"There are rules!" he exhaled. "The doors that I open are the rooms your eyes are permitted to see. What I say bloody goes — I am the one and only law here, and if you ever, ever break my law… I'll take a break to your puny little neck!"
His eye wandered hungrily over that neck of mine, and the gulp of my Adam's apple.
"Now," he added; "you've already seen the dinner hall and your own quarters…Quite enough for the time being. This minute I am starving hungry speck. Starving hungry! I will show you the kitchen. You'll be making my meals from now on, but scrub your hands before you cook — I won't eat anything prepared by your contaminated arse picking fingers!"
"I'm not your fucking maid!" I blurted out.
"Did the speck just speak out of turn? he asked, a cockroach crawling out of his curly beard. "Do you want to see yourself strewn to pieces? Shall I fetch my mop?"
He rubbed his fist and five chubby knuckles, and I submissively lowered my head.
"I'm… sorry."
Bludgeon swayed again before taking that cockroach whole into his mouth; there was the crunch of the insect against his teeth, followed by him wiping the sides of his mouth with the beard.
"Another rule speck!" he added, slurring words. "You will be a quiet little mouse from now on. Zero cursing. Also, try not to breathe, the sound of your inhaling and exhaling cuts through me like a knife. Yes, a quiet little mouse is what I expect from you. What have you to be?"
"…"
"Well?" he demanded, stamping his hoof on the staircase.
"A… quiet little mouse," I grumbled.
"A what? What?"
"A quiet little mouse."
"Correct mouse! Now toddle off to that kitchen and fix me some dinner, and if you spit in my food I'll know, I'll know and I'll kill you for it!"
I couldn't believe my ears. With Kat and Scarfell, I thought I had met all the tyrants the Distinct Earth had to offer. I bit my tongue while he kept his serious stare fixed on mine. Finally, the centaur backed down the stairs and I followed to his kitchen, clenching my fists and cursing the stinking beast under my breath.
***
No chair required for his strong horse form, Bludgeon was at the dinner table, starting a meal I prepared in his gross kitchen. Not a kitchen per say, more a cold storage facility taking advantage of the outside temperature to preserve the food in random buckets and barrels. In that freezer, I opportunistically eyed a solid wooden block I might use to lock my cell door, that's if my relationship with the king continued to deteriorate.
The food itself consisted of various living things found in this wet cave — bats, shrimps, mushrooms, snapping crabs, slinky spiders and slippery salamanders. Then there was the grog, which I presumed he made himself — endless casks stacked against the glacial walls.
A week later, I sat facing Bludgeon at the end of the table, holding a mug of water and a bowl of clay colored stew. An upset stomach wouldn't let me eat, but Bludgeon slurped and dribbled the lot into his beard. No use for utensils, his insect riddled fingers were more than satisfactory; I'd puke if I had the energy.
I didn't get it. Why was he so precious about me washing my hands only to eat the way he did? Why had he gone to all the trouble of a beautiful golden seal and grand marble entrance, only to live in squalor underneath it? This revolting creature was far removed from the gallant centaur riding the back of a fire-breathing dragon. Was marble and seal, and this grandiose geode hall just pomp and circumstance? The pretentious façade of a fallen king?
He always ate with a spear tucked safely by his side, a weapon seen previously piercing my neck.
Momentarily removing focus from his belly, Bludgeon looked up to watch me poke at my rations.
"Do not play with your food pisser! Shall I fetch you a skipping rope, child? You can play with that instead? Food is for eating! Mind me!"
"The food would be fine," I droned, "except — why does it taste the same? Everything in this world, it's all bark!"
"Why don't you eat bark then pisser?" he cried. "Why don't you? I would surely like to see that! I surely would!"
I slunk in my chair as Bludgeon protested, a crust of bread falling from the tangled net of his beard.
"Where does the scientist get his gall?" he boomed. "Sending this insolent thug from a retarded generation of halfwits to my home? To live with me?"
His temper was explosive, and once off its leash there was no controlling it. "I give the speck free room and board from the good kindness of my heart! He doesn't open his mouth to converse and when he does it's only to squirt his shit on my cuisine!" he peered at me now from the opposite end of the table. "Would you like my spear in your belly, mouse? That would certainly be more interesting than your personality, or the so called bark you jab at!"
"Apologies," I said, timidly. "It was just an observation."
My apology wasn't nearly enough to settle the king's complaints. "You may not enjoy the taste, but eating is a necessity — one you will get used to."
Sounds familiar, I thought, as Bludgeon cast his resentful expression to the geode sky, cursing the angels beyond it with his fist clenched. His theatrical moan was like an old Thespian in complete command of his craft; and after this award winning moment, he let out a lingering sigh. "Only in Heaven shall one sample the tasty delights of food and drink. Does this look like Heaven to you pisser? Does it? Answer me mouse!"
"No!" I snapped. "No it does not!"
Sneering, Bludgeon leaned proud over the table, "It is Heaven to me weed! Tell me then, man preferred by righteous above — what is wrong with my home?"
"Nothing!" I said, dousing his new fire. "Nothing at all!"
"Damn straight nothing at all! The bloody impertinence of some people…"
From now on, I thought it best to speak only when spoken to, and not be drawn into further argument.
As this meal continued, Bludgeon fussed through small bones on his plate, I heard his complaints at the lack of meat on them, then the distant roar of thunder and strikes of far off lightning. High above our heads, past geode crystals and thousands of tons of rock, two marble walls were colliding.
"Blasted mountain birds!" bellowed the king. "Carve your own home out of your own bloody mountain! Winged pests…"
I pushed my water and stale stew aside — the trap bringing my mind back to Kat, "He didn't want to be here either."
"Oh, will you ever shut your lips?" Bludgeon moaned. "Whatever his reputation promised, the yellow man was a murderer — certainly less but nothing more!" He grinned, filling his already bloated mouth with more. "Gifted swordsman is he? Escaped Hell did he? Overrated rot! And for my traps it's a job well done."
It is true that I disliked Kat, but in a few short days and hours, the centaur had well surpassed him. "Fucking Bastard…" I mumbled.
Suddenly, Bludgeon's mouth stopped the motions of chewing, leaving a single cheek-full of mulched food. Something was said, something he did not fully understand. The dullness in his eyes washed clear, as if awoken from a long hibernation. His forehead creased and the millipedes began to crawl from his arms and down the table leg like some vast retreating army. The centaur's lips now parted and his tongue spat out a ball of compacted food, which rolled like a snowball down his beard. "Say again mouse? Say…again?"
I kept my mouth shut and my eyes glued to the wooden table. Bludgeon's lips meanwhile curved upward to a half smile. "I imagine the yellow man felt a lot of pain," he said. "A horrendous amount actually. Those traps may look spectacular when crushing tiny birds and the like, but it takes a great deal to flatten a man. No doubt the last thing your Kat ever felt was the squash of his own skeleton, like meat in a sandwich. I wonder how long he remained conscious. Nine lives my eye. Not hungry speck?"