Not for the kiddies ;)
The Troll-Slayer
Jack Sheffield stares at the Troll. He fidgets a little as the chair he is sitting on provides little comfort. His old suit of navy blue helps matters little as well. It rustles every time Jack moves. The Troll sits opposite Jack, its suit seemingly too small for it. The Troll’s eyes bore into Jack as well. They are ancient, malicious. Its face is leathery, like a grotesque crocodile from a child’s nightmares. Its nose is mismatched, too long for already disfigured face. Below it lies the dark chasm of a mouth, hiding the serrated teeth that Jack knows are common for Trolls. He knows what sort of food they delight in. The Troll smiles then, revealing relish and hatred, showing a hint of its famed teeth. Only a hint, but Jack feels cold sweat on his brow, hears his heart begin to race. All this time, the Troll is speaking, no, screaming in Jack’s head; its words taunt and threaten.
Hey white boy, pansy boy. Whatcha’ doin here eh? Whatcha’ doin here in front of me, dressed so pretty and all eh? You wanna take this from me boyo? You wanna fight me for it? You think you can win?
The thick smell of mothballs permeates the air. There is fear as well, somewhere. Jack knows what the Troll wants from him. He wants the job too, it is the only way to make his current ends meet. He cannot falter.
You wanna fight me white boy? You wanna take me on? You’ll lose white boy, pansy boy. Oh and how I’ll lick the blood off your face then! Hear the bones crunch!
A woman strides past them, her face quizzical at the nervousness on this young man’s face. She does not pay the Troll a second glance. Jack is not surprised. Like the other creatures, Trolls use glamour and other various spells to hide them from view. But Jack knows better, he can see past the cheap suit, smell the rot behind the cologne. He knows all that, yet can do nothing but be tormented by this monster.
Only a fool leaves his sword behind! he curses inwardly.
Only a fool like you boyo! You wanna tangle? We can fight, you and I, duke it out and ho ho ho! You wanna white boy? You wanna?
Enough! he wants to scream, I’ll kill you like I did the others! I am a fucking Slayer! FEAR ME! I’LL KILL YOU!
Jack doesn’t scream. Or rail or threaten. He gets up, his eyes tearing, and stalks away. Away from the store, away from the Troll. Ancient laughter follows him.
It is two in the afternoon and Jack is spending the day at home. Home in this case, is a small apartment lodged in a run-down building. The apartment has peeling wallpaper, semi-functional lighting, and a neighbour that visits Jack now and then to complain about non-existent noise.
This afternoon is hot, and Jack lounges. His eyes are closed and he dreams. He dreams of before, before as a Knight, as a Slayer. Ever since a boy, he could see creatures of myth. The strolling Cyclops, the hidden Goblin; for over ten years, he has seen them walk among humans in their disguises, unknown to all but himself. And back then, he knew not why, he was Jack Sheffield, Knight of the Common, Slayer of Monsters.
Jack’s erratic sleep processes rev to one of his victories – the battle against the Manticore. The Manticore had been masquerading as a colleague of Jack’s in his office. It had been popular and well-liked, except for Jack, who had instantly recognized what it was. The slaying was quick – Jack had stuck to the shadows and followed the Manticore home. At the gates of the Manticore’s house, Jack made his move, rushing the monster, his sword poised the strike. The blade had stabbed into the base of the Manticore’s neck. The Manticore had roared in pain and tried to twist away. Jack had held on, watching the brackish blood seep from the wound. Then as quickly as it began, the Manticore slumped to the ground, its gruesome face of millennia still twisted in shock and hate, its poisonous eyes glassy. Jack had gone back that night drunk on victory, high on the rush of battle, perhaps even on the scent of raw blood. Most of all, he was satisfied that the world was safer than before.
When he next opens his eyes, orange rays line his walls. He gets up, stretches and looks around. Evening then, he thinks, and reaches for his wallet. He has to buy dinner.
Jack waits at the traffic light, ten minutes from his place, on his way back from the grocers. His right hand holds a white bag of vegetables and a meagre portion of minced pork. Jack scratches his head, his mind doing mathematical balancing as he waits for the green man to signal the okay.
Hey white boy, pansy boy. Whatcha doin’ there?
Jack whirls around, his heart hammering in the ribcage, his eyes seeking desperately for what he hopes he will not find.
I’m here boyo, see me yet? See me yet?
And there it stands, next to the lights, amidst the crowd of people on the opposite end. Its mouth sporting that same, hated grin; its eyes gleaming with the same intense, murderous malice. Jack flinches and steps back. The green man gives the thumbs up, the usual ding ding ding accompanies it. The Troll takes a step forth, then another. All the time smiling, all the time ranting.
You scared of me boyo? You wanna run from me? I got your job, it’s all daaaandy and now, Imma comin’ for you! Remember Cerberus? You remember him?
It is halfway to Jack. He can see the tips of ivory teeth hanging at the corners of its maw. Still nearer. His nerveless hand drops the bag and he starts to turn about.
