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Sometimes I write fiction. And by write fiction, I mean I get about 2 pages into a novel that I never pick-up again. Instead of just letting them moulder on my hard-drive, I’ve decided to start a feature on Dang Dude, What the Heck? where I occasionally publish these beginnings. In doing so I’m offering them up to the public. In this case, I’m actually moving forward and writing the whole thing. You can follow along with my progress here That doesn’t mean you can’t use it though! Feel free to use them to start writing your own stories. Take whatever part of them you like, if any, and use it as your own. I won’t tell. Or just read them and take them for what they are. Here’s the sixth one: In The Heights.
Fingers was drunk. He had been drunk. If he played his cards right, he would continue to be drunk until some indefinite time in the future. Fortunately for him there was no better place in the whole world to get drunk than The Heights. He had heard people call The Heights, "a cesspool," "not fit for anyone," and "dirtier than a dwarf's ear." Fingers didn't think any of those descriptors were wrong. A few of them probably could have been meaner. Dwarves ears were usually pretty clean. They had to hear the ore after all. Dirtier than a horses’ ass might have made more sense. But who was Fingers to decide if an idiom was appropriate or not? In any case The Heights were situated in the abandoned mines of Ka'Palat which sat several miles below sea level. This was either a hint at the stupidity of the people who lived there or a fabulously clever joke. Which one depended on who you were talking to. The place still looked like a mine, wooden beams keeping away the dirt and preventing cave-ins. At least most of the time. Sometimes a seam of gold or silver was found which made the lucky person fabulously rich. Until they were killed by which local was brave enough to do the deeed. Fingers wasn’t there to try to make a quick buck however. Fingers only really cared that he could get Calabashian whisky there. Of course, the best stuff was made and sold in Calabash, but the Grand Magister himself had declared Fingers persona non grata in that part of the world. So he came to The Heights to get his fix of the brown stuff instead.
Fingers, all six feet five and 250 pounds of him, sat on a bench all to himself. Being half-giant had it's advantages. People didn't like to mess with a guy that big. And there weren’t enough giants left in the world to make him worry about having to deal with one. Not that he was worried about being messed with. People in The Heights knew who he was. Fingers wasn't a name his parents had given him. He barely remembered that name, and when he did, he immediately tried to forget it. Fingers had earned his sobriquet. And then earned it again. And again. Earned it enough that all the scum from west of the Gardenells all the way to Salt Wastes knew his name. Some of the non-scum too. Or at least they had. Fingers wasn't so sure about that anymore. Now he mostly just drank. Not because he wanted to forget. He wasn't some sad old killer who had gained a conscious in his later years. That was for bad stories and plays. No, he drank because it tasted good and he liked the way it made him feel. There was honor in that. Maybe not a hero’s honor. But that type of honor was for fools and deadmen. Fingers beckoned over the barkeep, a tall greasy man named Hurk. Or Herk. Fingers wasn't sure. He’d never seen it written down. Fingers held up two, well, fingers.
"Whiskey."
"The Calabashian swill? We're out. You drank it all last night."
"Then get more."
"Won't get more til the next trader comes through. Should be about three days from now."
"Bullshit."
"You'll gotta go somewhere else if you want that stuff. I don't got it. Not a drop left anywhere in the bar. And while you're at it, settle up your tab."
"Always trying to get my money. I thought we were pals."
"We are. And it'll stay that way if you pay me. Twenty-eight silvers."
Fingers laughed. He had gotten drunk last night. And several other people by the sound of it. Twenty-eight silvers was a lot of money. No matter. He could afford it. His past life had left him quite rich. He reached into his purse and pulled out a gold coin.
"The rest is yours."
"Generous as always Fingers."
"My mam always said, 'being generous to a barkeep is the only way you can be sure to be successful in this world.'"
"That doesn't sound like something a mother would say."
"Yeah well she wasn't the best mom."
With that Fingers got up and steadied himself on the wooden plank that served as the bar. Sucking in a bracing he breath of fresh air, he left the bar. He wanted to keep his buzz going. It was starting to fade and he'd have a hell of a headache when it did. He'd like to avoid that if he could. If he couldn't find Calabashian whisky at the next bar he'd come back to this place. It wasn't that he wouldn't drink mead, or beer, or cider, or other types of spirits, it's that he didn't want to. And when Fingers didn't want to do something, he didn't do it. Unless he was getting paid to. Then he might.
It was brighter outside then he thought it should be. The sun had a way of being an asshole that Fingers didn’t like. Even in an abandoned mine. When leaving he had reckoned that it might be early morning, maybe close to sunrise. The brightness that hit his eyes as he left the small dark building that Herk, no Hyrk, called "The Traveler's Rest," made him realize it was closer to midday. His stomach rumbled a bit. He realized he hadn't eaten. Well that was the solution to his problems then. He'd simply have to go to the one place in The Heights where he could get a decent meal and a drink. They probably had the Calabashian as well. Well, wasn't that just fine. He had a plan. And a pretty good one if he was allowed to give himself the pleasure of a nice compliment. Walking toward his destination - the place didn't have a name, the locals just called it "The Place" - he heard someone shout his name.
