Women Really Do Run the World – Short Story (Suspense)

Posted by Rock Kitaro on February 14, 2019
Posted in: Paramour Letters. Tagged: , , , , , , . Leave a comment

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Marcus Angel – Women Really Do Run the World

Getting shot’s probably not the best way to begin a story, but here goes. Streetlights. The glint from her golden earrings. The flash from her muzzle and then I died. Even as I type this, I still can’t believe it. But in the end, what I saw with my own eyes confirmed what I’ve suspected all along. Women really do run the world. Perhaps they always have. I’m willing to bet they always will.

…

Ever since I first laid eyes on her twelve years ago, Anna Marie’s held the title as the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. This includes actresses, pop singers, and fashion models. None of them could hold a candle to my Anna Marie.

At first glance it didn’t even make sense why she was working for a start-up company to begin with. She looked like she belonged on one of those housewife shows, lounging on a beach, or shopping along some strip of sun-blasted boutiques. The way she carried herself. Her height, her posture, her figure, it was ridiculous. As if she trained her whole life to win every pageant she could. Anna Marie was a stone cold stunner and she didn’t even know it. Or maybe she did know and just didn’t care.

Back then, Anna was always so bubbly and free-spirited, the type of woman who’d get out of my car in the middle of an intersection if she spotted a frozen yogurt cart on the corner. I’m not saying I like unpredictable women, but I confess there’s something about her that I found superior to myself in so many ways. How she never seemed to care about the future. That freedom, that spontaneity, I thought it was because she was fearless. I respected it. She was amazing.

Her association with me was a bit of a mystery in the beginning. Just to be clear, Anna was never officially my girlfriend, but someone who preferred hanging out with me as opposed to everyone else…in the beginning. Sure I made her laugh with my observations and blundering blithe. But back then, I was grossly overweight. I turned my back on religion and I barely had a social life because I didn’t drink or smoke weed. And more importantly, I had no direction in my life, no clear or concrete goal. No purpose.

Women like Anna have a way of changing all that. You can’t be with someone like her and have absolutely nothing going for you. I realized this the first time I pushed her away. My dumbass had “caught feelings” for her and I had the brass to come out and tell her that I loved her. I told her that face to face. She smirked and shook her head and told me that it wasn’t love but lust. I was completely embarrassed and promptly walked away in the middle of that conversation. In hindsight, I do think I should have stayed and played it out.

Next came that fog of awkwardness and uneasy tension, the emotional roller coaster cliché to CW shows. I’m talking about the dramas where the entire season could be ended with one conversation. For the following few years, Anna and I would toy with each other, each trying to make the other jealous. We’d go the extra mile to outdo each other in our work performance, each trying to rise above the other in terms of station and pay grade.

During this time, this dance, this arm’s race of love and hate, I lost over a hundred pounds. I joined a gym, worked on my cardio, and indulged in a period of enlightenment, soaking up philosophy on matters that were otherwise foreign to me such as astronomy, romanticism, identity politics, and cultural diversity.

Anna also progressed. She went and joined a military boot camp for women. I should have expected no less. Every weekend it was something new with her. Skydiving, swimming with sharks, shooting at the gun range. I even heard she started taking MMA classes, which really burned in my chest, the thought of her grappling with other men. Could never look at UFC the same way again.

And of course, during this time Anna was rarely without a man. One after another, they came and went. Buying her flowers. Picking her up for lunch. I’d sit there in my cubicle and just take it. She knew how I felt about her but still, she’d parade them about and act like nothing was wrong. It hurt so bad. Not just that she was going out with other men, but the kind of men they were.

All of them looked like they played for the NFL. All of them looked like a million bucks, sharp and suited, impressive cars, edgy cuts, thick beards or tatted up with that bold “it’s all good” charisma. They all had the same low bass-heavy voice and barely showed any facial expressions. They were cool, hip, and exuded an air of confidence. The complete opposite of who I was. No matter how much I bettered myself I could never be them.

For years I had to listen to Anna brag about her penthouse parties. She started appearing in music videos and even modeled designer dresses at the Met Gala. The MET FREAKING GALA! She was living life in the fast lane, so far head of me that I couldn’t keep up. I want to say I stopped trying but that wouldn’t be true.

The thing is, I honestly believed Anna was putting on an act, a bold front for her club bunnies and the socialites she cavorted with. We were in our twenties. She was a sexy Colombiana who could get any man she wanted. Of course she’s going to run the town. But deep down I felt I knew “the real Anna”. I was there for her before she donned the skin-tight skirts and heavy eyeliner. I saw her cry. I heard her regrets. I listened to her speak so passionately about why she wanted to live each day to the fullest. I knew about her family, her sister, her upbringing. I knew the real Anna Marie.

Then…after three years…Anna up and left. I didn’t have all the details, but from what I gathered, she found another job on the west coast somewhere in Silicon Valley. And even though she was never officially my girlfriend, we never kissed or hugged or anything like that, we weren’t even on speaking terms when she left, but still, it felt like one of my best friends had just died. I went into work the next day and was like, “now what?”

I know that might sound strange, but the mere presence of her was like a drug that stimulated me. Once she was gone, there was a deep void in my heart. I had withdrawal symptoms that left me somewhat depressed. In the three years that we worked together, I’ve been attracted to no one else. This woman really was the center of my universe, the source of all my ambitions. Truly, she was.

But one day a couple months after, I woke up and had that Parker moment. I looked in the mirror and realized…I really am one impressive looking dude. In the midst of progress, it’s difficult to see how far I’ve come. But I really had transformed over the years.

My columns now averaged over 30,000 readers. Three of which were circulated nationally and were up for awards. I used to weigh 378 pounds and now I was a solid 215. I could run. I could fight. My confidence was through the roof and more importantly, I reconnected with our heavenly father, reading the Bible cover to cover. It shifted my priorities and taught me to put my faith in God, not people.

In the two years following her departure, things had certainly become turbulent when it came to culture in the U.S. As a Millennial with some amount of intelligence, I felt responsible for what was happening to my generation. They called us Snowflakes. They said we were lazy and entitled. They said most of us were still living in our parent’s basements, that the institution of marriage was on the decline.

But there was a silver lining, a beaming ray of light penetrating the dark clouds. That ray of light was “equality.” The disgruntled had voices. The special interest groups had assembled. Protests and marches galore. Everyone took to the streets demanding to be heard. And what was more surprising was that not only were people listening, they believed. I believed.

But here’s the problem, here’s where it gets a bit dicey, here’s where I’m more or less bleeding myself as I step out into shark infested waters. What social and mainstream media had been feeding us, what they told us about what was happening in the world, it was all just an illusion. It wasn’t real. It was a projected fantasy that they were hoping they could turn into a reality by tricking the masses, by lying to us.

The reason why it worked so well was because people had effectively found a way to silence those with an opposing point of view. Anyone who disagreed, anyone voicing a view that went against the popular opinion was labeled a racist, a bigot, sexist, or a supremacist. Their careers and reputations were ruined. When corporations started firing their top employees based off of mere allegations, people knew they won the battle. Because corporations are empires. Their heads are world leaders. Other companies had no choice but to follow suit or else they’d more or less be browbeaten and boycotted until they submitted to and appeased the court of public opinion.

As I said…this had gone on for some time. As a minority, and worse still, a minority within a minority, I initially felt that I didn’t have a leg to stand on when it came to such squabbles. I decided to make it my goal to expose these tactics and introduce a new theory of soft-core oppression that attacked free speech and essentially, free thought. I felt it would be difficult to do that with a label strapped to my back. So in the beginning, I kept silent and observed.

