Chapter I Continued....(end)

Albrecht Dürer   1471-1528

I rolled from him then, disgusted that I had spread my legs around him even if only to kill him, then carried myself to the nearest stool where I sat staring at naught, mourning a life I ne'er had.  I cradled the bread knife as a babe and refused to allow myself any tears.

'Twas how they found us, the Sheriff and his man, early the following morn; the Alderman still flat on his back in shite soggy breeches, a placid chicken perched delicately atop his noggin, mayhap in hopes of hatching   into worth the obscene egg that had taken o'er his forehead.  Myself, rocking a blade and singing it a sweet 

lullaby.

In sooth, 'twas the lullaby I believe, what saved me sorry neck.

The Sheriff, as balanced and just-minded a man as one in his position is allowed to be, knew not what to make of the scene, nor, whence it should come to it, know where to set his gaze in the coming hours for want of an acceptable explanation as to exactly how it was he foretold the whereabouts of Master Terwilliger with such prophetic accuracy.  But it was clear that no matter the circumstance the fault would be mine own, with Ian Terwilliger emerging as the victor-if one can be said to be victorious with a load of shite in ones breeches and the guilt of lechery upon ones soul.

As for the rest?  Well, the phrase mere formality does spring to mind.  I would not hold the taste of freedom upon my tongue nor know the giddiness of a brilliant summer day for much time hence.  And though I would become intimately acquainted with the bite of frigid cold, sick hunger, rats and raving madness,what came to me from it I would ne'er sell nor trade even to wipe my slate clean nor to have lived a different life.  Tainted though it may sound, I owe Ian Terwilliger my gratitude, if not my debt.

end chapter i

Chapter I Continued.....

I tell you now, in sooth my friend, I did indeed swing the iron stew pot mightily, with double fists,

landing it square to his lordship's balding and lice scabbed pate,  knocking his unnaturally tiny feet from under his swaying girth, causing him to topple backward into an unsuspecting lot of laying hens minding their business by the fire.

More's the pity for the hens.

I confess that the site of him scuttling his limbs about like to an upended stink bug in the garden whilst gagging upon loose feathers and dried chicken shite nearly caused me to laugh aloud and show him a small mercy.  But somehow, somehow I did not end it there.  

Though to this very morn I do not regret one whit.

A rage, blinding purple in its hue, overtook me then as I looked down upon his vile bloat and it was but a short step afore I had straddled him as one would a fat hog at sticking time.  Holding the bread knife, taken in haste from the hearth table, to the multitudinous folds of his stinking neck, I whispered a prayer for all that had befallen me, both past, present and betwixt.

But in that moment of devout petition, pleading to whom I knew to be an unjust and pitiless God, the sightless rage left me as it came; quickly, painfully.

I looked down down upon him to search his eyes for further danger but found none.  Heaving and drooling, he posed no imminent threat to me, the welt rising in the middle of his forehead sufficient to render him senseless if indeed he could e'er be said to have possessed the quality of sense afore.

"By God's teeth, ye heavin' puss-bag," I whispered through my own sour spittle as I pressed knife blade to pink flesh.  "I could slit thee fat gullet to tiny prick and feed thy foul guts to the wild hogs wit' none bein' the wiser.  An' the Devil and yer own self mark mine own words, I wilt see it through if ye e'er lays a filthy, loutish mitt about me person again."

The bubbling wet, ensuing fart and rising stench spake that he believed me.