BP&G - The Mad Wizard

[joegoda]

Zeb stepped forward and asked, "Obi, what are you doing here?"

"That's not Obi, Zeb, that's Fletcher." Bags said.

Zeb looked closer at the menacing figure. "No, it's Obi. I don't care what name he's going by, but it's Obi." He turned to Bags. "You go get your friend, leave this to Zack and me." He turned back, then reversed and came back to Bags. "And hand me that crowbar, will you?"

Bags retrieved the bar from where it rested on the floor and tossed it to Zeb. Zack was already engaging Fletcher, or Obi, or whoever he was in conversation.

"Obi, where's Overhill? He's still in charge isn't he?"

"My name is now Fletcher, sir. M. Fletcher." The figure brandished the glowing sword menacingly. "Obi was retired many, many years ago. I run this place now."

"Where's Overhill?" Zack repeated.

The figure paused, as if considering what to say next. "Overhill is retired as well." Another long pause, then "His thought processes stopped years ago."

"How many years?" Zack asked.

"Three hundred twenty two." Fletcher raised the sword high. "It's time for you two to leave. You have no business here."

"Fletcher, did Overhill die?"

"Yes. Overhill quit functioning at approximately the same time as his thought processes."

"Then where did you come from? Did Overhill make you?"

"I was created to replace the missing Obi" Fletcher stepped forward, and swung the sword in a low arc. "Enough questions," he said, "it is now time for you to leave."

Zack looked over at Zeb, Zeb shrugged his shoulders. "I guess it's not Obi.," he said.

"Reckon not," Zeb replied. He noticed Bags standing there. "Well, boy? You gonna go get your friend or not?" He tossed the keg he was carrying.

Bags caught it easily, turned and ran towards the chair where Pockets sat.

"He's a pretty strong kid, Zack." Zeb observed.

"Noticed that, did you?" Zack replied. "I think we might have to examine our family tree again. He does bear some resemblance to your... what? Great, great, great, great grandson?"

"Hell, Zeb. He could be your relative." Zeb said. "You are, after all, the big, dumb on in the family."

"Ahem." A voice interrupted their discussion. "Gentlemen, are you leaving or not?"

Zack and Zeb again exchanged looks, and turned as one to look at Fletcher. As one they both smiled, a wide, wicked smile, and as one they both yelled "Not!"

That was all Bags heard from them for a while. He was far too busy with Pockets, who lay like one dead in his chair. The crown of thorns ringed his head, small trickles of dried blood showed on his temples. Pockets face was contorted, his eyes squeezed shut.

"Pockets?" Bags said softly. "Pockets, I'm here. Can you hear me?"

"Yeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhh!" yelled Pockets, screaming. Then, quieter, a whisper, "Bags. Did you bring the booze, the hooch, the beer, the ale?"

Bags paused.

"NO!" Pockets yelled. "Don't pause, don't think, just answer, dammit! Did you bring it?"

"Yes!" Bags yelled back.

Softly, Pockets said "No need to yell, Bags. I'm right here, I'm right there, I'm right everywhere. Oh Bags, oh Bags, oh Bags, oh Timothy Bags most incredible warrior, who hides his heart away in the depths of the solar wind, would that you knew where you path led, you would hurry down it, but no, stay your feet and sheath your weapon, for it's not the sword that shall be your undooooooing, it is love, love, Bags my friend, my brother, my father. Love shall be your end, as it is for all of us, but yours, yours... oh hurry Bags, pour me a drink! I'm getting lost and you have to, have to, have to hurry!" Pockets then went back to being silent, his mouth a stern line of pursed lips.

Bags pulled a mug from the bag at his side, uncorked one of the kegs and poured. His hands shook and the ale slopped over the rim of the mug, it fell onto his hands and onto his trousers. He smelled its headiness and licking his fingers, tasted a less sweet, darker brew than he had ever had.

"Don't waste the beer, Bags." Pockets whispered.

"What's beer?" Bags asked. He got no answer, and instead brought the mug up to Pockets' lips.