However, it didn’t take long before I realized that by keeping silent I had only contributed to the symptoms. I noticed the mainstream media had become heavily reliant on statistics, polls, and trends. As a contemporary pointed out, this is a gross misrepresentation of the country as a whole.

A majority of Americans didn’t use social media. Who the freak were taking these surveys? And why the hell were decisions being made on our behalf based off of the subjective opinions of a study group. If 20,000 people were surveyed, that’s less than one percent of the population. It didn’t make sense. And I refused to believe that I was the smartest dude on the planet. I couldn’t be the only one seeing this. So what the hell was going on?

Then, last year I saw a string of sexual misconduct allegations topple some of the world’s foremost figures in the entertainment and political arenas. Good, right? Anyone who abuses others, regardless of race, gender, or orientation deserved to be punished. I had no love for the rich and famous, so screw ‘em. That was my first impression. That was, until I was approached by a man in an parking garage.

Now, I know what you’re thinking. Right away, you think, “oh, that’s cliché. And let me guess, he brings you some secret file that proves your theories and sparks controversy?”

Nope.

Maybe he was going to do all that. But before he could, a soft spray misted into my face and the man collapsed before my feet. I couldn’t believe it. I must have stood there for the better part of a song just staring, doubting my own eyes, paralyzed, thinking this couldn’t be real. He was breathing one moment, and the next…

Paramours 2

The Knights with No Lords: Chapter 26 – Onslaught (Action Fiction)

Posted by Rock Kitaro on February 6, 2019
Posted in: About the Author. Tagged: , , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

This is a chapter I’m most proud of. When I was sixteen, I read Dale Furutani’s “Kill the Shogun.” It was the first time I read a novel in which I learned you could choreograph fights in a book or a novel. Before then, I’d just read “they engaged in battle” and the author presumes the reader’s imagination will do the rest. To me, that wasn’t enough.

However, if you’re skilled, you can describe a fight so much so that the reader can see each blow, each move, each block, each strike. Without further ado, I give you the climatic battle that engulfs Tintagel Castle. Princess Isolde has just been shot down by Gaheris’s arrow. The dike that held back the decades of strife and bad blood has been ruptured. The young men rise up and show why their generation will be the greatest knights Britannia’s ever seen.

Chapter 26 - Onslaught 2

The Knights with No Lords
Chapter 26 – Onslaught
By Rock Kitaro

“RAAAAAAAAAAAARRGHH!!!”

Tristan’s roar reverberated louder than a chorus of angry trumpets. The Lion of Dumnonia was still leaning over the chopping block when he saw his beloved collapse to her knees. Adrenaline pumped through his veins and with brute force, Tristan curled his biceps and snapped the thick ropes binding his wrists.

The soldiers near the scaffold advanced to restrain him but Tristan was out of his mind. All he saw was red and there was no difference between friend or foe. He picked up a bench and crashed it against the four men sending them sprawling.

Another knight and old hunting buddy stood in his way with open palms trying to reason with him. Tristan slung the buddy by his breastplate as if he was nothing but a pillow. Trepidation kept other knights at bay as Tristan shouldered through the mass of hysteria. After shouldering through the crowd, Tristan slid to his knees and scooped up the wounded Isolde.

Panic struck like a stomped ant pile. Over 2,000 civilians rushed for the exits. Clanging steel and forceful grunts picked up as the battle began. Swords were drawn. Bows were pulled. The shimmer from raised shields flashed from every corner. Orders were drowned out by screams and crashes. Soon, the exits became clogged as soldiers struggled to enter and join the fray. It was chaos.

“NO!!! Don’t touch her! You’re not fit to touch my daughter!” Queen Iseult screamed as Sir Maven damn-near had to drag the queen to safety.

Like a guardian angel, Tristan wept and held Isolde close to his chest. Such sadness. Intense grief and an abandon of all ambition beset Tristan and Isolde as they pressed their faces together, blending their sweat and tears. The queen called for his head over and over again. Sir Maven and five guards had no choice but to physically lift her off the ground and carry her out of an exit.

“Fire the cannons!” Algayre shouted.

At once, a Hibernian archer hidden on the roof took up his long bow and set an arrow ablaze. Arching back, he aimed high and released. The flaming arrow sailed out of the abbey, southbound towards the edge of a precipice where five barrels of oil were stacked in a triangle. The thunderous explosion blasted fleeing citizens into the air and ignited a fire that spread from a pair of oak trees.

It was a signal to the Hibernian battleships at sea. Within seconds, a volley of cannonballs was unleashed but their aimed wasn’t to hit the castle. The booming cannons could be heard throughout the entire city. Morholt’s 260 warriors who had secretly come ashore were alerted. This was their cue to rise up and annihilate.

Horror and dread spread like a fast virus as slaughter screeched from every corridor, stairway, and plaza. But help was on the way.

King Lot heeded the earlier warning brought forth by Gawain and Constantine. Gawain predicted the ambush would begin at the wedding, but the prudent King Lot wasn’t the type to procrastinate. He ordered his Lothian knights to remain diligent, alert and ready, especially when the royal household was all gathered in one place.

When Morholt’s warriors attacked, the Lothians emerged in full battle armor. They combed through the waves of fleeing citizens and engaged the enemy Hibernians, crossing blades in the corridors, the stairways, and the plazas.

By the time Queen Iseult was carried to her ship at the Port of Talons, intense fighting had spilled out of Angel’s Square and into the streets. The monstrous Morholt had already chopped down nine men and he was just getting warmed up.

In Angel’s Square, Gawain, Gaheris, and Agravain were taking on all comers. It wasn’t long before Agravain began to splinter off on his own but Gawain wasn’t worried. Constantine joined Gawain and Gaheris with a sword and shield. He wasn’t as skilled as the brothers, but his bravery was up to par.

Gawain’s feet never stayed in one place for less than a second. He moved from side-to-side in a crescent sweep to protect his sharpshooting little brother. With nerves of steel, Gaheris’s arrows sniped off rival archers who were hiding on the roof and within the cloisters. His accuracy was ridiculous. Out of the sixteen arrows he let sail, he only missed once.

“HO!”

A loud crash of exploding bricks and mortar got everyone’s attention. Morholt had just rammed his way into Angel’s Square. Two knights challenged with a loud battle cry. Morholt swept them away with a single swing from his mighty ax. Then, his beer-stained eyes turned and settled on the back of the lion.

“Tristan…” Morholt grumbled.

By now, Isolde was no longer blinking. The trails of tears had crusted over her face and she could no longer feel Tristan’s warmth. With her last bit of strength, Princess Isolde caressed Tristan’s cheek and whispered, “Don’t lose.”

Tristan’s stone cold eyes slowly elevated to the massive obstruction that was blocking the sun from view. With his sights locked on the beast, Tristan carefully lowered the beauty to the grass. His cheeks convulsed as a tremendous roar of absolutely nothing to lose came blaring from his throat.

The entire courtyard seemed to tremor as Tristan and Morholt charged for each other. When he was close enough, Morholt raised his ax for a downward swing but Tristan flew at him like a missile, ramming his rock hard shoulders into Morholt’s gut and causing the giant to drop his blade. Tristan tackled Morholt into the now vacant royal platform and completely obliterated the structure on impact. Splinters of wood chips flew everywhere.

