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When the oil smell faded and didn’t return for some time, I’wilo got to his feet. He stretched and turned from the fire, headed toward the entrance. He half-expected to bump into something that he could not see, and to vanish into a hidden dance of blades and teeth, tusks and fists.
I’wilo touched the ledge overhead, ducked out of the cave, and let his hand fall, slow. He was quite good at no-sudden-moves, what with Larizu being Larizu.
He could have done without the freezing trudge through snow that became damp and tried to re-freeze around his warmed feet, but he was trying to start a conversation, not to provoke another head-butting session, so I’wilo walked. He looked down at the other’s footprints: The other had paced a bit. I’wilo took to the opposite direction, where the snow was unbroken. He walked the clear strip around the base of the mountain proper, about a half of a mile, which was as far as he could go without climbing up or climbing down. He pissed on the snow, intentionally avoiding the nearby line of trees. He returned without incident.
Before I’wilo’s most recent hunting excursion, he had stopped in to check on Larizu. Larizu had just purchased the backup cleanish-clothes basket from Vic’s Used Shit (I’wilo was fairly sure that this wasn’t the name of the store), and he had found a pretend basket hidden inside of the real basket. You could tell by the stripe, and the weave, according to Larizu; I’wilo, who took all baskets to be real, had taken Larizu’s word for it (I’wilo was not stupid, and he understood all of this; he just didn’t Get It, and that was ok. It made Rizu happy). Larizu had made to wing the unreal basket out of the back window, into the ____- pit, so I’wilo had taken it and put it in his pack.
Now, I’wilo took the orphaned basket from his pack, along with his gold bangles. He busied himself taking out all of his jewelry, which he dropped into the basket. He checked himself over. “Oop.” He deposited his remaining nipple ring into the basket as well. He added to this the little bottles of The Gunk Junk™, and a big metal comb (thank you, Zena), and the precious little container of Blessed Salve, along with the tiny brush. He retained the Cannibal Butter, as it was only a contingency plan. If he didn’t use it, perhaps Larizu could be enticed to eat it on some chicken.
Having filled the basket, I’wilo grabbed another pack of spicy jerky, and his canteens. He rounded the fire and he went to sit near the cave entrance, with his back to the world, and his ear to the night. He put the peace-offering-basket— that was its name now— on the floor nearby. He ate some. He sat a lot. He sat with his thumbs hooked together and stared at the floor. He listened to the crackle of burning wood, and the occasional gust from outside. He smelled no fuel, no oil. When his back became too frozen, he returned to the fire. He considered adding wood, and decided against it. When he thawed, he went to freeze his back some more, and to wait.
And he waited.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Larizu wore yesterday’s clean sarong, which was today’s cleanish sarong, with his blue bag. The never-speak-to-me face really tied the look together. Zena wore grey jeans, a faded red t-shirt (which bore the statement Yeah, Mon! in bold black lettering), and a blue chopped-up-shirt head rag. They were doing a shopping thing.
They got eight combs, because that is how many of the combs in the comb-bin were blue. There were better quality combs to be had, but Larizu wasn’t hearing any of that shit because the blue combs were tested and approved, so why buy something different? In a bin full of hair-beauty-shit, Zena found herself a pack of hair ties that weren’t stretched to oblivion. She also found a bin full of Horde Hero collectible mini-figures, which she pawed through until Larizu said that he was going to wait outside of Vin’s Bins— The proprietor, Alonzo, was taking his lunch at the front counter, and the entire place smelled like garlic. “Sure, I’ll just get these,” Zena held up the hair-ties.
Larizu indicated the bin of mini-figures with his upturned palm. He said, “Ya lookin’ at da tings. Look at da tings.” He doubled over the strap on his blue bag, then tripled it, and dropped the strap over her head. “Take ya time. I’m gonna smoke.” He held up the combs in one hand, as the other hand was occupied with his pipe and Zippy™. “Get dese.”
Zena shrugged, nodded, and took the proffered combs. “Cool.”
Larizu sat on one side of the ugly green bench outside. He flipped the Zippy™ open and raised the pipe. “Could get bot’,” he said under his breath. “Or none.” Kfffffffft. Larizu held his smoke and gave the street a sweeping glance— booger shops, and boogers strolling around living their booger lives— and, finding nothing worth looking at, he closed his eyes.
“I love when you sit all girlie like that. It’s, like, super masculine. No joke. Weird, right? Speakin’ a masculine, Wil get back yet?”
“Pffffff. Go away.” Larizu took a couple breaths with his eyes shut. He raised the pipe again. Kfft. He uncrossed his legs, uncrossed his wrists, and squared his shoulders. He leaned his head way back. Fucking goblins.
Trixxi shrugged and kicked one foot back and forth, chomping a wad of gum that had lost its flavor. “Public bench.” She cracked the gum, rolled it in her mouth, and stuck out her tongue. She plucked the gum off the tip of her tongue, mindful not to smudge her nails. She leaned forward, and down, and stuck the gum under the bench. “Whatcha gettin’ both of? Lemme get?”
“Don’t talk to me about f— No. Shut up. Ya ruinin’ it.”
“Am not.” Trixxi looked Larizu up and down. “Hey where’s your tie-dye bag?” She kicked her leg some more while Larizu pretended to be asleep. “Come on, lemme get. Can’t tawk if I’m smokin’.”
Larizu sighed and held the pipe out on his blind side. “It batik.”
Trixxi looked at the bowl sitting in Larizu’s palm. “Hold it fa me. I just got my nails did.”
Larizu let his ear drop to his shoulder. He sighed deeply. He opened his eyes. “Can’t get no fuckin’…” He shook his head, stood, and knelt in front of the bench. He held up the zippy and the pipe, then scowled at the smiling goblin. “Ya fuckin’ bite me…”
Trixxi grinned, as toothily as possible. “Quit bein’ paranoid.”
