#watched mind mangler last night its so good!!

[should-david-be-there]

critics are calling this the crossover of the century

[hellshiremisfits]

The Ballad of Sorrow Creek ~ Chapter 1

Tommy: We figured we might as well tell our story here too.

Seán: Enjoy.

(Tw: mentions of eye-injury and dismemberment)

"...So then I said," Seán finished, "'How was I s'posed t' know that was yer mum?'"

Next to him, Tommy let out a nasty cackle.

"Oh, aren't you horrible men," an indignant voice hollered from the stagecoach Seán and Tommy were guarding.

Tommy slowed his horse to ride next to the carriage's window, tipping his hat in a half-mocking apology at the elderly woman inside.

"Sorry, ma'am, but that's 'ow life is out 'ere."

The woman wrinkled her nose at that, and sat back.

"If it gives y'any peace o' mind, ma'am," Tommy continued, "We're almost in Glenvale, we won't be much a bother for ya anymore."

A hefty harrumph was all he was getting. He cackled under his breath and rode up to Seán again.

"Think they gots the butcher back up?" Tommy started casually.

Seán shrugged.

"Three's a charm, y'know. What? Was Matthews right, an' yer worried 'bout yer reputation?" Seán grinned. "'What Tommy 'Smokin' Ruin' Burke burns down, stays down'?"

Tommy spat at the ground, but before he could respond, the elderly woman poked her head out of the carriage again.

"You two ought to be less proud of your horrid past."

"Sorry, ma'am, but that's 'ow life is out 'ere," Seán singsonged, sending Tommy into another fit of cackling.

Maybe that woman was out to say something to that, but one of the other passengers —a woman around Seán and Tommy's age; and a quite nice-looking one at that— got the word in first:

"What's with those birds there?"

Seán and Tommy turned to look. About five, six hundred yards away, a committee of vultures was circling overhead.

"Them be vultures, miss," said Seán. "Means something's 'bout to meet its maker."

The older woman pulled back into the carriage with visible disgust, but the younger one kept watching the vultures circle in silence.

"Miss Catherine, would you kindly sit back proper," the older woman's voice rang out, and with a sigh the younger woman vanished back into the stagecoach.

The coach rumbled on for barely ten yards or such, when Tommy slowed down his horse, raising a hand to signal the coachman to be alert.

"What's wrong?" Seán slowed down his horse as well, casting a glance around the nearby area, a hand reaching for his rifle. Tommy nodded at the roadside.

"Is that..." Seán began, "...a hat?"

"Yeah. Looks like it's someone 'bout to kick the bucket. Or a distraction, an' we're 'bout to get ambushed."

Seán craned his neck. There wasn't enough cover out here to hide a gang of bandits from sight, but better safe than sorry.

"Shouldn't you help?" Miss Catherine called.

"Waste o'time, miss, truth be told," said Tommy. "If them vultures are circling like that, the poor sod's a goner."

"You can't just leave whoever is out there to those birds," the older woman responded.

"The boys are worried it's an ambush," said the coachman, while reaching for his rifle as well. "So you better keep yer head down an' stop distracting us."

"An ambush from where?" the woman barked back, "There is nothing here but dirt, bushes and a few cacti!"

"Y' would be surprised how well they can hide a human, ma'am," said Seán as he hopped off his horse.

"The hell yer doin'?" hissed Tommy.

"'Tis a nice hat, would be a right shame to let it go to waste," Seán said, then continued in a stage whisper. "C'mon, we're too close to Glenvale for an ambush. Bandits learned better'n that the last two years." He pranced over and picked the hat up, flashing Tommy a toothy grin... which quickly faded as he inspected the item in his hand a little closer.

"Shit!" he hissed, the color in his face draining, and he burst into a sprint towards the vultures.

"What?" Tommy gawked as Seán stormed away, nearly falling off his horse as he turned in his saddle too suddenly.

"It's Quinn!" was all Seán hollered. It didn't need more.

---

It was like looking through frosted glass... or coming up from underwater. Yeah, that was more like it, 'cause Caleb certainly felt like he was drowning while his head was swimming. He felt dizzy, nauseous and tired. So tired.

Everything hurt, and when he tried to remember what happened, all his brain provided was a great big ball of nothing.

There were sounds around him, voices maybe, and slowly the blurred mess gained some dull colours. His head was throbbing like a train engine, and he was certain his innards had been mashed together into one singular innard.

