Witches Be Crazy

During his days working as an innkeeper, Dungar had been subjected to all matter of tales regarding all matter of circumstances. From the mundane to the fantastic and the blatant fabrications to the undisputable truths, he was convinced he had heard it all. Among those stories, tales involving kidnappings were hardly scarce. But as he felt himself being manhandled along his current route by his captors, he found himself realizing that no one ever took the time to really illustrate the actual journey itself between the spot at which one was kidnapped and the spot they were taken to.

He lay draped over the shoulders of two of the goons who snatched Jimminy and himself. The shackles on his hands remained firmly in place and his vision was plunged into complete darkness due to the sack fastened around his head. The surge of adrenaline induced by the kidnapping itself coupled with the overwhelming conflicting emotions of fear, anger, and frustration served to deprive him of his situational focus and clarity of mind. All of these elements of the event were to be expected, given what he had heard from stories of similar situations.

What the aforementioned stories always failed to address was the time period of the trip itself. The time period in which the stress began to ease, focus began to return, and the adrenaline began to dissipate. In their place began to surface feelings such as helplessness, mounting discomfort, and mind-numbing boredom. To kick or even wriggle around was fruitless. Every movement which served to hinder the hired help from doing their jobs would quickly warrant a sharp blow to the ribs and harsh warning. As such, he was forced to simply stay as still as he could in the uncomfortable position he lay draped in. With every bump in the terrain he could feel the shoulders digging more and more into his chest and thighs.

Dungar had no concept of how long they walked for. His eyesight was completely revoked and his hearing was quite obstructed by the bag over his head, the air inside which was slowly becoming heavier and moister due to his sweat and vulture-meat breath. Due to a complete lack of all other kinds of stimuli, he found himself counting the steps of the man charged with carrying his upper body. He estimated the man’s stride to be roughly two feet. Using that information, he felt he could calculate the rough distance they traveled in whatever direction they were going.

After 150 feet or so he decided that was a stupid idea and instead opted to distract himself with fantasies of bludgeoning the man carrying his torso to death with the body of the man carrying his legs.

Somewhere up ahead of him, Dungar could hear the sounds of Jimminy just being himself. It appeared that his tactic for preserving what little sanity he still had left involved simply annoying the traffickers as much as possible. The pain tolerance in the man was remarkable. Even over the exasperated orders and threats from the kidnapping crew commanding Jimminy to shut up, Dungar could hear the repeated thuds of them working his friend’s body over. But bless the man and his stalwart defiance; he kept right on ringing out his ridiculous songs in as shrill and tone-deaf a voice he could muster.

Way hey and away we’re dragged

To an unknown place since we got snagged

I’m gonna keep singin’ until I’m gagged

A way hey and away we’re dragged

EVERYBODY!

Groans and complaints continued to echo from the company, but most of them found themselves resigned into acceptance of the aggravation. Periodically Jimminy would cease his repetition and instead be bothersome in other ways while he came up with new lyrics. Repeatedly inquiring “Are we there yet?” usually elicited the most grief, followed by the classic “I spy with my little eye: something black.” It took the goons forever to finally guess what it was since the bag covering Jimminy’s head was actually brown and just looked black from the inside.

Eventually a hush fell over the fellowship as the tell-tale sound of heavy boots stomping on wooden floors indicated they had entered a building. After a short jaunt through the building and down some stairs, and a short grunt and groan from his escorts, Dungar found himself roughly dropped onto a hard floor of packed dirt. Soon he felt the bag removed from his face and he found himself blinking in the dim light of the room. His eyesight returned just in time to see a large wooden gate slowly being lowered over the exit of the cell he appeared to be in.

Dungar surveyed the cell that now housed Jimminy and himself. The air in the room was stuffy and dusty; it reeked of sweat and, for some reason, old cheese. The room itself appeared to be carved entirely into hard, dry dirt; likely indicating that they were underground. It was rather large too. It was currently populated by only Jimminy and himself, but appeared to have been built to accommodate significantly more people. Off in one of the corners there was a small amount of bread and water. The dirt walls were all lined with iron bars that disappeared through both the floor and ceiling, likely to prevent any attempts at digging one’s way out. The only way in and out of the room was blocked by a thick wooden gate which lowered from above.