Larizu scowled, flipped the pipe around, and took an angry-hit. KFT! He spun the pipe, held it out again.. His lower eyelid ticced, and some smoke escaped his grimace, as Trixxi pursed her lips around the pipe. Flick! Ksssssssst. Trixxi winked. Larizu couldn’t scowl any harder, so he just maintained his scowl as he spun and plopped back down on the bench. KFFFFFFFFFFFT! He was smoking up all his shit to avoid talking to Trixxi, which was Trixxi’s fault.
“Pfff. Thanks, LAH-ree-zoo. You’re a doll.”
She at least got the pronunciation right, but the accent was on Ri. “Pfffff. Show ya appreciation by leavin’.” Larizu jumped when she patted his knee.
“See ya,” said Trixxi.
He didn’t see her go, so she must have went left. Larizu used his thumb to swipe the lipstick off his pipe. He wiped it on his sarong. He wiped his mouth, just in case. “Fuckin’…”
“Check it out.”
Larizu stopped scowling and twisted sideways on the bench. Zena held her hand up. Larizu pushed his glasses up and squinted, then widened his eyes. He narrowed them again, at the tiny figure resting in Zena’s palm. “Da fuck is he holdin’?” His eye flicked to her face.
“Think it’s a gnome head… Oh, here.” Zena unwound herself from the bag and dropped the strap over Larizu’s head when he bent down. “Love the batik. Where’d you get it?”
“Taurentown. We can go at…” Larizu looked up at the sky. “Seven-tirty.” Larizu straightened the bag, which was lumpy with combs. He nodded up the street. “Grocer dis way.” He stood.
Zena stood. “Cool.” She kept pace as Larizu lead the way. He stopped in front of Practically All Sizes.
“Man-monster shirt.” Larizu held the door for her, then headed straight for the back with his head down.
“He-heyyy. Larryzoo. What’s cookin’?”
Larizu stalked by the counter without looking at the goblin. “Shirt.”
The goblin looked at Zena and smiled chummily. He jerked his thumb after Larryzoo, in the universal sign of ‘get a load a this guy.’ He walked down the long counter, leaning over to ask Larizu’s back, “So, what’s my cousin been up to?”
“Up to his eyes in skabetti circles wit beef blob. What else new. Ya ain’t got blue?”
“Think ya mean Spaghetti Hoops™.” The goblin winked at Zena. “I’ll check the back.”
“Pasta… sphincter.” Larizu paged through the same shirt in six colors. He glanced at Zena. “Let me borrow ya eyes. Can’t see dis shit.”
“My eyes are your eyes. What’re we lookin’ for?”
“Need…” Larizu pulled a purple shirt half-off the hanger and squinted at the tag. He turned the shirt around and held it up for her to see. “Four-Ex-Tee, Ex-Ex-Ell, Slim fit, Bee-Ess.”
“What’s b.s. ?”
Larizu shrugged and handed her the shirt. “Big shoulder, I tink. All color. Not brown. Brown make him look like…” He shook his head. “Crocolisk hunter.” He turned away. He turned back. “No white. Dey too tin. Make his titty-ring show. Fucks me up.”
“On it.”
“Tanks. Be right back.” Larizu hurried past some headless wooden hulking man-monster mannequins; one orc, one tauren. He made a beeline for a tiered table full of long shorts.
Zena went to put the 4x-T XXL SliFit BS shirts (gold, purple, black, lavender) on the counter. She wandered around the racks, pausing to look at a dress in the women’s section. “Garka has this.”
Larizu dumped a pile of shorts on the counter: black, white, gray, dark gray, medium-light gray with dark-gray lowish-contrast stitching, charcoal. “Oh.” He spun and speed-shuffled into the back, which was the tallest-shit section, which was what it was called. He pulled out a brown belt and a black belt, compared them, then took both. He looked up as Nardo’s cousin returned with blue shirts.
“Cerulean, or indigo?”
“Leave it ta goblins to make a shade of blue dat scream in ya eye.” Larizu tapped the side of his tusk with one raggedy nail. “Fuck it. Bot’.”
“Both it is. Wha’d he do, stretch it?” The goblin tested the fabric between his fingers. “Things are like friggin’ unstretchable. I ‘unno how he stretches everything.”
“Enzo, how I know what he do wit his shit? Probably use it to do naked skip-rope wit his rut-buddies at semi-annual fuckin’… fuckfest.” Larizu held up a pack of sleeveless undershirts. “Slate?”
“Ran out. Check back Tuesday.”
“Charcoal?”
“Tuesday.”
“Fuck it.” Larizu grabbed two packs of white, and one of black.
They all met up at the counter. Enzo started picking apart clothes-mountain, ringing things up and sorting them into two giant bags. “Got more a those undershorts in.”
“Shorts.” Larizu took off for the display.
Zena smiled at Enzo as she called out to Larizu. “Didn’t take you for the shopping type.”
“I ain’t.” Larizu came back with a stack of silk plaid boxers: black, gray, purple, pink. “If I come back wit dis…” He indicated the cluttered counter with a sweep of his hand. “He don’t come in and buy dat headache-inducin’ fuckin’ nightmare.”
Enzo glanced up from the register. “Yeah, he’d buy that.”
Zena followed the trajectory of Larizu’s pointing finger, to a teal and hot-pink button-down shirt covered in black palm trees. “Ooh, nice.”
Larizu sighed deeply. He moped over to the shirt, checked the sizes, and brought one to the counter. “I bury his corpse in it.”
Enzo smiled with his mouth, while frowning with his brow. The tips of his ears did an amused wiggle. “I got ‘em comin’ in red and orange. Tuesday. Very funereal.”
“Don’t push it. What di damage?” Larizu dug a bunch of gold coins out of his bag. He wiped one on his sarong. “Resin.”