"Hey..." he heard someone say and he recognized surprise in the voice, and then there was a faint shuffling sound coming through the dull ringing in his ears.

"I think he's wakin' up..."

Caleb knew that voice. He tried to search his memory. Ted? Tim? Tom?... Tommy... Caleb groaned, tried to keep his eyes open and focus on the figure taking shape in front and a little above him.

Yes. Tommy. Tommy Burke. He's... he's one of his boys. Something reminded Caleb that this was impossible for some reason, but that something couldn't say why either. He tried to say something, but managed only a pathetic croak.

"How the fuck are y'alive, boss?" Tommy said, reaching up to push sweat-soaked hair from Caleb's forehead. "Where've y'been?"

All Caleb could do was tilt his head a little.

"He's not in any state to answer, Burke," said a different voice, and Caleb recalled it as belonging to Dr. Yeung, the guy who patched him back together more often than should be possible or reasonable.

Next thing Caleb felt was a cold wet cloth on his head, and the blurry shapes pulled back.

"But he's awake," the Doc continued. "Is that the stubbornness of you Irish?"

"It did save 'im his arse often enough," Tommy insisted in an insulted tone.

"Also had me pull several bullets and nails out of it, Burke."

Tommy cackled, and Caleb felt a hand giving his shoulder a gentle squeeze.

"You rest up, boss. Y'gotta tell us where the Hell y'been these two years."

'Hell,' Caleb wanted to answer, and didn't know why. But instead he slipped into a blissful darkness.

---

"Leave it to Caleb Quinn t' vanish into thin air an' come back two years later lookin' like someone used him for fuckin' target practice," Tommy groaned, nursing on his whiskey. It was just after sunrise, and Miss Josie and the new barkeep were hauling out the last batch of the previous night's patrons.

Seán, on the chair next to Tommy, drummed his fingers on the table.

"Yeah, an' I still can't make tails out o' how he did that."

"I dun think that's how the sayin' goes, Seán."

"Maybe... But it's something like that."

Tommy nodded wistfully, looking up at the upper floor's gallery. Seán followed his gaze.

"How often did we sit here, doin' this bloody shite?" said Seán, lips pressed into a thin line.

"Huh?"

"'e's talkin' 'bout ya sittin' here like two dogs waitin' fer their master to get out o' 'is bedroom," Miss Josie informed Tommy as she passed by, ruffling his hair to annoy him.

Tommy grumbled a little, looking after her as she sashayed into the saloon's little kitchen, before he sighed deeply, eyes on his drink again.

"A lot at the start, didn't we?" he murmured, and Seán nodded.

"And then we just gave up."

Tommy nodded back. And slammed his glass on the table before marching upstairs. Seán blinked baffled for a moment, before downing both their drinks and following.

Caleb was still out cold, and Seán found Tommy changing the wet cloth on his forehead.

"Don't think the fever's going down," Tommy murmured as Seán closed the door and pulled up a chair.

"It... will take a while. I mean, he's been put through the mangler a couple o' times now, but never..."

"I know..."

Silence followed.

"Ya think he won't wake up again after all?" Seán finally murmured, and by the sound of it those words took more energy out of him than he was willing or able to muster.

"I... dunno. I mean..."

"Ya two bloody worrywarts can't let a man bloody well suffer in silence, can ya?"

Seán and Tommy looked up, alarmed.

Caleb gave them a crooked grin, chest heaving a little with the effort it took to speak, voice raspy and broken.

"Boss!" Seán nearly lunged forward to pull Caleb into a hug, but thought better of it at the last second.

With a strained and exhausted sigh Caleb tried to stretch, just a little, and found himself unable to hold back a whimper as pain jolted through his body. He closed his eyes, drawing a deep breath, and even that hurt.

"What happened?" he said, cracking an eye open at the two men sitting by his bedside.

"You tell us," Seán said. "Doc Yeung says someone used ya for fuckin' target practice."

"Eh?" Caleb looked down on himself. He needed a moment to focus, but what he saw was not good. His chest was speckled with tiny scars, barely visible, as if something stabbed him with dozens of fine needles all at once. Worse, though a little less weird, were the circular scars around his heart and just below the ribcage, as if someone shot or impaled him there. Did someone use his own bloody gun on him? No, he'd certainly not be alive then. He traced a finger over the scars, his brows furrowed.