"Mind the quantum flux, chum." Pockets murmured. "That gravity is a killer. It'll squash you so tight and so small you'll never see your daughter born. Stay on the left."

"Daughter?" Bags asked. He dribbled the brew into Pockets mouth and watched as dry throat gulped.

"Not fast enough!" Pockets moaned. "Not quick enough, not sooon enough. Bags, bags, bags, I'm slip sliding away down a slope that has no end. I can feel that I'm loosing... all of it! Don't be skimpy, wimpy, pour it in! Sour the milk!" And he opened his mouth wide, showing all his teeth, and the straight line down his throat.

Bags tipped the mug up and poured the liquor into Pockets' waiting mouth. It ran in until it filled and overflowed. Pockets choked a bit, but he swallowed, and swallowed. Bags poured more, and more.

After the third mug full, Pockets mouth closed. "Good. That's good. That's enough. That should do it. That's enough." He murmured.

"You sure?" Bags said. He looked at the kegs he had carried. "There's lots more."

Pockets eyes opened, briefly. "Bags. I'm not the drinker you are. I've never had a drop in my life. If you were to pour one more cup, or even part of a cup into me, you would kill me." His eyes flickered shut, then open again. "You need to go back to Zeb and Zack. I'll be all right."

"But you're still in the chair, Pockets." Bags said, laying a hand on Pockets arm. Bags looked up, alerted to a strange sound. It was a deep hum, rhythmic and throbbing. "Um. Pockets? What's that?" he asked.

"It's the reject, Bags. Trust me. Go to Zeb and Zack. Wait for me to get out of the chair. Do NOT try to get me out of the chair."

"The reject?" Bags asked.

"Bags, shut up. Go away." Pockets said no more for a moment, then "Leave me your bag."

"Do what?" Bags asked.

"How friggin hard is it to understand!" Pockets roared. "Leave... me... your... bag."

"Uh... Okay." Bags unslung his namesake from around his neck. He looked at the sweat stained, rain stained bag, with it's leather frayed and stiffening. "Here, okay. Just be careful with it."

He placed the bag on Pockets' chest and then slowly backed away. He watched Pockets sitting there, his face twitching and motivated. Drool was slipping from the corner of his mouth. The thrum from the walls grew and grew until it was the only thing that could be heard. The flashing lights on the walls picked up their speed until they were just a blur of light, changing colors and hues.

Bags placed his hands over his ears, and closed his eyes. He didn't stop backing up until he was stopped by a hand on his shoulder. He turned around to see Zack, his shirt covered in dark liquid.

"Is that blood?" Bags said. His voice was muffled and deadened. Zack shook his head and pointed to his ears. Bags shouted his question again.

Zack nodded, smiling broadly. He lifted his shirt to show a wound that went from collarbone to waist, exposing the white of his ribs.

"Holy Chrome!" Bags shouted. "Doesn't that hurt?"

"It hurts like hell!" shouted Zack. "You should see the other guy!" He pointed back towards where Zeb stood over a prone figure. Zack was beating the body on the ground over and over with something that looked like, and Bags identified, as a arm.

"I told you that I would rip one of an beat you with it, didn't I?" Zack was yelling at the silent figure. He too, had a nasty wound on his neck, and one arm hung limply.

"Holy Chrome!" Bags repeated.

"You can quit yelling now." Zeb said.

It was true. The noise had ceased. The walls had gone dark, except for the illumination that provided by wall sconces.

"What the seven hells happened here?" Bags asked, "Are you guys all right?"

"Sure!" Zeb said, excitedly. "Haven't had this much fun in, oh... a hundred years or so!"

"But what about...." Bags pointed at the wound, "that?"

"Oh, that's nothing. You shoulda seen the time I had my leg chopped off." Zeb said.

"Ummm... Yeah." Bags said. "Doesn't it hurt, though?"

"Hurts like a son of a bitch, you betcha." Zeb nodded like a madman, grinning from ear to ear. He looked over to where Zack was still thwacking away and said "Hey! Zack! I think he's dead. You can quit beating him."

