Death by Cliché (13 page)

The greatest treasures of civilization. He could keep collecting them, always collecting them. Eventually he might even find one of every type of sock.

But the Artifact was the main missing item. There was even a little pedestal in there with a beam of light shining down dramatically. That would be its home.

With it, he could destroy the world.

Hmm.

It was just occurring to him—and sorry ever so much, but this didn’t detract at all from the evil thing—it was just occurring to him he couldn’t figure out
why
he intended to destroy the world.

After all, he lived there.

He closed the panel quietly and shut the door to the dungeon of dungeons. There he sat, and he thought, and he puzzled, and there’s nothing blatantly symbolic about that. Oh no.

Not at all.

Chapter
Twenty-One

“Eternal life means never having to say you’re sorry.”

—Bob Defendi

he next morning Damico woke to the smell of bacon,
not feeling half so morose. It was morning, and a new day meant a new chance. Maybe just a new chance to mock Carl but still.

He rolled onto one side, seeing Gorthander preparing breakfast. He fell back and stared at the sky.

“More beers?” he asked.

“Alcoholism,” Gorthander said. “It’s not a disease. It’s a goal.”

“Great.”

Damico climbed out of his blanket and stumbled into the woods. He was the only one in the party that ever seemed to go to the bathroom—he sniffed himself and winced—or who needed to bathe. And don’t get me started on the toilet paper situation.

He opened his codpiece behind a tree and took a piss. Soon he leaned toward the tree, one hand on the trunk, experiencing the limitless bliss of an emptying bladder.

“Damico.”

Damico glanced over his shoulder. Jurkand stood in the woods about thirty feet off. Damico shook off and fastened his codpiece.

“Don’t you know the most important Guy Rule?”

“I’m afraid I don’t,” Jurkand said.

“Never talk to a man when he’s holding his penis.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

Damico considered the man. Then he walked back toward camp. “Didn’t Gorthander kill you?”

“One-shot resurrection charm,” Jurkand said dismissively. “We need to talk.”

“I don’t feel like hearing anything you have to say.”

From the sounds, Jurkand trudged along behind him. “I promise. No yelling.”

Damico stopped. He always tried to be a reasonable person. He looked the man up and down. “Fine. Talk.”

Jurkand stopped about twenty feet away and leaned against a tree. He wore the same clothes as before, but there was no tear from Gorthander’s ax and no blood. Evidently, his clothes healed too.

“You know something is happening, don’t you?” Jurkand said.

Damico wanted to hit him. Anything to not answer that question. Still, he forced himself to take a deep breath and nodded. “I saw her eyes.”

Jurkand nodded. “I saw them too. What are you going to do about it?”

Two days ago, Damico could have answered that question. But now… “I don’t know.”

“What are you?” Jurkand said.

“A damned soul.” Damico smiled wryly.

Jurkand frowned. “I don’t understand.”

Damico didn’t know what to think. He didn’t believe Carl was even involved anymore. “I’m in Hell. This is Hell.”

“This isn’t Hell,” Jurkand said.

“You aren’t living it.”

“I am.”

Damico started to walk away again. His tone might have been condescending. “You don’t understand.”

“This isn’t what you expected, is it!” Jurkand shouted after him.

Damico stopped again. He closed his eyes. “What?”

“I don’t know where you came from or what you’ve done, but you’re disappointed.”

Damico opened his eyes and stared off into the woods. “What are you saying?”

“I don’t think you are the person you appear to be. Are you a god?” Jurkand asked, his eyes frank.

“No.”

“Do you come from someplace else?”

“Yes.”

“Are you making people come to life?”

Don’t answer that. Don’t answer that. “Yes.”

Pause. “Thank you for being honest.”

Damico looked down. “This is a game. I didn’t design it, but I’ve designed others like it.”

“This isn’t a game,” Jurkand said.

“Fine,” Damico said gently.

“You misunderstand,” Jurkand said. “I believe you if you say this is a game. I don’t understand it, but I believe it. What I’m saying is this isn’t a game to me. This isn’t a game to the barmaid. Most of all, this isn’t a game to all of Hraldolf’s victims.”

Maybe this man was right. Maybe this wasn’t Hell.

But there were bigger issues. What if Jurkand
was
correct? He
was
the most real person Damico had met. Realer than the other Player Characters.
Far
realer than any of the Non-Player Characters. What if what he was saying was true?

