Death by Cliché (9 page)

He walked back to her, his heart full from the kiss but aching in sympathy for this woman. She watched him approach and flipped her hair at him, her eyes still deeply disturbed.

“I don’t know what it is,” he said. “But you can fight it.”

The Barmaid looked at him, her eyes hardening now, her smile still vacuous. With what seemed like a supreme force of will, she nodded, the motion jerking and awkward. Damico understood so little of this, but felt somehow she’d won a personal victory. He hoped he’d had something to do with that.

He walked away, stopping when he saw Lotianna had come back down the stairs.

She stood with her hands on her hips, her eyes narrowed, watching. He thought she’d gotten the wrong impression, but then she smiled and nodded before walking up the stairs. Dammit, he’d passed another test.

He grinned and headed to his own room. It’s none of your business whether or not he slept alone.

Chapter
Thirteen

“Where’s my thesaurus?”

—Bob Defendi

amico’s mind filled with dreams.

This is typically the point in the novel where one of two things happen. Either I put in a dream I pass off as real life, tricking you into thinking something horrible is happening in a cheesy bait and switch, or else I toss in a dream full of deeper meanings and symbolism, laying out the deeper (I need a better word), darker meanings of this entire narrative.

This narrative has no deeper (
dammit
), darker meaning.

During Damico’s dream, he wandered through a palace made of corn chips, the tapestries and paintings woven from old report cards. The furniture was all naked women posed into living chairs, and in the background, his drunken grandmother sang a torch song.

Keep your opinions to yourself, Doctor Freud.

Sleep had felt good. It felt right. It felt exactly how sleep was supposed to feel, all sleepy and restful and such, which wasn’t surprising, he supposed. Damico had to inhabit a character of some kind, didn’t he? Characters in games and stories needed sleep just like anyone else. The Human characters, at any rate. So Damico had slept a solid night’s sleep, although in the real world, Carl had probably said something like. “You sleep that night. The next morning…”

That next morning Damico woke alone, got dressed, and headed downstairs. Everyone else already gathered around the corner table, Gorthander working on a beer, Omar and Lotianna drinking juice. From the smell, the juice was about seven proof down the road to hard cider.

“I’m afraid it’s too late.”

Lotianna gave him a knowing look that probably had more to do with the night before than current events.

Omar scowled. “What’s that mean?”

“It means my nose has given up on the tavern completely.”

Gorthander barked a laugh and fished a piece of bacon out of his beer, chewing on it absently. Lotianna smiled a smile more knowing (good grief) than humorous. Omar just scowled.

Oh hell, I wrote the entire last couple chapters and forgot Arithian.

Arithian came down the stairs just then, and I planned that, honest. He sat at the table, strumming his new, magical mandolin. He sat, and his eyes darted about as if he were hiding something. There he… uh… you know… sat.

After a time, they rose from the table and moved to the front door. Barmaid Barbie waved at them as they walked across the room, and the tavern owner nodded in their direction. They almost made it outside.

But an old man in a long, drab-colored robe appeared in the door. The robe was old and tattered. The man’s head was bald and shiny as if he polished it at the bowling alley. His beard hung long and tucked in his belt. It’s said the nose never stops growing. If that’s true, this man was a thousand years old.

“Here we go,” Damico said.

He put a hand on Lotianna’s shoulder, and she smiled knowingly (oh dear God).

“What do you want, old man?” Omar asked.

“Doom!” the old man shouted.

You know, that didn’t do it. Read it with more
oomph
.

“DOOM!”

Still, not enough. Picture a crazy old hag pointing and bellowing in a bad fantasy film. Then crank up the volume until your ears bleed.

“
DOOM!
”

Come on.
Really
frighten the dog.

“
DOOOOOM!
”

The
neighbor’s
dog.

“
DOOOOOOOOM!
”

That’s the stuff.

The tavern owner jumped. Barmaid Barbie gasped and covered her mouth with her hand.

“Prithee, good sir?” Arithian asked.

“
DOOOOOOOOM!
” the old man shouted again.

“Is this going to go on a while?” Damico asked.

“
DOOOOOOOOM!
” the old man bellowed, shaking the rafters.

“I’m going to sit down,” Damico said.

Lotianna sat next to him, scooting her chair in close. Omar and Gorthander joined them.

“Really, grandfather—” Arithian said.

“
DOOOOOOOOM!
”

“Oh well,” Arithian said, then took a seat.

“
DOOOOOOOOM
for this bar!” the old man shouted, his voice creaking like the hips of a hundred grandmothers. “
DOOOOOOOOM
for these people!
DOOOOOOOOM
for you all!
DOOOOOOOOM
for the entire world!
DOOOOOOOOM!
”

“I think I’ve seen this scene in a movie somewhere,” Damico said.