"Got the same on the back," Tommy said. "And some on yer shoulder as if someone stabbed ya there a couple o' times."

Instinctively Caleb reached a hand back, his frown darkening.

"How?" he breathed out, getting nothing but hapless stares from his men.

"Charlie said someone pro'bly stabbed ya back in Hellshire an' dragged ya off," Seán tried.

"But we ought to have noticed that," Tommy added. "Even with the whole chaos with the explosion and all."

"Wait, what?" Caleb blinked, and finally looked around. "Where am I anyway?"

Tommy gulped and looked at Seán, who winced.

"Upstairs of Dead Dawg," Seán said. "An'... Boss?"

"Mhn?"

"Ya been missin' for over two years."

Again Caleb blinked, staring into the distance as he sunk deeper into the pillows.

"...what?"

Tommy rose.

"I think we'll need a drink fer this," he said, leaving the room.

Seán looked after him, before his head snapped back at Caleb.

"Should we... wait?"

"Fill me the fuck in, Seán," Caleb grunted.

Seán nodded uncertainly. "What... what's the last thing ya remember, boss?"

Caleb looked drowsy for a moment.

"Hellshire," he grinned. "We did in Bayshore an' the warden..."

"Yeah... 'bout that..." Seán scratched the remains of his ear, which got Caleb to quirk a suspicious brow.

"Spit it out," he snarled, and Seán pushed his chair away. Better safe than sorry.

"It... was weird..." he said, and took a deep breath. And exhaled. He sat in silence, wringing his hands nervously. "I... don't know what happened, y'know. No one does. 'Twas like time went upside-down the moment you wandered off..."

"What?"

"Things went sideways an' right to shite when we hauled Bayshore an' the warden off to the inmates." Tommy pushed the door close with his hip, putting a bottle of whiskey down on the nightstand before he slumped into his chair exhausted. "Ya won't like this, boss."

"I figured," Caleb grunted. "So what happened? You fuckers make it sound like fuckin' Bayshore's still alive."

"It's not certain," Seán admitted, grabbing the bottle to get some liquid courage into his system. "Like, we were draggin' them off to the commons, an'... like ya wasn't with us, which was weird."

"So we went lookin' for ya," Tommy added. "I mean, to think you'd miss that..."

Caleb nodded. He remembered hobbling to his old cell, but for the love of Christ, he couldn't say why. He waved Tommy to continue.

"So, Seán here, I, Charlie, Matthews, O'Leary an' Finley went t' look for ya."

"Which saved our arses," said Seán, taking another swig.

"Aye. 'Cause, we were half-way to yer cell, when a bloody explosion rocked the fuckin' prison."

"Explosion?" Caleb cocked his head.

"Took out a good chunk of the commons an' most people there..." Tommy lolled his head. "I tell ya, that wasn't natural, and ya know I knows me explosions."

"Then the marshals an' shite came in an' arrested everyone who still got anythin' like a pulse." Seán shook his head. "The six o' us made a run for it."

"Doyle an' Hogan were hanged the next morning. Kilpatrick died of his wounds 'bout three days later. The rest was dead when the lawmen arrived."

Caleb let Tommy's words sink in, falling silent again.

"The warden's a broken man, boss," Tommy tried to deliver some good news.

"So he's still alive?" Caleb growled. His boys nodded.

"Went back t' New York or Washington, I think," Tommy said. "But..." he swallowed hard. "No one knows what came o' Bayshore."

"Charlie thinks the fucker's been in the middle o' the explosion an' that's why's nothing left o' him." Seán handed the bottle to Tommy. "An' there wasn't much left o' him to begin with."

Caleb shook his head.

"Charlie's prob'ly right," he said. He was too tired to be angry, he found, and he doubted he'd be so damn unlucky to have Bayshore escape a fair fate yet again. He sighed. "So the six o' you's all that's left o' our little gang?"

Seán and Tommy nodded.

"I mean," said Seán, "They did find us. Tried charging us, too. But no one could tell for certain what gone down back then..."

"Charges were dismissed," Tommy summarized. "An' then the townsfolk what had made a run for it when they saw Kelly's gang draggin' our men into town came back, too."

"Weren't too happy we were still breathin', boss. And didn't know what t'make o' you havin' vanished."

"Can imagine," Caleb said, looking around the room. Somehow seeing it in as good a state as it was in felt... wrong, albeit only for a moment. "And then?"