It was a brawl unlike any other, like two grizzly bears mindlessly swinging their fists, relying on nothing other than maximum power and true grit. Each blow sounded like thick slapping steaks. Morholt would grab Tristan and hurl him against a wall. Tristan would bounce back with a two-handed clubbing attack to send Morholt skidding in the grass.

Soldiers on both sides did their best to stand clear. It was terrifying. They had to fight in the midst of a destructive tornado that wreaked havoc in an unpredictable warpath. Anyone caught in their way were crushed, bludgeoned, or used as weapons.

In the market plaza just two blocks north of the St. Gabriel’s Abbey, the red-scarfed Pellinore was running across a breezeway when he caught sight of Hibernian warriors racing for the back entrance of the royal palace. With a hungry grin, Pellinore ignored Kanish’s advice to take the stairs. He leaped over a railing and dropped two tiers to land in an open yard where mothers where herding their children indoors.

Clutching his serrated sword with both hands, Pellinore unleashed a ravenous roar and sprinted towards a wall of twenty warriors all by himself. The children cried and screamed for someone to help him.

Pellinore didn’t need any help.

As he came within twenty feet of the closest halberd, he launched into the air and flung his long sword like a dagger to impale the closest man. He landed and snatched the shaft of two spears before the tips could scratch his armor, redirecting their momentum to stab each other. He yanked his sword out of the dead man and began cutting down warriors left and right like a scout hacking through vegetation in the jungle. He was so fast, his swings, so powerful that confusion spread. And when his eager Black Bloods joined the fray, the Hibernians didn’t stand a chance.

The Knights with No Lords: Chapter 25 – The Greatest Escape (Fantasy Fiction)

Posted by Rock Kitaro on January 31, 2019
Posted in: About the Author, Knights With No Lords. Tagged: , , , , , , . Leave a comment

Tristan arrives for his execution. The courtyard at St. Gabriel’s Abby is packed with mourners all here to say their goodbyes to Cornwall’s favorite son. And perhaps no one is more of a wreck than Princess Isolde. Screaming like a woman being skinned alive, all she wants is to touch him one last time.

Chapter 25 - The Greatest Escape

The Knights with No Lords
Chapter 25 – The Greatest Escape
By Rock Kitaro

The bells from St. Gabriel’s Abbey could be heard for miles. Shrouded in her dark cloak, Morgan le Fay stood alone on the second floor cloister overlooking the courtyard of Angel’s Square. No one forced her to be there. She couldn’t even recall how she got there. Yet, there she was, devoid of any triumph or emotion. Just staring out with an empty gaze. Her sapphire eyes settled on nothing and everything at the same time.

Over 2,000 men and women filled Angel’s Square. A cold wind blew from the north, rustling leaves and making it difficult for one not to squint. Children were prohibited. Armed guards were stationed at every exit with archers posted on high. Everyone wore dark garbs or black mourning gowns. It was a tragic scene with so many weeping and sobbing before the ritual began. It was contagious and spread quickly. Even the most hardened men fought back tears with stern frowns and clenched jaws.

Off to the side were the stands designated for special guests. King Lot, Queen Morgaus, Gawain, Gaheris, Agravain, and Debra were seated in the front row. Sir Ioness’s daughters, Dawn and Fawn were behind them.

The royal platform was behind the crowd on the far end of Angel’s Square opposite to the scaffold. It was a dais elevated five feet up and protected by a perimeter of iron clad soldiers. Seated from left to right were Algayre, Princess Isolde, Queen Iseult, King Mark, the Duchess Igraine, and the Lady Elaine. The chair next to Elaine was vacant. It was reserved for Morgan, a void Gawain couldn’t help but notice.

Morholt the Destroyer was waiting outside the walls of Angel’s Square, in front of the church massive main entrance. A thick velvety cloak covered his grotesque bulging muscles. Four of his deadliest cutthroats stood by his side as a horse-driven carriage entered the yard. Tristan had arrived.

The guards had cleaned him up. His blond stringy hair was washed and he was now wearing a familiar attire of tan britches, brown boots, and the light blue shirt he was always so fond of. He was no longer wrapped in chains, just a sturdy length of rope binding his hands behind his back.

As Tristan stepped down from the carriage, a chuckle that sounded like grinding walnuts emanated from Morholt’s throat. Tristan knew he was there but couldn’t bring himself to look at the man who killed his parents. He simply submitted himself to the dungeon master and was escorted through a path of red berry hedges leading to the stage of his demise.

The crowd erupted with grief and groans to see their hero so pale and despondent. Isolde nearly slid out of her chair, whimpering like a tortured hound as a suffocating lump formed in her throat. It was torture. Her legs grew numb with a sweltering heat tingling around her knees rushing down her calves.

Queen Iseult clawed at her daughter’s sleeve to keep her seated. The princess whispered and begged to leave but Iseult forced her to stay. The queen’s patience had dried up. She grew weary of Tintagel and each passing second only ate at her thin veil of civility like a corrosive acid. The sooner Tristan was dead, the better.

Morgan’s guilt was creeping in. She didn’t think it would, but watching the outpour of sheer misery, she couldn’t believe it. The huddled mass swayed to and fro with outstretched hands like a tumultuous tide inching closer to reach out and touch their favorite son. The keening became so loud that it drowned out the bells. Their faces. The tears. The agony, as if Tristan was truly loved on a personal level by each and every soul in the courtyard, it was too much. Morgan finally closed her eyes and the flood of tears broke free to roll down her cheeks.

“So this is what it feels like to be Judas. So wretched,” Morgan sniveled as her hands gripped at her face.

Isolde was the worst. She screamed like a woman being skinned alive.

“AHHHHHH!!!!” she screamed.

Her high-pitched shrill screeched through the courtyard. Gawain’s eyes shot open at the sight. Algayre tried to hold on to her shoulders but Isolde convulsed and dropped to her knees on the dais. Gawain and his brothers exchanged awkward glances. She just kept screaming, over and over again, but the queen would not be moved.

Gawain hardened his heart. His brothers did the same. All three wore the masks of soldiers, determined to conceal their sorrow. They ignored the incessant screams and pleas for mercy to focus on the event at hand. Tristan was nearing the steps of the scaffold.

The Knights with No Lords: Chapter 24 – A Single Ounce of It (Romance Fiction)

Posted by Rock Kitaro on January 24, 2019
Posted in: About the Author, Knights With No Lords. Tagged: , , , . Leave a comment

Hours before Tristan is slated for execution, he imparts some big brotherly wisdom upon the downtrodden Gawain. Prince Gawain knows Morgan is responsible for the death and destruction that’s plagued Tintagel Castle, but still…he’s in love with her. It doesn’t make any sense.

Chapter 24 - A Single Ounce of It

The Knights with No Lords
Chapter 24 – A Single Ounce of It
By Rock Kitaro

Gawain peered around the corner. The gigantic dungeon master was watching Tristan only for a moment. Then he turned and walked on, exiting from a large wooden door and closing it behind him.

Finally, Gawain approached. One hand was resting on the hilt of his katana. The other was raised, letting his fingers graze the cold wet bars as he walked to stand front and center.

Tristan’s blond hair was wet, stringy, and stinking. The wool blanket was wrapped around his torso and tucked between the wall and his shoulders. His legs were sprawled out from the wooden bench he sat on and his steel blue eyes…those blue eyes from whence such ferocity, such authority once exuded, it was as if his soul had already passed on.