You gonna run aren’t you? You gonna run!
Jack runs from the lights, the Troll’s words still clear in his head. As he sprints down the street, his mouth opens and closes over unheard words.
“I…am… the Slayer! I… am the… Slayer!”
He reaches his apartment two hours later, exhausted and hungry. After opening the door, Jack switches on the lights, scanning the room. Finding nothing amiss, he trudges to a jug by the kitchen counter, and pours himself a glass of water. He finishes it in a single gulp and pours himself another. He sees how his hands shake.
His vision blurs and he feels moistness flow down his cheeks. He can feel the humiliating sobs threatening to erupt.
You scared of me boyo?
Is this fear? Jack grips his glass and howls.
He is running once again, the Troll behind, its voice always there, never ceasing. As he races to beat the threatening madness that stalks, he wonders why he ever left. He had begun the day as per normal, a little more shaken, a little madder than before. But still hey Stan I’m your man normal. The first thing he had noticed in the morning was the gnawing hunger inside him. Naturally, he puckered up whatever nuances of courage he had within his belly and opened that brown door of his, slipping down the building stairs, across the street to the grocers ten minutes away. He had once more bought the vegetables and meat he sorely lacked. When he walked out of the grocers, his eyes intent, his mind desperate, the Troll had appeared once more, in an orange dress with blue stripes about it, wearing make-up in a ridiculous attempt to cover up the beast. As expected, it called out. As expected, Jack bolted.
He reaches his door, unlocks it, opens it, runs inside and closes his door. His breaths are shudders and his sweat hangs on his red cheeks. But Jack still smiles. He still holds on to his bag.
This is the third day he has stayed home since he procured his groceries. He wonders if the Troll has left. Is the siege over? His mind whispers. Am I free? He walks to his door and opens a crack. Then with more astonishing bravery, he pulls it hard and strides through in a single catlike move. He stomps down the stairs and faces the last door that separates the world and him. He opens that door just as confidently and watches the smug leer of the Troll who stands across the street. It wears a tight white T-shirt, has blue denim jeans.
You like my clothes boyo? Got them from the last unlucky sucker. Muscled and strong Danny boy but not strong enuff. Not for me teeth no indeed. You wanna try them on? You wanna be brave white boy? You remember Cerberus? Come out here and tell me about Cerberus, we’ll break out some bottles of blood and drink glug glug!
Jack’s face is pale as he slams the door shut.
In the darkness, beneath his green covers, his eyes staring unfocused at the ceiling, Jack remembers Cerberus.
Jack couldn’t remember all the details. He remembered the blazing summer sun, the quietness about the Brussia river. He remembered lying on the soft, soft grass waiting for Kelly to arrive.
Sitting on a tree, K I S S I N G.
Something sniffed his arm. Jack instantly recoiled from the touch, his eyes flaring open to spot the threat. He relaxed when he saw that it was Kelly’s dog, little Maxine. It was a typically small dog, with the ordinariness of cream.
“Where’s your owner Maxine? Where’s Kelly?” he recalled asking before moving to pick the dog up. But he was never good with dogs, accidentally crushing its foot in his hand. The puppy in turn yelped and with sudden ferocity, bit hard into Jack’s flesh. Jack screamed in surprise and with his face a mask of understandable anger, gripped the little dog in a palm, and slammed it to the ground as how one would spin a top. Maxine bounced off the ground with an imperceptible crack, and landed heavily on the grass. It moved no more but Jack cared little of such details. He was staring at the twin beads of blood that seeped from the dual punctures in his skin, his mind shifting, a pull urging him to look at poor, dead Maxine. He followed that urge and with his eyes, discovered finally the world of myth and monsters. He saw as the glamour faded off the dog, revealing three heads of nightmares. He saw serrated teeth designed to rip flesh to shreds. He saw a Hell-Hound.
“Cerberus,” he breathed. In his heart, there was horror. But there was elation also, of the haze that finally lifted. That the fantasies he believed did exist. A bubble of laughter escaped him. This he covered with his hands. His eyes flicked left and right furtively, then landed slyly on Maxine’s prone body. He grinned then, Jack thought. Five minutes later, Cerberus was floating upon the small currents of
“Jack!” she had called out, “Have you seen Maxine?”
Jack shook his head as earnestly as a boy could. “Nuh-uh, not a sign. Why?”
Kelly was close to tears, her voice trembled as she spoke. “I’ve lost her! She ran from me just now! I have to find her!”
Jack took her hand, his eyes tuned towards hers, his voice steady and infinitely calm. “I’ll help you Kelly,” he had said, “I’ll help you find her.”
And you lie.
Jack bolts upright immediately. It cannot be! He thinks, not here!
Oh hell here boyo, you must believe it to be fiiiine and daaaandy. I sure am here! Brought the beer glug glug…
Jack jumps out of bed and turns on the lamp. His world blazes with light and he sees nothing. Yet the disquiet – the panic in him refuses to subside.
