by Robert Bevan
“I’m sorry,” said Cooper. He dropped the boar and palmed the chopped up base of the trunk. He shoved as hard as he could, but the tree wouldn’t budge. It was jammed in there real good.
“Okay guys,” said the dwarf. “On three!”
“Fuck that,” said Cooper. “I’ve got this.” He cracked his knuckles and his neck on both sides. “I’m really angry!”
His heart-rate picked up the pace as hot blood surged through his body. His man-tits ballooned out into mighty pectoral muscles. The growth spread out to his arms and legs, all the way out to his fingers and toes. His vision turned pink.
“FUCK YOU, TREE!” he shouted, shoving the tree effortlessly through the doorway. Most of the branches on the bottom half broke, but there was no avoiding that. His task successful, he ceased his Barbarian Rage. He inhaled deeply, inviting in the soothing scent of pine.
As his muscles relaxed and his vision lost its blood-tint, Cooper found that he had knocked over a number of tables and chairs, and caught several patrons in the branches of the great tree. He stood vulnerably amongst the silent crowd staring at him.
“Merry Christmas!” said Frank, clearly plastered. Gnomes got a bonus to their Constitution score. He had obviously skipped the beer and gone straight for the stonepiss. For some reason, he was wearing a Santa Claus hat, but not a shirt. If his skin, for whatever reason, were to turn blue, he’d be the spitting image of Papa Smurf. Cooper tucked this observation into an easily accessible pocket in the back of his mind for further consideration at a later time.
“What the hell?” said Tim. He and Julian had followed in the path of furniture carnage Cooper had left in the tree’s wake. “It’s barely autumn.”
People were laughing. Booze was flowing. The man they most feared was shitfaced and shirtless. It was just like Tim to start asking questions at a time like this.
“We do this every couple of months,” explained the booze-sodden gnome-shell of Frank. “It helps keep morale up.” He hiccoughed and raised his mug. “Merry Christmas!”
“Good enough for me,” said Cooper. He picked his kill up off the floor, took it behind the bar to the kitchen, and set it on Barney’s preparation table.
“What the hell am I supposed to do with that?” asked Barney.
“Cook it.”
“That’s the most sickly-looking boar I’ve ever seen. Did you kill it, or just find it dead in the woods?”
“Dude,” said Cooper. “This is fresh meat.”
Barney picked up a meat cleaver and chopped into the hindquarter of the dead animal. The muscle beneath the patchy-haired skin was tinted green and crawling with little worms.
Cooper frowned. “Those will die in the oven, right?”
Barney crossed his arms. “I’m not cooking this thing.”
“Fuck you, dude,” said Cooper. “I’ll cook it myself.”
“Do you have any ranks in the Cooking skill?”
“I didn’t even spend a skill point to get Literacy,” said Cooper. “You think I’m going to blow one on Cooking? Seriously, how hard can it be?”
“Suit yourself,” said Barney. “I’m done for the night. The kitchen’s all yours.”
Cooper opened the oven door and looked inside. There was still a pretty strong wood fire burning beneath the rack. Nothing to it. He shoved the boar carcass onto the rack. A few of the worms fell out of the post-mortem wound and into the fire, making a satisfying popping sound.
“Merry Christmas, you squirmy fuckers,” said Cooper. He closed the oven door and went back out to the bar to get a drink.
The few resident druids at the Whore’s Head Inn had healed the broken lower branches of the tree. It stood upright in a corner, its trunk planted in a barrel. Cooper had to admit, it didn’t look half bad.
“All right!” said Frank, waving a stonepiss bottle in the general direction of the tree. “Now the magic users. Work your magic!”
All of the wizards and sorcerers, who far outnumbered the druids, crowded around the tree and began to cast their spells. The dull corner suddenly exploded with light. Glowing, illusory ornaments hung from every branch. Multi-colored lights twinkled and orbited the tree in haphazard directions. Someone even cast a Light spell on an armored glove to place on top of the tree. It was a sight to behold.
