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Cartwright leaned back against his chair, which groaned against the effort. He was a heavy man with a great big round belly, who wore an unflattering black shirt stretched to its limits by his bulk, and a baggy pair of plain shorts. Wherever he went, Cartwright wore slippers…even at the local watering hole. He was old, and possessed of wispy white flyaway hair that he slicked back, and through which patches of scalp could be glimpsed; it was the brittle hair of an old man, the kind of hair that says one is old but that precedes the true infirmity of being at the end of one’s rope. He was still mobile, though slow and hunched, and many speculated that he may not have many good years left in his back, which was known to trouble him.
He walked with a cane.
He wore sunglasses habitually, because his eyes were sensitive to sunlight.
He enjoyed an afternoon beer, or sometimes more.
He loved to talk.
Cartwright was figure in the community who commanded the respect of a loose contingency of other old men. They frequented the only bar in town with the proprietary air of an Old Boys’ Club.
Each day they would gather in the afternoon: a parliament of old owls who ruled over a dragon’s hoard of gossip and stories. Oftentimes locals and travelers would find tables nearby where they could sit and listen. It was a delightful opportunity to overhear the comings-and-goings, seasoned with sage wisdom and the biting honesty of the elderly.
Their table was always open when they arrived, and there was always a crowd at the time of their arrival. When they entered, the establishment was typically abuzz with light chatter, but it died down immediately as soon as the first of them stepped through the door.
Once they’d assembled properly, the three of them, and sat down, there was a ceremonial silence. It wasn’t a defined ceremony, it was just the way it was done. The old men sat down to a table, their drinks already set out for them, quietly took their first sips, and then…
Then it could begin.
Cartwright was the opener. That was standard procedure for this event. Dante’s Abyss had its pre-game, the Death Game had its own version of it, and these old men had their opening topic that signaled that the games had begun.
“They’ve rallied around him, I hear,” began Cartwright. He paused, sipped his beer, and savored the way the other two mantled themselves with silence. He had their attention. “They’re like a paramilitary cult of some sort, I hear. Not the gun-toting kind, though, no, Sir. They’re not gun-nuts at all. They’re computer geeks, would you believe it? A bunch of asthmatic basement dwellers who caught the show on television, and got whipped up into a frenzy by him. They wear shirts with his face on them! They leave their rooms behind, with their Thundershark posters, their action figures, and their computer screens, and these poindexters set sail to find him.
“And they found him, I hear. Came down from their islands, used their parents’ money, bought a boat, and searched him out. They’ve been sailing around, they’ve got spears and bows, glasses and inhalers, and they fancy themselves men of the sea. A cult, practically, worshiping this thing that they call a Demigod.”
When Cartwright had paused for a long enough time to signal that he was finished speaking, the floor was open.
Anderson cleared his throat to announce his entrance into the conversation.
Anderson was the opposite of Cartwright in many ways. Anderson was a shriveled beanpole, long and thin, with a lot of neck but scarcely any chin. His back was straight, his shoulders square, and he wore the same pair of coveralls everyday with no shirt underneath. He wore a straw hat that protected some of his skin against Opealon’s harsh sunlight. The rest of his skin was as leather as a shoe, and as tanned. He was still rather mobile, and made his living fishing off the dock of the floating village.
“What do you think draws ‘em to ‘im?” Anderson asked. He had a gruff voice made harsh as gravel by years of smoking.
He was smoking then, in fact, and put his pipe back to his lips when he was finished speaking. A thin curl of sweet smelling pipe smoke eddied up from the end of a blossoming red ember in the heel of the pipe bowl, worming its way through the air.
If the others minded, they didn’t show it.
“I reckon it’s that damned show,” replied Cartwright, his tone bitter. “That, and the nature of their sort. The weak rally to the strong. They see a King, not a monster, and they fall in line. He wouldn’t be the first King who’d used the backs of the weak as step stones on a climb to power.”
“Heard he doesn’t even know he’s a King,” grumbled Anderson, slurring gently around his pipe stem. “Heard he ain’t got the sense the Arbiter gave a tuna.”
“Well, there’s that,” admitted Cartwright. “From what I’ve heard…you know, from them that watched the Game, I guess he’s more beast than man. But he is part man, too, mind. Ain’t just a wanton mad beast, he’s got some sense. A very base kind of humanity to him, apparently, that seems to appeal to the weak folk.”
“Figure he considers those cult geeks people, then?” Anderson asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Can’t rightfully say. Travelers have been saying, it seems like the geeks stride on into town, buy up a bunch of fish and things, bring it back to him, then move onto the next place. Nobody’s quite sure of where they’re going. I ain’t quite sure they know where they’re going, by the sounds of it,” Cartwright stated.