"Ho. Fingers."
Fingers stopped and looked around. The warm blanket of alcohol was starting to fade, turning into the harsh blade of sobriety. Four men stepped out from one of the little rat alleys that were littered throughout The Heights. The man in front was going bald and tried to hide it with a little cap. The other three just looked stupid. They all carried swords. Some of them even looked sharp. The little hairs on the back of Fingers’ neck started to rise. His heart started to pulse and the headwaters of the onrushing headache were swept away on a current of adrenaline.
"How can I help you gentleman?"
"You're the one they call Fingers right?"
That was the one in front. The bald one. Fingers pegged him for the leader. Or at least the one who came up with the targets for their little gang. He didn’t looke quite as dumb as the others.
"Pleased to meet you Sirrah. I am the one they call Fingers. Once again I must ask, how can I help you gentleman? I am on my way to secure a fine repast and regain a state of inebriation. I do not wish to be delayed in the completion of this errand, but the strictures of politeness inform me that I must acquiesce to your presence as you hailed me."
The balding man took off his hat and scratched his hairless dome. He looked around at the others who had lowered their blades. They all just shrugged. The bald man thought very hard for a few seconds and then rallied.
"Uh. I don't know about all that. But we heard you had money. And we want it. And we have swords. So hand it over. Now."
Fingers was just a little disappointed. Only four of them? Time was, no one would have come within a mile of him without at least fifty men for backup. Or at least that's how he chose to remember it. Well times change. And one must change with them or be left to the mercies of history.
"Ahh gentlemen. While I do hope that your pecuniary situation does improve, I do have to inform you, with the saddest of hearts mind you, that I will not be an investor in the scheme you have just proposed. I hope this does not weaken your resolve. I sincerely wish you the best of luck in finding a benefactor. And now, my duty to politeness fulfilled, I must be off. Have a good day."
The four men looked even more taken aback than they had before, which would have seemed impossible to Fingers if he hadn't just witnessed it. He thought about letting them go, but then thought about how their rude interruption had only forced him deeper into sobriety and decided that they needed to be taught a lesson. Scraping the deepest bow he could, he passed his left hand behind his back taking out the dagger from its sheath on his belt.
Coming up from the bow, Fingers flicked out the dagger, sending it straight at the guy in the front. The blade didn't stick anywhere but the pommel still hit him in the head, which sent the bald man reeling back. It would seem luck was on Fingers' side. The men were closely bunched together, so when the bald man reeled back, he knocked all of them off balance. Like pins in a game of grabben. Or tumblers in a show. Fingers used the extra time to draw his sword from his side. A half-length blade, closer to a dagger than a sword, it was good for close quarters fighting. He had come to realize that all fighting in the Heights was close quarters flighting. Not everyone else came to that realization quickly enough. These four fools certainly hadn't. Fingers closed the gap between him and the group of four quickly. The man to the left of the leader seemed to have recovered his balance the quickest. This man, slightly weedy with a coarse patch of red on his face he probably called a "beard," also held his sword slightly more professionally than the rest. So Fingers went after him first. Turning his left hand into a fist Fingers feinted a blow at the weedy man's temple. When he ducked Fingers took advantage of the man’s wasted movement and plunged his sword into the redhead’s neck. One down.
Fingers then put both hands on the handle of his blade and pulled it out. He used that momentum to swing the blade around. The tip of his blade caught the face of the lead man, leaving a nasty scar down the side of his cheek. Finishing his spin Fingers looked back at the group. The two other men were behind the balding man, their mouths agape. The leader was blind with rage, blood dripping down his face from Finger's cut in addition to a now blooming bruise where the dagger had hit him. The would be bandit lifted his long blade over his head and brought it down. Then two things happened. Fingers wasn't sure which went first, but he saw it like this. First, the bald man's blade got stuck in one of the many overhanging wooden beams that kept The Heights from falling in on itself. It was an abaondoned mine after all. Secondly, Fingers dropped to a knee and thrust his blade forward at the same time, shoving it into the man's gullet. Even if it had happened the other way the outcome was the same. Fingers was alive and the bald man was dead.
Fingers took his blade out of the would be gang leader and stared at the other two men.
"Does your request stand? Do you still wish for my money?"
The two men stared for a second at him. Then they looked at each other. Through some miracle of silent communication they agreed on their next course of action. They dropped their swords and ran. Fingers was pretty sure they had pissed their pants. He laughed. Wiping his sword on the bald man's chest he sheathed his blade. He spotted his dagger and picked it up. Then he knelt down and cut the middle digits off of each corpses's hand and put them in his purse. He sighed. He'd have to stop at the apothecary before he could get drunk again. Such a waste of a beautiful day.
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