"Well," Tommy rubbed the back of his neck, "they went and rebuilt the town. An' the six o' us went and... well, rebuilt trust or something."

"Yeah," Seán picked up the thread. "Like, the whole turnin' one's life around thing. Finley's working down at the General Store, making up for chopping the owner's arm off. O'Leary went to California..."

"Looking for gold," Tommy added, and Seán nodded.

"Charlie's with the butcher an' Matthews got married last spring."

"Guess I gotta congratulate him." Caleb smirked. "And you two?"

"We didn't get married," Seán blurted out innocently, getting a snort out of Caleb and an elbow to the ribs from Tommy.

"Though..." Tommy mused, "With all the sex we're having with each other, we're technically..."

Seán all too gladly returned the elbow to the ribs.

Caleb cackled, before coughing heavily, waving the two men to sit back down as they jumped up in alarm.

"Am fine," he said. "But really, what 'bout you?"

"Working for the stagecoach most of the time," said Seán, leaning back in his chair. "That's how we found ya, too." Seán quickly recalled what happened, by now three days before; how they found Caleb more dead than alive just a couple hundred yards from the road.

Caleb listened, and nodded from time to time.

Then he exhaled heavily.

"So y'all got yer lives in order?"

His boys nodded.

"I mean... we tried to continue bounty huntin'," Tommy murmured.

"But with only six of us left, an' especially with you gone, boss," said Seán, swallowing dryly before he shook his head, and looked up at Caleb. "I mean... we did bury you. Sorta..."

"Buried?"

"We held a funeral for ya," said Tommy.

"Had to do something, y'know." Seán looked away, worrying his cuffs.

Caleb sat back again, letting that sink in.

"Are any of me ribs broken?" he asked bluntly, causing his boys to blink at him confused.

"I think no," Seán said, trying to rub his eyes as inconspicuously as possible. "Why?"

Without a real answer Caleb spread his arms.

"Come here, ya ol' wuss," he grumbled, and Seán took the invitation all too gladly, hugging Caleb tightly. For someone who had no qualms strangulating someone with barbed wire or biting someone's eye out, Seán was surprisingly sensible in every other regard. Good to know some things don't change.

Caleb patted the other man's back, and he could swear Seán started sobbing for a moment.

"Alright, now let go. Need ya boys to fill me in on the rest."

Seán sat back and rubbed his face, taking a deep breath.

"Alright so," he looked at Tommy, then back at Caleb, "when the smoke cleared at Hellshire an' all that, an' the dust settled, people went lookin' for ya, boss."

"No one b'lieved you'd jus' run off," Tommy added. "But there was no trace o' ya anywhere."

"You... were jus' gone."

Caleb looked at the two as Seán said that, an annoyed snarl twisting his lips.

"Alright, spit it out. There's more bad news, ain't there?"

Tommy took off his hat, running shaking fingers through his hair.

"Well... yeah... But I dunno if you wanna hear it."

"Hit me, Tommy. What with what ya told me so far, how can it get worse?"

"We didn't get all of Kelly's gang," Tommy admitted, "Including Kelly. They slipped out in all the chaos."

Caleb stared into thin air, lips pressed into a thin line. His boys knew better than to say anything more, but instead shuffled out of the room. And Caleb, downing what was left in the bottle, wondered if he could mark this shite up as his own brand of 'Luck O' The Irish'...

---

It took about a fortnight for Caleb to get back to his feet.

Having to stay in bed after such an ordeal had its advantages, like being able to remotely sort one's thoughts, and get some much needed rest.

Tommy had telegraphed O'Leary at some point, and the rest of the former Hellshire Gang had come by to say 'Hello' as well. With the exception of Finley, who was out of town for weeks now, as Caleb had learned.

Some of the other townsfolk seemed curious about him as well. Not that they actually came up to his room, but he saw some of them staring up at his window, and sometimes, when the saloon was quiet, he could hear them talking about him downstairs. Caleb was no fool. He knew some of them would gladly drag him to the gallows.

He knew people had always been wary of him, and that he was hardly welcome in town. The rest of his posse had done their fair deal of repenting, but him? The best he could do was stay in his room. Let them think he wasn't recovering as well as he did.

But after two weeks, that didn't cut it anymore. Caleb was getting restless. Tommy was the first to notice, and as they had just been having sex Caleb wasn't really in any position to deny it. And it was Tommy who suggested Caleb should talk to someone about it. Someone not him, Seán or Miss Josie.