Another man cleared his throat, a bookish old dog named Winston. It was his turn to step into the arena.
It was unclear whether Winston was his first name or his last name. He had a waspish countenance, was bespectacled, and had a nose that called up the image of an eagle’s beak. His salt and pepper hair was carefully combed and gelled. He wore a moth-eaten button up, black slacks held up by black suspenders, and a blue bow tie. Unlike the others, he drank whiskey, not ale.
“I’ve heard that once a man gains that kind of power,” Winston began, with the whip-lash tone of a man who thought he was making a significant point. “...that he tends to go mad. Madness and power go hand and hand, you know.”
“I ain’t sure he’s got the brains to go mad, myself,” quipped Anderson. “From what I’ve heard, he’s as thick as a tree trunk. Ain’t enough goin’ on in his brain for ‘im to go mad.”
“Ayup,” agreed Cartwright, bobbing his head once. He took a pull from his beer, then let out the post-sip sigh that some folks can’t help but make. “Reckon you’ve got to have a certain degree of senses in order to lose them.”
Cartwright held the final say. It was understood between the old men. Having rendered a verdict, Cartwright rearranged himself to the tune of his seat’s protests.
For a time, the men drank in silence.
Then, as was his duty, Cartwright opened the next order of business.
“Heard there was a Mickey Mouse sighting,” Cartwright announced simply.
Unable to help himself, Anderson snorted derisively.
Winston sipped delicately at his whiskey, set down his Glencairn whiskey glass, then pushed his glasses up his nose. That meant he had something to say, which drew the other men’s gazes.
“My wife said-”
“Oh, here we go,” mumbled Anderson.
“MY. WIFE. SAID,” roared Winston, shrill, rising to his feet and slapping both hands down on the table. “...that the mouse was spotted some fifty nautical miles away, as the gull flies. If he’s headed to the lifts, he’ll pass right through here. Matter of fact, even if he’s not headed to the lifts, he’ll probably have to stop over.
“What’s more, the King Shark Cult was spotted sailing this way as well, in that slapdash pile of logs they’re calling a ship. What a world! Where Sharks are Kings, and mice are walking and talking amongst men and women!”
Finished, looking smug, and peering over his beak-like nose at the other two, Winston sat back down. Slowly, though. Very slowly.
“...you’re a real prick, you know that?” grunted Anderson.
The old fisherman finished his ale, set down his mug, then stood with the careful deliberation that belonged to the elderly.
Anderson dipped his straw hat to Cartwright, ignored Winston entirely, then made his way for the entrance, pushing through the batwing doors and into the afternoon sunlight. The buzz of regular conversation swelled up behind him, brought on by the conclusion of the event.
Up above the floating village, where fishing was life, and where old men told tales, the sun beat harshly.
Under the same sun, a gangly nerd with round red-rimmed spectacles pulled a spyglass away from her eye, collapsed it, then placed it in her breast pocket. She wiped the sweat from her freckled, sun ravaged brow and grinned.
Emily was a lank young woman, hair a fiery orange, with a shock of freckles that would startle a leopard. She wore her hair in twin braids that fell past her bony shoulders and down the white, sweat stained dress shirt. She hadn’t changed her clothes in weeks. Her eyes, emerald green, sparkled in the light. Out ahead of her the sun spilled a floodlight of reflection that dazzled against the whitecaps and rolling waves. The salt in the air made her heart soar.
“Thar she blows,” Emily said, grinning then casting her gaze upwards.
Nanaue looked down at her, blank faced, jaw hanging open. The sun glimmered off of his gunmetal grey crown. The peaks of the shark teeth adorning the circlet dazzled at the tips where the light splashed over them.
His enormous shoulders heaved gently with his breath, his giant barrel chest rose and fell, and his gills flared on even keel with the rhythm of his body.
He was a towering presence, a washed grey, nine feet if he were an inch, but bedecked with tremendous arms wrought in muscle. He wore his presence like regalia, and though he was a simple being, he had an aura of purpose around him.
He wore jorts, an immaculate pair of them that always offered the perfect fit, which he had won with his performance in a deadly televised competition.
He also wore a temporary tattoo on his arm, an anchor standing sentinel over the backdrop of a heart with an arrow through it, courtesy of his followers.
His mouth, a terror of teeth, hung open wide in a smile. And oh, didn’t he look splendid? Emily would never grow tired of seeing that precocious glimmer in his black eyes, or the way he approached each new experience with a bright curiosity. He wasn’t very sharp, but he was bursting with spirit.
“Tharrrr,” King Shark rumbled back, pointing off at the silhouette resting at the crest of the horizon. “Town?”
