Book 2: Chapter 5: The Dark Lord |
5. The Dark Lord.
Meanwhile on Earth...
One of the nicer things about using dark magic to keep customers away from the failing fast-food restaurant I liked hanging out at, was the space it gave me. I enjoyed being alone, with plenty of time to sit and dwell on the things I considered important in life. Namely, myself, my past, my future, anything to with me, really. I could be accused of self-obsession and not take offense over it. Well, not much offense.
A woman I once held dear, left my life in anger, disappointed she couldn’t change me. It was partly my fault, because I encouraged her to believe she could. She’d be furious over some small thing I may or may not have done, and proclaim I was irredeemable, and must be stopped before it was too late. After she said that, I’d let my lower lip tremble just a bit and turn away, as though unable to meet her steady, righteous gaze.
I’d then huskily say: “You’re right. I’ve gone too far. I can’t be saved. Just go! Go before I drag you down with me...”
And then I’d let a single tear fall down my cheek. Next, she’d try to comfort me. She’d say there was still good in me, she could see it, and I’d reply with a straight face, always with a straight face, that she was the only one who could. Then we’d embrace, which would lead to a passionate kiss, which then led to some extremely memorable sex in front of the fireplace.
Athletic sex, too. She was a paladin; all that sword training and the heavy armor she wore, did wonders for her stamina. I could barely keep up! It was a thrill too, because when we really got the pace going, she’d start moaning hymnals and invoking the magic of her noble goddess of light; magic that seared the wicked with holy fire.
The pleasure of having her, combined with the elements of pain and fear? And the feeling that her patron goddess was in the room watching us go at it?
Spicy.
Just before leaving for the final time, she called me a selfish, narcissistic bastard who’d never love anyone but myself. Then, she flipped her white cloak behind her and left me in the rubble that had been my tower, as well as the figurative rubble of our former relationship.
I still miss her. She made me feel seen.
“No! NO! Oh, God, please! Please! Pleeeeease!”
Oh, look at that. Someone had tried to enter the Burger Trough, and he’d gotten as far as the entryway. He looked like a homeless guy, judging from the state of his clothes, and the overstuffed duffle bag that lay beside him, as he writhed and screamed on the sidewalk. That was kind of interesting. Kind of sad, too.
You see, the hex I’d cast over the place operated in three stages. The first one caused you to feel uneasy with a vague sense of doom if you pulled into the parking lot. The second triggered a sensation comparable to intense arachnophobia, if your foot touched the parking lot. It was a feeling like being surrounded by something you found frightening and loathsome. It was usually enough to get the job done. The third effect triggered if you touched the glass entryway. It made you—
“COLLINS! Oh, my God! Why?! I thought you were one of them! I thought you were one of them! Why?! Why didn’t you say something?! No, no, no, hang in there! Medic! Please! Medic!”
Wow, rude. Anyway, the third stage forced you to experience the worst thing you’d ever done. I guess this guy had once aimed left when he should have aimed right. He must have been a good man to be so tormented by his mistake. I’ve taken out a few of my side with friendly fire before. Friendly fireballs, anyway. It was embarrassing for sure, but you couldn’t let past mistakes hold you back. It was better instead to deny you made any mistakes at all. Or you could just devalue the lives of your loyal servants so much that when they died, you barely noticed. Making them all wear helmets that covered their faces, helped.
No one cared when a Stormtrooper was killed. Stormtroopers all looked the same.
“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry! Take me instead! TAKE ME INSTEAD!”
Well, this guy looked like he was going to be there for a while, and his broken pleas for a redemption that would never come had already gotten stale. I’d told Anthony not to leave his office util closing time and he was too big for Holly to carry. Hell, I’d have to take down the hex for an ambulance to come collect him, and that was more work than I felt like doing
I guess it was time to go home.
“Bye, Holly.”
“Byyyyye. You coming back tomorrow?
“Only if the food gets better.”
“It won’t. Come anyway!”
“Well, if you insist. Later.”
“Later!”
Holly wasn’t deliberately ignoring the homeless guy, by the way. I was masking his presence from the area. I didn’t want his screams attracting any helpful Samaritans who’d rush over to help and trigger the hex further. If that happened, they’d be screaming for help too. If it kept building up like that, the Trough’s parking lot could turn into an allegorical strip of human flypaper. That’s the kind of thing that made the local news.