So here he was, standing rather uneasily in front of the little church.

Inside the evening mass was held, and the entire little chapel fell silent as Caleb walked in.

Somehow the feeling of not being welcome here hurt more than any other occasion. A moment of awkward silence passed, before the preacher cleared his throat.

"Mr. Quinn, if I'm not misinformed. If the good Lord led you here, I'm pleased to have you with us."

"Thank you, Father," Caleb murmured, slowly taking his hat off and keeping his eyes down as he shuffled into the pew at the back of the room.

He only half listened to what the preacher was saying during the mass, murmuring along to the prayers, occasionally lifting his head to see if any other churchgoer was watching him. And they did. And he couldn't blame them.

Mass ended, and the preacher saw his flock out solemnly, till only Caleb remained, still hunched over on the bench, lost in thoughts.

"You are one of the last people I expected to see, Mr. Quinn," the preacher said, standing next to the bench. Caleb nodded him to sit down.

"Can't blame ya, Father. There been some what said it'd be more likely to see the devil in church than Caleb Quinn."

The priest nodded.

"But you are here now," he said, looking at the cross above the altar in thought. "May I inquire why?"

Caleb thought about it and sighed.

"I think I hoped y'could tell me. I'm feeling haunted, and I can't say why. I never felt like this before."

"Are you looking for forgiveness?"

"I'm beyond redemption, Father. I know that much."

"Do you yet seek it?"

Caleb scratched the scar on his neck.

"I... maybe..."

"If you honestly yet seek it means you're not beyond redemption to me."

Another sigh from Caleb.

"Yer new, Father."

"The town needed a man of God. You shot my predecessor."

"No. That was on Kelly's gang, not mine." Caleb rubbed his face. "It doesn't matter now, does it? We almost wiped out the town."

"That you did. And then the good people of Glenvale rebuilt it. Even what was left of your posse joined in."

Caleb quirked a suspicious brow at the preacher.

"Yer makin' it sound as if ya think I'd actually be forgiven."

The priest shook his head.

"Don't get me wrong, Mr. Quinn. I trust in the Lord to deliver justice. If the Lord sees it right for you to be forgiven He will guide you there. If not, He will lead you to the gallows."

Caleb nodded bitterly.

"Father?" he whispered after a while.

"Yes?"

"I..." Caleb chewed his lips for a moment. "They say I was gone for two years."

"So you were. I ought to know; I, in lack of a better word, buried you. Over on Lazarus' Heap."

Caleb's lips twisted into a tired smile.

"So I heard. Ought to be bad luck, being able to visit one's own grave."

The preacher smiled, amused.

"For all I have heard about you, you are still going to do it. But maybe it will give you closure."

With that he rose, and Caleb was alone with his thoughts again. Until he got up, too, turning towards the door, and being a little surprised seeing another visitor to the church still sitting there, just in the shadows at his blind spot while he'd been talking to the priest. Caleb furrowed his brows at the sight.

A man about his age, maybe younger, burly, his head down in silent prayer. Caleb tried to spot anything alarming about him, but ultimately wrote him off as another churchgoer with too much on his mind.

He turned, heading out of the church, turning at the door one more time out of curiosity.

The man was gone.

[wlwinry]

once you have tasted flight - chapter one

I.

Elizabeth swore softly as she hurried down the narrow trail, booted feet slipping on soft pine needles. Pushing silvery-blue hair out of her eyes, she narrowed her gaze as she peered over the edge of the ravine--and burst into another fit of very irritated, unladylike swearing.  Great. At this rate, I'll never find that damned dragon, and people will think that I'm a liar,  and  my father is going to be furious.

Why did Night Furies have to be so stealthy?  A stupid question, really, considering that the entire threat of the three Night Furies plaguing the island of Liones was that they were too fast to make out in the shadows and too powerful for their defenses to hold up. As the daughter of the Chief of Liones, a man who didn't hold well with stupidity, Elizabeth's flights of fancy--of imagination, really, something those foolish elders (she loved her father, she really did, but she knew he had no clue what to do with a daughter who was born a runt, with runtish, non-Vikingish thoughts in her head) sorely lacked--had gotten her into enough trouble. Even when said flights of fancy were totally genius, cough cough AHEM her precious Mangler (the amazing contraption that had brought down the fastest and most dangerous of the Night Furies, regardless of what those idiots on the fire squad said) cough cough.

