CHAPTER 5
NIGHT OF ‘THE ROTTEN BARREL’ MURDERS
Once again, Nox dreamt. It would seem old memories had been disturbed, rattled out of their little boxes in the back of Nox’s mind. Many a slig had bad memories of course, but not all sligs had suffered what Nox had been forced to endure. Not all sligs had voices in their heads, and constant guilt racking their conscious. Not all sligs constantly lived in the past, against their own will.
It was cold, dark and raining. Nox was standing on a metal platform, getting wet, even though he was already as wet as he could possibly be. He was in Slig Barracks, standing guard at the post he had been assigned to for the week, very much disheartened. It was nearly the end of his day shift, and he knew exactly where he was going afterwards: The Rotten Barrel pub, one of only a few in Slig Barracks.
Years and years ago, before Nox was even born, and General Dripik was a mere junior with distant dreams, the morale of sligs within Slig Barracks, as a whole, was in desperate need of attention. Something needed to be done, and hastily at that. Sligs were already beginning to deny direct commands and duties, and mass mutiny seemed inevitable.
The glukkons of Slig Barracks called together an emergency meeting, and amongst other idea’s of how to raise slig morale just enough for them to do their jobs whilst saving as much moolah as possible, drinking taverns was thrown in (amongst cigarette vending machines and better food). It was evaluated, and found to be a good suggestion. This way sligs would look forward to boozing after their shifts, meaning that the amount of sligs that went AWOL every month decreased dramatically.
A couple of unimportant junior glukkons made a public announcement in the barracks, and mudokons were inspired to build them via loaded guns. They would be given the materials (wood, nails, tools, etc), and once a certain amount of taverns had been built within Slig Barracks, all building would need to cease, at the glukkons say so. That number of taverns was seven. It had been discussed that this number of drinking taverns would raise morale amongst the sligs sufficiently, whilst costing as little as possible.
The sligs wouldn’t have to buy the booze with their own moolah; it was free, but sligs can only drink so much. The budget for it was mouth-wateringly large, the gluk’s could certainly afford it, and it was quickly accumulated again through trade anyway.
Zooming back through time to the current date, 6 pubs still stand in random parts of a Slig Barracks today (one had burned down in an accidental fire, nearly wiping the barracks off the map; it had almost spread to the cramped tents which smothered the barracks ground).
Nox still stood in the pouring rain, guarding whatever shit-hole he’d been told to guard. He looked at his gun, it was shiny in the wet, the deepest of black. It looked new, but was far from it. This same rifle had been with Nox during the ‘D&M’ war. This very same rifle had seen all Nox had seen, and yet remained still, calm, quiet…until the trigger was pulled. Nox marveled for a second at the prospect that this gun had kept so normal after all it had been through, but then realized it was a gun, not a person.
Twat.
Nox ignored himself and looked at his watch, 10:03 pm.
“Fuck!” Nox exclaimed, realizing he was eating into his drinking time; his shift was over.
Nox took swift glances to his left and right sides on the metal walkway. No sign of his fellow slig that was supposed to meet him and take over for the night shift.
“Ah sod it” Nox whinged, and set off to his left for The Rotten Barrel pub. It was time to drown some sorrows. Nox had plenty.
He walked along the walkway, passing a couple of sligs smoking in the rain, their heads bowed, trying desperately to keep their fags alight. Nox didn’t smoke, never had, but he certainly drank. He set off into a run once the rain began to pelt down harder onto his sorry self. The wet, metal walkway was slippery.
Bingo.
He caught sight of the drinking tavern. It was an old, wooden shack. Older than Nox, nearly older than General Dripik – but who cared?! Time was booze, and Nox wanted to forget for a couple of hours. He arrived at the door of the pub with an unintended skid, and let himself in. It was noisy inside; the low drone of slig chatter, a battered duke box in a corner somewhere out of sight steadily played a random tune, and a wispy layer of cigarette smoke hung over the heads of the inhabitants of the room like a lightweight fog.
Sligs bustled between the bar and the wooden tables of seated sligs, carrying clutches of pint glasses filled to the brim, dribbling beer on the floor as they did so. Nox pushed himself to the bar, a mudokon stood behind it wiping the inside of a pint glass with an alarmingly dirty, grey cloth.
“What can I give ya’ sir?” He questioned quite readily, taking Nox aback slightly.
‘Clakker’s courage’, that’s what that is! Bastard must be sneaking booze behind everyones back!
“Err…yeah, just a pint o’ that special low grade shit they call beer.” Nox said, with a little annoyance towards the voice that interrupted his thoughts, yet again.
“Right-o” And the mudokon began the process of filling a pint glass with ‘low grade shite’. Nox took a moment to place his old rifle caringly onto the bar.
He’s gonna’ spit in your drink…hey, you listening to me? I said are you fuckin’ listening to ME!
“Yeah!” A few sligs looked strangely at his bedraggled form leaning on the bar, but soom started nattering again.
Heh, don’t make a fool outta’ yerself now Nox’y. Oh yeah, and by the way, he’s spat in your drink. Ha ha ha, heh heh.
