ground with the rest of the people cast off by this society. He was too tired to feel the cold and the damp. He could see the silhouette of an Enforcer stalking about with a club gently knocking at his thigh, but Perseval reasoned that he had nothing to fear from him… he had nothing else that could be stolen. He had lost everything.
Chapter Three
The Illusion of Obstacles Overcome
Just before the sun rose Perseval woke to shouting. “Rock cutters! Men who can cut rock! Tools supplied, lunch supplied!” At the far end of the square another shouted, “Field hands, field hands! No experience needed, lunch supplied!”
Many of the bums leaped and scattered. Perseval rose unsteadily. There were decently-dressed men all around the open area. “How much!” a bum yelled, and one of the men shouted, “Two silver cents, lunch provided, but we go until sunset!”
Perseval had no real understanding of the monetary system, nor which jobs were better or worse, but one of the hiring men shouted, “Lunch and breakfast supplied!” so he wandered over to the man and said, “Sir, what kind of work?”
“Bundling poppy,” the man said, not looking at him. “Ever done it?”
“Well...”
“It’s easy! Come on. Five decas, one day, but there’s more work for the rest of the week if you like.” Several of the bums clustered around the man, so Perseval joined them. His head was thick and his thoughts shuffled about weakly. While he waited for the laborers to gather, a man in rough clothes crossed the square. He was covered in twigs and leaves, and he carried a rifle and had a heavy bag thrown over his shoulder. He ignored the bums as he passed. An Enforcer greeted the rough-looking man, who opened his bag with a smile and revealed several soggy balls. Perseval’s stomach kicked when he realized the balls were severed heads – sickly gray and blue and only vaguely humanoid. Dead, black eyes stared back at him, with mouths agape revealing horrid gums and nubs of uneven teeth. When the Enforcer clapped the killer on the back Perseval understood just how low he was on the totem pole.
They left the gruesome scene and walked down a dusty trail, then through a wooded path, then they met with several armed men who gave them fried potatoes, chunks of meat, and coffee. They ate side by side on a wooden bench, and Perseval immediately felt wonderful. They were led to a three-sided barn on the edge of a field of tall grass and spider-webs heavy with morning dew and there, for many hours, he and the others sorted out leaves, stems, and blossoms from some sort of plant. Once he got the hang of it the armed managers stopped treating him like he was worthless. He joked around with the other workers and was shocked to find that he was handling a plant that would be processed into a drug. He enjoyed himself. Only near the end of the day did he t
ire of the work and the chatter of the bums, whose trivial knowledge seemed endless. At the end of the shift he was handed five coins the color of dead leaves, each with the circle-V insignia on one side but with different pictures on the other, then he was led out of the farm and back onto the road. Several of the bums asked Perseval to hang out with them for a few drinks. While it was difficult to ward off their friendly gesture, something in him had broken over the past few days, and so he turned them down without any lasting regret.
Back in Lucy’s Forge he bought a large dinner at a dark, quiet restaurant. He drank a hot, sweet tea that he had never had before, and his five nickel decas were broken down into a few copper unis. He did not have enough money for a room, so he spent the rest of his money on a few tobacco cigarettes laced with marijuana. The weather was warm and the breeze was gentle, so he sat on a tree stump and listened to the conversations of others. He grew tired and without a second thought he went to sleep in the square with the bums once again.
He continued working in the poppy barn and sleeping in the open. He found cheaper places to eat, learned to save his coppers and nickels, and by the end of the week was able to lay down a deposit on a tiny room. It was little more than a closet, but it had a window, a rough bed to lie down on, and a stool. He bought an oil lamp, which seemed strange because he’d owned an electric light in Pontius. But he also bought a few cheap books, which was incredibly thrilling. Though exhausted, he spent much of the first night reading in the warm light of his lamp in a kind of empty, happy daze.
That night he dreamed that he was at his mother’s funeral. Cake was served during the affair, and while listening to a famous minister recite stories from Perseval’s own childhood, a piece of the cake gently touched his hand and he felt an intense, overpowering sexual urge.
***
Later, Perseval took a day off in order to secure a three-day weekend. He bought a few comic books, including one called Vendicci... Revenger! which he read while eating breakfast in an open-air establishment under a tall stand of gray poplars. He was shocked by how much he enjoyed the story and the art, as well as the simple joy of turning the fine, heavy pages. He read the fourth and fifth issues in quick succession, then saved the seventh issue after making a vow to fill the holes in his new collection. The art, a stark black and white affair done with amazing kinesthetic understanding, was credited to someone called Magog. Strangely enough, the story, a tale of desperation and revenge in a world of surreal horror, was credited to someone called King of the Black Valley.
Perseval made his way back to the bookstore with his heart racing. He looked forward to the smell of ink and aging paper, the crisp touch of pages between his fingers.
As soon as he entered the store, a shirtless youth with yellow teeth placed a gun against his neck. White-hot panic raced through him. Though he could not hear the youth speaking, he understood that he wanted Perseval to lie on the ground. He did so, then he waited in mindless panic while the cashier placed coins in a bag. As the thief ran, his foot accidentally kicked Perseval in the side, and he stumbled. He tried to regain his footing while simultaneously opening the door and stuffing his gun down the front of his shorts. There was a loud popping sound and Perseval saw the thief trip once again just before the door closed.
Perseval and the cashier ran outside and saw the thief rolling on the ground, a gush of red bubbling up from his crotch. The gun was covered in steaming syrup.
“Oh my gods!” shouted Perseval. “He just shot himself!”
A group of Enforcers pushed through the gathering crowd. The thief screamed one long note that tapered off beyond the range of human hearing. “What happened?” barked a large dogman.
“He held up my store!” said the old clerk. “Then he blew his goddamn dick off!”