“Fifteen G, eighty-nine. Round it down.”
Larizu thumbed out 20 gold coins onto the counter. He snatched up both giant bags. “Keep da change. Bye.”
“Tell Nardo I said—“
“No.”
Zena laughed and jogged after Larizu. She and Enzo waved goodbye.
“Need tread.” Larizu stopped and placed one bag on the ground. He rolled the remaining bag up tightly, and shoved it down in the other. He picked up the bulging bag. “It on da way.”
“Tread?” Zena shook her head.
“For mendin’.” Larizu started down the street, with Zena in tow, as she tried to puzzle out tread. They stopped in front of How EWE Doin? For tread. There was a sheep on the sign.
“Dey used ta just do yarn,” Larizu explained. “Now it all kind o’ shit.” Larizu held the door open.
The front of the store was indeed dedicated to skeins and skeins of yarn in all colors. Larizu dropped his bag on the counter. The goblin there had her bare feet up on the counter and was filing her fingernails. “Where’s Wil?”
“Dead.” Larizu started toward the back of the store.
“Again?”
“Yep.” Larizu hurried to the end of the aisle and ground to a halt. His hackles half-rose and his ears splayed. He spread his hands and looked from side to side. “Ya moved it. Why ya fuckin’ moved it?”
“Hurdja knocked his block off.”
“Yeah, I killed him. Mixxxi, where da fuck is da tread? Loa, ya keep movin’ shit. (Bless all o’ ya names) Got me all fucked up.”
Mixxxi winked at Zena— goblins were a very winky people. She stood and shuffled barefoot down the aisle. “Don’t get all fucked up. Here. See?” She moved aside a balloon display.
“Nobody need floaty-ball. Everyone need tread. Ya out o’ oh-oh-twenty-six.”
“Buh-loons. I got every color. Some dumb kids moved ‘em around.”
“Loa (bless all o’ ya names)… Fuckin’… Okay.” Larizu picked up the entire thread display and brought it over to the counter. He picked out all one-hundred and twenty spools. He took his glasses off and handed them to Mixxxi. “Hold.”
“Uh-huh.” Mixxxi crossed her arms and shook her head at Zena. “It’s like every other week.”
Zena shrugged and smiled. She rocked her shoulders from side-to-side with her thumbs hooked in her belt loops.
Larizu was bent over the counter. He had picked out all of the spools, and was placing them back in their respective slots. “Mixxxi. Ya ever consider… To shut up.” He set aside blue 0026, and cerulean 0029, and indigo 0031, and black 001, and white 002, and violet 0045 but it was purple.
“You’re talkin’ all fucked-up,” Mixxxi pointed out, helpfully.
“Dat’s cause it fuck me all-up. Fuckin’… b’luuns. Sewin’ shop… Too many o’ dis.” He held up a spool of black 001.
Mixxxi put the black 001 under the counter, where it couldn’t fuck anybody up. She gave Larizu back his glasses. “It’s a yarn shop.”
“Fuck… Ewe.” Larizu picked up the display and carried it back to put it behind the floaty-balls, because that’s what they were called. He started back up the aisle, snapped his fingers and headed back down the aisle. “Ya move da fuckin’ needles?”
“Nope.”
“Den dey ain’t wit da tread.”
“It’s strategical.”
“Dat ya latest five-silver word—“ Larizu went to the back corner opposite the useless fuckin’ floaty-balls, passing six-silver boxes of shitty candy, paint-by-symbol creepy raptor poster, sequin fucking zipper pouch, grow-a-Thrall-just-add-water, knockoff Ditzy nail polish, and all of the other shit nobody never needed, ever. It made no fucking sense.
“As in, it’s strategical, because the craft people gotta walk across the store and they buy a six-silver box a candy and a wooden kazoo. Craft people buy shit. Business. Strategy.”
“Okay, I give ya dat.” Larizu grabbed a pack of needles, and a XXXXL leather thimble. “It still suck— Oh shit.” He picked up a clip-on magnifying glass. “Why da fuck ya didn’t sell dis before?”
Mixxxi shook her head. “I don’t fuckin’ know. Does it unfuck ya?”
“Partially, yeah.”
“Nice. Ya gonna buy your girlfriend a balloon ta celebrate?”
“Fucked me right da fuck back up, asshole…” Larizu did a double-take at Zena, who smile too fuckin’ much sometimes, and then looked at Mixxxi who also smile too fuckin’ much. “She my fuckin’ groomer.” He dropped the stuff on the counter.
“Didn’t know you were into that.”
“Yeah well I take tons o’ water-bats wit pussy trim and punch Wil to deat’ all day long, so dey be a lot o’ shit ya don’t know about me. Ring up it. Dis place smell like hair.”
“It’s wool. Ooh, are you goin’ to the Corner Store?”
“No! Ring.”
“I’m ringin’. You goin’ to the Opposite Corner Store?”
“I don’t got enough gold.”
“Just use the asshole-tax.”
“Fuck you. Fine. What kind?”
“Mmmmmmmmmm… I gotta think...”
“… Mixxxi, what shit?”
“Now I’m all pressurized.” Mixxxi folded up the tiny bag of purchases and slipped them into the perilously overloaded clothes bag. “You want some tape?”
“Tape it. I’ll be back wiiiiiit…” Larizu spun his hand in the air...
“Chawklit Swizzlers™, Chawklit Yahoo™, and um. Um. The. What am I thinkin’ of…” Mixxxi cupped her chin and tilted her head in contemplation.
“Chocolate Dodo Puff™?”
“Oh my gaaaawd. Yes. That’s better than what I was thinkin’ of.”
“What if dey only got red Swizz-ting?”
“Naw, I need chawklit. I’m menstruatin’.”
Larizu grimaced. “Loa… (bless all o’ ya names). Why? Why?”
