Branwe: Part 3

Fair citizens, I sing to you, o dear ones, for you must hear the deeds of Branwe and his cohorts. I beg sincerely, tarry a while longer, for the great battle is nearly upon us. And such a wonderous battle, a lively tale it will be, if we might but stay true and hear the proud deeds that proceeded it.

Duke Egghorn, the local seargent at arms, did summon Branwe and his noble footmen, Garth and Angus, upon their return from the fireblood swamp. Yea, and verily did he doth summon them and they mounted their steeds and rode through the center of town for to meet.

"I am sending you away," Duke Egghorn pronounced. "There is trouble on one of the King's islands to the south and you must put an end to it."

"Islands," Branwe said, "Are our speciality. Name this island so we may venture forth and sail upon the glistening blue and silver sea with haste and the promise of unbidden-"

"The Isle of Lycathropes," said the Duke.

A silence ensued that bespoke much of bravery and swashbuckling savy, I'm told. For the men were overcome with anticipation of the glory that waited for them.

"Werewolves?" Angus asked.

"Forget wolves," Branwe said. "We need a boat."

"I, for one, am not going," Garth said.

"Oh, why not?" Branwe asked.

"Why should I? What reward for I?" Garth asked.

"We'll give you gold," Duke Egghorn said.

"I'll want more than gold," Garth menaced him facially.

"What is it you desire?" the Duke asked.

"I want your job," Garth answered, "And twenty men at my disposal. And my own Inn. And lots of weapons."

"With the gold we pay you," the Duke said, "You can buy an Inn. We don't own a bunch of surplus Inns to pass out to adventurers."

"I'm going to kill him," Garth whispered loudly to Branwe.

"As shall I, brother," Branwe said, "When he least expects it."

"What sort of trouble is there on this island?" Angus asked, but they hustled him out the door and down to the docks to hire a ship. They searched high and low, and ships they did find. Garth mounted the walk and accosted the captain of a stout vessels called the Morsel.

"Give us you fookin ship!" he shouted at him, and beat him on his face. Branwe set fire to the main sail and slapped the crew members.

"We're truly evil bloodthirsty hijackers looking to kill all on board who don't obey," Branwe yelled. Garth ran the captain through and cut the lines to the dock. Away they drifted, out to sea, with Angus reluctantly calling upon Xezox, the GOD OF WAR, to speed the boat to its destination.

"This," he said to Garth and Branwe, "Might have gone better if you'd let me negotiate."

"Sounds like the talk of a man who wants a deep ocean swim, right now," Branwe said.

"Yea, stuff it, cleric," Garth said. And float they did both night and day on the flat sea until they saw an island like a giant island in the ocean. In fact, it was an island, dark and deadly with the sounds of screams heard for miles around.

"Bah," Branwe said, "We'll clean this mess up right quick."

"Who's we?" Garth asked.

"You, me and the Padre," Branwe said. "You're scared?"

"I'm so scared I'll stab your eyes out and eat them," Garth said.

"Don't be mean," Branwe said.

"Gentlemen," Angus interrupted, "Perhaps we should use a bit of planning before we depart."

"I like planning," Garth said, stepping into the longboat.

"Me too," Branwe said, lowering them down. Angus clambered into the boat.

"Before we go," Angus emphasized.

"Right," Garth said, rowing away from the Morsel. "Everybody plan."

"Shouldn't we discuss the plan?" Angus asked.

"Nothing to discuss," Garth replied, "We hit the shore, grab the loot and head back."

"Solid planning," Branwe said. "Say, shouldn't you be asking your GOD to smite for us or something?"

"It doesn't work like that," Angus said.

"What's the use of him, then?" Branwe wondered.

"Religion is useless," Garth said.

to be continued...

Branwe: Part 2

Fair citizens, come quickly out of your wattle and daub homes and listen, I beg. For it is at this point in my tale that Branwe doth fight in the grandest of battles! So, endure for a moment, the tales of the Fire Blood Sawmp, filled with treasure and disease, so we may be on with it.