Then, without blinking, his sights elevated to settle on his visitor. Gawain smiled. Then he pouted, overwhelmed with hopelessness as his forehead and sweaty bangs pressed against the bars.

“Christ, not you too,” Tristan groaned.

With a shaky voice, Gawain said, “You’re the closest thing I ever had to a big brother. I suppose that’s a stupid thing to say, considering I’m the one who got you into this mess.”

“Gawain, stop. It’s annoying to see you so hard on yourself. I need you to be strong. Now that I’m gone, you’ll need to defend Tintagel. Lothian can wait. King Lot’s not going anywhere. I need you to promise to protect Dumnonia from her enemies.”

Gawain nodded, closing his eyes as the tears began to trail down his cheeks.

“Gawain. You have to know. You’re so much stronger than me in so many ways.”

“Don’t,” Gawain whimpered. “Everyone talks about how strong and honorable I am. They have no idea. If I was so strong, so virtuous, why does it hurt so much? Why is it so difficult to simply be alive and bear it?”

“You rather it’d be you on the chopping block?” Tristan asked.

Gawain chuckled before biting down on his lower lip with a defeated sulk.

“Gawain…Just love her. Take her and embrace her with all your heart. If she means so much to you, your brothers will understand. Morgaus, Elaine, the duchess, they will all understand. Who cares what everyone else thinks? Your character shines through. Truly, it does. Besides. What warlord’s gonna be crazy enough to wag his tongue at you with that mad dog Agravain chomping at the bit,” Tristan said, drawing another chuckle from the disheartened Gawain.

“Tristan, during your hearing you couldn’t answer any of the queen’s questions about the princess. You claim to be in love with her but you don’t know anything about her. She likes bumblebees. They’re fuzzy. For hours almost every day last summer, she tried to collect them like marbles. She made me help. I must have gotten stung like twenty times. It was extremely irritating.”

“Bumblebees, huh. I had no idea,” Tristan snickered.

“That’s my point. How can you be in love with someone you barely know, and more importantly, all the sudden? Tristan, I’m trying my best to come up with some other explanation but the obvious truth is staring me right in the face. I can’t ignore it.”

“You think Morgan cast a spell on me,” Tristan nodded.

“It’s the only thing that makes sense.”

Tristan leaned his head back against the wall and stared up at the blotchy gray ceiling. A soft chuckle expelled from his nose before he said something that left Gawain speechless.

“So what if she did?”

“What?” Gawain whispered.

“Say, Morgan did cast some magical aphrodisiac on me. If she did, I confess, I probably need to thank her,” Tristan smiled.

“Tristan, no! You’re about to die and you’d thank her for it? You’ve gone mad. That’s the magic talking.”

“It isn’t,” Tristan said. “Listen to me. All my life I’ve heard the choirboys, the squires and knights talk about love and romance, that beautiful someone. I’ve seen ladies from hundreds of castles and I’ve never felt anything for any of them. When I see people, I see them as animals in which I’ve always felt like an entirely different species. They all have the same features. Everyone has a head, a pair of eyes, hair, nose, and lips. I never saw any of that and said to myself, this is attractive. Until a few days ago.

“Gawain, these past seven days have been the best days of my life. Contrary to how it seems, I’ve never been happier. Even when I pulled you from the black sea, fully aware you’ve come acting as marshal. I came back to Tintagel accepting my fate. It was worth it. It was worth it just to feel, just to feel an ounce of it. That thing they call true love. If giving my life means she can go on…it’s worth it. I know you don’t understand now. To be honest, I hope you never have to find out.”

Gawain gripped at the cell bars with that emphatic rage he tried so hard to suppress. Grinding his teeth, Gawain uttered, “How am I supposed to love a woman who starts wars, creates monsters, and sets about the destruction of so many innocent people?”

“Gawain, I know that sounds horrible? Truly. But do everyone a favor and shut up about it.”

Gawain shook his head in confusion.

“Now that I know what love is, I know what jealousy is. You might be the only man on earth who has a woman who’s willing and capable of starting wars, creating monsters, and devising destruction if it means keeping you all to herself. You’re like the male version of Helen. And Morgan is both the Greek and the Trojans. It’s kind of amazing, actually.”

“I can’t condone that!” Gawain barked.

“Yes you can, you idiot. Because you love her. You say can’t condone it now, but if ever you’re put in the position where you have a split second to choose between her or your own brothers, I guarantee you’ll choose her.”

“Then I guess you are right. I am stronger than you,” Gawain said with a fierce gaze.

“Don’t be salty. I meant no offense. Besides. Just because you’d choose her, doesn’t mean you’d actually defeat your brothers,” Tristan mused.

Spit flew from Gawain’s lips as he laughed helplessly. “You really think my brothers will be the death of me, don’t you.”

“Between them and Morgan, God knows,” Tristan smirked. “You could always join me on the chop block.”

The two laughed even more when Gawain imitated banging his head against the bars. The boys chuckled in their mild amusement before silence entered and made itself at home. Gawain would stay with his sullen head pressed against the bars for a full hour. Then the Dungeon Master entered.

It was time.

10 Year Challenge – From 378lbs to 220

Posted by Rock Kitaro on January 20, 2019
Posted in: About the Author, rock kitaro. Tagged: , , , . Leave a comment
ten year challenge 1

Rock Kitaro, at your service

Reluctant and proud to post this. Never should have got up to 378lbs, but I thank God for instilling the discipline and commitment to work it off and get down to 220 in four years.

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My face, looking at my old pictures

The Knights with No Lords – Chapter 23 – Despair (Fantasy Fiction)

Posted by Rock Kitaro on January 17, 2019
Posted in: About the Author, Knights With No Lords. Tagged: , , , , , . Leave a comment

Tristan is put on trial for murder and treason. Gawain and the young lads prepare for an ambush that’s sure to happen. And Morgan finally confronts Isolde, woman to woman, about what happened one steamy night when Isolde was alone with Gawain.

Chapter 23 - Despair - wlopartwork by WLOP for his “Ghostblade” series

The Knights with No Lords
Chapter 23 – Despair
By Rock Kitaro

High up in one of the sky piercing towers, a woman in black attire came marching with purpose around the torch-lit corridors. Morgan came to pay a late night visit to the Princess Isolde. She approached the four soldiers guarding the bedroom door. Algayre was with them. His black eyes widened with excitement and rage.

“Oh, you have some nerve showing your face here! Witch!” Algayre seethed.

“And you have some nerve calling me a witch. I take it your mother was one. It’s the only explanation for those cheap parlor tricks you call magic. Not to mention having a face only a mother could love. Except she didn’t, did she. They’d never accept a wretch like you in Avalon and I suspect they don’t have schools of sorcery in Hibernia. Shssh! Listen. Hear that? It’s the sound of a hundred innocent women burning at the stake. They’re screaming for vengeance. They beseech me. I hear them. And rest assured, one day I will grant them their request.”

Algayre stood stupefied. Never before in his life had he ever been so deeply insulted, and worst! Morgan was correct in assuming his mother was a witch. But was it an assumption? Or did she peer into his past? Before Algayre could regain his senses, Morgan was no longer standing in front of him.

Somehow, she slipped by the four guards and easily opened the door to the room. It wasn’t until the light from the room came pouring out into the hallway that the guards realized their perimeter had been compromised. They crossed their spears to block Morgan’s path but it was too late. Morgan was locking eyes with a resentful Isolde.