Mixxxi half-shrugged. “Was tryinna make you say, ‘yucky’.”
“… Jerkoff.” Larizu pushed the door open.
Zena followed, laughing.
“Stop.” Larizu pressed the heel of his hand to his brow as he marched toward the Corner Store. He shook his head. “Yucky.”
“What? Menstruation?”
“No. She fuckin’ doin’ it while she sayin’ it. She got a fuck-Larizu-up hobby and she da only bastard dat sell da right fuckin’ tread. Here.” They went in the Corner Store.
“Get whatever,” Larizu told Zena. He hurried down the bread aisle. His shopping tolerance was utterly decimated, and his general out-of-doors tolerance was dangerously low. He grabbed an expired package of Wunderloaf, which was some Gnomish unenriched purely white flour shit with next to no flavor and the texture of paper. Bonus, it was an inoffensive white bag with blue print. He glanced around. Zena was looking at some premade sandwiches: hoagie, or hero, or sub, depending of which part of the district you were in when you bought the same exact fucking sandwich. Larizu walked to the other side of the counter with his head down and his bag of shitty paper bread. He grabbed the disgusting candy and cereal for Mixxxi’s chronically yucky, crazymaking ass. He walked past the spinning rotisserie chickens.
… He stepped back in front of the spinning rotisserie chickens. His expression was 100% this-life-constipates-my-soul. He looked down at the bag of bread, then at the nasty-ass wet-looking spinning chickens. “YUH!” Larizu dropped the bread and jumped near out of his fucking skin, when Zena nudged him in the arm with something. He bent to snatch the bread up, and slowed as he looked up at what was in her hand.
“It’s chicken and salt. No real seasoning.”
Larizu straightened slowly. He took the package without comment, and he walked to the counter with ears tips that were going a shade violet 045, which was actually purple.
They bought all the shit, including the skinny flat chicken-paper circles, which weren’t labeled except for the weight and price and tomorrow’s date. They trudged back to Fuck Ewe, which is what it was now called.
Zena reached for the door and looked back at Larizu, who was decidedly subdued. She tucked her fingers in her back pocket and walked over to him. “Last stop?”
“Here.” Larizu took off the blue bag and handed it over, though he retained his pipe and lighter. He gave her the bag of chocolate shit. “She can keep da change.”
“Thought you used it to buy Mixxxi’s stuff?”
“Just tell her it asshole-tax in advance. Gotta buy tread sometime.” Larizu shrugged and lit his pipe. KfffFFFFFFFFF.
Mixxxi looked up as Zena walked in. “Uhooo snacks— Hey, I didn’t really fuckim’ up, did I?”
Zena rocked her head from side to side. “A little. There was an element of lunch meat.”
“Gotcha.”
“Here. He said it’s an advance.”
Mixxxi grinned, “He’s a fuckin’ hoot, right? I mean, the whole ‘asshole-tax’ thing? Guy’s a comedic genius.”
Zena smiled and took the big bag, which was now completely reinforced with packing tape. “Yeah.”
Mixxxi tore the top off the Dodo Puffs box. “So, did he really clock Wil?”
Zena laughed. “Actually, yeah. Wil got rocked. I was there.”
“Awesome.”
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
I’wilo sat with his back to the world, as the sun rose. He thought about his life, and how his world was once so small, but surrounded by something huge and unknown. He thought about how, when he left this white place, the world seemed to shrink. When he found out that he was actually kind of big, the world had shrunk further… but then his world grew and filled with all kinds of people, and experiences, and also rut, which was nice—
Speaking of big… “Come. Sit.” I’wilo raised his empty hands to either side, in a placating gesture. He waited. The fumes died away.
When the fire died, he didn’t stoke it. He watched smoke drift up from glowing remnants, as they faded to gray ash. He waited for the strike and it kept not coming.
I’wilo was struck from behind. He sprawled on his front, before charred wood and smoking ash. I’wilo’s hair was yanked back, his chin forced up, his throat bared to the flat side of a blade. Smoke stung his eyes. The giant feral on his back gripped I’wilo’s hair, crushed I’wilo’s sides in with his knees. I’wilo shut his burning eyes and slid his hands out to the sides, palms down, fingers spread.
Neither troll moved. I’wilo said into the smoke, “Peace, big broddah. Ah’ve come only to speak.”
…
“Piece beeg brahh dahh ahhv cahh moan lee two speek.”
Fyve shakes his head at that bullshit. He looks to the deadfire. Looks to big bastard bow, big arrow. Basket with things. He lifts his tusks to see more, but can’t see much from sitting on white hair stump-tusk greenfuck. He looks at big green hands down on ground. He takes dagger from on greenfuck’s throat. Sheathes. He puts his hand to greenfuck’s belt side. “Notouch,” he warns. Greenfuck is stay still. Okay. He takes away big shit knife from greenfuck sheathe. Good weight, heavy. Shit blade. He pushes back of greenfuck’s head with bone side of big shit knife. Blade side cut his own hand a little, but he can’t give less of a shit. Greenfuck is not for a fight, maybe. Fyve tosses away the big shitblade knife. Greenfuck does not even flinch from the noise. So, Fyve puts down his own tusk to the floor. He goes to greenfuck’s ear as close he could get. Fyve says, “Nah wou be fight. Aye?” Greenfuck says nothing. Fyve says, “Wou be Fy tearin’ out all ob ya parts.” And he says it real slow, real careful, because greenfuck has to fucking know.
Fyve touches tooth hole with tongue. Maybe Fyve isn’t for a fight right now. He holds tight to greenfuck’s whitehair, push his face down to floor. “Notouch.” Fyve lets go. He goes to look at this basket of shiny things. “Itsmine, I foundit,” he warns. “Ya canna takeit.” Greenfuck is get up slow. Good. Get warned, greenfuck. Fyve gets down to floor, to look at basket.
