My knife!That was the second thing that entered Vexol's mind that morning.
Where the bloody blazes am I?That was the third thing that entered Vexol's mind that morning.
Opening one bleary eye, he risked a quick peek.
Thatched roof. Wooden beams. Leggings of feminine nature hanging from one of the beams.
The situation pleased him, since it not only meant that he was in a pub, but also that someone had lost possession of their pants.
At this point the little gremlin in his head, all this time jumping up and down trying to draw attention to itself finally made itself known. It was trying to tell him something. Vexol considered this for a second and then acquiesced the gremlin's request. The gremlin hurriedly showed him some pictures of last night.
The headache hit him like a punch to the face in the groin.
This in turn, forced Vexol to revisit the first thing the first thing that had crawled in his mind this morning. He decided to share it with the immediate vicinity.
'Urghhhhghghghghgh', he said.
He heard somebody snicker. He'd heard that kind of snicker before. His ancestors had heard that snicker before, and they knew it well. It was the sort a person holding a large club/clubbing instrument behind you often uses. Ancient subroutines in his system immediately flared to life. Parts of his brain that were still underwater sputtered suddenly back into gear , pistons silent and bubbling one second and moving at a breakneck staccato pace the next. He'd heard that snickering before. He know the score this time.
Keep a low profile!He jumped up from the floor, but never fully stood up. His knife was out of his hand and flashing as his legs twisted him a hundred and eighty degree to bring him knife to stomach , facing his would be attacker.
The second thing he said that day was ,' My Knife!'. He narrowly avoided saying Urghghghgh again as the gremlin staged a violent protest against the governing body's rash actions. He looked again at his empty hand and his emptier sheath. He felt cursive, but thought better of it.
He surveyed the scene in front of him. Broken chairs. Empty bottles. Spilt rum. Smelly Cat. Strands of sunlight. Missing wall. Rhino. The last one confused him slightly. He looked up to the gremlin. The gremlin shrugged. Vexol stared harder at the gremlin. The gremlin sighed, reached in his pockets and rummaged around. He pulled out a picture of a Rhino-like creature serving him drinks.
Oh Yes. Dwarfhorn the Innkeeper.Dwarfhorn lay on his back, his barrel of a belly heaving in synch with his soothing whistling snores. The cat stood on the belly, unperturbed by its movement but fixing Vexol with a classically baleful stare.
The gremlin continued on a new note. It pointed out that the innkeeper did not look to be in a condition to hold clubs, stand up straight or even snicker.
If so, who did the snickering?The gremlin was about to pull out a new image when a the blow that hit Vexol on the back of his head sent it flying.
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Last night, Vexol had been at a nationwide party. The King , in celebration of the second anniversary of the day he had bloodily usurped the Throne of Clerian from his Uncle, had declared an evening of celebration and official holiday. It was an ancient tradition, passed down from cold-blooded murderer to cold-blooded murderer, to celebrate the skulduggery and gore that being a member of Royalty meant.
It was a good Succession this season. The Old Coot (it was custom to refer to the King as an Old Coot, even thought he was usually in his late teens when he relinquishes the throne) went down honourably. The Cousin had challenged him to a duel, and then it was the Nephew. The King barely held out against the nephew, only to be beaten by his Brother, who, as soon as he removed the crown from his dead brother's head, clutched his neck and fell slain, victim to a poisoned dart from his Aunt who wanted the throne for her son-in-law's Brother, who had promised her a bounty and a significant role in his future government. Even as the dart was being fired, he endeavoured to fulfil his promise, from his position behind his aunt, hold a large, bountiful club. He snickered. Alas, he too did not manage to retrieve the crown, as he had been victim to larger serrated dart fired from the court jester's hat, who was actually a long lost relative of the late King's stepfather's mother's hairdresser (which immediately made him a serious contender for the throne in Clerian). He later died to a blast of concentrated sunlight reflected from one of the rubies inset in the crown, as he had bent down to claim it. The Royal Accountant seemed nonchalant as he paid the the Royal Artificier for his gadgetry, as though he had planned this from the beginning, which indeed he had. The crowd was about to applaud the Accountant for a Succession well earned, when he clutched his stomach and died, victim to a slow poisoning.
Despite the Royal Cook( long lost twin brother to the King's grandfather's second best friend in the third war against Skelm)’s protests of ‘I swear! I thought they were cloves! He asked for them!’, he was immediately crowned ruler of Clerian that night. The people of Clerian took a pragmatic approach to government. They said, ‘It’s not like it’s going to take us anywhere, why not have a little bit of fun while we’re at it eh? Eh?’. For sake of clarity the reader is asked to nudge themselves in the ribs and slap themselves on the back whilst reading the previous quote.
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Vexol stood (metaphysically) before him now. The king still wore his puffy Royal Cook Uniform. He had not had the opportunity to change. Vexol noted that the Royal Crown went rather well with his puffy cook’s hat. The man was a round , red-faced man , his visage was such that everyone knew just by looking at him that his speciality was pies and pastries. He was looking very unhappy right now.
He spoke to Vexol now.
‘I hope my men were not too rough on you’.
‘Hic’, answered Vexol. This feat impressed Vexol.
Not Bad!, he thought to himself.
‘You are Vexol the Bounty Hunter are you not?’
‘Sah?’
‘I have a proposition for you’
‘Sah’, with a bit more clarity this time.
‘What I am about to tell you, is of a nature highly secret and of utmost importance.’
Vexol found this hilarious. A dull throbbing in his head turned the smile forming on his lips into a grimace.
‘Last night, an Artifact, no, no an heirloom?’, he looked to his advisors for support. The Sou-chef whispered in his ear.
‘Yes, yes a royal heirloom. It was stolen’.
With the encouraging nods of his cabinet of ministers , the soup section , he plunged laboriously onwards, ‘This is no ordinary trinket man. This is serious business. It’s statue of an angel, made of pure Obsidian. Her heart is made of copper. It has belonged to the those bas- my family for generations. 60,000 pieces of copper to you, if you bring it back! I could probably whip an omelette up for you as well.’
Vexol gathered from within the very last of his mental reserves. He channelled them forward in a mad desperate bid to make sense of where the bloody blazes he was and who this hilarious doughmaster was. And suddenly it all became crystal clear. The Pistons exploded into life again and the ghostly tendrils of drowsiness were receded quickly as the blazing light of reason took dawn in the sky of clarity and the word was out of his mouth before thought.
‘Feh?’.
The King of Clerian sighed, and gestured to his guards, the dough rollers. ‘Take him away. I’ll see him tomorrow.’
Head throbbing, mind swimming, eyes blinking under the glare of a sun in the sky where previous there had been not one, Vexol found himself dumped in the street outside the pub he woke up in.
Not for the last time that day, he said, 'Urghghghghg'.