The Enforcers grew pale and the crowd backed away slightly.
“By all the gods of the wasteland,” said someone.
There was silence for a long time while the thief rolled around in his own juices, hands cupped around his crotch. "Come on," said the ranking Enforcer. “Let's get him to a doctor.”
One Enforcer grabbed the thief’s ankles, winced, then said, “The judge is gonna go easy on this guy!”
“Yeah,” said another, “but the doctor won’t.”
“Never a dull moment,” said another Enforcer, smiling cruelly. “Hey, watch his shorts when you carry him. Somethin’ might drop out!”
“It’s mine if it does,” said the clerk, stooping to pick up his money. As the Enforcers laughed, the cashier dusted off his coin bag, then added, “If there’s anything gross or wet on my money, I’m gonna find this guy an’ kill him.”
Monsters, thought Perseval. So this is the true face of the Black Valley. Look at them, how they delight in suffering!
As the Enforcers carried the thief, Perseval followed from a distance. They came to a long shack. Perseval entered behind them and saw them toss the man atop a table, ignoring his cries. A bearded old man they called a doctor, who wore an apron much like a butcher’s, nodded without listening to their explanation of the injury. While a young fresh-faced Enforcer held the thief down by his head, the others left so that the doctor could do his work in peace. The doctor coughed near the patient, snapped his fingers, and then his assistant entered.
It was none other than Erb, whose arm was in a sling. He smiled at Perseval, and they watched one another while Erb held down the thief’s legs and handed the doctor scissors, stitching wires, and bandages.
“I’ve seen this a lot,” muttered the doctor.
“Bullshit,” said the young Enforcer.
“No, it’s true. Absolutely. Don’t ever put your gun down the front of your shorts, son.”
“Shit,” the Enforcer hissed.
After many tense moments, the doctor sighed, then said, “That’s it. Only minor abrasions on the sausage, but the meatballs had to go. Sorry. You can always adopt.”
The thief groaned in agony.
“You should feel lucky that the tubing is intact!” snapped the doctor. “This is what happens when you act like a damn fool.”
“Can I take him?” said the Enforcer.
“Sure, hold him ’til a judge can see him. I’ll send a bill. Don’t let him play with his pecker. Send him back if it starts to smell.”
The Enforcer hauled the thief away, and the doctor went to lie down. Perseval shook Erb’s hand as he tidied up the area.
“Persey, man, I thought you left town for sure!”
“No... well, not yet, at least. What happened to you?”
Erb let out a great, many-layered sigh that he’d been practicing for days. “Tough times, bro. That’s how it’s been for me. After those Enforcer jackasses set my arm, they dumped me in a hole behind their headquarters. As if I was the one at fault! They let me out the next morning and I found this doctor, ’cause I wanted to get my arm looked at for real.” He leaned in, then whispered, “This jackass didn’t do anything but take their sling off and put on one of his own. And this cast? It's a joke! But since I didn’t have any money, I went to work for him to pay off the debt. Well, that’s over and done now, but I figured I’d stay on... it’s not so bad. I mean, the guy’s an idiot, I think he used to be a butcher, but the Valley doesn’t have anything like a “doctor’s license” so he gets away with being a hack. But sometimes he sends me to other towns to get supplies, and those days are pretty good. I don't know. I might stay here. I… I don't know.” He paused, then said, “It’s a free room, but I have to sleep in the same room as he does. I have to smell his farts all night. He only pays me eight nickel D’s a day-”
“That much!” cried Perseval. “And a free room!?”
“Shit,” growled Erb, “that’s nothin’. The nurses in Levy Town get like ten silver cents a week. And I highly doubt they have to deal with dudes who use their own shlongs for target practice.” Erb thought for a moment, his face lined with stress, then said, “Like I said, I don't know. I was gonna tell my big brother t
o come here, but really, man, I just don’t know anymore. He’s a real tough guy and I was gonna tell him about the Ghoul Genocide Program. You heard of ghouls?”
“Not really...”
“Yeah, they tell you there’s no flesh demons here, but they don’t spend much time tellin’ you about the ghouls. They kind of look like humans, but they’re monsters. I heard a lot of people make some pretty good coin hunting them down. Thing is, they’re getting a lot tougher than they used to be. Some guys got killed just the other day, on a farm. A family. On the other hand, I heard there’s a lot less of them than there used to be. They might be extinct pretty soon. It’s hard for new guys to get in on that game. Only the old pros can stick with it. I might tell my brother to stay in Pontius. Like I should have. I don't know.”
Perseval told Erb of his own situation, then said, “I'm not sure if I’ll stay or not. I mean, the people here...” He thought of the robbery, the terrible panic he’d felt, and the cruelty of the Enforcers with their callous joking. But another thought welled up - and it disgusted him, for it concerned his emotional attachment to the books and comics he owned. He’d felt such happiness reading them. Books were extremely expensive in Pontius, and only the wealthy could afford to build any kind of collection. Still, they were only comics, only stories. Would he really abandon his family for so little?
Perseval shook off the thoughts, then said, “Where’s Jack?”
“Oh, gods, man,” said Erb, shaking his head. “You think we’ve got it bad? Shit, man. As for Jack…”
***
Within another week, Perseval bought some decent clothes, threw away his Pontius rags, bought a nice pillow and bed sheets, bought all of the issues of Vendicci... Revenger! up to the ninth issue (the latest one), and secured a position as a pulp mixer and roller in a paper mill just over a mile from town. It was very scary walking home through the forest trail at night. He saved up his money and had a silver cent (equal to one hundred copper unis) in his new bank account, and he gave some thought to buying a gun just in case a ghoul crossed his path.
Demonworld Book 6: The Love of Tyrants Page 3