He remembers greenfuck when he sees him on floor. Longtime ago, he fight it. Greenfuck hit like a boulder, but he like a boulder: take time to roll fast. Fyve fast all over the fucking place. And invisible. Also— “Oh.” Tiny ring in here. Shiny-tiny. He looks to greenfuck. Greenfuck nods a little. Fyve puts up his tusk, so greenfuck goes more down. Good, go down, you fuck. “Ya canna take my shhhit.” Fyve looks back to his shit, because it’s fucking his now. Ring so tiny.
Greenfuck says, “Myeent go nahh take nahh teen brahh dahh.” So, greenfuck speaks like fucking Torn cow animal man. Sound nice; don’t mean shit.
“Speak Orcitch,” says Fyve. But he’s not really listening too hard. He’s looking in this basket. It got a stripe like the color on Fyve’s own hairs.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
“Just give me a minute. I need a minute.” Larizu sat across the shack, next to the freshly rinsed just-in-case bucket, next to a couple bottles of Nastly™ water, and next to a plate that held two pieces of bread, and a few slices of chicken lunch meat. His face was pinched, his posture stiff, as he squinted down at the food with his glasses up on his forehead.
Zena sat on the floor alongside the bed. She stared up at the big chair. She held rolled up chicken in a piece of folded up bread. “Take your time.” She shrugged and popped it in her beautiful frog mouth. “Uhffnock wike we gwok—“ She paused to chew and swallow. “Anywhere to be.”
“Fuck. Smoke first.”
Zena glanced over. “Do it up.” She scooted around to face him. Larizu stood and went for the pipes.
“Figured out why I tell ya shit.” Larizu sat on the floor across from Zena. He took his time packing his pipe, from a jar that was hand-labeled ‘Stinky-Ass Island’ in a precise, tilted print.
“Oh?” Zena leaned in, attentive.
“Started out tellin’ Wil shit.” Larizu squinted at the pipe. “It turn into a habit. He nodded the pipe at Zena. “I tell ya out of habit.”
“You tell Wil shit ‘cause you’re brothers?”
“No.” Larizu shook his head and flipped the lighter open and shut. “Started tellin’ Wil shit, ‘cause between his huntin’ trips, and ruttin’ wit every willin’ participant in Kalimdor and part o’ Eastern Kingdom, he need somewhere to pass time, and di big bastard somehow choose to stay in dis shithole wit my crazy ass.” He looked around and then in her general direction. “If ya gonna be a steady-stream o’ fucked-up, ya gotta trow out an excuse from time to time.” He yanked his shoulders up and shook his head. “Or ya just fucked-up for no fuckin’ reason.” He sat back against the wall and touched his teeth with the pipe. “If ya fucked-up for no fuckin’ reason, people expect ya gonna take a break… Be normal.” He smiled, and his smile looked like a sad apology. “I don’t take breaks.” Larizu raised his brow and lit the pipe. Kffffffft.
“Is this fair-warning?”
“Mh— Pfffuh. Yeah, I guess.”
“Consider me warned.” Zena laced her fingers together and looked down at her palms. “I have an idea, if you’re interested.”
Larizu put his glasses on, and looked at her as he took another long hit.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Fyve puts down his goddamn basket. He found it. He owns everything. He puts up his head, and he sniffs around. He looks to greenfuck, who only looks to him sideways. Good. Stay down. Stay sideways, you fuck. Greenfuck got chopped off his ear. Good. Fyve bit it. He goes closer to greenfuck. His own breath makes greenfuck’s whitehairs move. Greenfuck makes like sleep eye. Good. Fuck you. Why isn’t this fuck fucked up? “Why nah ya fuckupped, hyooFUCK?”
Greenfuck blinks a bunch and swallows a little, and he don’t move. He puts his eye to Fyve, then away from to Fyve. What the fuck is this shit? Fyve goes to sniff around what that smell is. Something by bag— Fuck that shit. He goes back to greenfuck. “Ony why ya nah fuckupped?” Fyve needs to know. Greenfuck doesn’t say shit; maybe is stupid. Must be stupid. Came in Fyve’s shit cave two times. Look smart on eye, though. What the fuck? “Pissmeoff. Son ob bitch.”
Fyve does step away. He grunts to greenfuck and puts up his chin some. Check out my big fucking tusk, you fuck. Greenfuck turns a little, looks a little, not too much. Good. Fyve draws dagger. Greenfuck face goes a little loose. Fyve got his eye. Fyve could laugh; he doesn’t laugh. Greenfuck watches and Fyve’s hand spins blade; nice weight, Fyve’s shit. Nice blade, also. Fyve watches greenfuck watch blade spin and spin. Fyve spins his blade and he doesn’t drop it: Fyve is not drunk. Fyve is only drinking enough to keep out the bad things that happen in his eyes and ears when he drinks none. He makes blade to point, stop. Point to greenfuck’s leg. He fucked that leg. Why is it unfucked? “Why nah diss shit fucked? Hnn? Sayit ya fuckin bastarr.”
The fucking bastard doesn’t say it. Not even in Torn language.
Greenfuck moves so slow. Good, stay slow, you fuck. Fyve win, you lose. All day long. Greenfuck moves slow to go down to his own leg. He starts to open his pants string his leg. Fyve growls. Greenfuck pats on his own leg. Fyve steps away and looks away. Fyve says, “Do it, ya shit.” When he does look back, Greenfuck has small pants under his pants. So that’s a good idea, Fyve should try that two pants. He likes pants. Sometimes hate shirt, though.
And greenfuck shows Fyve around his leg. No hole; no hole. No blood. No anything. “I stabbedit,” Fyve says. He was drunk, but not that kind of drunk. He stabbed it.
Greenfuck says, “Low wah bless sed sahhv. Day yahhz no sob stee toot.”
