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Great Writing - Home > SF > The Riverboat Wrangler: Part 6 - The End
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Science Fiction and Fantasy
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| The Riverboat Wrangler: Part 6 - The End | |
| By Mr_E_Writer | ||||||||||||
| 30 May 2008 | ||||||||||||
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. “Well that’s me all wagered out,” sighed Sam Jackson. “Of all the cards in all the decks, he had to draw the nineteen of clubs! There’ll be no playing again for Sam, not tonight. Unless… I wonder, Mister Tuft, would you care to cover the cost of my next hand?” “What’s in it for me?” Jackson fished in the pockets of his purple greatcoat. “I’m guessing that the contents of your purse might just be enough to buy you this here key.” Rogue studied the key with interest. Designed for use with a warded lock, it was of a simple yet intriguingly ornate design with a cylindrical shaft of polished pewter and a single flat rectangular tooth of bronze. “And why would I want an old rusty key?” “I’m guessing that you want out of this rummy gin joint. Am I right? This here is the key to cubicle ‘S’.” “And what, exactly, is cubicle S?” “The executive John.” “And who, exactly, is executive John?” “Not who, what, my dear Rogue. It’s where the big boys go when they want to spend a guinea. “And what, exactly, is spending a guinea?” “Mister Tuft… Rogue… would you kindly refrain from the repeated use of the word exactly. I loathe the word almost as much as I loathe the word what, which, may I point out, you have just used twice in the space of three questions.” “Sorry.” “Your apology is noted. Now, to answer your question, to spend a guinea is to visit the khazee.” “Khazee?” “The krappa, Mister Tuft. The dhunni. Popping round for tea at W/C fields.” “Ah! You mean the expediency, the convenience, the washroom, the - ” “Yes, I believe we’re now speaking the same language, Mister Tuft. This is the key to the executive washroom. But, more importantly, it is the key to the doorway that will lead you to sanctuary. ” Rogue leaned back in his chair and fingered his goatee. “So, all I gotta do is unlock a door? Mm, if it’s as easy as that, how come no-one’s tried it before?” “There’s one slight problem,” replied Jackson, throwing the keys onto the baize in front of Rogue. “There’s a Bog Troll.” “A Bog Troll?” “Yes, my dear Rogue, a Bog Troll. Do you have a gun?” “I’ve got a bullet. Do you have a gun?” “But of course I do, didn’t I tell you that people keep giving me guns.” Jackson opened his greatcoat to display an impressive collection of handguns. “So, Mister Tuft, are you ready to part with your purse, I wonder?” Armed with the key and a Colt45 ‘Lovejoy’ loaded with a solitary dum-dum round with his game on it, Rogue made his way out of the backgammon room and along the hallway that Sam Jackson had assured him would lead to the gentlemen’s washroom. Lighting in the hallway was supplied by fluorescent ceiling panels and the walls were decorated in Regency blue-stripe wallpaper that incorporated a silver fleur-de-lys. Every 10mtrs Rogue came upon a green door. The doors were all locked and, with the exception of the information displayed on the nickel plated plaque screwed to their middle rail, they were identical in every way. Rogue had been making a mental note of the wording on the plagues in the hope that a pattern would develop, yet none had. DO NOT ENTER - JANITOR - STORE ROOM - HEADMASTER - ROOM 101 - STAFF ONLY - BROOM CUPBOARD; to Rogue it made absolutely no sense whatsoever. An hour had already come and gone when Rogue discovered an old prospector sitting on a wooden bench. Both the bench and the prospector were covered in dust and silver cobwebs. Rogue stopped and looked down at the ancient gold digger, coughing gently to get his attention. “Howdy, old-timer. I’m new to these parts and I was wondering if you could direct me to the gentlemen’s washroom?” Distant eyes peered up from a cracked, weather-beaten face that lay partially hidden behind the ravages of time. “The gentlemen’s what?” “Washroom,” replied Rogue. “The krappa, the loo, the water closet, the - ” “Ah, you must be lookin’ fir the log cabin? It’s straight on down this here hallway. About fifty paces or so. It’ll come creeping up at you on your left side… or perhaps it’ll be your blind side. Still, you can’t miss it. Big ugly sucker, it is. But listen up, cowhorn, and listen up good. If you’re going to see a man about a dog you’d best beware of the Pet Shop Boys.” “Mighty kind of you, old timer,” said Rogue. He gave a two-fingered salute and continued on down the hallway. Sometime later, Rogue stopped at a watering hole and checked his timepiece. Two hours had passed since his encounter with the old prospector and he’d still not managed to discover the whereabouts of the washroom. Believing he’d somehow missed a signpost, Rogue was about to turn back when he noticed a rustler at the far end of the bar buying bottles of mineral water for a pair of thirsty-looking cows. With a leisurely gait, Rogue sidled up to the musty cowpoke. He doffed his twelve-litre hat, proffered a kid-gloved hand and offered a pussycat smile. “Howdy beefburgler, I’m looking fir directions to the gentlemen’s bathroom.” “The gentlemen’s what?” “Bathroom,” replied Rogue. “The khazee, the convenience, the log cabin, the - ” “Oh, you must mean the porcelain palace! It’s just down at the end of the