Elizabeth flipped open to her notebook's self-drawn map--yet another thing that had gotten her in trouble with her father; he believed that the youngest daughter of a Chief should be demure and quiet, her strength hidden, her curiosity satisfied through books and stories only. Her curiosity, however, was overwhelming and insatiable. Margaret was the leader and Heir, Veronica the soldier, but Elizabeth couldn't bring herself to be the princess. She wanted to fight, to explore, to go where no one else had gone before--and princesses didn't do that.

X'scovered the map, marking off dozens of possible locations, dozens of opportunities at making her father proud, all crossed out. Stupid dragon, falling where I can't find it, Elizabeth thought irrationally, crossly, scribbling all over her beloved map (she knew she'd regret that later, but not as much as she'd regret spending three to five gods-damned hours out here hunting down a dragon that nobody's ever seen). Bet the thing fell in the ocean and drowned. And I absolutely suck at swimming. "The gods hate me," she grumbled, snapping her notebook shut and tucking it away. "Some people lose their mug, or their knife, but noooo, not me. Oh no, gods forbid I have one single victory; instead I manage to lose an entire  dragon!"  She swatted irritably at a branch and it snapped back, smacking her hard across the face. Elizabeth let out a yelp of pain and clutched at her cheek, scowling at the branch...and she froze.

That, of course, was when--miracle of miracles!--her eyes landed on the broken trees, the deep, previously nonexistent trench in the earth, the marks of claws in the bark. Her eyes lit up, the cut on her cheek forgotten (she could always pawn it off as a battle wound from the strongest of the Night Furies later; ooh, she'd be a legend if it scarred) as she scrambled down the hill, following the path of overturned dirt.

Elizabeth skidded down the trench, ghosting her fingers nervously over the size of the cuts in a root (trying not to think of what the claws that made those could do to her soft and squishy body) as she crested the rise, peering over it and--

And flattened herself to the dirt with a terrified gasp, all ideas of bravado and heroism suspended as she squeezed her eyes shut, unable to erase the scarred black shape (a vaguely predatory shape; something she had imagined to be spiky, with razor-sharp teeth and talons like axes) from her mind. There was no doubt about it--that had to be the Night Fury.

T-that thing was tied up in the bola, wasn't it? she thought suddenly, lifting her head and peeking over the soft dirt. Elizabeth carefully removed her knife--a present from her father before she'd become the black sheep of the Liones tribe, something to make her first kill that much more symbolic ("Look, kids," she'd tell her children, and she'd take out the knife, still covered with the dried blood of the dragon. "This is what your mom, the Dragon Conqueror"--oh, yes, she liked the sound of that-- "used to kill the most dangerous dragon known to Vikings, the unholy offspring of Lightning and Death itself."). Pointing it (with hands that didn't shake; at least, that's what she'd tell the others) at the Night Fury as she stumbled over the small hillock, she pressed her back again a large stone and shut her eyes tightly, steeling herself.

I'm not going to fail anyone ever again.

With that, she stood up and shuffled her way within range of the beast's devastating fire. Her eyes widened as she glanced at it, giving it a brief once-over and registering none of it. Its appearance didn't matter, it was clearly dead, unmoving, its ebony scales dull. Elizabeth sucked in a breath, unsure of whether she was excited or about to go into hysterics (probably a little of both?), and pushed her bangs shakily out of her eyes. "I did it," she breathed, creeping closer--and then stalking closer like a cat, filled with bravado again, trying once more to be every inch the warrior. "Oh, gods, this fixes everything! YES!" She punched the air eagerly, advancing. "I have brought down this mighty beast!" The silver-haired Viking girl grinned and placed a foot on its leg, glowing with pride--and was thrown off with a gasp.

It moved.  And not only had it moved, but it had made a noise--a noise like a wail of pain crossed with grief and anger. A noise that she...that she'd interpreted. As if it was made by a human.

But that's impossible, she thought, leveling her knife at it, trying not to shake with fear as her eyes roved over its body. How had she possibly thought it was dead? The dull scales were in fact glittering with a liquid brilliance, its stillness the absolute silence of a true predator, every inch of its body coursing with flickering vitality that was mimicked in scales that weren't pure black, but were in fact edged with some sort of white-gold. The unholy offspring of Lightning and Death indeed. And its eyes! Elizabeth braced herself for a yellowed glare, or pale, cold eyes burning with hatred, with animalistic terror.

