Pretty Pretty Princess

by McKenzie, Shane

  The man’s laughs ceased. He whimpered, gasping for breath. Still alive, but weakening. What small amount of Balthazar’s wine he had drunk seemed to be losing its effect.

  “Stop . . . please stop . . . ”

  The sound of the pathetic voice shrunk Francis’s rage some. The stones around him loosened, then rolled back into the walls. The tower planted its feet into the ground and stood erect, and in moments, Francis was free, strolling toward the window on shaky legs. Gavin was there to steady him, nuzzling him before glaring down at the Granada King with the prince.

  “Finish him off, Fran. You know you have to.”

  “Francis . . . my s-son . . . please. Listen to me.” The old man’s body was still whole, and he was strong enough to sit up though blood painted his face. He tried to climb from the deep crater created by the tower’s fists, but collapsed backward, grimacing from the fall.

  “There’s nothing you can say that will save you now, Father. The future we’re fighting for has no place for you. Or anyone like you.”

  “That may be. But before I go, there’s one last thing . . . I want to say. To t-teach you.”

  “You have nothing to teach me, you sad old bastard.”

  Another laugh. He spat a wad of blood into the crumbling dirt around him. “You’re wrong, boy. Being a reader and a flower picker rather than a man, it’s a lesson you’d be smart to remember.” He spat again, grinned wide. “Never underestimate your enemy.” And he stuck two fingers into his mouth and whistled.

  “Did he really think that was original?” Gavin said.

  “Look out!” Francis tried to throw Gavin out of the way, but it happened too fast.

  The unicorn soared into the window, only able to fit its head in. Its wings slammed into the stone wall, breaking both and making the beast screech and spray blood from its wide nostrils. One of its horns was stabbed through Gavin’s back, and as the unicorn shook its head, Gavin squealed and coughed blood.

  “Gavin! No!”

  The unicorn, dead from the impact, started to slide backward, taking the pig with him. Gavin grunted, held onto the edge of the window with his hooves. Francis dove, grabbed them both, and peered into his friend’s quivering, black eyes.

  “You can’t die. I . . . I need you here. With me.”

  Gavin smiled, though it was pained. “Don’t go . . . gettin’ all p-poetic on me . . . you fuckin’ s-sissy—”

  And then he was falling, the sound of Francis’s father’s laughter booming from below.

  “Nnnnoooooo!”

  Just before impact, a blur shot across the ground, grabbed Gavin by the fat of his neck, and unskewered him. The duck quacked as it gently placed Gavin’s body on the ground, nudged him with its beak. The duck glanced up at Francis, quacked once, and then flew toward him, sat on the window beside him.

  As Francis stared down at his father, grinding his teeth, the old man’s rictus was illuminated in purple light. The smile faded to a countenance of terror just before the Black Knight’s blade separated his head from his neck.

  Francis only glanced at his father’s corpse, knew he should have felt more relief and satisfaction from the old man’s death, but there was only sadness as his eyes swung back over to his best friend lying still and bleeding in the dirt.

  The Black Knight knelt down on one knee as if paying respects, glanced up at Francis with his empty, purple sockets, then faced Balthazar who backhanded the princess and sent her flying across the field. From his distance, the only men he saw were dead or dying, the flies and rats quieting the screams of those who still clung to life.

  The Black Knight faced Francis again and drove his sword into the ground. “Prince,” he said, his voice a whisper yet loud enough for Francis to hear. “My time here is done. But yours is not. I say again, Prince. Your princess awaits.”

  The purple energy faded and was absorbed into the soil. The Black Knight’s skull face turned to dust and blew away, but his armor and sword stayed behind. The armor stayed standing, the helmet tilted upward as if looking at Francis, waiting for him.

  The duck tilted its head, quacked, then flapped its wings. It gripped Francis’s shoulders with its fiery orange, webbed feet, and dove from the window.

  As they descended, the armor opened up. The duck released his shoulders. Francis fell, picking up speed as he went. The ground roared at him, growing larger and more detailed as he raced toward it.

