Marc Watson’s
Catching Hell
Part 1:
Journey
FLUKY FICTION
Newport, ME
Catching Hell Part 1: Journey
Print Edition ISBN: 978-0-9987173-9-5
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved.
Published by Fluky Fiction
Copyright © 2021 by Marc Watson
www.flukyfiction.com
For Hayden. You are the start of the only journey worth taking.
Chapter 1
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A “Man” Walks into a Bar…
In all the years he'd tended bar in this dump-water town, Ollie was sure he'd seen bigger men. Those who had come from the northern mines were strong and rugged. The people of the west, where the dark-skinned warriors seemed to be bred to be intimidating, were also a sight. But Ollie was sure he'd never seen one more, for lack of a better word, powerful.
He stood much taller than the portly Ollie, and it likely would take two of the old barman to make the scales equal in weight. If an ounce of fat was anywhere on him, it was well hidden beneath the mountains of muscle clearly visible even under the black, heavy armor he wore. Darker than night and as clean as a polished mirror. If this was a normal man, born of woman, Ollie was a dead dog's maggot. Whoever this was, they had surely embraced the forbidden ways. For that reason alone he was more trouble than an old drink-slinger wanted. His hair flowed like fire down his neck and over his shoulders (which were almost as wide as Ollie was tall). Even his eyebrows had that ethereal red shimmer, which stood out against his ghostly skin.
The mountain of muscle took in the now-silent patrons and proceeded to walk to the bar and the sweating man behind it.
The armor clinked and clanked as he moved, and the sword on his hip, clearly a well-maintained and valuable weapon of a style Ollie had never seen before, swung with its own rhythm like a pendulum you wanted no part of. It was large, but looked proportional next to the man's trunk-like thigh.
Despite his visions of being manhandled by this demon for whatever purpose he desired (Ollie guessed information or a really stiff drink, which are the only true uses of a bartender), he was quite shocked and relieved when the beast sat at one of the bar stools (which had surely seen bigger men, but still seemed about to collapse), and smiled at Ollie.
Ollie was shocked to feel the uneasiness slip from his mind (not entirely, but certainly a little).
His smile was so well-suited to him, yet so out of place. There were even dimples at the corners of his mouth like a child. Despite his astoundingly inhuman features otherwise, this man had a smile that could make a baby sleep.
Ollie approached the man slowly and asked him what he would like. He was disturbed again to see his eyes. Where others would have white, theirs were black like his armor. Instead of regular color, there was the same uneasy flicker of deep red and orange tones as seen in his hair. There were no iris visible. Just a red sun on a black field. They were the eyes of the devil, given flesh.
The beastly man reached into some unseen pocket of his breastplate, produced several coins, and placed them on the bar. Most were of common enough origin to the man who’d seen many a currency in his time, but others were strange, with odd writings and pictures of men he’d never seen on them. Their metal, however, was plain as day.
Gold and silver, enough to send an old warhorse like Ollie on a long vacation from the rabble and the drunks. The two’s eyes met.
“A glass of your stoutest beer and a little bit of your time,” the man-beast said in an accent that was simply alien to an ear who’d heard it all. It sounded like “Ah glahs ove yer shtoutest beer and ah lit’l bih ove yer’ time.” It was understandable, but no less mysterious.
The tender half-turned to his rows of kegs, all old and well-used for a few generations of guzzlers. Each was tapped with a spigot with a bright LED light on it, so out of place in this low-tech society it was almost offensive. Most were green, some pulsed yellow, and two flashed red like a warning beacon. Green equaled a full keg, yellow for half or less, red for a keg that needed to be changed soon. Some avoided Land’O’North Tavern for this reason alone. Even in small amounts like this, the tools of the ancient ones were sure to only bring suffering. To Ollie, the ancient ones were nothing but ghosts, and he never once had to lift a keg to check the draught levels. That was more than enough reason to dance with the devils of the dust. Despite his constant complaints and frequent post-fight blood clean-ups, he loved his life and job very much and welcomed any tool that would help him carry on a little longer.
He kept watch on the black-eyed man as he picked the required keg and passed an old glass beneath it. A soft click as the spigot’s magic eye saw the glass and began pouring the stout as perfectly and with as much velocity as the beverage required. When it neared the top of the glass, the same click was heard, and the drink stopped flowing. Only a beer thick as molasses with a head like a crown of white remained.
He delivered the glass to the stranger and allowed him to view his perfectly poured glass with a smirk. “I dare say a finer pint has ne’er crossed my eyes,” said the man