Cooper wiped away a tear and sniffed back some snot, but then decided it wasn’t worth the effort. People were used to seeing fluids seep out of his face. He let it flow.
“Now that’s a fucking Christmas tree!” said Frank.
Cooper necked one mug of beer and poured himself another to take back to the kitchen. He opened the oven door to check on his boar. It didn’t look any different than it had when he put it in there.
“It’s not going to cook if you keep opening the door,” said Julian, his slender elf body silhouetted against the twinkling Christmas lights beyond the doorway.
“Thanks,” said Cooper. “But I got this. Does your bird ever lay eggs? We could make some nog.”
“Ravenus is male,” said Julian. “And even if he did lay eggs, I don’t think he’d appreciate you drinking his potential offspring.”
“Just a thought.” Cooper opened the oven door again. No perceptible change. “I think I need to turn it over.” He reached into the oven and grabbed the dead boar. It was hot to the touch, but not painfully so. His half-orc hands were leathery and rough, and were usually coated in a protective layer of filth. Having a Charisma score of 3 had its perks. No need for oven mitts.
The hair on the bottom half of the boar was singed. Cooper gave it a satisfied nod, flipped it over, and shoved it back into the oven.
“You don’t have to eat that, you know,” said Julian. “There’s plenty of food out there that isn’t crawling with disease.”
“That fucker gored me in the nuts,” said Cooper. “I’m going to eat him.”
Julian shook his head. “Just make sure you let it cook a while longer. Come on. Let’s go top off your beer.”
The communal area of the Whore’s Head Inn was bustling with Christmas spirit. Bards played Christmas carols, and everyone drunkenly sang along. Cooper had drunk half a dozen more mugs of beer before he remembered his boar in the oven.
“Fuck!” he said.
“What’s wrong?” said Julian.
Cooper scrunched up his face at Julian. “You sneaky bastard. You used Diplomacy on me to make me forget about my boar, didn’t you?”
“I just didn’t want you to get sick.”
Cooper stomped back into the kitchen, bumping against the door frame on his way in.
“Come on, man!” Julian called after him. “Let it go! You killed the thing. How much more revenge do you need?”
“I will have my revenge when I turn that tusky bastard into poo!”
Cooper pulled the oven door open, expecting a cloud of black smoke to billow out. There was no smoke. The fire had died down to barely glowing embers, and the meat only looked to be charred on the bottom. Perfect. He took the boar out of the oven, held it before him, and prepared to bite into it.
“Cooper!” said Julian, standing in the doorway again. “I’m begging you, man. Don’t do it.”
Cooper flashed his own tusks at Julian before ripping into the boar’s belly. It was juicy and tasted of salt… and something that he couldn’t quite put his finger on.
“That’s so fucking gross,” said Julian.
“Tastes like vengeance!” said Cooper, boar juice flowing down both sides of his mouth onto his chest. Once his tongue had had enough time to explore the subtle complexities of flavor, he had to admit, if only to himself, that Julian was right. It actually tasted pretty shitty.
“Oh my god!” said Julian, looking at the boar when Cooper lowered it. “That’s not even meat you’re eating. You bit into its intestines.”
That explained the shit taste. Cooper swallowed. “I could use another beer.”
He left the boar on the preparation table, halfheartedly intending to come back an
d finish it. He and Julian rejoined the party. It took three more mugs of beer before Cooper was able to taste anything but pig shit.
Cooper scanned the crowd. He was happy to see that even Tim looked to be having a good time. Dave, for all his dwarven bonus to Saving Throws vs. Poison, looked well on his way to being hammered, fucking up the lyrics to Holly Jolly Christmas. Someone had even magically changed the leopard fur on his forearm to green with red spots.
Looking back at the table where Dave and Tim had been sitting, Cooper saw it was littered with empty beer mugs, shot glasses, stonepiss bottles, and Dave’s gloved gauntlets. A foul idea began to brew in Cooper’s head even as something even fouler brewed in his bowels.