  Francis shut his eyes, waiting for impact.

  But instead, it felt like he was caught by a pair of strong, yet gentle arms. Metal snapped shut, locked. He opened his eyes and stared through the helmet. The armor’s power filled him like water being poured into an empty, thirsty glass.

  He stood. Pulled the sword from the earth. The duck perched on his shoulder, faced the princess who was climbing to her feet.

  “Balthazar!” Francis screamed.

  The king, covered in flies and rats, glanced up at Francis. The wine staining his teeth made them gleam like chrome.

  “That was not very ethical!” His sword held over his head, the duck cutting the air in front of him, Francis sprinted toward the Trulia King.

  15

  He saw the queen lying in a bloody heap as he grew nearer, locked eyes with Pretty who only realized it was him as he sped past.

  Balthazar laughed, his metallic skin covered in fly guts and wings and bits of gory, gray fur. He stood alone, his men all metal-clad skeletons around him. The kings were piled on top of one another, their crowns beside them.

  Francis’s black sword struck Balthazar in the chest and bounced off. The king stumbled back a step, furrowed his brow and ran his silver fingers over the scratch marks.

  The collision threw Francis off his feet, and before he could stand again, Sonia and her remaining warriors soared over him, sensing the king was weakening. Their bodies were brush strokes of black as they attacked, their swords pinging against Balthazar’s body so rapidly it sounded like one loud ringing sound. The blows didn’t seem to harm the king, but as he swung at them and they dodged, continuing their assault, he bared his teeth and bellowed. He hopped with both feet and slammed them to the ground.

  The women stumbled, then were knocked away by his arm, sending them crashing into the sea of bones.

  The duck dashed forward, struck Balthazar’s hand, knocking the sword from his grasp. It zoomed through his legs, circled back around, and plucked the weapon from the ground, carrying it far away.

  Frustrated, he stomped his feet, a tantrum that quaked the field and made the bones jump and rattle. “That’s it! This ends now!”

  His mouth still open, a swarm of flies flowed past his teeth and down his throat. He choked, stumbled back, gagged. Rats climbed his body, gnawed at his eyes and dug at his nostrils and ear holes, but he quickly smashed them and flicked them off.

  “Francis.” The princess was on her feet, wincing as she slowly strolled toward Francis. “Look.”

  He followed her shaking finger, saw the dark orange of the sun splashing across the horizon like a pierced egg yolk. The moon began to fade in above them as the sky darkened.

  “You and the women, head back to the tower. I’ll keep him busy,” Francis said.

  “They think I’m strong. Sonia and her women. My mother, too. But I was just playing their game because I thought that’s what they wanted. Balthazar . . . my pests can’t hurt him.” She kissed him. “I’m sorry.”

  “The whole point of my journey was to find and protect you. This is my chance to do that. And Tessa?”

  “Yeah?” the rat said through Pretty’s mouth.

  “Gavin . . . he needs your help. Please . . . do what you can for him.”

  Without waiting for a reply, Francis charged ahead, banged his lowered shoulder into Balthazar’s gut.

  The king stumbled another step, but launched himself forward with the next. His first punch went wide, but when Francis ducked, the other fist caught him under the chin, knocking his helmet off his head and throwin
g him onto his back.

  The women stood behind Pretty now, but none of them retreated. They stood and watched, Pretty shaking her head. Finally Sonia grabbed her arm, pulled her back, and they all headed for the tower.

  “It was your mother,” Francis said as he used his sword as a crutch to stand again.

  “It was, yes. But that thing there,” he said and pointed to the old dead woman, “is not my mother. My mother is dead.”

  “She faked her death and killed your father. She told us in the tower. We didn’t know she was with us until only moments ago. She killed your father because he was poisoning the realm. The same as you.”

  “I did not kill my mother. I didn’t! It was an undead creature trying to trick me!”

  “I was certain it was you who killed your father. What were you doing dangling from his window that night?”