Dungar’s first inclination was to attempt to lift it. As he strained his muscles he could only feel the gate give ever so slightly; no more than an inch. Dropping it, he peered between the wooden slats the gate was comprised of. He could just make out a large iron turnstile that was likely used for the raising and lowering of the door. His view was largely obstructed, but he surmised the most likely explanation was a locking mechanism on the turnstile that prevented it from rotating when not in use.

With a sigh, he sank into a sitting position. At that moment he realized Jimminy had been being oddly quiet this whole time. It wasn’t a far-fetched notion that maybe the man had finally worn his voice out, but, even if only in lieu of having anything else to do, Dungar figured he may as well investigate. Slowly he approached Jimminy’s limp body, which was bound with ropes on his wrists and ankles, and pulled the sack off of his head. Even though the only light in the room emanated from the spaces in between the thick wooden slats of the gate, Jimminy too required a few moments to adjust from the total darkness he had been subjected to for an indeterminate amount of time.

“Never thought I’d say this.” Dungar grunted. “But talk to me, Jimmy.”

Dungar cocked his head to the side curiously then grabbed Jimminy by the jaw and turned the man’s head towards the door to shed some more light on his face. There appeared to be something balled up inside his mouth; perhaps the kidnappers took his song a little too literally. The object was a dark grey color, and stood out quite well when contrasted against the pearly white teeth of Jimminy’s mouth. With a slight amount of apprehension, Dungar reached between the man’s lips, which seemed oddly full for a face as gaunt as his, and pinched a small corner of the item between his fingers before pulling it out.

“Much obliged, mista Dungar.” He thanked as he spit stray fibers out of his mouth.

Dungar held the object up to the light. It was a sock; a dirty one at that. He immediately let it go causing it to drop to the floor where it made a faint squelching sound due to the copious amounts of saliva and sweat that it had been marinated in. Grimacing, he turned back to Jimminy who, having wriggled out of his restraints, had taken to surveying the cell himself. He still appeared to be chipper as ever as he turned back to Dungar and studied the grimace on his face.

“Ah don’t be so mortified, mate. Believe it or not, I’ve had worse in me mouth.”

Dungar shuddered and returned to sitting. Looking at the walls he considered perhaps trying to dig his way out. However he had no idea how deep into the floor the bars went. Also, depending how often they were checked on, he likely wouldn’t make it very far with only his hands to work with.

He scratched at the ground. Even though it was completely dirt it was packed down very hard and would only come off in thin layers. With a glance back at Jimminy, Dungar found him to have removed his pants and casually reclined himself against a wall looking relaxed without a care in the world. Catching Dungar’s glance, Jimminy opted to address him.

“I’ve felt like a prisoner ever since you came into my life; does that count?”

“Out in the land of Farrawee they like to line the floors of their cells with broken glass. Blimey, you had to be bloody tired to get any sleep in that place.”

After he finished his thought, Jimminy turned back towards his cellmate. “I’m sorry, mate, where are my manners?”

Dungar glanced back at him with a confused look. Before he could speak though, Jimminy had already removed a small metal object from his shoe and began fumbling around with Dungar’s handcuffs. Soon after he began, they popped right off.

Dungar examined his now freed wrists. They were red and raw; the skin on them had been significantly worn down from the sweat and friction. They smelled awful too.

Jimminy flicked his metal utensil in the air and deftly caught it. “Good as new!”

“Well aren’t you talented.” He acknowledged sarcastically, rubbing at his wrists.

Taking that as a prompt to carry on, Jimminy continued. “Nah this was just a little hobby I picked up in the service. I joined up right around the time that whole chastity belt fad was just becoming popular.” He exhaled a nostalgic sigh as his eyes began to drift off in favor of the memories being recollected in his mind. “I saved so many from oppression. Those were the days.”

“Disturbing implications of your story aside,” Dungar interrupted. “What is this service that you were apparently a part of?”

