Shredder

The light blinded me in a cold room, where an Anti-Magic Army officer sat in front of me. He kept staring down at me, ready for an interrogation. He was a gaunt man with striking icy eyes, which would occasionally express their disdain under the thick rim of the Kepi whenever the lights flickered a little stronger. I was trying to hide my own disdain for how he smoked his cigarette. I’ve only ever seen clueless girls trying to act tougher than they were by puffing instead of inhaling, but never a grown man waste his breath doing this. I took a deep breath, mentally preparing myself as he was flipping through my file. Then a slam echoed as he dropped it on the desk.

“Name?”

“Mito.”

“Age?”

“Twenty-two.”

“Occupation?”

“Administrative Assistant.”

“Were you a citizen of Klint?”

I rubbed my hands nervously. I wasn’t expecting this question to pop up.

“Yes.”

The man sneered as he licked his gold canine tooth, pleased with my answer.

“That is all I need.” Gesturing to one of the guards to take me away.

“That’s all he needs to do, what?” I thought to myself: this is terrible news.

As I was walking… it sounded like I was followed by an extra set of steps as I stomped across the metal floor. It felt like the shadow of my old life was catching up with me. The cold cuffs on my wrists were clicking against my watch. Each passing second was a reminder that my story stops here: the end. The Anti-Magic Army knows everything; death by firing squad for me.

I’m going to miss this watch. It was the only gift Remi, my ex-fiancée, got me.

I remember when I last got this watch repaired, two years ago, at a watchsmith in Klint. That was the first time I heard about the Anti-Magic Army. Back then, I thought this organization was just a bad joke.

When I entered the shop, the portrait of the Anti-Magic Army leader hung above the artisan’s desk. Three old geezers were whispering to each other about the current corrupt government. As I waited for my turn, I couldn’t help but listen to their conversation. The Western Empire declared war on Klint, and everyone was anxiously waiting to be wiped off the map. A small, backwards port town in the Bufferzone was easy pickings for anyone, let alone an Empire like that. In one swift move, Klint managed to sabotage its only Protector. Rumor was that the Prince’s betrothed had been murdered. This meant the end of their lineage. The Elven Queen knew they were on the way out regardless, but she vowed, like a cornered beast with nothing left to lose, that we’d all pay the price.

“We need to spread the word about the Anti-Magic Army: we must 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 world’s burning, and these three are going to save us with some improvised political party with ideas imported from the North. The men all turned to me, and I had my chance to leave my watch for repair.

“What a bunch of naive old geezers. Conspiring in a watch shop! I feel safer already!” I thought to myself as I went on my way.

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

I was happy at least there wasn’t a hole in the crotch area. I can keep some semblance of dignity if someone else wasn’t so lucky.

Next, they took my watch and replaced it with a self-detonating wristband in case I tried to escape. Not that I plan to, for obvious reasons… but hey, this is fantastic news: it means I get to live at least another day. On the downside, it had an annoying beeping sound that never stopped.

Then, they shaved all of my hair off.

The last thing the guards did was hose me down. It was their little game: if you flinched, they would yell “You’re 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 nearly identical. I noticed that my rags had a hole in the shirt, though… Great! Even in a high-security concentration camp, I get the shitty end of the stick.

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?” a strong, burly older man yelled.

“Never mind him, tell us the rest of the joke, Bastion.” A chubby black man said.

“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. The older man noticed this, smirked, and turned towards the defiant, tanned man with rounded features.

“What is it, Sculptor? Why didn’t you laugh?” Bastion tapped his foot as he towered over him.

“I’m busy. I wasn’t paying attention.” The Sculptor snarled as he kept sharpening a rock, which he found scattered across the yard.

“What are you doing? Working on your shitty art again?” Bastion scoffed as he leaned close to the Sculptor’s face before spitting on the ground.

When I looked at the Sculptor, I saw the pent-up fury behind his eyes as he mumbled to himself:

“Oh? A critic? Well… tell me what you think about this one!” and he lifted the rock he was clenching in his fist, ready to break Bastion’s skull with it. In order to distract the Sculptor, I just said the first thing that crossed my mind:

“My, that’s a lovely rock, what is it?” I had the most obviously fake nice smile plastered across my face.