Fyve says. “Speaked fuckin Orcitch.” He growls some, because Torn cowspeak motherfuck bitch-bastard no-tusk fucking troll.
Greenfuck puts up his pants over his pants with he ties it. He goes to by Fyve’s basket. Fyve could kill him about basket, but maybe greenfuck would gonna show Fyve something. Could kill later. Probably will definitely kill, so no hurry. Greenfuck holds up the tiny white jar, which Fyve also wants because it is small and he just wants it. He owns it. Greenfuck better put that the fuck back. Show him what to do, then put it the fuck back. It’s his. He owns it. You cannot take it.
Greenfuck holds up the jar. Greenfuck slow holds down the jar some. He pat-pats on his own chest and he says, “Ee-wee-low.” Fyve shrugs, because speak Orcish. Greenfuck pats again his own chest and blinks a lot his eye, and says, “Wheel… Wheel.”
And Fyve says, “Wheel,” because he can. And Fyve says, “Fybe. Lie da fuckinummer.” Because Fyve has a fucking mushmouth. Fuck you. And Wheel’s eyes go sideway, then at Fyve again. Fyve says, “Wan. Two. Tree. Foor.” He punches his own chest so hard, because he’s sick of it already. “Fybe.”
And Wheel says, “Fyve.” Ok, good. “Fyve,” says Wheel. “Wheel borrow.” Wheel holds his hand like to point maybe Fyve’s dagger. Fuck you. Fyve shakes his own head. Wheel sits to the floor and his head is down and he holds up his hand like ok please give if I don’t look. Fyve holds his own tusk while he looks at Wheel. Fyve flips his dagger and he gives it to Wheel and then they both are invisible until Fyve lets go. Fyve knows Wheel doesn’t like invisible, because Wheel turns hard all over whenever Fyve puts to Wheel invisible, even in Orgrimmar, Wheel did turn hard. Fyve knows Wheel doesn’t like to see all of everywhere and never see self. Funny as fuck, but Fyve does not laugh. Wheel holds up his hand and he cuts some on his hand. Wheel shows everywhere his hand, because he can’t know where is Fyve.
Wheel’s hand fills with blood, and Wheel looks around and drinks the blood away. Then Wheel takes the little jar. He takes the little brush. Fyve wants that. He wants that little brush. It’s his. He wants it. He comes close to see. He sees Wheel put stuff to his own hand. Fyve sees the hand-hole close. He wants to laugh. Wheel puts Fyve’s knife to the floor. Fyve makes the knife invisible. Fyve becomes visible, and Wheel looks at Fyve sitting somewhere else close.
Wheel stands up and Wheel stays down-down, like his hands to the floor. Good, stay down, Wheel you fuck. Crawl like animal, you Torn-talking fuck. Wheel comes to Fyve so slow. Fyve lets Wheel come to Fyve, because Fyve knows that he is not drunk and he can win without trying. Fyve thinks Wheel is smart after all, and Wheel knows Fyve wins at killing all day long.
Wheel sits down and Fyve raises maybe his tusks a little, and Wheel has no fucking tusks. Chop off tusks is the worst thing. Fyve’s stomach hurts when he thinks about chop off. He can’t stand that shit. Nobody can chop off Fyve’s tusks. He puts up his tusks a little at Wheel who got his shits chopped off from someone. Wheel goes so low and he sits forward his face to Fyve. Wheel grabs his own lip of his no-tusk mouth. Wheel shows Fyve inside his fatlip for no fucking reason. Wheel points to Fyve. Oh, ok. Fyve turns his lip out with his own hand. Wheel puts junk to brush. He holds up it until Fyve does not growl.
Fyve watches Wheel come so close between Fyve’s tusks. Get ready to die Wheel. Don’t fuck around Wheel. Fyve is not for fucking around. Fyve stares hard to Wheel. Wheel puts the little brush to the little jar. He paints to Fyve lip. It burns. Makes his eye itch. So he sits there and he shows Wheel and Wheel nods, Aye. So it closed, maybe. Wheel paints to Fyve’s chin. Paints to Fyve nose. By Fyve’s eye, he paints, where Fyve got so fucked up. Four-head he paints, where Fyve got so fucked up bad from Wheel bash Fyve good in Orgrimmar. Good fight.
Wheel looks on Fyve’s hand. Fyve took off some his own skin, for take off special oil. It stinked. It sticky. Fuck that shit. That shit was disgusting. Wheel makes face like his mouth tastes a little bad. Wheel grabs his own shirt and tug-tug, tug-tug and puts his chin up to Fyve. Fyve growls. Wheel says, “Oop” and he puts down his chin. Okay, good. Mistake.
Mistakes happen, so Wheel doesn’t die.
Fyve takes off his own shirt. “Notouch.” Wheel looks like he can’t find if he should do it or not do it. He holds up brush. He moves his mouth. He blinks his eye a lot. Makes round eye but not stare too hard. “Notouch,” Fyve warns. Fyve says, “Do dat shhhhhit.” He likes to say it like snake.
Wheel looks to how Fyve did take off some his own skin. Five and five and five baths for take oil. Wheel says, “Brahh dahh yeent need too skeen yoahself,” and Fyve kind of understands maybe ‘too skin yourself’.
“Aye,” says Fyve. “Fy skinnedit. Growbacked lie ya fuckintuss.” Fyve used a big hard brush. Fyve used a little a knife, too. Fuck that skin. That skin was fucked. Fyve reaches out and he means to point at Wheel tusk, but he feels mean so he gets his fingers around that shit and pushes down and Wheel’s head goes down a bit and Wheel’s mouth goes skinny. Nostril big. Forehead wrinkle. Keeps head down, though. Fyve makes Wheel wait a little, because Fyve fucking can. “Hokay,” Fyve says. And he lets go that busted shit tusk and he puts back his hands so now Wheel can touch ONLY WITH BRUSH OKAY. Or Wheel can die.