“The Jenair Foreign Legion!” He boasted proudly. “The fearless troops who keep this land and you lot within it safe from impending outside threats! And sometimes drugs.”

“You better believe it, boyo! Those were some times! All of us handsome strapping young lads boldly going into unknown territory to face foreign foes! Memories to last a lifetime.”

Dungar was quite intrigued by this sudden shift in conversation. Up until this point he hadn’t taken much time to really consider the contents of Jimminy’s past. However he was certain that, even if he had given it some thought, the notion of a former military career would certainly not have crossed his mind. Jimminy didn’t exactly exude a persona of someone with any measurable amount of discipline.

At that, Jimminy’s eyes glazed over and his head cocked slightly to the side while all traces of previous facial expressions melted away to be replaced with an unmistakable thousand yard stare.

Dungar’s crazy blue eyes were locked in on Jimminy’s beady brown ones. While their gazes appeared to meet, Jimminy’s stare offered no connection whatsoever; his focus was clearly elsewhere.

But with a quick blink and shake of his head, the veteran’s eyes regained their usual life and his persona returned to its status quo. With his usual chipper nonchalance, he began to regale his tale.

“I was but a wee wide-eyed young lad with a spring in me step and a sword in me scabbard. We were all well out of general training which allowed us to practice swordplay by day and get drunk off our asses at night! But one day we received word of an uprising.”

Jimminy stopped talking and looked at Dungar, who gazed back at him, completely absorbed in the story. The room remained totally silent as the two men continued to just stare at each other. Finally Dungar spoke.

With that he stopped talking again; his hands frozen in an expressive position in front of him.

“Far to the east!” Jimminy began. “There is a jungle-y area with a bunch of farmers and general modest folk who simply live their lives as simply as simple men do. But one day they came. Sharleys, thousands of them. They’re great cannibal monstrosities with row upon row of razor sharp three-inch teeth protruding from their gaping maws.”

While he didn’t let it show on his face, Dungar was quite taken aback by what he was hearing. He was well aware of the conflict that Jimminy was beginning to describe. Everyone was. It was one of the most famous and controversial wars Jenair had ever been involved in. During his days as bartender he had even come across someone who had seen it with their own eyes and graciously provided him with a sketch of a Sharley.

They were humanoid creatures, not much larger than the average man. They were completely hairless and had a deeper pink hue in their skin though. But as Jimminy had described, their most prominent feature had to be the two rows of fangs that stuck out of their mouths like long, sharp snaggleteeth. Their hands had two large fingers each with an attached foot long talon-like object that was strong enough to stand up to a sword. Their many sharp parts and general bloodlust caused them to be terrifying and dangerous adversaries.

“Well fine then, mista Knowitall!” Jimminy grumbled flippantly. “The Sharleys had ransacked the entire countryside. By the time we had arrived there was only fire and death as far as the eye could see. Adjusting to that stink of destruction, that was the easy part. When we encountered the beasts was when the true testing of one’s might began. They weren’t very nice fellows. Me penchant for diplomacy was all but lost on them. Wouldn’t you know it; the first time we met they tried to eat me. I wasn’t a particularly educated lad so I wasn’t exactly aware that’s what the term cannibal meant. Despite a few brief nibbles, I managed to finish me tour mostly intact. ’Twas the longest tour of me life. It was the only one too, but I’d reckon even if I did others this one would have still seemed like the longest. I’ll never forget the time I spent in Nom.”

And just like that Jimminy flopped over onto his side and fell right to sleep. It was the most bizarre talent Dungar had ever seen, the ability to just turn it off and on like that. He looked around again at the dim room that currently housed him. There was no indication as to what time of day it currently was. For all he knew they had only walked for about an hour and it was still day time.

But as he looked back at Jimminy, laying on the ground snoring his ridiculous “hort hort hort hort” snore, he felt a familiar tired sentiment. A nap to refresh his mind and body wouldn’t be remiss. Perhaps afterwards he would find himself better equipped for the clearing up of the complication he was currently confronted by. Or maybe he’d wake up to find this has all been a dream and he could continue his life of serving drinks and throwing people out windows. Or maybe Sharleys will ransack the kingdom and eat the queen alive for him. So many possibilities and so little bearing he had right now. As he lay slumped against the wall considering them all, Dungar eventually drifted off to sleep.