bar, fella. You see those two doors? Well the one on the left’s got a picture of a hussy on it. My guess is you’ll be wanting the door on the right. But you listen here, curdwangler, and listen good. If you’re intending to bleed the snake you’d best beware of trouser-rattlers.” Tentatively, Rogue pushed open the lavatory door and stepped inside. “Heated towel and scented soap, sir?” asked a massively muscled man of few words who stood at the far end of the room wearing an immaculately tailored monkey suit. “Are you the Bog Troll?” Rogue asked. “Lavatory attendant, if you don’t mind,” replied the colossus, testily. “Brush the dandruff from your jacket, sir?” Rogue pulled out his gun. “Listen, buddy, I don’t want to have to shoot you so - ” “Well if that’s the case,” interjected the attendant, “wouldn’t it be better for all parties concerned if you used the key that’s hanging from your belt to unlock this door?” He gestured towards a nearby cubicle. Rogue could see that a branding iron had been used to burn the letter S onto the surface of its oak door. He lifted the key from his belt. “Adjust the way you’re hanging, sir?” asked the attendant. “No thanks,” replied Rogue and pushed the bronze and pewter key into the warded lock. “By the way, where’d you get the monkey suit?” “Off a chimpanzee, sir.” “Welcome to The Hall of Forgotten Games!” exclaimed an overzealous red-faced bartender who resembled a Toby jug. He licked his lips salaciously and pulled a pint. “Ah, Mister Tuft, how nice of you to join us,” barked a silver-grey Scottish terrier who sat at the foot of an enormous card table. “My name is Scotty,” continued the cast iron canine. It stood up and came lolloping across the room to rub itself against Rogue’s left leg. “I trust your not thinking of - ” “Heaven forbid, Mister Tuft! I’m just pleased to finally meet you. We’ve been expecting you, you know?” replied the enlivened hound. “Great, you’ve been expecting me and now I’m here. So what happens next?” “Up, Mister Tuft, you need to go UP.” Rogue peered towards the ceiling and sucked in a breath. The furniture towered above him. “And how, exactly, do I get up,” he asked, beginning to feel like a termite in a Barbie house. Scotty struggled to contain his enthusiasm. “You’ll find some ladders over in the far corner, Mister Tuft.” Rogue stared in the direction the terrier had indicated. His jaw dropped. “Snakes! I hate snakes!” “But you need a ladder in order to climb up to the card table,” replied Scotty. “And anyway, the snakes don’t bite. They’re all constrictors. Perhaps a hug, an affectionate squeeze, but no more.” When Rogue returned with the ladder, Scotty gave him a friendly growl and handed over a fistful of brightly coloured banknotes. “Here, take this. You’ll need some wedge with which to bribe the Queen of Hearts.” “She’s the leader of the pack, Vroom - Vroom,” intoned Toby Jug. “She runs the whole shebang,” said Scotty with a sweep of his paw. Rogue held up a hand. “I’m a gambler, not a Bob-sponge. I like to win my money, fair and square.” “We could toss a coin if it would make you feel better. Heads you win and tails I lose. Look, I’ve just sold a rather prestigious property in the fashionable West End district of Mayfair to Rich Uncle Pennybags and his daughter Money, so believe me, there’s plenty more where this came from. Please, take the cash, Mister Tuft.” With a smile of gratitude, Rogue pocketed the notes and placed a tentative foot on the first rung of the ladder. Scotty placed a paw on his arm and gestured towards a tatty cardboard box. “A hero you are. Lead the way for others, you will. Take only those items that you need and leave the rest behind, for there may come a day when others will choose to tread this path.” Rogue glanced inside the box. It contained several items that could be used as weapons. A length of rope (fashioned into a hangman’s noose), a wrench, a piece of lead piping, a candlestick. “I’ll pass, thanks,” said Rogue, placing a hand on his holster to indicate that he was already carrying. “Fair thee well, gentle Tuft,” called out Scotty as Rogue began the long ascent to the card table. Rogue eased himself over the lip and strode purposefully across the table to where several members of the pack were busy entertaining the Queen of Hearts with bawdy anecdotes. The Queen remained silent, her dispassionate eyes gazing about her unflinchingly. Rogue placed a fist to his mouth and coughed gently to clear his throat. “Good afternoon, I was hoping that - ” The Queen snorted contemptuously. “This will never do, a peasant… addressing one’s Royal personage! ORF WIF E’S ’EAD!” “He might be a pheasant, Your Highnessness, maybe even a grouse,” suggested Jack Diamond; a snivelling toady of the highest order. “Game birds is known for their lack of decorum.” “Desist with your idle drivel,” screamed the Queen. “ORF WIF E’S ’EAD THIS INSTANT.” Rogue suppressed a flush of irritation and, regarding the Queen stonily, spoke with icy politeness. “Forgive me, Your Highness, but I was erroneously advised that you had your price.” He reached into his jacket pocket. Upon setting eyes on Rogue’s roll of notes, the pack began chattering in excited, greedy tones. “Perhaps one may have misjudged you,” said the Queen in her husky yet clear voice. “How might one be of assistance?” “I need to get across to the billiard table.” “Then one and one’s pack shall begin a rousing game of contract bridge,” replied the Queen. The pack set about forming hands and Rogue took the