Chapter 7 - part the second

As had every man of Caza, Veon, once he'd turned eighteen, served his three years of mandatory military service. At that time, he already had some local status as a brawler, in the country, where he'd been raised on the Cape by his uncle; but it was only when he joined the armed forces that he became a skilled combatant. He never killed anyone, however, until he had served his term, and found himself in the vicious circles of the Cazortium where, due to his ferocity in fighting, he quickly became a celebrity.

Being surrounded by young men during those three hard years of training had also afforded Veon a chance to develop his taste for them. He joined the ranks of a group that managed through boyish bullying and brash coercion to cultivate a gang of submissive types which they endlessly dominated and inseminated. Some of the unabashed debauchery that occurred in those years remained with Veon as his most prized memories, and reminiscing about these liberating experiences – following years of unrequited lusting after a pair of provincial twins that sailed in the bays of the Cape – always put a crooked smile on his face and a stiff rod in his pants.

Now however his thoughts were troubled, and he desired no longer the solace of penetrating a sweet boy's ass; nor did he wish to sit idly at a bar counter, drinking and thinking about all of the day's ugliness, trying to suss it all out. Veon could perceive when he was in danger, and he thought not for the first time about the old joke he'd heard in the country so many times:

When I was six, I convinced my parents to change my middle name to Danger, but when they later changed my sister's name to Trouble, I knew that I had made a mistake.

Old farmers and barons alike enjoyed telling him this one when they heard he had a sister he was orphaned with, but none of them knew the reality of his situation was exactly as the joke described. It was appropriate, and it even led Veon to use the moniker the Deacon of Danger when he first began wrestling, although this was soon changed to his current, and much more iconic name: Fire-Spark. With his gold and black tattoos, dark skin, and a costume decorated with flames and scales, he looked like a character perfectly draconic. He had even spat fire on a few special events, using a foul-tasting fuel distilled from apsa berries. Since he nearly sprayed one unfortunate lady's hair off once, however, his sponsors and promoters had suggested he stick to showing off his muscles and swinging about his baton, which he had secretly named Dangerous.

Veon traveled down into New Quarry by hired coach – although his destination now was entirely different than what had first drawn him there by impulse: the bordellos, and a bottle of Burgundy Falls. He was now moving with a burning desire, a sort of brute inspiration, and his every thought revolved around finding his cousin, the sot.

Of course, there was a very good chance that this new course would no doubt include heavy drinking as well; in all likelihood, he would imbibe far more in Osuf's company than he would have done on his own, in the company of a smooth-bottomed call-boy.

Veon knew that we would pass by these establishments – his favourite being the Quorum on Ferio street – but these places did not appeal to Osuf, who had no desire to be with members of his own sex – nor with one of the opposite, in fact. There was no desire in him for anything but drink, and the oblivion it would bring him.

Therefore, Osuf would be located in one of several dive bars that sold cheap polohj, like the Pick, or the even more ominously named Crack. These crude names appealed to the local quarry workers of miners and masons – a brash lot, always drinking themselves into brazen displays or raging fights filled with typical shows of male bravado.

There was another sort who drank alongside them that did not fight or flaunt. These were the truly broken, men who worked in the dredgers down in the Drift – and this had earned them the nicknames Drifters or, collectively, the Adrift. These sorry fellows had no ambition, and were resigned to being bottom-feeders, because through a series of misfortunes they had allowed themselves to become convinced that they deserved no better than eating the shit that others let drop to the dingy depths.

Osuf was one of the worst of these, famous in his own pathetic way, if only because he was still alive, despite everything that had happened to him since the accident that killed his wife, as well as everything that he had since put himself through.

Veon and Osuf had a special connection, like foreigners, prisoners, or outsiders will always share – a powerful bond made for the sake of survival and which cannot be severed even if there is a falling out between parties. As boys, they had played together, taking hand-gliders off the cliffs of the Cape and sailing over the sea, or else hunting in the Olyesso hills where the woods were thick with deer and shaggy-maned oddurio – but this activity only took place whenever the Mad Composer – Osuf's father, and Veon's uncle – decided to take them on such a venture.

As soldiers, they had trained and drank together. Now that they both lived in the capital – one a misunderstood gladiator, the other a drunken misanthrope – their bond had grown twisted, like a misshapen tree felled by wind, burned by lightning, but never killed entirely. They both saw themselves as victims of fate, but while Veon fought on for some ultimate and nebulous victory, Osuf had surrendered long ago.

As such, neither of them had to hide what they were in the presence of the other, and in admitting they were both pitiable, they were somehow elevated.

Veon checked in at the first of many possible bars in his attempt to find today's locus of misery – those were Osuf's words in describing his regular haunts. Off of Vantner avenue, this little hole had greasy windows tainted by years of smoke and sweat, where no joyous drinking songs were ever sung, for those who came here wished to drown their sorrows in perfect solitude. The sign above the door was cast brick in which the worn the letters spelled out the name: The Stick.

As Veon entered, he spotted a few denizens of the down-trodden hunched over the polished bar made of stone. These were serious drinkers who didn't even turn to spy who had entered, completely indifferent. The tender of the bar alone looked at Veon with his one good eye, which the gladiator noted also gleamed with recognition underneath the grizzly eyebrow. The other eye was covered with a red patch, a glaring effect that made him look inhuman, almost a machine. Red however was apparent everywhere in the décor: the jambs of doors were painting this way, and there were big stacks of wood carved to look like dynamite painted a garish red on top of the barrel heads of beer behind the one-eyed man.

The bartender said nothing, even though he knew the gladiator by sight, for he knew equally well that he didn't belong here. He didn't look away, and his eye was like a lit fuse burning in a dark shaft underground where depressed cave-in survivors had finally opted for suicide.

Veon said not a word, and made no move to find a seat. He scanned the figures at the bar and determined quickly that Osuf was not among them. With a nod to the barman, Veon backed out the door and found himself grateful to be back in the narrow, piss-reeking alley where the Stick was situated.

There are some depressing sights to see under the sun! Veon mused to himself, as his skin crawled and his spine quavered from some inner disgust. And the Quarry is the worst spot of all if you've no wish to espy them!

He tried to shake off the feeling that he'd been touched by the bad energies of this place, and as he hurried on he reflected how fitting a name the bar had, for everyone in there was stuck – and only a stick of dynamite could upset any of those men sitting within, who had lost all cares save those that separated them from their sorrows.

Hoofing it now, Veon ventured further into the district, hoping that he would have enough luck and sufficient pluck to find his cousin before he was entirely inebriated. It was only seven in the evening, but this was late in the day for a serious drunk to find any semblance of cohesion.

Veon went on to check three more of Osuf's usual haunts, only to then be struck by a truly disconcerting prospect:

What if he is in his workshop?

The possibility that Osuf – true son of the mad composer – was putting himself to work was a wonder and a worrisome affair. It presented a lot of puzzling and potentially dangerous options for progress – but whatever glimmer of hope existed in this move that the poor, broken, destitute man sometimes acted on, Veon knew that the progress he would make was all too likely to be deeper into his downward spiral. From years of experience, he had observed that such episodes invariably and inevitably led to his cousin's destroying whatever work he'd begun, and returning to the depths of despair and habits of wanton self-destruction.

So it was with a sense of growing dread that Veon saw, as he turned down the lane at Apner's Mission, the light streaming out of the high loft's windows where his cousin had some quarters above a stinking fish-dryer's.

He hesitated only a moment before proceeding toward the dilapidated door which led to the rotting stairs.

After all, he told himself, my middle name surely isn't Daunted!