He had no idea how long him and Jimminy slept for due to time being impossible to track whilst in their cell. However their rouse to consciousness came in the form of an angry booming voice reverberating through their chamber.

He awoke with a jump to see the silhouette of an incredibly burly man in the entranceway who appeared to have been sent to fetch them. The characteristics of the man were difficult to make out in the dim light of the room, but Dungar could see he had long and oily black hair which he kept in a ponytail behind him. He wore no shirt leaving his enormous, scarred up body in full view.

He was a short man, but his shoulders were immense, like two boulders jutting out of his neck. Farther down his torso there was a noticeable bulge of a belly, but it did nothing to impede his menacing physique. His arms may well have been carved out of the same iron as Dungar’s, and the colossal hands on the ends of them looked to be no stranger to crushing bones into dust.

When he turned his head towards Dungar the light caught it, offering a glimpse of his face. It was caked with deep creases indicative of a man who was battle-hardened and tougher than nails. His eyes were cold and primal, emanating an animalistic rage. The bushy eyebrows above them matched the thick, bushy handlebar moustache framing his pursed lips.

“What in the blazes is a murto?” Dungar grumbled, rubbing his eyes and defiantly remaining in place.

A soft “hort hort hort hort”ing from the far corner indicated his message of impending doom hadn’t reached Jimminy yet. Realizing this, the man wordlessly marched over to him and stood beside the sleeping man’s body. Then, with one hand, he casually reached down, grasped a fist full of Jimminy’s shirt, and hoisted him off the ground with so much force that Jimminy flew into the ten foot high ceiling before crashing back to the ground.

Sufficiently woken up, Jimminy looked around wildly before his eyes settled on his caller.

There was a brief silence due to the mild confusion caused by the brief exchange. Then, opting to return to business, Dritungo addressed both of them.

As he walked towards the door, Dungar moved at a deliberately slow pace, taking the extra time to size up this Dritungo person.

“I recognize that look, tough guy. Don’t even think about it.” Dritungo warned.

“Your fists are indeed mighty, mista Dungar, but even if you could take him there would be plenty of other hired helpers upon us before we made it out of here.” Jimminy chimed in.

“Well, assuming mista Dritungo here is under the same employment as he was when we last crossed paths, we are currently underneath the Vthnnqouayey arena.”

“It’s a foreign word, that’s just how it’s pronounced, it’s spelled nothing like how it sounds.”

“Well, most likely that we’re either going to be fed to exotic beasts, or beaten to death by gladiators. Personally I myself am hoping for the former, what a way to go that would be eh?”

Dungar shook his head. He never ceased to be amazed by Jimminy’s idiosyncrasies. Here he was calmly explaining their impending death as nonchalantly as if he were discussing the weather.

“Dungar, me friend …” Jimminy began, as he put an arm around his mate’s shoulder. “Take it from me. Wrong is the best kind of right.”

They walked for a few moments like that, Dungar contemplating his situation and Jimminy’s words while Dritungo continued to usher them down the narrow hallway towards a staircase.

“Well what do you expect from me, mista Dungar?” Jimminy asked. “We just established I’m not right in the head.” He added with a laugh.

As they made it up the staircase and exited through the door, the two heroes found themselves walking into the bright daylight of the outdoors. After his eyes adjusted, Dungar found himself in the middle of a large coliseum filled with spectators all presumably there to watch him die. He gaped at the spectacle of it, amazed that such a thing was allowed to exist in the kingdom he had held so dear.

The doorway from which they had come was now sealed behind them, Dritungo presumably behind it. Even amid the screaming crowd, Dungar and Jimminy were entirely alone. Alone to face whatever lay behind the ominous gate on the other side of the arena. There were no weapons in sight, no escapes available, and no one to rely on but the shaggy loose cannon who was waving and blowing kisses to the crowd. Dungar swallowed nervously, hoping it wasn’t too much to ask for to be kidnapped again right about now.