The Last Lowlander

Book 2 Chapter 3: Withdrawal

Peloji was familiar with being carried around like this. He'd been thrown in more than a few jail houses in his day and it was always some variant of how he was carried into St. Tranvil after his collapse. Either with arms hooked under his own, dragging his feet behind him, or dragged by his feet with his head cutting a trail in the mud and manure, or once there was a giant of a man that had hooked his fingers under the waist of his trousers and carried him like a child or purse, his head knocking into things as they went.

Peloji was too weak to fight or run or thrash or think. He had nothing left but submission and was simply glad that whatever he'd run from was gone. No more exploding demon infants or cannibals vivifying young women. This was something he could handle, something he'd grown accustomed to, almost comforting. To say that he was in pain was an insult to pain because it would never want to be thought of as that evil. Peloji didn't know how he felt. The world around him only existed in dark flashes.

Men came and picked him up. They were dragging him. He heard the sound of a horse. He thought that maybe they had reached the town proper. Peloji pretended to smile. He heard laughter and a piano and there was a hazy yellow light emanating from inside a blocky structure to his right.

"Found a drunk mixer on the outskirts, doc," one of them said. "Put him with the others," something else said. Peloji's chest split open and flaming butterflies began their migration in the same direction Peloji wished to go. A buxom beast wiped its face with a cow skull. "He's a cute one, for an addict," it growled with such ferocity as to upend mountains and boil the ocean. He killed his father again and again by drowning him with a bottle of booze the size of a sapling. He was not successful.

"Yeah, definitely Peloji withdrawal," a large boot chided in the corner. His spine decided to withdraw from him and asked him nicely to roll on his stomach. He obliged and it worked its way out of his skin like a sliver.

"To hell with you, men in blue, I don't want to kill you." Peloji sang softly. He sat on a bed with his knees tucked to his chest. The moon exploded over and over again in the night sky and below that, dark figures marched toward him. All night they marched with no indication they would ever arrive.

He was naked and sweat dripped off him like he'd just climbed out of a hot bath. He was backed into a corner by three wooden chairs slowly inching toward him with plates of beef, chicken, and porc. "You need to eat something," one of them said. "Where's my box?" Peloji said, holding out a spoon in defense.

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Yurig pounded on a door to the old man's cabin aboard the Creaky Bastard. An ancient man opened it a crack and gasped when he saw Yurig.

"Time for pay, old timer," Yurig said. The old man told him to go away and tried to shut the door but Yurig wedged his foot in the open space.

"Nope, not this time," Yurig said. The old man stomped on his foot as hard as he could but Yurig couldn't feel it. "You owe me," Yurig said. His eyes were bloodshot and his neck stiff.

"I don't owe you," he said. Yurig, stunned at his insolence, withdrew his foot and let the door slam shut. He heard several locks in rapid succession. Yurig turned to his right and looked out to the sea. The sun was high and had cleared the fog, leaving an open, blue bay with hundreds of ships trawling around for goods, be them food or gold expeditions. Yurig took a moment to experience the calm before his storm. He looked back at the door, analyzed it for weaknesses, took a step back, and planted his foot just below the knob. The edge of the door exploded into splinters and locks burst from their housing and hung by chains and screws or clattered to the floor. Yurig looked past the commotion and saw the old man level a handcannon at him. Yurig lunged out of the doorway just as the blast flew past him. He pressed his back to the wall.