But its eyes were green. Brilliant, vibrant emerald green, shining up at her and filled with pity--pity, as if she, the hunter, needed pity!--and regret, a sense of haughty dignity and pride. A terrifyingly human expression.

If I keep looking it in the eye, will I be able to kill it? Probably not, she realized, trying to tear her eyes away. And yet somehow, she simply couldn't. The emotion, the intelligence she felt from it---this was no dumb animal, no mindless killer. This was...she didn't know what it was, but it went against everything she'd ever been taught. 

Her entire life, the hopes she'd had--this dragon held her fate in its talons, and the thing didn't even know it. You have to kill it, a voice, sounding suspiciously like Veronica, hissed in her mind. It's your duty as a Viking!

She raised the knife. "I'm...I'm going to kill you, dragon," she gasped out. "I-I'm going to cut your heart out and t-take it to my father."

Yes, good. Make Father proud.

But why should I have to make him proud enough to love me? another voice protested, this one soft, but burning with some kind of intensity that Elizabeth knew she lacked. I'm his daughter. He should love me and trust me no matter how un-Vikingish I may be.

She flinched and her grip weakened. But you're a Viking, like it or not. Vikings kill dragons, the soldier-voice hissed.

Right. Viking. Killing dragons. Monsters,  she tried to remind herself fiercely. "I am a Viking," she growled, before raising her voice. "I am a Viking!"

The dragon's green eyes burned with sudden fear, and a rumble escaped its throat. She shut her eyes, unable to look at it, to see the eyes that reflected her own, and raised the knife higher. One stab. One cut.

But she opened one eye--and watched the dragon lower its head with another half-shriek half-moan, baring its throat, green eyes closed. Make it quick, it seemed to be saying. Do it now.

Yes! Do it!

NO!

With a noise like a sob, Elizabeth pressed her hands to her forehead, dropping her arms. This one choice would ruin her life, or at the very least do nothing to fix it...but she couldn't deliver the deathblow. A failure of a Viking.  Add it to the pile,  she thought ruefully, lowering the blade to her side and staring at the dragon.

It really was a magnificent beast, built like a wildcat in its lean muscle and sleek body, black scales dusted with lightning and stars. She didn't know why she'd pictured spikes and horns and giant talons--while large, the dragon was smaller than a Zippleback or a Nadder, and it had no horns at all. Built for devastating speed and power...it's beautiful.

And now it was tied up and injured, waiting for death. "I did this," she whispered, bile rising up in her throat. Elizabeth took a step back, turning to leave--she couldn't stay, not knowing that she'd caused this majestic creature's life to end--before glancing back at it. A sigh escaped her. I can't believe I'm doing this...

A few seconds later, she was crouched by its side, sawing determined through the ropes of the bola that bound it. The things were tougher than she imagined--a few bits of iron woven in (hey, hadn't that been her suggestion? She'd have to talk with her mentor about calling her an idiot less and about a little thing called plagiarism) to make it more difficult to break--but the sturdy knife tore through them bit by bit. Elizabeth snapped through the last one, glancing over her shoulder to make sure she wasn't seen.

It moved so fast that she could barely see it, leaping on her and pressing its claws to her throat as it shoved her against the rock. Her breath came in short, quick gasps, eyes widening as she found those frighteningly human green eyes staring her down, pupils drawn into slits. This is it. I'm going to die, alone and lost in the forest, all because I couldn't kill a dragon. The realization didn't calm her in the slightest, and she tried not to think about the (deep, gaping, powerful) gashes in the trees.

The Night Fury growled before shrieking loudly in her face, a rush of hot air and rage exhaled onto her all at one, before whipping around and flying off with a screech. Elizabeth watched it go, smashing into trees and rocks, her breathing still uneven.

I'm alive.

So is the dragon.

We didn't...kill each other. We broke the first rule of our races, which is to kill each other on sight.

I am so fucked.

[brett-buckner-the-dirt]

“He understood well enough how a man with a choice between pride and responsibility will almost always choose pride–if responsibility robs him of his manhood.” Stephen King, The Running Man

It happens every year, usually around the middle of the month. I hit the horror wall, leaving a bloody splat where my motivation and enthusiasm had once been. For as much as I love horror movies, watching one every single night for 31 nights becomes a grind.