opportunity to get in forty winks. When he awoke he discovered that the winks had tiddled on the carpet and North had declared war on the South following an allegation by the West that the East was a dummy. Rogue left the cards to argue amongst themselves and, gingerly, made his way across the bridge. Arriving at the billiard table he mustered every last ounce of strength in his body and rolled the spot-white cue ball across the table. It kissed the red and white balls for a direct cannon. Rogue placed his hands on his ears but the noise of the artillery-piece was still deafening. When the dust finally settled he noticed that a hole had been blown in the far wall. Cautiously, Rogue stepped through the breach in the wall, gently easing aside pieces of fallen plaster and rubble with the toe of his grimalkin-skin boot. The tunnel was murky within, lit only by the faint glow of intermittently spaced torches that, due to the draught created by the breach, now flickered spasmodically. Miniature waterfalls of a turquoise-coloured luminous liquid poured from hairline fissures in the rock and orange mist swirled at ground level. Rogue took a few tentative steps into the gloom. Within, the tunnel was haunted by the distant churning of gargantuan machinery. Steam hissed above his head, scenting the air with a damp, musty smell. Rogue took a deep breath, catching just a hint of Tabasco’s subtle aroma. He placed a hand against the moist stone wall to steady himself and, with carefully measured steps, began to make his way towards the predictably dull light at the end of the tunnel. Rogue had been stumbling through the semi-darkness for several hours when, abruptly and inexplicably, the dim trace of natural light grew stronger. The tunnel had come to a sudden end, opening out to display a huge obsidian and basalt amphitheatre beyond which extended an intricately woven catacomb of amber and gold. The floor was littered with tumbleweed and the ashen bones of some long-dead mammoth critter; its maw filled with row upon row of cracked and broken teeth resembling the tombstones of Shoe Hill. Rogue shielded his eyes, blinked. The cave appeared filled with a blue-white radiance, a blinding effulgence that emanated from a small glass plate that sat atop a stone dais. Striding purposefully to the light, Rogue discovered that the plate was heaped high with shiny coins of the realm. A handwritten sign above the plate read: Librae Solidi Denarii - SPEND ME! “LSD,” mumbled Rogue and averted his eyes before temptation got the better of him. Then his gaze fell upon a collection of jars that sat in a niche above the dais. He reached up and took down a jar on which was written: ‘Lysergic Acid Diethylamide Saturated Sugar Cubes - Property of MK-ULTRA: by Appointment to Her Majesty The Queen Victoria of Hertfordshire. EAT ME. Go On, You Know You Want To!’ As Rogue unscrewed the cap his olfactory system was assailed by the subtle aroma of cinnamon. The smell was intoxicating. He removed a sugar cube and took a bite. The taste was quite exquisite. Rogue eased open a fluid tangerine door, only to discover that it led into a small passage not much larger than a skank-hole. Kneeling down, he looked along the passage into the loveliest garden he’d ever seen. “Petunia pancakes,” said Rogue anxiously to himself, holding his hand on the top of his head so that it wouldn’t roll off of his shoulders. A maniacal clenched-jaw grin settled onto his features. The next two hours slipped by quickly. Rogue writhed naked on the lawn, giggling and laughing, crying and defecating. His thoughts were comprised of the odd combination of obscure languages, involuntary optical stimuli and experiential sound. He thought of a rainbow yet saw a pineapple riding on a penny-farthing bicycle, repeatedly hearing the word dirigible being chanted in a high-pitched voice by a small pink azalea bush. The experience left him in a perpetual state of euphoria. The next sixty minutes slid by rapidly, yet even so, Rogue began to get very tired of sitting on the grass as the cool moon made him feel very lethargic and dim-witted. He was busy contemplating whether the pleasure of making a daisy-chain would be worth the effort of chasing the daisies when, quite without warning, a white rabbit appeared from behind the golden-brown dunes of a beach tree. Removing a solid platinum hunter’s watch from the pocket of his tartan waistcoat, the rabbit peered inquisitively at its face through the cracked lenses of his bifocals. “I am unfashionably tardy for an extremely significant engagement,” it said, and tut-tutted as it turned to hop away; a look of anxiety sweeping across its hirsute visage. Thick black smoke began billowing into the cool afternoon air. Rogue peeked at about five hours, at which point he started to his feet and, burning with curiosity, ran across the field in pursuit of the rabbit; just in time to see it pop down a large hole under a privet hedge. The next three hours oozed by dreamily. Rogue writhed naked on an old iron four-poster bedstead, reading and fornicating, masticating and paper-folding. Finally, throwing caution to the wind, he leapt headfirst through a hole in the horsehair mattress in pursuit of a psychedelic fairy cake. “Double-down a red 'n' face-up th' blackjack on deuces,” said the straw man. “Heck, I’ve almost won enough gold t' buy m'self a new brain!” “I'll cover that bet,” said Rogue Tuft, self-proclaimed Wiz of Ardoz.
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