“Let her through,” Isolde commanded.

“Buy milady. Your mother gave us explicit orders…”

“For the love of God! She’s just a child!” Isolde snapped.

Isolde was alone in the bedroom with nothing but old books to keep her company. She wasn’t in chains or tethered to the wall. To escape through the window meant jumping from a sixty-foot tower to the nearest roof. It was brightly lit with the wicks of every candle burning from a hanging chandelier. Morgan entered with her hands clasped behind her back. Algayre followed, his cheeks quivering with rage.

“I’m sorry but I’m going to have to insist that you keep your dog outside,” Morgan said as her purple eyes traced the cherubim tapestry adorning the wall.

Algayre drew his rapier with a metallic chime. Morgan’s back was turned to him. It would’ve been so easy to give a flick of his wrists and sever the spine at the base of her neck but Isolde came between them.

“Algayre please. She’s harmless,” she beckoned.

“I don’t care if she’s a fucking fly on the wall. My blade hungers for her blood!”

“And it may very drink, but not now. Outside. If you please,” Isolde urged with a stern gaze.

Morgan kept her back to the pair as she approached a counter that displayed a variety of the queen’s emeralds. Their texture was exquisite. She wanted to rub her fingers across their facets but she resisted. It wasn’t until she heard the door close that she turned around and faced her nemesis.

Morgan and Isolde wore the same defiant look of mutual disdain. Both loved men who valued useless things such as loyalty and honor above their own selfish desires. In fact, the acknowledgment that they had so much in common only made them hate each other even more. “In this world, there can only be one,” was the sentiment deep in their depths of their despair.

“Why are you here?” Isolde scoffed.

“Because I want to know what exactly Gawain saw in a scrawny thing like you.”

“Gawain! UGH! If I never hear that name again, I swear! After everything I’ve done for him. I trusted him! I confided in him. He knew. He knew! Tristan was all I ever wanted and he robbed me of my prize. I told him things that I never told anyone!”

“Such as?”

“None of your business, wench! Why don’t you go ask him?” Isolde snapped.

Morgan’s fingers coiled into a fist as her chin tucked down on that seething heat rising from her chest. “Did you have your way with him?”

“WHAT?!” Isolde shrieked with absurdity.

“I’m asking you, did you ever lay with Gawain? In the stables. Years ago at Oherth Castle.”

Isolde erupted in a fit of laughter before staring at Morgan as if she had just spilled a tray of pastries all over the front of her black dress. Isolde poured herself a drink of water. She took a sip from her tin goblet before returning to Morgan with a look of absurdity.

“Gawain is the most boring dolt I’ve ever met. He behaves as if the Holy Spirit is always just hovering over his shoulders, watching his every move. As if lightning would strike him at first sin. I’ve disrobed before him many times and not once has he ever allowed himself to feast his eyes on this. He’s a eunuch for all I know. Good luck trying to bed him. You’ll be a bleeding skeleton before he’s good and ready.”

As Isolde’s bold rant filled the room, Morgan crawled back into her shell. Morgan’s teeth began to rattle and with bated breath. Then a cringe flashed over her face, a cringe of anger and resentment as she recalled the vision of Gawain and Isolde. Her heart started to tremble and before she knew it, Morgan was biting her thumb.

“Oh my gosh. You don’t know, do you?” Isolde smirked. “You think there’s something going on between Gawain and I. You ask what Gawain could possibly see in me. Ha! I stand wondering what he could possibly see in a plump little gnome like you. Hahaha! What kind of girl distrusts the most honest man on earth?”

“Careful…” Morgan warned.

“Or what? Hmm?” Isolde dared as she stood over the shorter Morgan. “You’ll glower me to death? I should call you Medusa.”

“You should call me Morgan Le Fay,” Morgan grinned. “I thank you for your honesty. Here’s some back. You’re a fool if you ever believed Tristan loved you of his own volition. If it weren’t for a blend of truffle and Xice, he’d barely know you exist. And rest assured, after his head is mounted on a spike, no one else will know you exist either. They’ll write songs about the nameless woman trapped forever in the tower, whose beauty faded under a layer of dust and mold, only to be seen by the moths and rats, watching her grow old and old.”

Tears began to well in Isolde’s eyes, “My Mother…”

“Your mother will live out what’s left of her days in Oherth Castle. Morholt and that skeleton of a man Algayre will soon fall in battle. I know they think Tristan is our only lord and savior but my boys are more than enough for your lot. And even should they fall, I won’t. The fury in my heart screams, begging to be unleashed. I am wrath incarnate. And you are but dragon ash, destined to fade and wither in the wind.”

Isolde was shaking. She let the goblet slip from her fingertips before swinging for Morgan’s left cheek. Morgan ducked and punched Isolde in the stomach. A groaning Isolde staggered back and collapsed against the dresser.

Algayre came barging into the room. He drew his sword and charged at the smirking Morgan. Ever so calmly, Morgan covered herself with the hood of her black cloak. Algayre’s rapier plunged into Morgan’s chest, but Morgan was no longer there. All Algayre got was a vacant black cloak that he slung off of his sword.

He scanned the room. He knew she was still there.

“You started out so courageous!” Algayre shouted. “Where is your courage now? Come out and face me, witch! I know this is all your doing!”

“That’s right! You’ve all made the most entertaining pawns. I’ve enjoyed you immensely!” Morgan said, her voice emanating as if it came from all corners of the room.

“It’s only a matter of time before I catch you! Go ask Gawain! Ask him what I do to the—”

“—Toys that he tries to keep to himself?” Morgan finished. “Do be more original. And sadly you’re mistaken if you think I’m anyone’s plaything.”

“COME OUT!” Algayre shouted.

“I am out.”

Algayre’s eyes darted to the door. Morgan was standing in the hallway just behind the unsuspecting guards, dressed in her black gown with a smug grin.

“AAAAAAH!!!” Algayre bellowed as he charged for the door.

Just as he dashed forward in that mastered lunge he was known for, the door slammed shut. His sword drove through the wood and ended up stabbing one of his own guards. As Morgan started off down the winding corridor from whence she came, she could hear Algayre struggling to remove his sword.

Morgan’s smirk belied the heartfelt regret that she’d never allow anyone to see. With a stern gaze, Morgan’s mind blazed with stern conviction. “What’s done is done. They only have themselves to blame.”

The Knights with No Lords: Chapter 22 – Weighed Down (Fantasy Fiction)

Posted by Rock Kitaro on January 8, 2019
Posted in: About the Author. Tagged: , , , , , . Leave a comment

Gawain finds the fugitives Tristan and Isolde holed up in a cave by the sea. With a dagger to his throat, Gawain does his best to convince the star-crossed lovers to turn themselves in.

Chapter 22 - Weighed Down

The Knights with No Lords
Chapter 22 – Weighed Down
By Rock Kitaro

White lightning stretched like veins across the night as a single rider stormed over the hills. His cape rustled violently in the wind. He coiled the reins and held on tight as the hooves of his warhorse pounded the earth.

The darkness, he did not fear. Being thrown from his horse, he did not fear. Even when he was skirting the edge of a bluff with a fifty-foot drop, Gawain was not afraid. He throttled his horse and spurred harder, faster. Time was of the essence, but more than that, the danger, the adrenaline coursing through his body was like morphine to the anxiety of self-loathing sorrow.