Usually after the second week, I’m so desensitized to blood and gore that I could watch Bambie’s mom get gunned down and feel nothing. I could read Where the Red Fern Grows and shed nary a tear. The Champ can’t make me cry either.

I could even watch that Amazon commercial where the dog has to be dressed up like a lion so that the baby will … nope … scratch that. Just thinking about that sad dog gets  me chocked up – no matter how many dying screams, eviscerations, decapitations, and Poop Demons I have running around my brain.

I’m not heartless.

But I have hit the wall … hit it full force last night in fact. I didn’t want to watch another so-called horror movie. I certainly didn’t want to watch another Stephen King adaptation because, let’s face it, save for Gerald’s Game and The Shining miniseries most of these movies have been blah (The Dark Half) at best and downright dumb (The Mangler) at worst.

Still, I have a job to do. I didn’t want to disappoint my readers (and I wanted to personally thank both of you … not counting my mother. Love ya, Mom). So I made up my mind to power through whatever mess was up next in the HorrorFest calendar.

And I’m so glad that I did. The Running Man is a gnarly riot that has as much to do with the Stephen King (writing as Richard Bachman) novel, as it does with the ‘80s dance that shares its name.

I don’t know if this is the Running Man. I just wanted to use a pic of Vanilla Ice

That’s a good thing.

The movie version vastly improves on King’s source material mostly by scaling back the so-called Hunting Grounds from the entire planet to an area. The movie’s ending – silly as any ‘80s action movie should be – is much less bleak. The hero, played by the ever thick-tongued Arnold Schwarzenegger, is more likeable, believable (seriously), and funny than the Ben Richards of King’s novel.

But the movie manages to do all of this without diluting some of the underlying messages that resonate today. When it comes to entertainment, as a culture, we can be very bloodthirsty. Only now, rather than direct violence, we can hide behind the anonymity of social media. We’ve all witnessed – or even participated in – shaming and berating, judging and dismissing – people who do or say something we don’t like or are different from what we deem to be normal.

The whole time I was watching The Running Man, I was thinking about the old George Carlin bit about having public executions once a week at halftime of the Monday night football game.

The ratings would be killer.

In The Running Man Richards is framed for murdering innocent civilians and forced, along with three friends, to compete in a whack game show where ‘roided-out Stalkers hunt him with a series of absurd weapons. My favorite is Dynamo, the opera-bellowing Stalker who shoots bolts of electricity from his suit.

Much like with the type casting of Traci Lords as the town harlot, Richard Dawson, the smarmy, lady-kissing, former host of the Family Feud is stars as Richards’ slimy nemesis, Damon Killian. Dawson is magnetic and easy to hate as the host of The Running Man TV show, which is broadcast free to those struggling to survive in the dystopian wastes.

How a movie supposedly set in the future could feel so dated, yet so relevant is beyond me. Maybe it’s because The Running Man stars two former U.S. governors– Schwarzenegger and Jessie “the Body” Ventura. The movie is also set around 2017, a time when, in the real world, we’ve elected a game show host as president.

THE RUNNING MAN, Jesse Ventura, 1987. ©TriStar Pictures

Spooky.

This movie is to blame for inspiring the American Gladiators TV show – make of that what you will – and the whole movie looks like Olivia Newton-John’s “Physical” video stretched across two hours. (Wow … that’s two Olivia Newton-John references in a week. I really have hit the wall.

The Running Man is gloriously absurd. Schwarzenegger’s wicked one-liners alone are worth the price of admission:

Damon Killian: You bastard! Drop dead!

Ben Richards: I don’t do requests.

The Stalkers are laugh-out-loud awesome caricatures who look like they were pulled straight from this year’s WWE Wrestlemania lineup – complete with gimmick. But mostly The Running Man is an old-fashioned (yet futuristic) revenge fantasy that plays on our cultural obsession with violence and entertainment.

My wall has officially come tumbling down.

Up next:

Sometimes They Come Back: Based on King’s short story from Night Shift, this made-for-TV movie was originally planned for Cat’s Eye, before it became a stand-alone feature that spawned a pair of sequels – (Sometimes They Come Back… Again) and 1998 (Sometimes They Come Back… for More). Hopefully, more effort went into the plot of these movies than into their titles.

    HorrorFEst “He understood well enough how a man with a choice between pride and responsibility will almost always choose pride--if responsibility robs him of his manhood.”