  “Listening. I hid behind his weapon chest and heard the things he said about me. I heard the false song he sang to you about his regret. At his age, he’d gotten skilled at weeping and making others feel sorry for him, but I knew the truth. And I understood. I was the only one who understood him and he still rejected me.”

  “You didn’t kill him. Your sister and I didn’t kill him. Yet here we are.”

  “Even if I believed anything you’ve said, it wouldn’t matter. Far too late for that, wouldn’t you say, Prince?”

  “For the first time since I met you, Balthy, we agree.”

  “Don’t fucking call me that!”

  Balthazar launched himself at Francis, his shimmering hands reaching for Francis’s throat.

  Francis rolled away, swung the sword into Balthazar’s back. It was like the armor was doing the fighting for him, fueled by his own anger and determination.

  Balthazar arched his back, yelped, and stumbled forward, dropping to one knee. His back still resembled metal, but a thin cut leaked blood between his shoulders.

  Francis lifted his sword and leapt, ready to make the killing blow, but Balthazar tossed a handful of dirt behind him, splashed it into Francis’s eyes.

  Blinded, Francis swung the sword anyway but cut only air. He blinked the dirt away just as Balthazar swung at him, hitting him across the face with four quick, heavy strikes, then head-butting him to the ground. He stood over Francis, the pinkness of his flesh starting to fade back in.

  “I think I’ll keep my sister alive. Marry her. Fuck as many children into her as her womb can handle. And I’ll name every one of them after you.”

  Francis bared his teeth as he lifted his sword.

  Darkness spread across the land like a giant black blanket. Stars sparkled above them like a million pairs of eyes, the children of the gods watching the show. The silver moonlight bathed Balthazar, making his eyes look like two polished coins.

  Francis kicked, his armored foot landing between the king’s legs. Though the iron wine was clearly wearing off, there was still enough in his system to shield him. Francis’s foot hit hard metal, the reverberations riding his leg armor.

  “Goodbye, Prince.” Balthazar pulled his sword free, his family’s sigil blazing from the hilt.

  Buzzing. The flies hit Balthazar in the face and crawled into his eyes. Balthazar shrieked, dropped the sword and clawed at his sockets as the winged insects ate into them, sucking his vision away.

  A roar dwarfed Balthazar’s screams. The trees nearly bent in half as the great wind erupted from the wilderness. The Goblin Dragon rose high into the air, outlined by the moon’s glow, and roared again.

  Though the flies kept him from seeing, Balthazar spun toward the explosive sound.

  The dragon dipped, descending toward him like a falling comet, then flapped its wings to hover just above him. Francis thought he heard Balthazar beg, but before he could decipher the words, a pillar of fire erupted from the dragon’s mouth in a constant, hellish flow engulfing the king and burning away what flesh had returned to its normal state. The pieces of him that were still hardened by his iron wine glowed orange, then slowly started to warp and sink toward the ground.

  The dragon snapped her mouth shut and landed on the ground, curling her wings in. Her horde crept out of the forest and stood just behind her, watching.

  The top of Balthazar’s head was a scorched mound of meat, but metal gleamed from within. His mouth, still glowing orange, moved up and down slowly.

  Francis jumped to his feet, and with a wide, strong swing, took the king’s head off. It hit the earth heavily and rolled so it faced him. The mouth stopped moving, blood now drooling past the blackened teeth.

  Blood sprayed from the neck stump like a fountain, painting the dragon’s chest. Then the horde rushed the body and hacked at it with their weapons.

  The dragon glared down at Francis, smoke spiraling from her nostrils, but she didn’t come for him. She only watched with what looked like curiosity.

  “Sure, you might’ve chopped off the Brat King’s head and saved the realm,” came a familiar voice behind him, “but you’re still not a man till you wash all that virginity off your dick.”

  Francis gasped, dropped his sword. Tears were already spilling from his eyes before he turned and faced Gavin. Sonia held him in her arms, stroking his pink back.

  “I think I can help with that.” Pretty ran by Sonia and Gavin and tackled Francis to the ground, peppered his face with kisses before locking her lips to his. They stayed that way for a long time—the only sounds were the constant chopping as the horde diced the king to smaller and smaller pieces.