Sneaking over to the unattended table, Cooper tripped over four chairs and knocked over two other tables. Fortunately, the only people who seemed to notice were the ones sitting at them. Having reached his target, he swiped Dave’s gauntlets and made for the front entrance. He had a bomb ticking in his gut, and it was going to be a photo-finish race.
He slammed the door shut behind him, only just managing to get Dave’s gauntlets under his loincloth before his ass exploded like an angry volcano, spraying the inside of the gauntlets as well as the outside of his own forearms with worm-riddled liquid shit. He wiped his arms and the outside of the gauntlets on his loincloth until they were passably clean.
He was just about to knock on the door when he spotted Julian’s familiar, Ravenus, staring down at him from his perch atop the sign for the Whore’s Head Inn. That fucker had seen everything.
“Not a word from you, understand?” Cooper knew Ravenus couldn’t understand his words, as the bird was only able to communicate in the Elven tongue, but he hoped his threatening grimace communicated his warning well enough.
Ravenus squawked back at him and flew away. Cooper pounded the door with his fist. He was sweating, and he wasn’t quite sure that he had done all the shitting he needed to do. His stomach was turning like a contortionist trying to escape a straightjacket.
The window of the door slid open. Julian was on the other side. His eyes widened.
“Cooper! What’s wrong with you? You look like shit. I mean, even for you.”
“Just open the door, would you, I’ve got to –” He doubled over and puked on the wall of the neighboring building.
The door opened behind him, and Julian was soon at his side. “Are you okay?”
“Better now,” said Cooper. “Thanks.”
“I told you not to eat that boar, you ass!” Julian scolded him. “Look at you! You’re sweating and shitting and puking and— Hey, are those Dave’s gauntlets? Why do you have those?”
Cooper’s heart was racing and his vision was beginning to blur as the world spun around his head, but he still managed a weak laugh. “I took a shit in them.”
“Why the fuck would you do that?”
Cooper steadied himself against a post. “Don’t get your pussy in a knot.”
“My what in a what?”
“It’s just a prank. Trust me. He’ll think it’s –” Cooper dropped to his knees and splattered Julian’s shoes in vomit. “—hilarious.”
“No he won’t, you stupid asshole,” said Julian.
“Come on, man,” said Cooper, climbing up the wooden post to get on his feet again. “Where’s your sense of Christmas spirit?”
“That’s what you call Christmas spirit?” said one of the four Julians swirling around each other. They all looked pissed. The tips of their big elf ears were almost glowing red. “I’ve never felt more proud to be Jewish. Now come on inside. You need to get cleaned up and rested. Leave those out here.”
Cooper looked down at his hand to see what Julian was pointing to. He had a pair of gauntlets in his hand. “Where the fuck did these come from?”
“Jesus Christ,” said Julian. “You’re delirious. Just drop them.”
Cooper dropped the gauntlets and took a step toward the swirling images of his friend. He slipped in his own vomit puddle and slammed the ground hard with the back of his head. The world slowly faded to black.
*
When Cooper woke, his mind was clear and his vision focused. He looked down at his hands. They weren’t covered in shit. He was in a bed much too large for him. The polished wooden bedposts were as thick around as he was. Each had a sconce attached about five feet above the comforter, holding a torch. The dim, flickering light from the torches was not enough for Cooper to see the top of the bedposts. They might have continued up forever for all he knew. He felt like a kitten. But as huge as it was, the bed felt warm and safe, which was more than he could say for the dark void beyond it.
The silent illusion of security inside his torchlit sphere was shattered by a sound from the outside. It was faint and distant, but it was definitely a sound, and it was getting closer. It didn’t take Cooper long to identify the sound as chains, rattling in a rhythmic pattern, which Cooper soon judged to be that of approaching footsteps.
“Who’s out there?” cried Cooper, pulling the comforter up over the lower half of his face. He was all but paralyzed with fear.
“Coooooooper,” a not entirely unfamiliar voice called back to him.
Chink, clink. The chains rattled.
“What do you want?”
“Coooooooper,” the voice called again, this time a little louder.
Chink, clink.
“I’ll kick your ass!” said Cooper. “Fuck off!”
“COOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOPER!” the voice bellowed. It obviously didn’t appreciate being threatened. It sounded like it was nearly right on top of him.
The rattle of the chains was now deafening. Chink clink, chink clink. A black man covered in chains stepped into the torchlight. His hands were manacled together, as were his feet. Seemingly purposeless chains were wrapped arbitrarily around his body, the ends of them dragging behind him.
Cooper swallowed hard and mustered his courage to speak. “Django?”
“No, mon,” said the figure. He grinned at Cooper, and his white teeth shone like high-beams. Suddenly, his voice, his face, his dreadlocked hair all clicked together in Cooper’s mind.
“Bob Marley?”
“Ya, mon.”
Cooper lowered the comforter. “It’s an honor. I’m a big fan. That song… um… I…”
“I Shot the Sherriff?”
“Dude, it’s cool,” said Cooper. “I chopped a guard’s head off.”
“What?”
“I’m sorry. I’m confused.”
“You don’t know any of my music, do you, mon?”
Cooper hung his head. “I’m sorry. I swear it’s not because you’re black.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I just never got into reggae. Jesus, this is so embarrassing.”
Bob Marley lifted his chained hands in a peaceful gesture. “Don’t sweat it, mon! I’m not here to talk about music.”
“Why are you here?” asked Cooper. “And why are you all chained up? I’ve got to say, I’m not entirely comfortable with this imagery. I mean, between the whole black-dude-in-chains, and your shitty Jamaican accent, I just feel like there’s some racial insensitivity going on.”
“It’s your dream, mon,” said Bob Marley. “If there’s sometin’ here you uncomfortable with, maybe you need to look inside yourself.”
“Thank you for your insight, Bob Marley. Can you please go away now?”
“I cannot!” said Bob Marley. He seemed to resent the question. “I am doomed to walk in these chains for all eternity. And you will be too, unless you change.”
“My loincloth?” He lifted the comforter to look down at it, and his eyes started to water at the smell of escaping fart. He had a mean dutch oven going on down there.
“Your heart, mon!” said Bob Marley. “You be a miserable excuse for a human being.”
“I’m a half-orc.”
Bob Marley shook his head. “I got no more patience for you, mon. I’ll say what I came to say, and then I’ll be on
my way.”
“Is that from one of your songs? It’s beautiful.”
“You will be visited by tree spirits. They –“
“What, like nymphs?”
Bob Marley rattled his chains. He was getting flustered. “Tree spirits! One, two, tree!”
“Oh, three spirits. I’m sorry. Does that include you?”
“No, mon. Three more. I should have made that clear.” Bob Marley was pretty chill if you didn’t provoke him.
“Should I prepare somehow? Are they going to ask me questions?”
“It’s time I must be goin’, mon.” Bob Marley stepped backwards, out of the torchlight.
“No, Bob Marley!” cried Cooper. “Don’t leave me alone in the dark!”
“Change your heart, mon.” The voice was no longer coming from a focused point of origin. It echoed in from every direction.
“Bob Marley! Please, wait!”
“Change your heart!” It was fainter, but more commanding.
“Don’t go!”
“Chaaaaange your heeeeeaaaaaaart…” This time it was barely a whisper.
“Fuck you, Bob Marley!”
Once again, Cooper was alone in complete silence, with only the quickened beat of his pulse to keep him company.
*
Cooper lay on the bed for what might have been minutes or months. Time was murky in this place. Panic eventually gave way to boredom, and he thought about having a wank, but he didn’t know whose bed he was in.
He was just drifting off to sleep again when he heard a sound which did not come from his own body. It was a mixture of grunts, snorts, and pants, like a fat guy running to catch a bus. Cooper sat upright, determined to face this demon without fear.
The grunts and snorts grew louder until Cooper was able to pinpoint a direction. He stood up on the bed and waited, fists balled at his side. Finally, the creature emerged from the shadows. It was the sickly boar that Cooper had killed. It was burned black on one side and slightly singed on the other, just as it had been when he’d taken it out of the oven. It even had a large chunk missing from its underside.