White Lies
Predator Press
[LOBO]
MAXIMILLIAN was scrunched tightly in the bottom of the crow’s nest, roasting slowly under the blistering noonday sun. The confined area made him suddenly aware of how badly he smelled. He pulled his sweat-matted hair from his piqued ear and listened carefully.
“Land!” Brighta repeated tearfully in the distance, laughing. “Goddamn it, land!”
Yeah fuck you, Max thought. The last time he fell for this, Brighta was waiting for him with a lead pipe and a boiling cauldron. He gripped the hilt of his sword in silence.
But soon he heard Vetter and Brighta, animated in the distance. Vetter began to join the celebration.
Skeptical, Max carefully peeked over the edge.
And there it was.
***
Max was the navigator and current ranking officer on the battleship-class Bloodlust: the last surviving vessel of the great armada sent by King Casio the Second to invade The Exotic Western Shores -- King Casio abbreviates it "Exotic Whores" in an apparent drunken spat of bad penmanship-- so illegal copies of them could be "attained" and distributed over the internet so Metallica would get really pissed off.
With puzzling orders, Max, Brighta and Vetter were the sole survivors of the legendary and mighty Bloodlust crew.
They had been lost at sea for two years.
Transgressions momentarily forgotten, all hands joined on the deck to rejoice the sudden good fortune.
***
As the Bloodlust could not be piloted to shore by the three surviving crewmembers, they dropped anchor and boarded a dingy to row to the beach. Vetter could not contain himself: his big sloppy grin beamed as he rowed, his huge arms bulging under the welcome labor.
“A saucy wench, a pint of ale, and a leg of lamb,” Brighta laughed merrily. “What about you, Vetter?”
Vetter just smiled broadly, pulling the oars with his mighty arms.
Max studied his maps. “We still have our mission.”
"Perform a full-scale invasion of the country. Right." Brighta seized the maps and cast them into the sea. “There's three of us left! That’s what I think of the damned mission!”
Max thought better of diving in after the useless maps. When they left, those same maps seemed infallible: find the North Star and sail due west. But one night the North Star was simply gone, replaced by stars with strange names like "Steve Loves Amanda" and "The Great Ogre Vortex". Still, he glared furiously at Brighta.
Brighta spat into the sea, too hungry to squabble over details. “Look at that pillar of smoke!” he grinned. “I’ll bet there’s a feast being prepared even as we speak!”
Vetter frowned.
As they grew closer, they could see that it was indeed no cooking fire. An entire village was ablaze.
Brighta’s mood began to slide into the serious. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” he finally declared. Sniffing the air, he paused. "Does anybody else smell quiche?"
***
By the time they pulled the small boat ashore on the beautiful empty beach, the sun was setting. Max studied the barren landscape with some concern. It was too quiet. “Brighta, we need fresh water and food. Vetter, you gather some firewood.”
“And be careful,” Max continued. “Something is wrong here.”
“Shhh!” Brighta interrupted. “Listen!”
Hoofbeats.
Max and Brighta drew their swords as a lean and magnificent riderless beautiful white stallion galloped into the clearing.
"Ah Christ" Beautiful White Stallion muttered to himself. "Now what?"
"You there!" demanded Max. "In the name of King Casio, you and all of the realm of the depraved cretin King King are hereby commanded to lay down your arms and --"
"Look buddy," said the stallion, still in full gallop. "First of all, I don't surrender to people without the mental voltage to jumpstart a mouse trap." And as the steed faded in the foliage, he added. "... And by the way, everybody is dead. Have fun with your new kingdom!"
"Nice going, dumbass!" said Brighta, smacking Max behind his head. "The first food we're seen in months--" Brighta rolled his eyes as he made quote marks in the air with his fingers, swishing his hips "--and you do the whole 'I command you to lay down your arms' bit--."
***
Tracking Beautiful White Stallion took several hours, as Beautiful White Stallion had enormous disdain for rugged forest. A metropolitan and educated creature, Beautiful White Stallion stuck traditionally with main thoroughfares, highways, and public transportation.
But Max had made a crude sketch, and asking around, they traced him to am exotic French Boutique named "Le Towndaleburgville Chic". After a day at the spa the hunt resumed in the form of questioning the locals.
"Oh yes," Pierre replied. "I'll bet Beautiful White Stallion went to see the Crone. The Crone is the sole survivor of the dragon attack."
"But if there were no survivors, who are you people?" asked Max.
Pierre leaned forward, whispering. "A great evil has come over this place." He nervously looked over his shoulder. "The author of this story is ... well ..." With his index finger, he drew a repeating circle around his right temple.
"Oh my God," gasped Brighta. "I knew it. I fucking knew it--"
"Eh," Pierre shrugged. "At least it's not Wes Craven."