“Town,” agreed his geeky companion amiably. “We’ll be there before the sun sets. Pacifidlog Town, according to my map. If I’m reading it right. Bunch of bumpkins, I guess.”
“Bumpkins,” repeated Nanaue, nodding. “Bumpkin town.”
He walked with a cane.
He wore sunglasses habitually, because his eyes were sensitive to sunlight.
He enjoyed an afternoon beer, or sometimes more.
He loved to talk.
Cartwright was figure in the community who commanded the respect of a loose contingency of other old men. They frequented the only bar in town with the proprietary air of an Old Boys’ Club.
Each day they would gather in the afternoon: a parliament of old owls who ruled over a dragon’s hoard of gossip and stories. Oftentimes locals and travelers would find tables nearby where they could sit and listen. It was a delightful opportunity to overhear the comings-and-goings, seasoned with sage wisdom and the biting honesty of the elderly.
Their table was always open when they arrived, and there was always a crowd at the time of their arrival. When they entered, the establishment was typically abuzz with light chatter, but it died down immediately as soon as the first of them stepped through the door.
Once they’d assembled properly, the three of them, and sat down, there was a ceremonial silence. It wasn’t a defined ceremony, it was just the way it was done. The old men sat down to a table, their drinks already set out for them, quietly took their first sips, and then…
Then it could begin.
Cartwright was the opener. That was standard procedure for this event. Dante’s Abyss had its pre-game, the Death Game had its own version of it, and these old men had their opening topic that signaled that the games had begun.
“They’ve rallied around him, I hear,” began Cartwright. He paused, sipped his beer, and savored the way the other two mantled themselves with silence. He had their attention. “They’re like a paramilitary cult of some sort, I hear. Not the gun-toting kind, though, no, Sir. They’re not gun-nuts at all. They’re computer geeks, would you believe it? A bunch of asthmatic basement dwellers who caught the show on television, and got whipped up into a frenzy by him. They wear shirts with his face on them! They leave their rooms behind, with their Thundershark posters, their action figures, and their computer screens, and these poindexters set sail to find him.
“And they found him, I hear. Came down from their islands, used their parents’ money, bought a boat, and searched him out. They’ve been sailing around, they’ve got spears and bows, glasses and inhalers, and they fancy themselves men of the sea. A cult, practically, worshiping this thing that they call a Demigod.”
When Cartwright had paused for a long enough time to signal that he was finished speaking, the floor was open.
Anderson cleared his throat to announce his entrance into the conversation.
Anderson was the opposite of Cartwright in many ways. Anderson was a shriveled beanpole, long and thin, with a lot of neck but scarcely any chin. His back was straight, his shoulders square, and he wore the same pair of coveralls everyday with no shirt underneath. He wore a straw hat that protected some of his skin against Opealon’s harsh sunlight. The rest of his skin was as leather as a shoe, and as tanned. He was still rather mobile, and made his living fishing off the dock of the floating village.
“What do you think draws ‘em to ‘im?” Anderson asked. He had a gruff voice made harsh as gravel by years of smoking.
He was smoking then, in fact, and put his pipe back to his lips when he was finished speaking. A thin curl of sweet smelling pipe smoke eddied up from the end of a blossoming red ember in the heel of the pipe bowl, worming its way through the air.
If the others minded, they didn’t show it.
“I reckon it’s that damned show,” replied Cartwright, his tone bitter. “That, and the nature of their sort. The weak rally to the strong. They see a King, not a monster, and they fall in line. He wouldn’t be the first King who’d used the backs of the weak as step stones on a climb to power.”
“Heard he doesn’t even know he’s a King,” grumbled Anderson, slurring gently around his pipe stem. “Heard he ain’t got the sense the Arbiter gave a tuna.”
“Well, there’s that,” admitted Cartwright. “From what I’ve heard…you know, from them that watched the Game, I guess he’s more beast than man. But he is part man, too, mind. Ain’t just a wanton mad beast, he’s got some sense. A very base kind of humanity to him, apparently, that seems to appeal to the weak folk.”
“Figure he considers those cult geeks people, then?” Anderson asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Can’t rightfully say. Travelers have been saying, it seems like the geeks stride on into town, buy up a bunch of fish and things, bring it back to him, then move onto the next place. Nobody’s quite sure of where they’re going. I ain’t quite sure they know where they’re going, by the sounds of it,” Cartwright stated.
Another man cleared his throat, a bookish old dog named Winston. It was his turn to step into the arena.