Nox spun his head towards the mudokon, who slid Nox’s pint towards him.
“There you go mate.” He spoke.
Nox looked at the mudokons expression in a penalizing manner, making him shift his feet uneasily. Nox couldn’t help it, but he could swear that mud was smirking, as if he had spat in his drink.
“What you done?” Nox asked.
A surprised expression. “What?”
“Have you just spat in my drink?!”
A few sligs looked, but it was noisy enough for Nox to keep it partially private.
“…No…no mate, its…its there look! I haven’t done anything. Please, I don’t want trouble.” He held his hands up to his chest, signifying he didn’t want a fight, a false smile on his lips.
“Ah fuck it, sorry mate. I’m not well.” Nox replied in a casual manner, hiding his guilt quite well, through experience. The mudokon said nothing, and crept off to serve another tipsy slig.
Nox peered at the glass. There was black print on the side of it, near the brim, it read: Property of Slig Barracks. Not caring the slightest bit, he took a swig of the stuff, wetting his mouth, and fuelling his addiction. That was when someone pushed into his right hand side, almost spilling Nox’s drink.
“Oh, sorry mate!” The drunk slig sniggered, the stink of beer on his breath was evident.
He put his arm around Nox and said close to his face, “Your quiet ‘aint ya’?”, a few of his friends sitting at a nearby table laughed at the display.
He’s taking you for a fuckin’ ride sonny! Heh heh, he’s showing everyone what a wuss you really are!
Nox convulsed sharply, shaking the drunken sligs arm off of him.
“Don’t you touch me” He said threateningly whilst turning to face his foe.
“Oh right, yeah,” The slig replied, squaring up to Nox, “You think your made of somethin’ strong don’t ya’? I’ve seen your tattoo, and I ‘aint afraid of ya’.” By this point, the drunken slig was face to face with Nox.
HA HA HA…HA HA, heh heh, oh this is classic Nox, your bein’ shown up here Nox’y!! Everyone’s lookin’ at yeh!
Nox knew that everyone wasn’t looking at him, but he couldn’t help feeling they were. All those beady eyes, all those thoughts, all thinking the same thing; what an idiot, what a tosser. They weren’t, but they were, at the same time. He felt pressured to do something, to prove something to all these pissed-up sligs. That was when Nox snapped, lost control briefly.
He grabbed his nearly-full pint glass and thrust it rim-first into the face of the opposing slig. There was a painful yelp and a sharp pain in Nox’s hand as the glass cracked and shattered in the face-tentacles of his oppressor, red tinted beer spilling over Nox’s forearms, hands and the floor. It had been a long time, since the war actually, since he’d seen a sligs visor smash. The slig immediately dropped to the floor, blind, as if his robotic legs had given way to his weight, blood dribbling from three gashed face-tentacles hanging limply by threads of skin.
His friends stood at their table, staring at the mess on the floor, speechless.
That’s the ONE my son!! Oh YES! Now we’re talkin’! now, finish off the others my dearest friend, heh heh, that’s right, do as your told!
Nox then regained self control, and the feeling he had to ‘prove something’ had gone just as quickly as it had came. He let the shards of glass fall from his hand in shock, as the downed slig began to wail in pain, rolling slightly whilst trying to delicately touch his slashed up, sensitive face-tentacles. Then people started to look. It was a sorry sight, and the slig’s friends proved this.
“What the…!” One of them uttered, his hands rising to the top of his head in almost cartoonish disbelief.
Nox made a sharp exit. Grabbing his rifle with a wince, he pushed his way through the gathering audience of bladdered sligs, keeping his head low. Finally, the door. He opened it to discover it was still raining outside, and so, like before, he looked at his watch, letting the door slam shut behind him. 10:39 pm. Not quite a couple of hours, but he certainly forgot for a while…indeed.
Nox looked up at the black, night sky, the rain pattered onto his visor refreshingly.
Getting all sentimental on me are we Nox’y? Heh heh.
“Fuck it.” Nox blurted, at first quietly, then louder and louder, “Fuck it. Fuck it! Fuck it!! FUCK IT!!”
Hey, mister ‘fuck it’, they’re gonna’ come outta’ there in a minute lookin’ for yeh. Move. Now.
“I spose your right, again, as fuckin’ USUAL!!”
Get a grip, shit-head!! You wanna’ get sent down?!
…you wanna’ get sent down?…
…you wanna’ get sent down…
…you wanna’ get sent…
…you wanna’ get…
…you wanna’…
…you…
……
…
You wanna’ get sent down?
No.
…yes…
That’s when Nox woke up, in his cell, once more. ‘Why didn’t he tell the truth in court?’ you may be thinking. Well, they say – the Vykkers, that is – that when you begin to breakdown mentally, the memory is the first to go. Old memories can be altered, if not changed totally. So that’s why. Still doesn’t solve the crime though does it? No. but maybe that’s something that will never be known.
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well then, thats another chapter posted, and about bloody time aswell! sorry about the titanic wait, im gonna update this every week until its finished now. thanks for reading!
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