At dawn, the pre-appointed meeting hour for guides and adventurers across the hill vasts of the whole willy world, Branwe and Garth stood and waited for their faithful companion, Flint Thongbeard. But Lo! Flint had taken ill, but would most likely meet up with them sometime a little later.

So, they set off south toward the vast nothingness of the Fire Blood Swamp. Their journey from city to swamp was uneventul and therefor not worthy of the breath to tell it and so it was into the swamp.

"What," Branwe wondered, "Should we do?"

"We could," Garth suggested, "Go back and collect our gold. I see nothing in there."

"We should," said Branwe, "Wait for stout handsome oak Flint to tether our steps towards the fell and fey recesses of said swamp forwith to ponder and patrol our very good fortune to the merry people of all Fellatio."

"It's Fellinia," Garth said. "So, we just wait here?"

"Yes," Branwe said. They waited a quarter of the hour. "Okay, perhaps we should go in."

"Alright," Garth agreed. In they went under twisted bough and knotted branch and doo looking trunk. A foul odor assailed them nassaly. They became despondent, and spoiled for a fight. Fate obliged them thrice.

The first encounted was with a Swamp Rabbit, oh so much larger than a hare, and breathing all fire upon them until they ran, burnt and angry. The second encounter was with a Swamp Spirit, which could not be seen or touched, but made them ill. They ran.

Ah, but then, then I say they did battle with a Troll. A proper Troll, all green and sticky. None of this singing, grumbling, fat happy troll. This was a mindless Troll of the Fire Blood Swamp, guarding a pile of silver!

"Look," Garth said, "Troll."

"Aye," Branwe said, "Let's kill it." They ran screaming at it. It dropped a mighty fist on Branwe's helm, causing a swoon in him. Garth hacked with his sword, but the beast had hide as thick as burnt pork. The Troll stabbed him in the thigh with a boney bone finger, causing Garth to flee.

The Troll picked up Branwe over the shoulder and gave chase to Garth. And a merry chase it was! Don not hide your faces, fair constituents, for hiding in the muck was a hardy and fierce Acolyte named Angus. He watched Garth pass. He jumped the troll with flain in hand. The hand of fate was upon him, or better to say, the hand of his god, Xezox, the god of war. He smote the Troll skullwise. Branwe fell into the mire, awakened by the water.

Angus had a bit of healing in him, just enough for the moment. As they counter Troll Silver, he told them his tale.

"I am Angus of the Blunt," he said. "Flint is ill. I have come to bring you back to Fellinia. We have new orders."

"Orders?" Garth raged, "I take orders from no man!"

"Fine," Angus said, "Branwe, you and I will return to town with this silver and collect our fifty gold..."

"Oi," Garth raged, "It's my treasure too."

"Fine," Angus said, "We'll return with our share of the treasure, and Garth can continue patrolling."

"No no no," Garth raged, "I'll not continue patrolling."

"You were quite good at it," Branwe offered.

"No no no," Garth narrowed his eyes, "Claim me dead and take my fifty gold, will you? That settles it. We go to Fellinia. No more talk out of you."

"Fine," Angus said.

"Eh! No more talk," Garth said.

"Right, you," Branwe said. "I saw by which magics you healed his leg and my head. You're trying to bewitch us of our treasure!"

"I," Angus said.

"Shhh shhh shhh," Garth said. "No more witching us with your kind words and healing and treasure. We're not that daft, you pile of sweet sweet smelling dung."

"Dung!" Branwe shouted at him. Angus began to walk away from them.

"Oi," Garth raged, "Where do you think you're heading without any treasure? We're not carrying the whole lot by ourselves!"

"He probably cursed it," Branwe said.

"Aye," Garth agreed, "You carry the treasure. And lead us to town and not astray for we know the way."

"Right," Branwe said, "This will be a good test of your loyalty to us. Perhaps we may even forgive you."

"Never," Garth hissed. "He stole our honor during battle. Unforgiveable. Then he took all our treasure to make off with it after he cursed it and healed us with poison so we may die on the way back and then he'll collect the reward!"

Angus continued walking.