I didn’t want any unnecessary attention coming my way. Not because I feared danger. I was a former Dark Lord. My power scaled into the realm of the cosmic. No one here was any threat to me. No, I avoided attention, because I made it a point to avoid the things in life that annoyed me.
Did you know that the Earth possessed many secret societies formed centuries ago to defend the world from the forces of darkness? They were noble heroes who operated from the shadows, maintaining their gallant vigil against the unseen evils that preyed upon humanity. They were the last line, and the best hope. Although they were often misunderstood by those they sought to protect, they never wavered from their mission. No matter the sacrifices made, or the turmoil in their hearts, they always stood with pride, and defied the darkness, daring it to do its worse.
There were like, dozens of those stupid groups running around, and I hated them all so much.
The Shadow Society, the Night Stalkers, the Night Warriors, the Dark Defenders, the Shadow-nighty-dark-dark-night-darker-stuff, or whatever the hell. It always some permutation of dark, shadow, night, and whatever else they thought sounded cool. And they were always leather clad half-humans torn between their earthly and superhuman heritages, and God, did they ever let you know how conflicted they were.
“I can’t be with you, Ryan! My dark-elven blood will make me huuuurt you!” says the whining, Redhead.
“Fight it, Sarah! I’ll never let you go!” Proclaims the smoldering hunk who never skips leg day.
“Stay focused you two, we’re on the job! We’ve got us some vampires to kill!” Says the pragmatic older black one who’s seen it all before but is probably going to die so that the other two can feel motivated to do their fucking jobs.
“Foolish girl! Did Telandra tell you that you were of Dark Elven descent? She was trying to shield you from the truth!” says the goddamned master vampire who they should have staked while he was sleeping during the day, but they didn’t because the redhead ran away from home in an angsty huff, and the group decided that proving their friendship to her was more important than anything else, because they’re a bunch of morons.
“How do you know my mother’s name?” Asks the redhead, even though she knows exactly how he knows her mother’s name, it’s super obvious, no one can possibly be that ignorant of the tropes in play here, but she’ll still pretend not to know, because everyone is paying attention to her, and she loves it.
“Because, Sara! I am your—
And then I blew the lot of them up with a building sized bolt of crimson lightning, because who has time for this shit?
It felt good at the time. Really good. But it had been a mistake. The organization those idiots belonged to, kept sending agents around to investigate what happened. And the local vampires were obsessed with finding out who’d killed their beloved master, so they were crawling around in greater numbers too.
I suppose I could have just revealed my identity and warned them off. But I didn’t want to. That would imply that they had pressured me into doing it, and no one made me do anything I didn’t feel like doing. So, I decided to keep my head down, and wait the insects out. No problem.
On my way out, I knelt by the homeless man, curious by what had driven him so fervently to the Trough’s door. I saw clenched in his fist, a certificate for a free meal and drink. Oh. Poor guy was hungry. Made sense. Desperation could drive men harder than any act of willpower ever could.
Then I noticed something.
“Oh, you silly bastard. This expired yesterday.”
Wasn’t fate the cruelest thing? This guy was putting himself through all of this over nothing. All that anguish for a meal he could never have. That had to be bad karma. I didn’t want to touch him, since he smelled a bit ripe, so I floated him up behind me, and carried him with me to the sidewalk across the street. The Hex released him, and he finally calmed down. I sat him down beside me on the bench I used to catch the bus that took me home. He sat there, with his head in his hands, shivering despite the warm air.
“That looked like some trip you were having,” I said, as I slouched down in my seat.
“Huh?”
"Collins! Collins! A friend of yours, I take it?”
“What? Oh, yeah. Yeah. He was my best friend over there.”
“Over where?”
“Uh, I don’t want to say. No place I ever want to think about, again.”
“I get it. Some places we carry in our hearts. Others in our scars.”
“Yeah.”
“You hungry?”
“…Yeah.”
“Better places to eat than that shithole.”
“Got no money for them, though.”
“Check your pocket.”
He reached into his jeans and found a wad of bills I’d willed into existence.
“Uh, are you sure? About this? Are you sure?”
“It’s nothing to me. Not much is.”
“…Thank you.”
“Don’t be grateful. If you spend it putting needles in your arm, then I probably made your life worse.”
“I don’t do that shit, man.”
“Cool.”
“I really don’t.”
“Cool.”
The bus arrived a few minutes later. We parted without further words.