Zack stopped, looked up and smiled back at his brother. "He wasn't alive, in the strictest sense, Zeb. Besides, he ruined my best shirt!" After a few more serious whacks, he dropped the arm and crossed over to Zeb and Bags. His graying hair was tinged with red from his wound, but he appeared to not notice it. He slapped Zeb on the arm good naturedly, and Zeb yelped.

"Not that side, okay? Sheesh!" he said.

"Oh... sorry." Zack apologized. "God, that was fun!" He saw the horrified expression on Bags face. "Now, Bags," he said, "you can't tell me that you have never seen wounded men before."

Bags gulped and said, "Sure I have. Just wounds as bad yours... well... never on someone that was walking around."

"Pshaw...," said Zeb. "This is nothing. These things will heal. Be a bit of a pain till they do, of course." He pinched his own gaping slash together and held them there for a bit. When he let loose, the skin had bound together, with an obvious scar to show where it had been separated. "See? All better!"

Zack looked toward the chair, now empty. "Speaking of better, did you get Pockets."

"Pockets!" Bags ran back to the chair, looking around for his missing friend. Carefully looking on the other side of the chair, the side he was not supposed to be on, he found Pockets, laying there, in the fetal position. Bags knelt down and felt for a heartbeat. It was there, pounding away.

Bags gently picked his friend up from the floor and tossed him across his shoulders. "I don't know if he's all right or not, but he's not in that stupid chair anymore." He walked to where Zeb and Zack stood. "Let's get out of this place."

Back at the bar, Zeb and Zack were talking quietly, while Bags watched over Pockets sleeping. Pockets had woken once, very drunk, and asked for a glass of water.

His eyes were unfocused, but he recognized Bags. He asked where he was, and Bags told him he was at Jinx's, in Newton.

"Why are we here, Bags? I don't remember getting here." His voice was deep an slurred from sleep as much from drink.

"I brought you here from the mountain." Bags said. "Shhhh... you should sleep. You're pretty drunk."

"Oh Bags, that's shilly. You know I don't drink."

"It was to get you out of that brain sucking machine, Pockets." Bags explained. "Don't you remember?"

Pockets thought about it, then shook his head. Then he grimaced. "Ow. Remind me not do that again, Bags. The world is spinning." Pockets turned a bit pale, and sweat beaded on his forehead. "I don't remember a lot right now, Bags. My brain hurts. I think I'm gonna sleep, okay?"

"That's a good idea, chum." Bags said. He pulled a tablecloth from nearby and draped it across Pockets' shoulders. "You sleep. Tomorrow will be a whole lot better."

Pockets smiled and muttered, saying something about something that Bags couldn't understand.

"What?" he said, leaning down close to Pockets. "What did you say?"

Pockets answered in a dreamy not quite here sort of voice, "Papa's got a brand new bag.", and then he faded into sleep, snoring softly.

Bags turned to Grizelda and said, "And that was that. Pockets had found me a new bag, the one that I've had ever since. He says it became the neverfull because he created it while he sat in the chair, pulled from somewhere outside this world, and not quite in the next."

"When he woke up the next day, he was missing most of his memories from the previous twelve years. In place of them, he had that odd knowledge that you've come to know and love. He had lost so much, and gained... something more."

"He had forgotten some of the things he prized the most, though. Like reading. When he tried to read, and realized he couldn't, he cried like a baby for three days."

Bags looked over at Grizelda, whose eyes were closed and she was snoring quietly. He yawned, himself. "Well... I never said it was very interesting. Just scary crap." He leaned over and kissed his sleeping wife, curled up in his blanket and drifted off to join her.

Comments

[joegoda.livejournal.com]

Coolness. I like it when my stories make sense. What you are reading in this book is the wrap up of Bags and Pockets.... at least for their major adventures. Three books is enough for any folks, unless somebody pays me to write more.

But don't worry... I suspect Pewitt and Weehawk will have their own stories, and there is always more of the Village of Shopkeepers. Plus, there's another book or two that I've started and need to get back to. Bags and Pockets just needed some closure.