The moon was high and full in the clear night sky, casting a surprising amount of light on the area below, which was nothing more than a cleared dirt road. In the midst of this field stood two young men – barely more than boys, yet not quite a full man – standing back to back. Each of them were nervous, though neither were able to breathe rapidly due to panic, or sweat due to nerves.
A loose assemblage of people stood nearby. One of these young men was completely blind, and the other was unable to see due to injury, hence why one of the assembled had been chosen as a referee. The referee was a simpleton that only understood the difference of winner and loser, and who really only wanted to be there to shout numbers.
The referee counted out loud, all the way to ten, with the young men only moving after the count of five, growing more nervous at eight, and turning on ten. Both men drew swords and attacked, but neither were proficient, so after a terrible fumble on both their parts, they reached for a gun hidden on their person, and fired a shot at the other. A man nearby nodded satisfactorily, though he hadn’t a clue what had just happened despite watching, and the referee shouted ‘Hooray!’.
A donkey, thought paralyzed, had been laying over near a wagon not far from all of this, and with the echo of the shots it panicked, and ended up kicking the blind man in the eye, knocking him through a wall and over into a ditch, where he drowned, choking on his own blood from the injuries he’d sustained. He was quickly joined by the simpleton, who suffered a similar fate.
A policeman came rushing to the scene, having heard the echoing shot despite being largely deaf, and leaned over, arresting the two young men on the ground. But, if you don’t believe me…well, ask the blind observer, since he saw it too!
Robert looked around the Elysium after his story, vaguely curious as to if anyone other than the nearby fledglings had been paying attention.
“I don’t get it.” one fledgling said to him.
“What’s not to get, Mikey?” he responded
“It’s Michael.” the fledgling responded. “It’s just a damn weird story, if it’s true.”
“Of course it’s not true, it’s a poem.” Robert sighed.
“But it was a story.” another one countered.
“I told it as a story. It’s based off a poem.” he countered. “Stick with me here, Liz.”
“So what’s the poem then?” she asked.
“Oh. Well, let me see if I can recall it fully.” he said, drawing things out to just the point of too much annoyance from waiting, before reciting the verse.
“One fine day in the middle of the night
Two dead boys got up to fight
Back to back they faced each other
Drew their swords and shot each other
One was blind and the other couldn’t see
So they chose a dummy for a referee.
A blind man went to see fair play
A dumb man went to shout “hooray!”
A paralyzed donkey passing by
Kicked the blind man in the eye
Knocked him through a nine inch wall
Into a dry ditch and drowned them all
A deaf policeman heard the noise
And came to arrest the two dead boys
If you don’t believe this story’s true,
Ask the blind man he saw it too!”
The group blinked. “That makes even less sense.” complained a third.
“It’s not supposed to Carl. That’s the entire point.”
“What the hell kind of poem was it then?” Carl demanded to know.
“It’s just nonsense verse. Don’t get so worked up.” Robert said. Fledglings…they could be fun to mess with sometimes, but he was getting bored, and more than a little annoyed with elders, who kept pawning the newbies off on Robert, ostensibly to ‘keep him out of trouble’.
As luck would have it, all eyes turned toward the front of the room. The Prince was there, giving a pretty speech about something or another, but his words were hollow. How no one else could see that Prince Nathaniel Westacre was rotting from the inside, his words nothing more than dead bark falling from a diseased mouth was beyond him. When he left, activity in the Elysium was more abuzz than usual, as people were talking, trying to claymore for the Prince’s attention or affections.
Robert looked sour, and the fledglings noted this. “Hey, what kind of bug crawled up your butt?” Liz asked.
“Empty words and hollow lies, emanating from ego unearned.” he replied.
“Why do you always speak in riddles?” Michael responded.
“When cobwebs sing and omens indicate dung beetles.”
“What does that even mean?” Carl asked.
“It means I take my leave. It’s been nice visiting, but it’s time I move on, before the fireworks begin.”
“Can’t you just…you know…not speak weird?” and exasperated Michael asked.
“Can’t you just…you know…open your fucking mind and understand?” Robert said, feeling far too edgy just then. “I’m leaving. If you want to talk more, you’ll have to follow.”
With that, he exited the building and walked the block to his car. No one had attempted to follow. He got in, fumbling around for a folded up map of the United States he kept…somewhere. It was time to get out of New England. The question was where. When he eventually found the map, he unfolded it, his eyes scanning the mess of dots and lines and assorted labels. Finally, he closed his eyes and hovered his finger over the map, moving it across until it felt right to just jab a spot on the map.
Savannah. Well, looked like he’d have to work on his affiliation – not that he cared one way or the other about being Camarilla or Sabbat, but it was a survival factor. Crumpling up the map and tossing it into the backseat, he turned the key in the ignition and made his way south, turning the stereo on. After a moment, the CD in the drive kicked in, and began to play. He had no idea what was on it – it was just random files he’d thrown onto a disk and burned before packing up what he cared enough to keep and loading his car that evening.
He was turning onto the highway, when the sound of sirens began rushing past. From the speakers of the car, a soundbite of Marvin the Martian was wondering where the earth-shattering kaboom was, then it progressed to Rufus Wainwright’s version of Hallelujah, and seemed relatively standard fare from that point onward, a mish-mashed affair of music from only the odd numbered decades. And the aughts – can’t forget those.
He sang along with Hallelujah, sometimes perfectly on key, and other time snot so much. When the song was over, and he was safely on his way out of Hartford, he recited some more verse, with all the power and theatrics of a born thespian before focusing on the drive ahead of him.
“Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.”
He had no idea what lay ahead of him in Savannah, but eventually, something was bound to get interesting, at least for a little while.