"I like him," Branwe whispered to Garth.

"Aye," Garth whispered back, "He's of the noblest sort."

Branwe: Part I

Hark! I, Pessius the Bard sing to thee a tale of Branwe McCullum. Aha. So you've not run? Well, mayhaps, you should. For Branwe's tale is not one for the faint of heart. Aha. Ahem. Gather! Gather round children, sister and rogues, for I see upon my lyric sheet a mighty battle!

It's much further on than you think, but in order to understand it we have to harken to the early deeds of Branwe McCullum. Not quite as exciting as a hairy faced battle, but there's some life to it. I swear on my sworn oath, I do swearity swear unto thee, fair populace that fun and ribald bedtime scenes await aplent if you'll just sit still a moment.

Begin we in the Cresent Kindom, where our hero began his adventures. In a tavern he found his friend and right arm, Garth. I did not pick these names, fair persons, bear with me a moment longer. And a stout hearted madmad named Flint of the Guard. Flint Thongbeard, I say, and thereby avoid prosecution, I pray. Ahem. Indeed.

King Felini, I jest not, a noble man of Cresent Desent, pardon the errors, but this King needed patrols. And so, throughout the land he sent for men from the taverns to patrol his entire kingdom, including a rather horrible swamp, the Blood Swamp. Okay, the Fire Blood Swamp, filled with rain and pestilence, where heroes get lost and monsters eat the flesh of men. Nay, do not sob at the thought, for that is just what monsters must do and they've found a taste for it, so all's the better.

Flint entered the lusty tavern and called, "I need two men for patrol." Branwe, being neither smart, nor brave, averted his eyes. But Garth, being stupid and painfully daring spoke.

"If we join up, do we get gold?" Garth asked.

"Yes," Flint said.

"How much?" Garth asked.

"Fifty gold pieces," Flint said.

"Well," Garth said, "No way I'm risking my ass for fifty gold."

"Fifty gold will buy many a drink and a bath," Branwe said. "I wish to join you, sir. I will gladly fight for fortune and justice by the people whose grace I kindly spate in the-"

"Right," Flint said. "Tell your friend, Lord Goldhole, that he's coming too. By Order of the King!"

"I'm not moving," Garth said. "Let's see him try and kill me before we've ever got started. My ageless mystical longsword will make a quick end to this tale." At this, over twenty guards from various wars and adventures came in to assist.

"I'd rather die here," Garth said, "Than risk my neck for fifty gold pieces in some fop's swamp. Plus, I'll kill all of you gents as well."

"Brother," Branwe pleaded, "Perhas we will find lots of treasure and hone our skills in said swamp."

"There's no treasure in a swamp," Garth said.

"Oh," Flint said, "Did I forget to mention you may keep any of the legendary treasures of Fire Blood Swamp that you find for your own?"

"Fine," Garth sighed, "But I'm going to complain the whole way."

"You will be entitled to it, Brother," Branwe grinned.

"How's that?" Garth asked.

"Your noble song of lament will grease the wheels of rainsoaked time as we," Branwe paused, "Help. The. Land?"

"Good enough," Flint said. "Get some rest. We leave at dawn."

"Um," Branwe said, "Dawn? Hmmmm. You see, we're adventurers and we've kinda planned on a long night. I've got these ripe bananas and some copper pieces for the ladies-"

"Dawn," Flint said.

"Right," Branwe said. "Dawn it is. We'll see you in a little bit."

to be continued...

Michael and Milligan

Underneath the dirt, lay tunnels. Tunnels made by hand. Man made crossways ducked under, popped up and out. People lived there. A person lived there alone. Many bodies lived alone, but not like the ones that lived under the earth. Meals bracketed hardships. Beautiful meals, overflowed from restaurants that kept customers happy, fell into holes. If a body was careful, fine dining arrived unspoilt.

Two men sat in a rain gutter, eating escargot. The shells ran off somewhere, but the feeble clinging life of a mollusk gave up the goods in a fine sauce of pinot gris to a homeless man. They conversed.

“It tickles the pallet,” Michael said.