THE TROLL IS HERE.
It has invaded his domain and is coming for him. He realises he is wailing - a thin, raw, piercing sound. He recognizes it as despair and terror meshed into one. He cannot stop the sound. There is pounding on his wall now. Jack recoils from the damned walls.
Imma comin’, each thump heralds, oh how Imma comin’.
Jack runs to the centre of the room, and finds that he needs to decide. Fight or flight, choose your poison and all that.
But where can you run my friend? his mind asks, where the fuck can you run?
It doesn’t wait for an answer. Nowhere Jacky boy, the ugly bastard has you penned in, two outs and two strikes on the last inning. You gonna fight that fucker Jacky? You think you wanna be the Slayer again for our sakes?
“I… am the… Slayer,” his voice is just a ghostly breath.
I’m sorry, did you say something Jacky-o?
The poundings continue. Bringit and brungit white boy! Imma right here, beside you!
“I am the Slayer.”
One more for the road big guy.
“I AM THE FUCKING SLAYER!”
The world shifts and changes. The fear is gone. The Slayer has returned.
The hammering on the wall stops suddenly, as if afraid of the Slayer’s sudden revelation. No, the Slayer is certain the Troll has stopped in its tracks, fearful of him. He looks at himself. His silver armour gleams like moonshine, impervious to harm. He is almost ready; all he needs is the sword. He heads for the kitchen, his back straight, his eyes ablaze. There it is, his weapon of choice, its hilt crusted with the trophies of the slain, its blade a shaft of molten light. He grips the hilt and raises the sword above his head. The Slayer howls as Jack once howled, except in triumph.
Then as if on cue, there is knocking on the door.
Thump. Pause. Thump and thump.
Here’s fuckin’ Johnny boyo, wanna come out and plaaaay?
The Slayer reveals a grin. He walks calmly to the door.
The knocks come again. Thump. Pause. Thump and thump.
The Slayer grips the door knob, he is still grinning when he turns it, his teeth faces the Troll when he opens the door. His eyes meet the monster’s own orbs, they mirror the madness within. The Troll’s face is twisted in shock now, and after realising its quarry fears nothing, starts to back away. The Slayer follows after. The Troll retreats faster. The Slayer follows after.
“I’m here to play cretin! Will you not join in?” he hears himself saying and whoops. His sword of light trails behind him.
I’m sorry! I’m sorry! It won’t happen again! Nevermore! Nevermore!
“You invaded my realm beast. There can be only one punishment.”
The Troll trips, on what it doesn’t know, it falls to the floor. The Slayer doesn’t care. All the better. He raises his sword above the fallen monster who had once tormented him. He stares deep into its panic-filled eyes; his face is now the cold of stone.
“Please! Please! Help… me!” there is a tiny voice. Then a louder one.
Let me go you bastard! You wanna kill me? You think it’s over? The voice skips past the pleading and waltzes into rage. And oh what a rage. The words scream in the Slayer’s head, they demand obedience. Any other mortal would have caved in. any other Man would have followed suit.
The Slayer takes a deep breath. “No,” he says, and plunges the sword, tip first, into the Troll’s stomach. He watches as the Troll actually folds inwards, its legs lifting and the upper torso rocking upwards. There is blood. Of course there is blood. It billows and dances in the air, bloodflakes that stay on the Troll’s nose and eyelashes. It is mortal wound the slayer thinks, yet, he is also a meticulous man. He wrenches the blade out, the Troll rocks again, the Slayer breathes, and in a fluid motion stabs the Troll in the chest this time. More blood as the Slayer pulls out the sword, picks his spot, breaths, and stabs. One more time. One more for the road. Encore encore. There is screaming, both the Troll and the Slayer screams their throats raw. It is quite a performance. Only the demons applaud.
There is no crescendo before the end of the ride. It finishes too soon, thinks the Slayer, much too soon and he spits at the dead Troll. He discovers he is panting, he discovers many things as the world about him comes slowly back into focus. God’s dial turns and things start fading in. He begins to notice shadows around him. He can hear whisperings.
And can ya hear me boyo? Loud and clear and dandy? Not over I said, not over the moooon.
The Slayer whirls about and his eyes widen. It cannot be… but reality is never so kind. He sees the Trolls, standing there, watching him and his vanquished, eyeing his body, gauging his taste. There are all kinds of Trolls - the fat and the thin; the aged and the young; the dead and the crazed. They stand there, their eyes greedy and cruel, with that same grin on their faces. Always the grin that infuriates him.
So now whatcha gonna do white boy? You wanna dance? You wanna play with the big boys now? You wanna fuckin’ tangle?
The Slayer glances at the Trolls, watches them shuffle ever-nearer towards him. Then he laughs and rips the bloodied sword from the lifeless corpse on the floor.
Those fools, he thinks, such fools. I am the Slayer. I have my sword.
He takes a step forth and flashes a smile.
“Oh yes oh yes! Let’s tangle!”
THE END