Disarmed, the Sculptor glanced proudly at his work:

“This thing? It’s called Misery of the Artist.”

“Oh, That’s... a very profound name!” I wasn’t into art, but I needed to pretend to care.

Back at the circle, one of the men grabbed my arm to join them, hoping to hear some new stories.

“Tell us about you. Who are you?” asked the chubby black man. His name was the Magician around the camp.

“My name is Mito, but everyone calls me Mitzi. It’s a childhood nickname.” I rubbed the back of my neck as I said this.

“So Mitzi... what, did you do?” The Magician jokingly asked, with an infantilizing tone. The men leaned closer to hear my answer.

“Honestly? I have no idea. ” I shrugged.

“I bet one of your neighbors snitched on you! ” Bastion said.

“So, got any stories from before the Kulak?” A tall, gaunt man with bulging eyes 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?” An angry, stick-thin man with an angrier unibrow insisted.

Then it struck me: I could talk about someone else’s life.

“I do. I’m a storyteller. ”

“So you’re a writer?” Bastion asked.

“No. I hate writing, actually. But I’m good at making up stories on the fly.”

“Pft. So just a liar, then. We have plenty of those already.” Sneered a man with a slick southern accent who was grooming his nails.

“Any story?” Bastion questioned.

“Any story, just name the theme,” I said enthusiastically.

“I know! Tell us a story that takes place in a brothel!” smiled a man with crossed eyes as he was rubbing his hands together.

“What a great idea! Should be a spicy story!” The Magician cheered.

“Hm... I know the perfect story for you guys!”

I smiled and began telling them the story of Tom, 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 naive kid; he didn’t even know what a brothel 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.

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

What they found instead was silent whispering, no signs of nudity, and Clara, the angry innkeeper, aggressively whispering for them to be silent. They were shocked, one of them even saying: “In church, at least I get to see Eve naked. Where the hell are we?”

They sheepishly approach the bar, wondering if this really is The Flying Boot brothel. Clara says,

“What did the sign say?”

“It said the Flying Boot?“ Answered the bravest one.

“Good for you, you know how to read. Are you gonna order anything?“

She raised her hand in the air dismissively.

“We’d like your best wine and your best ladies to match.” The loudest one joked, boastful and proud of his inspired line.

“We don’t serve any wine.” Clara sneered in disgust.

“Then your sweetest liquor and your sweetest gals. “ Said the meek one, fancing himself a poet.

“We don’t serve shitty sweet crap.” She puffed through her lips. “Then your strongest vodka and just any woman who is willing to sleep with us.“ Even the brave one gave up trying to be witty at this point. Clara slams her hand on the bar and points her finger at the three men.

“Listen here, if you come here, you ask what’s on the menu! You don’t barge in here, and don’t demand things you think we have! If you wanna assume, assume you’re stupid! Then you’d all be right.” She scoffed as she crossed her arms.

“W-What is on the menu?” Asked the meek one.

“Beer.” She said with a firm tone.

“And?”

“That’s all.”

“What about specials?” The loudest one nudged the others as he winked.

“What specials? We only have beer!“ Clara said, exasperated. “No, we were talking about the women. Is there any woman better than the other ones?” He pulled his companions closer as he grinned at Clara.

“ Your mother?” She raised her eyebrows, dodging the obvious innuendo.

“I know! How about you?” The brave one looked up at her with a flirty glance and a knowing smile.

“What about me?” She matched his flirting tone with the enthusiasm of a brick.

“You could entertain us tonight.” He leaned closer to the bar, twirling his finger on the aged mahogany as he said this.

She slammed her foot on the bar with her spiked leather boot. The other two men backed off instantly. The brave wasn’t the smart one for a reason. He looked at her boot and exclaimed:

“Oh! She’s flexible! Will you offer us your services for a fee?” Flustered and impressed.

“For you idiots, it’s on the house,” Clara smirked as she cracked her knuckles.

And that’s how three foreigners found out why the brothel was called the Flying Boot, the hard way.