After riding for nearly two hours, Gawain arrived at the southern coast. St. Michael’s Mount appeared as a black iceberg floating five hundred yards off shore. It was an island with an abbey erected on top. As Gawain stood on the rocky shoreline with waves crashing beneath his feet, he could see signs of life, candles flickering from the windows.

However, Gawain did not come to see the abbey. Even if the nuns accepted Isolde into their convent, it seemed unlikely that Tristan would go through all that trouble just to give her away and leave.

A breeze blew through his long curly locks. Demons seemed to be laughing from the clouds with each flash of light. As if the storm was daring Gawain to plunge into the unforgiving waves.

Gawain turned his attention to the vertical landmass to his right. It was a sea cliff with jagged edges and jarring protrusions, dotted with dozens of caves. Some say these were the caves of harpies, the same ones from Homer’s Odyssey. As the trade winds swept through the channel and scraped against the massive wall, an eerie howl whirled about like wailing banshees begging for a swift and merciful end. At present, the caves appeared dark, hollow, and vacant.

Gawain removed his cape and strapped it to the horse. He considered removing his chain mail and breastplate but elected to keep them on. It was nearly pitch black. The lightning provided brief flashes of his surroundings, flashes he had to commit to memory.

Stepping into the sinking sand with the edge of the tide grazing over his boots, Gawain skirted the shoreline as he approached the sea cliff. Once the water was up to his knees, it was time to climb.

Exploding waves drenched Gawain from head to toe. He’d cringe and turn his face away from the spray. Then he’d continue on, sliding his fingers into the cracks with his toes and insoles carrying the grunt of his weight.

“This is insanity!”

Gaheris’s words persisted like a sore throat. Gawain’s forearms were burning and his metal breastplate made it difficult to hug the wall the way he wanted. He inspected three hollow caves and found nothing. There had to be at least two dozen more. To check them all, given his increasing fatigue, “insanity” seemed about right.

An hour had passed. Sweat and saltwater made his eyes sting. He could barely see. That was, until he looked down. At that exact moment, lightning flash and showed him a nightmare from which he truly wished he could wake. The dark ocean looked like boiling oil beneath his feet. Loud blasts of thunder resonated in his chest and in the split second of sheer fright, Gawain lost his grip. His mind went blank. The cliff wall was right in front of him, and suddenly so far away.

It happened so quickly. He didn’t realize he was falling until his back hit the water with a table-breaking crash. The cold sea had swallowed him whole.

…

Gawain stared in a half sedated state, submerged in place as if the ocean was still deciding what to do with him. The sky had other plans. It struck the sea with a powerful bolt of lightning. The electric current hit Gawain, accelerating his heart. Now fully alert, he gasped and sucked in more water, choking as he clutched his throat and cringed at the burning sensation filling his lungs. He tried to swim up towards the blurred flashes of light. But no matter how much he tried, he kept sinking. The armor was weighing him down. Seemed pointless. Easier just to let go and die.

As Gawain closed his eyes and felt but a taste of not having to worry about anything else ever again, he was grabbed by his breastplate and yanked up with an incredible force. Gawain emerged from the salty sea and was dragged up the cliff wall, wheezing and coughing up all sorts of fluids, desperate to fill his lungs with air. Tristan was holding him with one hand, and scaling the stone wall with the other.

Upon reaching a cave twenty meters up, Tristan slung Gawain in like a ragdoll, causing him to roll and hit his head on a rock.

“DON’T!” Tristan shouted.

A flash of light revealed a wide-eyed Isolde hovering over Gawain with a dagger aimed for his heart. Gawain was scared stiff. It was if Isolde didn’t even recognize him. The absence of emotion or compassion, the cold stillness in the way she brandished her blade. Gawain didn’t move a muscle. The last thing he wanted was for the viper to strike.

 

The Knights with No Lords: Chapter 21 – Betrayal (Fantasy Fiction)

Posted by Rock Kitaro on January 3, 2019
Posted in: About the Author. Tagged: , , , , , . Leave a comment

In the aftermath of the massacre, Tristan and Isolde are hunted by nearly every sword in the kingdom. Gawain tries to make sense of it all and finally he gets his answers. Morgan tells him of the vision.

Chapter 21 - Betrayal

The Knights with No Lords
Chapter 21 – Betrayal
By Rock Kitaro

Dawn came with an air of tension. The overcast of a storm lingered and a malevolent gale howled through the streets. The most aggressive manhunt the country’s ever seen was underway as desensitized soldiers scoured the city in search for the traitorous Tristan and Isolde.

The king’s retainers in the neighboring lands of Devonshire, Dorset, and Somerset were put on high alert. Tristan and Isolde were to be considered an enemy of the state. Their capture and return was paramount, an issue of life and death, peace and war.

Pellinore wasn’t a vassal of Tintagel. He didn’t owe the country or King Mark anything. Yet, he immediately set out to Sewellen’s Chest and scrounged up all the ruffians who owed him money. They raided brothels and gaming dens, kicking in doors and overturning beds looking for the star-crossed lovers. Anyone who gave them trouble was rewarded with Pellinore’s boot up their ass.

Behind the closed doors of a chapel, Queen Iseult was all fire and brimstone as she barraged King Mark with the burden of blame and betrayal. She threatened to wage the bloodiest war the world had ever seen if she didn’t get her daughter back. King Mark did his best to assure her he was doing everything that could be done. He also reminded her that the betrayal struck both ways.

The bodies of Sir Ioness, Sir Ewangish, and Sir Cador were cleaned, fully clothed, and resting in the finest caskets worthy of their valor. The Duchess Igraine wept over Sir Cador’s casket, her last living cousin. A red-faced Constantine wept bitterly but stood dignified as his father would have wanted. Sir Cador raised Constantine to be a good man. His harsh discipline and relentless reproof was evident. It’s in light of these tragic and significant losses, King Mark had no choice but to disregard his affections for Tristan. This was treason. If found, Tristan would not be spared capital punishment.

Inside the main citadel, strife prevailed as the lords and generals engaged in fiery debates about what was to be done. Over 200 men of authority convened in the King Mark’s court. Fingers were pointed. Accusations slurred. A revolt was on the rise with many fearing Tristan would rally men who were more loyal to him than the crown.

Gawain, Gaheris, and Agravain sat quietly at a table on the outskirts of the throne room. They were forbidden from aiding in the search, a point made clear following a stern lecture from their adoptive father King Lot. This of course came after Queen Morgaus noticed the deep grudge, the paint painted in Gaheris’s squinty-eyed scowl.

The brothers were armed with their weapons, breastplates and shoulder pads. Gawain’s burning gaze was fixed in place as he replayed every interaction he witnessed between Tristan and Isolde, trying to make sense of things, wondering what they could have possibly been thinking. Tristan was the most levelheaded man Gawain knew. He wouldn’t have let himself commit treason so easily. Something must have happened. It’s the only way. But what?

Gaheris and Agravain watched with disgust as the older men bickered. Meanwhile, the Hibernians showed a considerable amount of restraint. Gathered near the exit, sixteen Hibernian knights huddled around Algayre and Sir Maven. Gaheris and Agravain noticed their eerie silence. It wasn’t just silence. It was confidence. No matter how impressive their fighting ability was, the Hibernians were still severely out numbered. So why on earth were they so confident?

Algayre’s black beetle eyes watched Gawain. He could tell Gawain was hard at work solving riddles in his head. So badly, the warlock Algayre wanted to crack it open and let all the secrets come spilling out.