"Or Dean Koontz," Max agreed.
[LOBO]
MAXIMILLIAN was scrunched tightly in the bottom of the crow’s nest, roasting slowly under the blistering noonday sun. The confined area made him suddenly aware of how badly he smelled. He pulled his sweat-matted hair from his piqued ear and listened carefully.
“Land!” Brighta repeated tearfully in the distance, laughing. “Goddamn it, land!”
Yeah fuck you, Max thought. The last time he fell for this, Brighta was waiting for him with a lead pipe and a boiling cauldron. He gripped the hilt of his sword in silence.
But soon he heard Vetter and Brighta, animated in the distance. Vetter began to join the celebration.
Skeptical, Max carefully peeked over the edge.
And there it was.
Max was the navigator and current ranking officer on the battleship-class Bloodlust: the last surviving vessel of the great armada sent by King Casio the Second to invade The Exotic Western Shores -- King Casio abbreviates it "Exotic Whores" in an apparent drunken spat of bad penmanship-- so illegal copies of them could be "attained" and distributed over the internet so Metallica would get really pissed off.
With puzzling orders, Max, Brighta and Vetter were the sole survivors of the legendary and mighty Bloodlust crew.
They had been lost at sea for two years.
Transgressions momentarily forgotten, all hands joined on the deck to rejoice the sudden good fortune.
As the Bloodlust could not be piloted to shore by the three surviving crewmembers, they dropped anchor and boarded a dingy to row to the beach. Vetter could not contain himself: his big sloppy grin beamed as he rowed, his huge arms bulging under the welcome labor.
“A saucy wench, a pint of ale, and a leg of lamb,” Brighta laughed merrily. “What about you, Vetter?”
Vetter just smiled broadly, pulling the oars with his mighty arms.
Max studied his maps. “We still have our mission.”
"Perform a full-scale invasion of the country. Right." Brighta seized the maps and cast them into the sea. “There's three of us left! That’s what I think of the damned mission!”
Max thought better of diving in after the useless maps. When they left, those same maps seemed infallible: find the North Star and sail due west. But one night the North Star was simply gone, replaced by stars with strange names like "Steve Loves Amanda" and "The Great Ogre Vortex". Still, he glared furiously at Brighta.
Brighta spat into the sea, too hungry to squabble over details. “Look at that pillar of smoke!” he grinned. “I’ll bet there’s a feast being prepared even as we speak!”
Vetter frowned.
As they grew closer, they could see that it was indeed no cooking fire. An entire village was ablaze.
Brighta’s mood began to slide into the serious. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” he finally declared. Sniffing the air, he paused. "Does anybody else smell quiche?"
By the time they pulled the small boat ashore on the beautiful empty beach, the sun was setting. Max studied the barren landscape with some concern. It was too quiet. “Brighta, we need fresh water and food. Vetter, you gather some firewood.”
“And be careful,” Max continued. “Something is wrong here.”
“Shhh!” Brighta interrupted. “Listen!”
Hoofbeats.
Max and Brighta drew their swords as a lean and magnificent riderless beautiful white stallion galloped into the clearing.
"Ah Christ" Beautiful White Stallion muttered to himself. "Now what?"
"You there!" demanded Max. "In the name of King Casio, you and all of the realm of the depraved cretin King King are hereby commanded to lay down your arms and --"
"Look buddy," said the stallion, still in full gallop. "First of all, I don't surrender to people without the mental voltage to jumpstart a mouse trap." And as the steed faded in the foliage, he added. "... And by the way, everybody is dead. Have fun with your new kingdom!"
"Nice going, dumbass!" said Brighta, smacking Max behind his head. "The first food we're seen in months--" Brighta rolled his eyes as he made quote marks in the air with his fingers, swishing his hips "--and you do the whole 'I command you to lay down your arms' bit--."
Tracking Beautiful White Stallion took several hours, as Beautiful White Stallion had enormous disdain for rugged forest. A metropolitan and educated creature, Beautiful White Stallion stuck traditionally with main thoroughfares, highways, and public transportation.
But Max had made a crude sketch, and asking around, they traced him to am exotic French Boutique named "Le Towndaleburgville Chic". After a day at the spa the hunt resumed in the form of questioning the locals.
"Oh yes," Pierre replied. "I'll bet Beautiful White Stallion went to see the Crone. The Crone is the sole survivor of the dragon attack."
"But if there were no survivors, who are you people?" asked Max.
Pierre leaned forward, whispering. "A great evil has come over this place." He nervously looked over his shoulder. "The author of this story is ... well ..." With his index finger, he drew a repeating circle around his right temple.
"Oh my God," gasped Brighta. "I knew it. I fucking knew it--"
"Eh," Pierre shrugged. "At least it's not Wes Craven."
"Or Dean Koontz," Max agreed.
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