  “Tessa, did you—”

  “Nope. Didn’t have to. He’s an asshole, but that’s one tough pig you’ve got.”

  “Fuckin’ right. That don’t mean I’m not hurtin’. It’s like I can feel it . . . inside . . . Oh fuck what’s happening?”

  Sonia released him as Gavin started kicking. He grunted and oinked and writhed on the ground. Lumps swelled over his back like two giant pustules ready to burst. The pink flesh opened as Gavin unleashed a high-pitched squeal. And two long, silvery wings burst free, flapped once to shed the pig’s blood.

  Everyone stared in silence. In the next instant, a white, sparkling horn spun out from Gavin’s forehead.

  “Gavin?” Francis said, slowly approaching his friend. “You . . . you all right?”

  “This is the gayest fuckin’ ending ever.”

  ***

  It took a full day for them to bury the dead, with the help from Pretty’s pests and the goblin horde. The goblins kept the kings’ heads as souvenirs, and Francis didn’t see any problems with that. Whatever kept them tame was all right with him.

  “So let me get this straight,” Gavin said, flapping his wings so he hovered just beside Francis. “The plan was to spare as many of the soldiers as possible, but we killed every fuckin’ one of them. The fight started because Balthazar thought we killed his father, but it was actually his mother who pretended to be dead, but then got killed by him anyway. Every time the princess put on her serious face and used her scary voice, she was only playin’ along with the game she thought we were playin’. The rat on her hand is actually alive, and a necromancer. I’m a fuckin’ unipig now. Was there a point to any of this?”

  “What do you mean?” Francis said, checking his reflection in the water.

  “Like, you know . . . a moral? Aren’t these things supposed to have one of those?”

  “Morals are overrated. Besides, our work isn’t done. The kings are dead, but their queens and kin still live. It’s up to us to help the people claim their kingdoms from the wicked royalty who still sit high in their castles. It’s up to us to help the world transition into the New Realm. There may just be a moral yet when this is all said and done.”

  “I was gonna say when pigs fly, but that would be stupid.”

  “Yeah, it would be.”

  “You ready?”

  “I was going to say I was born ready, but—”

  “Shut the fuck up and get up there. She’s waitin’ on you.”

  “Right.
Gavin?”

  “What?”

  “I’m glad you’re here. With me. With us. And you look damned handsome with your new horn and wings.”

  “You think so? I wasn’t sure at first, but the more I—”

  “Spit each other’s cocks out of your mouths and get a move on, would ya?” The voice boomed from the tower’s window.

  “Tessa!” Pretty said.

  Francis laughed, patted Gavin on the head, and scratched the base of his horn. “Lead the way.”

  They strolled up the winding stairs until reaching the top of the tower. Their new kingdom.

  Sonia and her women warriors had shed their fighting clothes and were each wearing a shimmering dress, clutching a bunch of white flowers to their bosom.

  As Francis entered, Pretty turned away from the window and beamed at him. She wore a dress made of flies and rats, the pests wrapped around her and doing their best to stay still. He went to her, clutched her hands, and stared deeply into her eyes.

  Music floated in from outside. The Goblin Dragon, her horde, and the duck all stood before the tower, watching, sniffling.

  “Shall we?” Francis asked.

  “Nothing would make me happier. Even though none of this is real, and we’re only saying and doing these things because a giant person we can’t see is reading about us right now, forcing us to relive our story again and again inside of his imagination. But still, my darling, my heart belongs to you.”

  Gavin wiped his tears with the tip of a wing. “Oh just sing already!”

  The music filled Francis with elation, and he stepped close to Pretty, planted a gentle kiss on her lips, then began.

  THE END

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Shane McKenzie is the author of many horror and bizarro books, including Muerte Con Carne, Pus Junkies, and Wet and Screaming. He wrote comics for Zenescope Entertainment. His novel Muerte Con Carne was adapted into a multiple award winning short film called El Gigante, which will be a feature film very soon. He lives in Austin, TX with his wife and two children.