And Damico had been killed. This world, this Hell, this game, whatever it was, it was eating him alive, portioning his life out in tiny packets to everyone he met. It was destroying him piece by piece.

But he couldn’t deny the reality of this anymore. He could try and try, but despite the ridiculousness of the world, it
was
real. He could feel it; he could taste it. He wasn’t crazy. He knew it with that same inner reserve that had kept him submitting ideas to companies for all those years, through all those rejections. He knew it with that same inner confidence that had made him try despite failure and bad reviews and internet flames. He didn’t get to where he was without a strong central core. He believed in himself. He believed in his mind, and he wasn’t mad. It didn’t matter if this was a Game, or Hell, or whatever. It
wasn’t
all in his head.

Dear God, whatever it was, this was real.

Carl had shot him in the head, and there was no way out. It was silly to even think there was a way out. How could he do it? He didn’t even know how he’d gotten
in
.

Jurkand was right, he was affecting the people around him. Somehow, he brought life and free will to people, and if it was killing him, was that so bad? If this
wasn’t
a game, and he saw someone who needed his help, wouldn’t he
want
to help them? Even if it risked his life? How was this different? If he’d only given Jurkand and Barmaid Barbie free will, a real existence, wouldn’t that be enough to justify the risk?

No more sulking. No more self-pity. Did it matter if he was dead? Did it matter to Jurkand? Did it matter to Barmaid Barbie?

“Let’s go back to camp.” Damico smiled. “I’m sure Gorthander is dying to say hi.”

Chapter
Twenty-Two

“What do you mean that last chapter wasn’t funny either?”

—Bob Defendi

ack at camp, Gorthander looked up and saw Jurkand.
“Didn’t I kill you?”

“Yeah,” Jurkand said.

“Well, let that be a lesson to you.”

Damico was about to say something funny, honest, when he noticed Lotianna cooking breakfast. He frowned. “You’re cooking?”

She shot him a shy glance, blushed, and looked back down. Damico gave Gorthander a questioning shrug.

“She said beer wasn’t a breakfast food, no matter how much bacon I put in it.”

“The monster,” Damico said.

Lotianna blushed again. Damico opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out. She’d changed again. She didn’t resemble Catherine Zeta Jones anymore either. Now she looked more like Jennifer Love Hewitt. What was going on here?

He’d worry about that later. “Jurkand, meet everyone. Everyone, meet Jurkand.”

“Jurkand?” Lotianna said as if she hadn’t heard his name before.

“Yeah. His mother wanted to make sure he was the toughest kid coming out of elementary school.”

“Then why didn’t she name him Gaylord?” Omar asked.

“Jurkand is going to travel with us a while.”

“Why?” Omar asked.

“Moth to a flame,” Damico said.

“Because I want to stop Hraldolf too,” Jurkand said.

“All right,” Omar said, “but you aren’t allowed to fight.”

“You don’t trust me?” Jurkand asked.

“No, I don’t, but more importantly, I ain’t dividing experience points six ways.”

Lotianna served up a wonderful breakfast of eggs benedict and maple bacon, and they all devoured it.

“You put ranks in Craft (Cooking)?” Omar asked as he took a second helping of bacon. “How does that help you level?”

“Not everything is about going up experience levels, you git,” Gorthander said. “Some of us are role players, not
roll
players.” He made a die rolling hand movement.

“You saying I jerk off?” Omar asked, misinterpreting the gesture.

Damico rolled his eyes and smiled at Lotianna. “Are you feeling better?”

“Better than what?” she mumbled.

Her eyes darted up to him and back down. It didn’t sound surly. It sounded like a genuine question.

“Better than yesterday,” Damico said.

“I suppose,” she said, her eyes darting to him again.

“Are you okay?” he asked, frowning.

“I’m great.” She said it like a bashful child reporting about her day at school.

She was back, at least in part, and his heart swelled. He’d missed talking to her. He needed to talk to her. He needed to talk to
people
. Real people. As much as Jurkand seemed realer than the rest, he still didn’t count. Maybe it was because part of Damico didn’t trust him or didn’t trust that he was actually real, or maybe it was that they had no shared experience. But he needed Lotianna.

“So, we’re friends?” he asked.

She didn’t answer.

“Friends,” he asked again.

Her head dipped lower. She nodded.

And it felt good, but there was still something wrong.

Because this wasn’t the angry Lotianna, but it wasn’t the friendly, lovable one either. She’d changed, but she hadn’t changed back. She was a new, completely different person.

What was going on here?

Chapter
Twenty-Three