It was unclear whether Winston was his first name or his last name. He had a waspish countenance, was bespectacled, and had a nose that called up the image of an eagle’s beak. His salt and pepper hair was carefully combed and gelled. He wore a moth-eaten button up, black slacks held up by black suspenders, and a blue bow tie. Unlike the others, he drank whiskey, not ale.
“I’ve heard that once a man gains that kind of power,” Winston began, with the whip-lash tone of a man who thought he was making a significant point. “...that he tends to go mad. Madness and power go hand and hand, you know.”
“I ain’t sure he’s got the brains to go mad, myself,” quipped Anderson. “From what I’ve heard, he’s as thick as a tree trunk. Ain’t enough goin’ on in his brain for ‘im to go mad.”
“Ayup,” agreed Cartwright, bobbing his head once. He took a pull from his beer, then let out the post-sip sigh that some folks can’t help but make. “Reckon you’ve got to have a certain degree of senses in order to lose them.”
Cartwright held the final say. It was understood between the old men. Having rendered a verdict, Cartwright rearranged himself to the tune of his seat’s protests.
For a time, the men drank in silence.
Then, as was his duty, Cartwright opened the next order of business.
“Heard there was a Mickey Mouse sighting,” Cartwright announced simply.
Unable to help himself, Anderson snorted derisively.
Winston sipped delicately at his whiskey, set down his Glencairn whiskey glass, then pushed his glasses up his nose. That meant he had something to say, which drew the other men’s gazes.
“My wife said-”
“Oh, here we go,” mumbled Anderson.
“MY. WIFE. SAID,” roared Winston, shrill, rising to his feet and slapping both hands down on the table. “...that the mouse was spotted some fifty nautical miles away, as the gull flies. If he’s headed to the lifts, he’ll pass right through here. Matter of fact, even if he’s not headed to the lifts, he’ll probably have to stop over.
“What’s more, the King Shark Cult was spotted sailing this way as well, in that slapdash pile of logs they’re calling a ship. What a world! Where Sharks are Kings, and mice are walking and talking amongst men and women!”
Finished, looking smug, and peering over his beak-like nose at the other two, Winston sat back down. Slowly, though. Very slowly.
“...you’re a real prick, you know that?” grunted Anderson.
The old fisherman finished his ale, set down his mug, then stood with the careful deliberation that belonged to the elderly.
Anderson dipped his straw hat to Cartwright, ignored Winston entirely, then made his way for the entrance, pushing through the batwing doors and into the afternoon sunlight. The buzz of regular conversation swelled up behind him, brought on by the conclusion of the event.
Up above the floating village, where fishing was life, and where old men told tales, the sun beat harshly.
Under the same sun, a gangly nerd with round red-rimmed spectacles pulled a spyglass away from her eye, collapsed it, then placed it in her breast pocket. She wiped the sweat from her freckled, sun ravaged brow and grinned.
Emily was a lank young woman, hair a fiery orange, with a shock of freckles that would startle a leopard. She wore her hair in twin braids that fell past her bony shoulders and down the white, sweat stained dress shirt. She hadn’t changed her clothes in weeks. Her eyes, emerald green, sparkled in the light. Out ahead of her the sun spilled a floodlight of reflection that dazzled against the whitecaps and rolling waves. The salt in the air made her heart soar.
“Thar she blows,” Emily said, grinning then casting her gaze upwards.
Nanaue looked down at her, blank faced, jaw hanging open. The sun glimmered off of his gunmetal grey crown. The peaks of the shark teeth adorning the circlet dazzled at the tips where the light splashed over them.
His enormous shoulders heaved gently with his breath, his giant barrel chest rose and fell, and his gills flared on even keel with the rhythm of his body.
He was a towering presence, a washed grey, nine feet if he were an inch, but bedecked with tremendous arms wrought in muscle. He wore his presence like regalia, and though he was a simple being, he had an aura of purpose around him.
He wore jorts, an immaculate pair of them that always offered the perfect fit, which he had won with his performance in a deadly televised competition.
He also wore a temporary tattoo on his arm, an anchor standing sentinel over the backdrop of a heart with an arrow through it, courtesy of his followers.
His mouth, a terror of teeth, hung open wide in a smile. And oh, didn’t he look splendid? Emily would never grow tired of seeing that precocious glimmer in his black eyes, or the way he approached each new experience with a bright curiosity. He wasn’t very sharp, but he was bursting with spirit.
“Tharrrr,” King Shark rumbled back, pointing off at the silhouette resting at the crest of the horizon. “Town?”
“Town,” agreed his geeky companion amiably. “We’ll be there before the sun sets. Pacifidlog Town, according to my map. If I’m reading it right. Bunch of bumpkins, I guess.”
“Bumpkins,” repeated Nanaue, nodding. “Bumpkin town.”