“Indeed, it does,” Milligan agreed. “A plateful of this cud and we’re barons on a hill.”

In poor taste, the snail mixed with grain alcohol. Such is life. The sluttard pinch of dirt fell into the eye, no matter what the master wrought.

“The terrible price of luxury,” Milligan added.

“The delicate sounds we hear,” Michael said. They came to be a duo by chance. One, an expert at procuring shelter and the other an elder statesman of the rails, they traveled and stopped for a bite. Scud waters be damned as drips trickled down the old hole where they sat. Outside a grand metropolis, the leavings grew posh. Paris ran over at the brim with such frilly larder. It was all they could do to keep up with the high spirits of society. The liquor came from Portugal, apparently.

“Sewers,” said Milligan, “Wot we got ere’s sewers.”

“Find a hole that hides the rain and we hide from the rain in it,” Michael said. He stuffed his face with more mash and periwinkles. The two were a pair. Straight from a hot oven of London, cross the channel and into French Country.

A car hummed.

“Corvair,” Michael said.

“As if,” Milligan said. “Oi. Bleedin’ car costs money. Not to bother.”

“Napes,” Michael agreed, “Divine patience brings a sweet reward. No need of money.”

“A noble thought,” Milligan agreed. “Have we any?”

“Not a scrap,” Michael admitted. “Why?”

“No, nevermind,” Milligan said, “Once you’re wet, you’re wet, right?”

“Right,” Michael agreed. “A treat!” Under a coat, he slid and un-hid a bottle of Moet et Chandon.

“Gaw,” Milligan squawked, “Where’d you get that then?”

“Pinched off the last case outside Hotel,” Michael said. Pop, went the cork and they sipped gently in the rain. Gutter leaves whirled in eddies past the two men as they supped. Wax paper unfolded and revealed branch and tinder.

“Water run off my hot back is nice, but the chill,” Milligan said.

“Spot on, spot on,” Michael agreed. Fire breathed orange on them. They sank down low. Fuel for the night was a tire. A tire burned long. The smell wafted away with the cool draught of rain soaked air through the pipes. A bright white light sung too boldly into the night. Mumbled indignities flowed from the road.

“Piss off, ya bink,” Michael shouted. Freedom of speech set things right. In the ugly dusk of evening, a foul phrase could chase of the ghost of civil shakes. People of the world barely noticed the enlightened filth when trod upon. A large envelope made of gasses sealed in the rock on which the stage was held. Cold, empty black outside the packet waited for any over ambitious bag of guts that fancied a walk outside the bosom of the planet. Michael asserted his equality through voice. “You’ll not have me as your pit,” he said. The voices relinquished the air.

Purple adorned the sky as a royal sign that night was nigh. The two fellows set about their business.

“Ere,” Milligan said. “Drop some of that heather on the tire. Nice smell. God. I’m loose already. Fokkin clear night in France.”

“Is,” Michael agreed. “Kay, that’s better. Listen to the old fools. Rain’s bout to stop. Fit for a lie down a bit.”

“I’ll watch,” Milligan said. Michael chewed and chewed to sleep with a few nogs off the bottle.

“Mind it,” Milligan continued, “If some Frank comes round have us off, we’ll go up pipe.

“Kay, that’s better,” Michael said. The shell of consciousness parted for a while and he was warm, sleeping by the fire. Milligan enjoyed the voices after the rain. Water echoes and voices sounded slick. What a terribly wonderful night, with its chill and heat. The ball of nested humanity found shelter in overworked barns, stables and flats. Small mammalian creatures huddled for warmth, their blood thick and convectuous. Little pots of fat, floating in a water too deep to fathom. All shelter broke, eventually. Milligan pondered the tenant status of the human race and wondered if anyone knew how close the end was for all.
We float, he thought. Air currents and water currents and all the elements blended up in a big machine too vast to understand in a finite set of circuits. Magnets and hammers moved lava, more precisely, magma, under his feet. Well below his rough shod feet, the earth stirred.

