Shredder

Audio Book Version

Part 1 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PGzLrz56n-M&t=2s

Part 2 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XMQfkrjRrkE

Kinetic Novel played in browser https://www.newgrounds.com/portal/view/1006780

The light was blinding me in a cold room, where an officer sitting across from me was staring me down, ready for an interrogation.

"Name?"

"Mito."

"Age?"

"Twenty."

"Occupation?"

"Secretary."

"Were you a citizen of Klint?"

"Yes."

"No further questions." Gesturing to one of the guards to take me away.

"No further questions?!" I thought to myself, This is terrible news. I glanced at my watch, thinking that my time was up. My story is over: the end. The Anti-Magic Army knows everything; death by firing squad for me.

I remember when I last got my watch repaired, two years ago at a watchsmith in Klint. That was the last time I heard about the AMA. Back then, I thought they were just a bad joke.

When I entered the shop, the portrait of the AMA leader hung above the artisan's desk. Three geezers were whispering to each other about the current corrupt government. I waited for my turn, but couldn't help but be privy to their conversation.

"We need to bring the ideals of the AMA. We need to recruit young people into the party."

"But how? This generation is so frivolous and ignorant."

"I know: we need propaganda."

"Propaganda?" One of the men questioned him, knowing the meaning of the word.

"Well, not BAD propaganda. Honest propaganda."

I couldn't help but snicker. The men all turned to me, and I had my chance to leave my watch for repair.

"What a bunch of silly old geezers. Conspiring in a watch shop of all places!" I thought to myself as I went on my way.

A door opened before me, and it began: first, they took my clothes and replaced them with oversized rags.

Next, they took my watch and replaced it with a self-detonating wristband in case I try to escape. Such fantastic news: it means I'll live to see another day.

Then, they shaved my hair.

The last thing the guards did was hose me down; it was their little game: if you flinched, they would yell "OFFSIDE!" and start all over again.

Finally, I went to the ward. I never felt like I fit in anywhere until I saw that all the men inside the yard looked like copies of each other. I thought to myself: "THEY don't know! They don't know anything! All I have to do is wait until my sentence is over, and I'll be free to leave!"

"What are you smiling about, jack-ass?" one of the men yelled.

"Never mind him, let us have the rest of the joke, Bastion." Another man pleaded.

"And then the priest said: "You're not fasting, you're dieting!" The crowd of men sitting around him erupted in laughter, only one, outside the circle and with his back turned, looked in disgust.

"What is it, Sculptor? Why didn't you laugh?"

"I'm busy. I wasn't paying attention." He snarled as he kept shaping the rock that he found scattered across the yard.

"What are you doing? Carving your false God?"

When I looked at the Sculptor, I saw the pent-up fury behind his eyes as he mumbled to himself: "God? I'll make you see God," and he lifted the rock he was clenching in his fist, ready to break Bastion's skull with it. I needed to distract the Sculptor and blurted the first thing that came to my mind:

"My, that's a lovely rock, what is it?"

Disarmed, the Sculptor, glanced proudly at his work:

"This little thing? It's called Misery of the Artist."

"Oh. How deep?" I wasn't into art, but I needed to fake it.

Back at the circle, one of the men grabbed my arm to join them, hoping to hear some new stories since their regular material was getting stale.

"Tell us about you. Who are you?"

"My name is Mito, but everyone calls me Mitzi. It's a childhood nickname."

"So Mitzi, what did you do?" The men leaned closer to hear my answer.

"Honestly? I have no idea. "

"I bet one of your neighbors snitched on you! " Bastion added.

"So, got any stories from before?" One of the men asked.

"Hm... not really. I had a pretty boring life." I didn't want to share my life story with a bunch of strangers.

"Did you have a job at least?" Another asked.

Then it struck me: I could share someone else's life instead.

"I do. I'm a storyteller. "

"So you're a writer?" Bastion concluded.

"No. I hate writing, actually. But I'm good at making up stories on the fly."

"Any story?" Bastion questioned.

"Any story, just name the theme."

"I know! Tell us a story that takes place in a brothel!"

"Good one! Should be spicy!"

"Hm... Have I got the story for you guys!"

I smiled and began telling them the story of Tom, a young boy who was working as a delivery boy for the only brothel in a cosmopolitan port town. The name of the brothel was the Flying Boot, situated on the outskirts of the city. Tom was a clueless country bumpkin, unaware of what a brothel even was.

The first person he met was a very tall woman covered in leather, spikes, and lace. The men began snickering. Clara was the innkeeper, and she sent him off to do his first delivery. She was a serious and matter-of-fact person: her word was law in that brothel. The brothel opened for business around noon, when clients started arriving.

A bunch of lecherous, drunk foreigners decided to have some fun in the brothel, and they kicked open the door, expecting a sea of depravity.

What they found instead was silent whispering, no nudity, and an angry innkeeper shushing them. They were shocked, one of them even saying: "At least in church you see Eve naked. Where the hell are we?"

They approach the bar, wondering if this really is the Flying Boot brothel. The innkeeper says, "What did the sign say?" "It said the Flying Boot?" "Then why are you even asking? Are you gonna order anything?" "We'd like your finest wine and your finest ladies to match."

"We ain't got no wine." The innkeeper says. "Then your sweetest liquor and your sweetest working gals. "We don't serve any liquor either." "Then your strongest spirit and anyone willing to sleep with us." The innkeeper slams her hand on the bar and points her finger at the three men. "Listen here, if you come here, you ask me what's on the menu! You don't barge in here and demand things you think we have, like you own the place." "What's on the menu?" "Beer." "And?" "That's it." "What about specials?" "Specials? I just told you!" "No, we mean the women. Anyone better than the rest of them?" "Probably at a convent." "I know! What about you?"

"What about me?" "You could entertain us tonight."

The innkeeper raised her foot on the bar, her spiked leather boot in full display. "Oh! She's flexible! We're definitely hiring you! " And that's how three foreigners found out why the brothel was called the Flying Boot: the hard way.