Wheel rolls around his head and make his neck crunch, because Fyve got Wheel so mad about push tusk haha good one fuck you. Wheel paints to Fyve’s skin. That shit hurts, so Fyve’s one ear moves some. Not hurt as bad as blow hand off with bomb, though. Hand blow is worse than skin close. They watch it grow back. Then Fyve laughs and he knows that shit is scary, so he laughs more when Wheel gets a big eye. Then Wheel laughs and it has a real nice sound, like to blow something big up far away. Makes Fyve want to blow up Silvermoon or something.
Then Wheel says like to self, “Me weesh ahh koot yell ree zoo mmyeent go naah die,” And Fyve only gets Me Yell Go Die, but that’s not right.
“Dass shit,” Fyve says, and Wheel nods to that. That is shit.
Fyve sniffs and then he remembers the smell like fat and plant, so he goes and he takes out stuff from Wheel bag, because fuck you, and Wheel watches. Then Fyve opens, and Wheel watches. Then Fyve takes a small taste and Wheel watches. Then Fyve shrugs and Wheel shrugs, and Fyve takes a whole fist and Wheel shakes his head and his eye gets real big, so Fyve puts it all in his mouth and Wheel puts up his hand and shakes it around. Wheel says “Nonono, Fyve, no,” which is Orcish. Fyve goes invisible which is a good joke and he goes behind and goes visible and he eats the whole jar off his finger. He reminds Wheel that it’s His, He Found It, You Cannot Take It.
Wheel puts his hand to his own face and Wheel says, “Oh, Fyve. No.” And Wheel says, “Low ahh heent go nah hovv good time.” And its nice like Torn language, but just like Torn language it don’t mostly mean shit. Then Fyve licks his fingers and the stuff wasn’t that good anyway, so he throws down the jar because he has lots of jars and this one is too big to be worth shit.
Fyve doesn’t know what to do about Wheel in his cave, though. Wheel can’t be in here alive, so Fyve needs to think so hard about that. Fyve puts back on his shirt. He does remember from a long time ago Wheel was sick and Fyve beat him, throw him all over the place. Wheel had big curve tusks; now they’re gone. Fyve beat him almost dead that time, and Fyve let Wheel crawl away so he could follow and maybe kill him later with a stick. Or put tusk through head. But then Fyve got side-tracked and forgot to kill Wheel. Oh, well.
Wheel sits down and Wheel looks worried. Maybe Wheel remembers, too. Fyve takes out some of Wheel’s dry chewy meat shit and he eats that. Spicy.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Larizu finally breathed out. He eyed her over his glasses, because it was marginally easier than eyeing her through his glasses. “What kind o’ idea,” he asked in a cautious tone. Zena was looking down at her palms like she was reading a book, perhaps trying to research a cure for Larizu’s bone-deep fuckeduppedness. He hoped not, because, were that the case, she would be disappointed. Larizu didn’t want to field that shit, because he was far-too-fucking occupied with how much he disappointed himself, day-in, and day-fucking-out.
Zena looked up from her non-existent miracle book. “Are you afraid that someone is going to take your food?”
Larizu pulled his head back so fast it thumped the wall behind him, causing him to fumble his pipe. He furrowed his brow and pushed up his glasses. He chewed his upper lip and his eye flicked from side to side. “Tro’ho,” he asked, trying (failing, by the feel of it) to smile, “Why are ya askin’ me dat?”
“Just thought…” She shook her head and went back to reading her hands. “Thought maybe if I understood a little. It could help me to fuck-up less.”
Larizu shifted uncomfortably on the floor. He used his foot to push the plate aside because he couldn’t stand to look at the fucking thing. Fucking chicken… circles. He picked up one of the goblin waters, because his mouth had gone bone dry. He drank some. “No. I ain’t particularly concerned dat someone is going to take my food.”
“Okay,” she said, quietly. “So… maybe you think that you’re going to be… harmed? Attack—“
Larizu leaned far over and hauled the just-in-case-bucket very close, just in case. They stared at one-another until Larizu shut his eyes and just breathed slow.
“Should I shut up?”
“Just tell me your idea. If I start pukin’, stop tellin’ me.”
“Fair.” Zena turned and lie down on her side, on the floor. She lay her cheek on her hand. “So, what if I had your back? What if we sat back-to-back? I could watch the door. I guess it would be better, if I were bigger.” She watched him.
“Oh, no,” Larizu chuckled and there wasn’t an ounce of humor in it. “No, dat wouldn’t be any—“ He shook his head and his smile faded into the grimace it had been all along. Larizu seemed to hold his breath for a moment. He squirmed around and pushed the bucket an inch away. “I’m tinkin’.”
Zena remained on her side, on the floor. “Take your time.” She lay still, and quiet, and small, as Larizu smoked and shifted around and looked all over, and muttered to himself a little. “Loa… (Bless. Bless all o’ ya names.) Bless.” He ran his hand over his hair repeatedly. After a while, he looked at Zena again. “Here be da ting, Zena. I get kind o’ paranoid, sometime.” He leaned up and breathed in, and shuddered back down on the exhale. “I tink I get dese moments where I really forget who di fuck is around.”
“My mother had schizophrenia.”
“I’m sorry ta hear dat. About ya mudder. I ain’t…” Larizu shook his head. “I ain’t schizophrenic.”
“No, I didn’t think so. You are a little neurotic.”
“Maybe even moderately.” Larizu looked at her. She looked at him. He snorted. She smiled, sweetly. Zena’s sweet smile kind of freaked him out, truth be told, because it was just one of those things that he had no idea how to file. He liked to be able to file shit. “Illusory control.” He was grateful when she didn’t ask him to expand on the slipped thought. Sometimes his thoughts just tumbled out of his fucking face as words. Add it to the list of fucking disappointing things... “I just be sittin’ here feelin’ sorry for myself. So, let’s do di fuckin’ ting. And if it fail, we just pretend we didn’t do di ting.” Larizu started to raise the pipe. “And if it work, I don’t tink we rush to tell I’wilo.”