The bowels of the earth made no excuses. It needed none. It did. And so did Milligan. He made his own, he guessed. Others would find fault with his reason, he knew, but it was his reason that made him who he was. Milligan knew himself a King among serfs. The serfs, poor addled souls as they were, thought the world a place to be humbled. Milligan knew. No man could gather the earth round all at once. It was too big. Nonsense. Ownership was the grand delusion. What if a man finds his situation tolerable? Then there was no need for ownership of anything. But the price, the grand, grand price of being freed. It worked its way down his spine in trickles.

“I have a question,” Milligan said.

“Gurrphhn,” Michael complained.

“Would you take a nice hot bath and steaming plate of meat right now if offered?” Milligan asked. It was pure fancy, speculation on his part. It sent Michael’s sleep soaked mind into pools of steamy relaxation. He tasted a bite of hot, raw meat mentally.

“Fog,” Michael called, “What’s this?” He swigged lightning. “Awk. Whoo.” Rain dripped down his hat. “Plate of meat? Course I would. You?”

“Ah,” Milligan sighed. The slick oil of liquor graced his lips. “Praps.” He belched. “The meat, sure. Bath warm? Hmmmmmm.” Silver hot liquid fled his throat to his belly. “Oh. Wonders.”

Michael nipped off again to dreams in which cool milk slid over wheat cereal on a long, long table. These men, hardy souls, enjoyed their caste to the limit. The questions of bath and of meat were moot. The price for those were slavery to the wheel. A humble life fit them properly. The finest things occasionally fell from table, down the drain and out to them. Careful, careful and mindful men could live such as Kings on the fringe.

In dreams, Michael knew of a doctor who’d tied himself down to land and wife. A miser of a man, he was, and beholden to all that is good and proper. The carcass of life stank with decay. Some terrible choice men make.

“S’pose I’ll nod as well,” Milligan said. “Tent up?”

“If you please,” Michael mumbled.

Milligan stuck sticks in the ground, and threw the tarp over them. The glow of burned tired kept them company throughout the night.

The sky broke, powder blue in Michael’s eyes. The sockets hurt a bit. The gut sloshed. He paddled off behind the pipe for a quick relief. Milligan still slept. Half a bottle greeted the morn, and they were off for the north, to Germany. It would be a long haul with a dozen switches if no one bounced them off the line.

KOSMOS: Part 1

North Hollywood
February 28th
1997

09:00:00 PMT

Officer Trent radioed in the call, two suspects entering Laurel Canyon Bank of The States armed and wearing masks. The suspects disappeared into the bank. Officer Trent waited for a response.

“534, this is dispatch,” the radio squawked, “Be advised we are sending another car. Request that you observe and wait.”

“A car?” Officer Trent asked, “Send a tank. These guys look-“ A siren cut him off. “Shit,” he said, “Kill the noise, will ya?”

A man in all black kicked open the door of the bank and began shooting. He used an automatic riffle. It was an AK-47, a Kalashnikov, just like in the movies. His partner emerged from the opposite side, firing another automatic rifle. The radio asked questions. People were dropping. Officer Trent heard the call for officer down. Explosions and gunfire surrounded him.

Although the general public loves a spectacle, few people lingered to watch the shootout. Those that did, saw a boy fall from the sky. He was covered head to toe in midnight blue, except for his face and hair. His eyes poked through a blue figure eight mask. A monogram of a ringed planet crossed by the shape of a comet, making a ‘k’, graced his chest.

He landed on the sidewalk, fifty-seven feet from the bank entrance. The cement snapped under him, sending shards and dust into the air. The suspect turned his weapon. Rings of light jumped out of the boy’s hands. The bullets ricocheted off the rings. He approached the robber slowly, deflecting auto fire.

He slapped the gun away from the assailant. His left fist turned milky bright and slammed into the man’s chest, knocking him out. The boy kicked the gun away and walked through the bank.

He came out the other side, behind the second gunman. He yanked the gun up and away. The robber turned and looked at him. The boy smiled. The robber ended up on his back, with the boy smiling down at him. A hand closed around his neck, and with a gentle pressure, the robber blacked out.