“I DARE YOU TO SAY THAT AGAIN!” shouted Bruno.

“Are you not Tristan’s closest friend? How can we trust you?” Sir Blajan shouted.

Bruno promptly replied by knocking Sir Blajan on his back. A skirmish broke out between Bruno’s clique and Blajan’s. The elderly Sir Ekner hobbled in and struggled to regain order but his voice was drown out in the ruckus. Meanwhile, the Hibernians chuckled at the sight. Their smug attitudes made Agravain squint with displeasure.

“Enough with this sitting around crap!” Agravain said as he propped up from his seat and started for the exit.

Gawain and Gaheris didn’t protest. They followed. And in a mental conversations that only brothers could have, all three came to the conclusion, “we have to find Tristan.”

Just as the light from the opening doors touched Gawain’s face, a long slender hand grabbed him by the collar.

“This is the witch’s doing. You know it to be true,” Algayre hissed.

“I strongly urge you remove your hand,” Gawain growled.

“I will open her neck with my teeth!”

Gawain shoved him into the door. The hard knock got everyone’s attention.

“Over my dead body,” Gawain warned.

“Was hoping you’d say that, street rat.”

THUMP!

Agravain had whipped up one of Algayre’s own daggers and pinned it to the door just inches from Algayre’s thin sideburns.

“Problem?” Agravain asked.

“Oye! None of that! You lads fan out and find Tristan. Go on! Out!” Sir Ekner shouted.

Gaheris pulled Gawain away by his breastplate as Algayre just nodded with a creepy grin.

“That’s right, boy.” Algayre taunted. “Find him. Find him, before I find the girl. And you know what I do to little toys you try keep to yourself.”

“OVER MY DEAD BODY!” Gawain shouted.

Toothless Kersey and five of his lancer friends were passing through when they helped Gaheris pull away an unhinged Gawain.

Agravain stayed where he was, glaring at Algayre. He jerked forward and spit down on Algayre’s boots. Algayre’s bug eyes widened with an insane smile. As Agravain joined the group, Algayre followed until he was just through the doors. He watched the young restless teens as they stormed up the stairs at the end of the hallway, like they were all just a bunch of rabid young cubs who needed to be put down as soon as possible.

The Slave Quarters (FINAL CHAPTER): Chapter 22 – Back to Work

Posted by Rock Kitaro on December 30, 2018
Posted in: About the Author, Slave Quarters. Tagged: , , , , . Leave a comment

Before Agent Cloud Beaudry can close the book on the Slave Quarter case, there’s one last objective, which brings him to the scenic city of Savannah, Georgia. You see…Cloud is one of those rare individuals who takes his vows very seriously. Even if it was a promise made to a ghost.

Chapter 22 - Back to Work

The Slave Quarters
Chapter 22 – Back to Work
By Rock Kitaro

The coastal city of Savannah should be called the City of Spanish moss. There are giant oak trees at every turn and the aged moss hangs like garland throughout the year. It’s the oldest city in Georgia, a history replete with tales of the Civil War, colonial pirates, and remnants of the grand Old South.

Its college town atmosphere reminds me of Athens, except it has more character reminiscent of antebellum class and sophistication. Horse-drawn carriages are one of the key stables for tourism. The many churches, statues, monuments, and Victorian age street lights…it makes the city a time capsule by which one could escape from the modern world. Liberal Arts is huge in the area. Even on a crisp Thursday afternoon, one could hear a distinct cello or some classical string arrangement carrying with the wind.

It’s not my first time to Savannah. To date, I’ve solved three cases here. The last one involved the disappearance of a teacher who was so fascinated with the pirate folklore that she managed to get herself trapped in an old dungeon. By the time I found her, the rats had stripped her to the bone. The graphic image has scarred my mind and ever since, I’ve dreaded the idea of coming back. Between Savannah, Charleston, and New Orleans…the ghosts really are the worst.

Thankfully, I’m not here on official business. I moseyed on down after stopping by Augusta to testify at Det. Griffin’s Internal Affairs hearing. It’s been one whole week since I helped solve the Slave Quarter mystery. Det. Griffin was still a mess but my guilt no longer held me down. Griffin will probably spend the next three years in and out of the psych ward. And here I am indulging on a decadent dish of shrimp and grits at a highly recommended kitchen near Hutchinson Island.

It’s a satisfying meal. My belly is full and my schedule is clear for the rest of the afternoon. So as per usual, I seek out aesthetic beauty in the form of quaint scenic parks where I’m least likely to find horrible humans beings. Notice how I said “horrible”. I don’t mind the company of other humans so long as they’re good and decent. It’s been my experience that horrible human beings don’t bask in nature’s glory. If they do, it’s rare and brief.

The golden sun glistens through the browning crowns of Reynolds Square. The blue jays and robins are tweeting their lovely tunes as they bathed in the jade waters of a trickling green fountain. I’m wearing khakis and a cream-colored sweater vest over my shirt and tie. The cool breeze and a soothing scent of jasmine makes me feel lighter than a feather.

Indie Rock plays in my earbuds as I stroll the park on a grass stained walkway of maroon colored bricks. My mood is so chill, so cool. That rare sensation of “be free” enters my bloodstream causing my hands to wave along with the groove of the guitar. My shoulders bounce along with the beat. I don’t care who sees me, it’s all good. It’s all gravy. Dog walkers and joggers smile as they pass by. Single mothers are checking me out. I smile and nod to everyone. These are good people. It’s a good day.

I should be heading back to Atlanta. I have to work in the morning. Apparently Jessica and Leanne picked up a gangland murder that threatens to break the stability of Atlanta’s most prominent mob family. It wasn’t my case, and yet, for some stupid reason I feel responsible for those women. Call me chauvinistic if you want, I don’t care. They are my women and I protect my women. Yes, it’s this old-fashion obligation that compels to make one final stop before getting back on I-16. When a man makes a promise, he follows through. It’s just one of those things.

So here I go.

The Knights With No Lords: Chapter 20 – Break Out (Fantasy Fiction)

Posted by Rock Kitaro on December 27, 2018
Posted in: About the Author, Knights With No Lords. Tagged: , , , , , . Leave a comment

In the dead of the night, a resounding bell wakes the castle. A massacre has taken place. Blood and bodies are strewn about. And when everyone finds out that the killer is one of their own…all bets are off. Peace talks go out the window and everyone’s calling for war.

Chapter 20 - Break Out

The Knights with No Lords
Chapter 20 – Break Out
By Rock Kitaro

Gawain didn’t leave the banquet to go lay down as he said he would. Instead, he trudged out of the palace and got lost in the nightlife of Tintagel’s nefarious underground. With gloomy thoughts and a defeated drag, Gawain would eventually find himself drawn to the boisterous laughter of a man too full of himself to let anxiety ever enter his cognitive.

The “Slewellen Chest” was one of the most popular rough and tumble taverns in all of Tintagel. All of the sell swords, thieves, and drunkards frequented this massive two-story pub. Cigar smoke and discombobulated revelry filled the air and spilled out into the streets. Arm-wrestling and card games took up the center tables while discreet plots and conspiracy theories permeated along the timber walls.

The tavern was packed on both tiers, a rabble of activity. Playful wenches in tight bust-pressing bodices made themselves familiar. Somehow, they managed to balance trays of foamed topped brews, roasted fish, and salted pretzels while spinning on their heels, swaying their hips and dancing to the jaunty tunes.