Zena didn’t ask, but her look asked.
So, Larizu added, “Ask me after it work. I got no clue if I’ll give ya any answer.” Kfffffffffffffff…
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Fyve’s mouth is so dry. So dry. So Fyve stands. Fyve stands to go get water. Fyve’s eyes are too dry, but they can’t drink. Fyve thinks that’s funny and he laughs. Wheel is following Fyve. Wheel is trying to make Fyve go back inside. Fyve takes some snow for himself. Wheel comes back with water canteen. Fyve drinks that. Then time stops…
Time stops and Fyve goes away. When Fyve comes back he is scared. He is fucking scared. Fyve is scared. He cannot believe this fucking shit. “I cannabeleeb…”. Fyve comes back. What is this shit oh fuck oh shit. He is not for any of this. “Emnofer…” Fyve comes back. Only, what his happening? “Ony… ony wha hap…” Fyve comes back. Oh fuck no touch what the fuck. Fyve sees down on the snow is his hand too far away. He holds up his hand. He sees Wheel. He forgot Wheel. “Fy han far…” Fyve comes back. “Oh no… hokay please. Please stop ok stop please…” Fyve comes back. “I cannabeleeb dis snow…” Fyve comes back. “Why tuss lie dat?” Fyve reaches for his tusk. Can’t feel it so much in his hand, Far away, his tusk. His hand. “No. No. Hokay stop now…” Fyve comes back. “No more hokay please fuck no fuck…” Fyve comes back. Fyve starts to whimper. He doesn’t like that sound at all. “How ganna happen dis shhhit…” Fyve comes back. Someone whimpering. Oh, shit it’s Fyve. He looks to Wheel. Wheel is trying to wave Fyve go-in go-in cave. Fyve crawls, because if he walks maybe he’s going to fly up… Fyve comes back. He shakes his head and crawls to cave. “Hnn-nn. Hnn-nn fuck. Hno fuck dis shhhit.”
Fyve goes in there… Fyve comes back. He goes back and back. He has to go by the wall. Has to. He goes by the wall. Fyve goes away. Fyve comes back and he doesn’t like this he can’t feel anything and he can’t be invisible. “Nobody chop off my fuckintuss.” Better not fuck with his tusks. Fyve grabs his flask from his pocket and it’s too heavy. Fyve takes a drink and he spits it out because it tastes all wrong. Fyve takes away his shirt because it is squeezing him too hot… Fyve comes back and throws down his shirt. He sits by the wall. He touches the wall. “Hokay… Arrigh’…” Fyve comes back and he picks his head up and Fyve roars.
“Dee brahh dahh took too mahhtch,” says Wheel.
Fyve looks to Wheel. He forgot Wheel. Fyve stares at Wheel and Fyve puts his hands over his head. Fyve’s locks are all tied back because Fyve tied them back for can’t get oil off… Fyve comes back. “Hnonono okay no.” says Fyve. Fyve rocks and holds his fuckyou hair. Holds his tusk. He looks to Wheel. “Hno touch. Notouch. Dunna touch…” Fyve comes back. He holds on head. Rocks. Can’t swallow that much. “Maybe stop please okay…” Fyve comes back. NO. NO. NO MORE. He grabs to Wheel’s arm fast. Fyve holds on. Fyve can’t go away again… Fyve comes back. “Hnn-nn. No touch.”
“Low wahh baht dee brahh dahh free keen out.” Wheel says.
Fyve looks to Wheel and Fyve can’t really say anything so he just looks and holds and shakes and goes away and comes back and holds and shakes… Wheel is sitting close but not too bad. Wheel’s head is down on Wheel’s hand and Wheel is talking on himself like a Torn which is okay.
…
I’wilo sat and watched Fyve brace himself against the wall. He waited to see if he would get his arm back, or if Fyve was going to freak out and plant a blade up I’wilo’s armpit. Probably wouldn’t have enough time to get healin’ salve into a stabbed heart; best not to think on it.
Fyve largely wore an expression of concentrated, miserable terror, but there were these brief moments where he would relax, then return with this silent-snarling, rabid, insanely violent look. The brother was fucking suffering. I’wilo spoke to Fyve about Rizu, and about Zena, just to make noise. He spoke about how it was to sleep in a troll-pile that was just him and his Rizu, and to know that he was with his whole family, and how full that made him. He spoke about how sometimes Rizu got confused, a little like how Fyve was confused… probably much worse, but Rizu still always came back. He spoke about Zena guiding the lion into the cage— He really needed to explore that feeling. He used that voice that worked on Larizu, and it seemed like it might be working with Fyve, given I’wilo was not dead, nor was he suffering a broken arm which would really sucky-suck. Positive thoughts…
Finally, Fyve released I’wilo’s arm. Fyve lay over and found his chill, and Fyve fell asleep. I’wilo sat back to wait for Fyve to awaken. I’wilo was smiling, because it had just come to him. Larizu was going to hate it, but if he asked for Larizu’s permission, he’d end up arguing with Rizu in front of Fyve, which would ruin it. I’wilo had to weigh the cost of Larizu’s ire, and probably terror (ok, definitely some terror), against the benefit of shedding the mortal danger that Fyve might actually pose to Larizu. I’wilo truly did not wish for Fyve to stab Larizu’s ass in half… So, Wil just needed to build a little more trust— No, scratch that. I’wilo needed to build more familiarity, with Fyve. I’wilo would communicate his respect for Fyve, and in respect they would communicate. Draw some lines. Mark out some boundaries.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
- Wil