“Princess Bride?” Lotianna asked.

“No, that was ‘
Boo
!’”

“The Tick?”

“‘Spoon!’”

“Maybe—”

“
DOOOOOOOOM!
”

“We better pay attention to him,” Damico said.

“He is trying!” the old man said. “Yes, he is. He is trying, and he will find it. He will find it unless you stop him. He will find it unless you find it first!”

“And where is this magical Artifact?” Damico asked, skipping several pages of the script.

“How do you know it’s a magical Artifact?” Lotianna asked.

“It’s always a magical Artifact,” Damico said.

Blame Tolkien.

“
DOOOOOOOOM!
”

“Ah Hell, I think I hit his reset button.”

“
DOOOOOOOOM!
for this village!
DOOOOOOOOM!
for this nation!
DOOOOOOOOM!
for every living thing!
DOOOOOOOOM!
”

“Who brings us this doom, good sirrah?” Arithian asked.

“Hraldolf!”

“Oh, good grief, there’s someone in this world named Hraldolf?” Damico asked.

“He is the overlord! He rules the world. He rules the world, and now he’s going to destroy it!”

“Well, of course,” Damico said. “With a name like Hraldolf, he couldn’t have had a very good childhood.”

“He is seeking it,” the old man wailed, pacing back and forth, wringing his hands. He smelled like a locker room after a marathon on the surface of the sun. “He’s looking and looking, but he hasn’t found it.” The old man’s eyes rolled. “He’s seeking!”

“What?” Damico asked.

“
DOOOOOOOOM!
” the old man said. Omar ordered a beer.

“
DOOOOOOOOM!
for the kitties!
DOOOOOOOOM!
for the puppies!
DOOOOOOOOM!
for babies and the mothers and the sisters!”

“You think he’s going to do the whole phylum?” Damico asked.

“
DOOOOOOOOM!
”

They were just getting around to lunch when the old man got to the point. By then, Omar and Gorthander compared their new axes, and Damico and Lotianna had moved in close and talked about their favorite films.

“The Artifact is hidden!” the old man said.

“Oh, here we go,” Damico said, paying attention again.

Gorthander and Omar didn’t seem to notice, so Damico said, “Gorthander, Convenient Plot Exposition Man is getting to the point.”

“It is hidden, and he is looking for it. Search beyond the Swamp of Despair! Search past the Mountains of Fell Ruin! Search in the Heart of Darkness itself!” the old man said.

“Is there a bus tour?” Damico asked.

“
DOOOOOOOOM!
” the old man shouted, then his eyes rolled back in his head, and he fell over dead.

The silence rang like a giant bell. The kind of bell that’s all big and, you know, bell-like.

“Hmm,” Gorthander said. “My ears hurt.”

Damico stood up. “Shall we? We have to go past the Swamp of Fear or whatever.”

Omar and Gorthander looked at each other, then Gorthander said, “Sure. Why not?”

They stood.

“Oh, good friends, I feel we are about to embark on a grand quest of darkness and honor, of nobility and tears, of—” Arithian said.

“Don’t you start,” Damico said.

He offered Lotianna his hand, and she took it, putting her hand in his. They walked to the door, stepping over Convenient Plot Exposition Man. The corpse’s tongue lolled out. They stepped out the door.

“So, the world’s going to be destroyed, huh?” Gorthander asked.

“Yep,” Damico said.

“Good thing we were in that bar.”

“It is.”

“Sounds like a good disaster to break on.”

It does.

Chapter
Fourteen

“Do you think they’ve figured out the book’s all about clichés?”

—Bob Defendi

raldolf built a crooked house.

And in this Crooked House, he placed a Crooked Man.

And for this Crooked Man, he built a Crooked Room.

And in this Crooked Room, they did their
Crooked Things
.

Hraldolf could hear the screams as he reached the bottom dungeon of his fortress. The shouts wailed and rose on the still air, echoing through the halls, bouncing off rock after rock. It sounded like the screams themselves lived in the deep narrow places of the castle.

These were the very bowels of his domain, and Hraldolf the very colonoscopy weaving through, checking for cancer, thankful he’d had a high colonic the other day to clean things up.

Wow. That metaphor got away from me.

But to finish it off, the problem was Hraldolf himself was the cancer. One can’t find oneself by heading to the torture chamber. If more people knew that, there would be a lot more discussion of bunnies and rainbows in history class.

Hraldolf reached the last hall of his dungeon, and threw open the door.