A few sailors tried reaching up their skirts but they were quickly made examples of. The retired Sir Brackish yanked them up by their necks and sent them flying out the nearest windows. That being said, the Slewellen Chest had a storeroom full of spare windows. Every time glass shattered, everyone raised their mugs and gave a unified cheer before guzzling down the rest of its contents. It was a fun tradition.

Sir Brackish owned the bar and ran it alongside his remarkable wife, Slewellen. Short and stout with possibly the largest breasts in all of Britannia, Slewellen was indeed remarkable. All seven of her daughters were blessed with similar assets and Sir Brackish wasn’t shy about using them to draw wayward travelers to his establishment. Two ladies were stationed outside, dancing under the protection of four bearded swordsmen. The other five happily helped their mother tend to the guests and staff. Their charm, the way they interacted with visitors as if all were part of the family. Thus, Sir Brackish was one of the most famous men in all of Tintagel. If something were to happen to him or his daughters, an army of criminals would rise from the shadows and rally to his side.

The antler decorations were spectacular. Spirited fiddle and flute musicians played on a stage near the grand fireplace as the baker’s wife sang her song about sailors and pirates. Flickering candles and burning torches made the tavern a star that could be seen from the highest towers.

With a ceiling reaching up to forty feet, all of the walls were adorned by an eclectic array of swords, spears, and shields from around the world. The centerpiece was on the largest wall just above the fireplace. It was seven-foot replica of Duke Gorlois’s shield, bearing his image imposed over the black Cornish flag of gold coins. Surrounding it was the mounted heads all sorts of wild beasts, but regardless of the excess, all eyes were drawn to the shield the moment they entered the tavern.

Seventeen-year-old Gawain plodded into the tavern and was immediately greeted by dagger-like stares from the closest tables. The Lothian pin on his chest revealed he was royalty. That coupled with his youthful appearance and careless swag made the cutthroats ripe with animosity. Prince or not, the Slewellen Chest was no man’s land. Gawain was aware. Deep down, he was actually thirsting for a fight.

The grind of chairs being pushed put him on edge. Gawain turned to see a large potbellied mercenary approaching with three others, all ugly as sin. They looked strong. He could see the scars through their hairy forearms and they were already putrid with fatty sweat. Still…Gawain was thirsting for a fight.

“OYE! He’s with us,” shouted Barxy.

Everyone turned to the largest table closest to the fire. Pellinore and his five men, the Brood of Black Bloods had occupied this table. Kanish, Barxy, Jeremy, Dantry, and Balto, all decked in black armor with the aura of wolves ready to hunt. Pellinore was the only one smiling. He had one of Brackish’s daughters on his lap. She was a vibrant with orange hair, playing with Pellinore’s red scarf as she stared at the cool vertical scar over his left eye.

“He don’ belong ‘ere,” grumbled a Celtic warrior with a red beard.

“Anyone touches him…Do I even need to say?” Pellinore warned as he chuckled and leaned in to nibble on the lady’s neck.

The big scary men stepped aside and cleared a path. Gawain started to pass when suddenly he turned and smacked the taste out of red-bearded Celtic. The Celtic fell back and dragged with him the contents of a table full of drinks. Everyone laughed and applauded as the prince approached Pellinore’s table with the authority of a man well beyond his years.

“That idiot is the captain of the Hollow Fang. His boys will come looking to fix this,” Kanish warned.

“Good!” Gawain said as he plopped down in a chair.

“Hear, hear!” Jeremy shouted.

“HA! And here I thought this one was all pomp and piety,” Dantry slurred.

“Nah. He’s got plenty of Spartan in ‘em when certain toes are stepped on,” said Pellinore.

“Judging from that mug of his, I’m willing to bet there’s a lover’s quarrel, no doubt,” Kanish smirked.

Gawain didn’t answer. He just sat there with hooded eyes staring into the fire. Barxy, Jeremy, Balto and Dantry continued their card game while the inquisitive Kanish continued to make inquiries.

“Coming from the banquet?” he asked.

Gawain cringed and nodded. “Nothing makes a lick of sense anymore. You should have seen it. Everyone was getting along. It was as if peace was manufactured and the engineers held hidden blades to those with the blueprints. Morgan was the master of ceremonies. She gave some kind of motivational speech! I couldn’t believe it. I swear I thought I was hallucinating. And Tristan was…Pellinore, Tristan was giddy.”

“Giddy?” Pellinore doubted with a raised brow.

“I know! Sounds utterly insane. Doesn’t it?”

“Aye, it does. Maybelle! Come bring the lad some ale!” Pellinore shouted.

“No thanks. I don’t partake,” Gawain declined.

“Poppycock!” Barxy snapped.

“My prince, if you’re with us you’re gonna have to turn that frown upside down. Maybelle’s brown sugar ale should do the trick,” Jeremy assured him.

Gawain grumbled, “Oh, what the hell. On with it then.”

“ON WITH IT THEN!” Pellinore shouted.

“ON WITH IT!” the boys shouted, all pounding their mugs and fists on the table.

While Pellinore resumed burying his face in breasts, Kanish reflected on Gawain’s assessment. The prince drank and every time his cup was half full, Barxy would lean over and top it off. By the fourth refill, a miserable Gawain was slouching over, propping his elbows on the table and wiping the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. He peered through his curly bangs and noticed Kanish was still staring.

“I’m not crazy,” Gawain mumbled.

“Never said you were, my prince,” Kanish said with that laid back smirk of his.

“You think I’ll lose myself to the drink and become like the rest of this riffraff,” Gawain asked.

“You want to know what I think?” Kanish asked.

“For fuck’s sake, just tell the boy!” Pellinore yelled.

“Milord, the prince and I are talking. You’d do well to listen yourself. Seeing as you’d be in the same boat if I stole your lady from you,” said Kanish.

“Let me tell ya,” Pellinore slurred. “You try and steal this valkyrie from me, you better run and hide yourself well!”

“Yes, that’s my point. Young Gawain. You are the heir of Lothian and Orkney. You need only lift a finger and a host of swords would set upon your enemies. Yet, here you sit as if you’re rotting in chains in some backwater dungeon. It’s odd, no?” Kanish noted.

Pellinore nodded. Everyone at the table was paying attention. Gawain, however, kept drinking. That was until Pellinore reached over and palmed the top of his mug.

“Remove your hand, sir,” Gawain warned.

“Or what? You’ll strike me?” Pellinore grinned.

Gawain’s fierce gaze was locked on Pellinore like a snake poised to strike.

“Hit him, Gawain!” said Barxy.

“Knock that scar off of his face!” Jeremy hissed.

“Go head. Strangle him with that stupid red scarf,” Balto urged.

“HEY!” Pellinore shouted. “This scarf is not stupid. You jackals have no sense of taste! That’s what that is!”

Fear flashed over Pellinore’s face as Gawain suddenly jerked forward. Only, Gawain didn’t attack. He erupted with a stream of pink projectile vomit spraying all over Pellinore and his lady. The woman took off screaming before Pellinore grimaced and started vomiting himself. The Brood of the Black Bloods roared with laughter as Gawain toppled over and hit the floor chest first.

“OH!!!”

“UGH! YOU DISGUSTING BASTARD! I’mma kill you!” Pellinore shouted.

He managed to get two kicks in to Gawain’s ribcage before the boys pulled him back. Gawain’s sweaty cheek stuck him to the stone floor. His sight got blurry and then all went dark. All went silent.