Blue Rule: Ready Set Go!
Flash Fiction
Submission for Iron Age Media’s Prompt: The Missive
In the doldrums of an otherwise cloudy evening which reeked of booze, smoke from both cigarettes and fireworks, and floral scents from ladies of the night, a singular man lay against the door of a yet to open bar, eyes shuttered behind the rim of a bowler hat as transients scampered on by to their version of a local go-to.
“Good to see you arrived!” shouted a very tall redheaded man holding a set of keys. Kicking the sleeping man’s foot resulted in a groggy mumbling of greeting in return, and the unlocking of the door to the bar.
“I enjoy that you’d be the first among many as well. One man for an opening night isn’t the worst I can do!” the newly minted bartender stated with the air of confidence expected of any new business owner.
The two men entered the freshly decorated and rebranded bar known as the “Blue Rule”. Cumbersome though the bowler hatted one felt due to his own long day at work, evidently his job was not yet done. While preparing drinks for customers that filtered in not too long after the both of them took positions, the bartender sat a black envelope in front of the almost sleeping Bowler.
Jolted awake by this development for whatever reason, Bowler uttered the first set of words for the evening that weren’t colored in by his own boredom or fatigue.
“It’s time.”
A moment after ripping open at the folded paper, and pulling free the contents, among them was a simple letter pertaining to events as of yet unresolved. Among legal jargon, and other irrelevant details that did not matter, Bowler knew only the most important from the letter:
“The coup is underway. By the time you get this, it’ll almost be over. We want you to meet with Skullcracker, currently climbing the frozen mountain outside of town.”
And just as soon as he did the honors for an old “friend” whom started his own bar, he was on his way out. He felt positive he heard the giant sequoia of a man bagger him to stay and mingle with the myriad of customers who have since entered, but he made his way through that same crowd by this point, and vanished from view.
“Skullcracker”. The word felt ominous on his lips but he paid it no mind. Bowler would soon enough find himself at the bottom of what was the coldest place known to man in this world. The mountain stretched very far up into the clouds, and some say its frigid rocks pierced beyond them, burdening even Gods.
Bowler and his team waited hours and hours for the scheduled return of Skullcracker. “Could he be dead?” Some wondered. “Finally his sins caught up to him.” others figured, clearly of the belief that Skullcracker deserved to die up there for reasons no doubt related to his namesake.
Bowler wasn’t here for ideology though. He had a job to do.
Just then, as Bowler and his team of six were about to pack their things and leave from this frozen wasteland, they spot a shadow slowly making its way to their location.
Eventually they did know it to be a man, of very burly build. It had to be Skullcracker.
Skullcracker it was, though from their distance it seemed as though his right arm was stuffed awkwardly behind himself, and his left hand was hanging on rigidly to some sort of flag, probably taken from the summit of the mountain — though Bowler had no clue how any flesh and blood man could make it to the summit, nobody ever has. —
The fog of the mountain’s breeze slipped away eventually, and soon it became obvious what had really happened. Skullcracker was not holding a flag at all. Rather, he was holding his amputated right arm in his left hand.
“This souvenir is nothing more than my second place trophy. So what do I do? Learn from it and prepare to come back next time. And I -will- conquer this mountain when I am finished with whatever it is you want from me, Bowler.”
“Who was first place?” asked one member of the team.
“The mountain.” was Skullcracker’s answer.
Bowler felt the atmosphere shift from one of solemn mystery to one of calculated tempo. It was time to get back to work.