By Andre Alan
The Sword and the Peach
Momotaru left the
brothel through a side exit that led to a narrow alley. Leave it to the
Sun Elves to somehow make hot, forbidden monk
sex seem almost clean. The capital elven city,
Aver, sparkled as he walked toward the major
road. No casually discarded cans or forgotten candy wrappers like the human
cities. He decided to spruce the place up with a bit of human charm and flung
his smoldering cigar onto the cement paved ground.
A homeless man, with
a long unkempt beard and bare feet that resembled something more akin to claws,
rested against the wall of the building adjacent to the brothel. His eyes brightened
at the still lit cigar and he quickly scrambled over to it, hungrily inhaling
on the butt before the embers died out of the tobacco leaf.
“Got any more?”
asked the disheveled individual. He had a hint of black hair that was mostly
grey in long scraggily hair.
Momotaru shrugged
without slowing his pace.
“You know they will
catch you eventually. You better be careful or this really will be your last
one.”
Momotaru spun around
furrowing his brow, hand hovering over the pommel of the katana that hung at
his waist. He debated whether or not to make this poor individual explain himself
further, but the old man ran off giggling and coughing, still trying to pull on
the dying cigar. Momotaru put the deranged individual out of his thoughts,
turning the corner onto London Street, the busiest street in Aver.
It seemed like even
the mighty Sun Elves could not fully eradicate the homeless epidemic,
especially with hundreds of refugees pouring onto the shores of the 400,000
kilometer long island. Humans routinely referred to the Sun Elves as High Elves
which had long ago stopped caring about the other races that lived on Threa’s
surface. Instead, the High elves had used their magic to create gigantic
floating cities. Worshipping their sun Gods, the hovering citadels controlled
by the High Elves gathered solar energy and harnessed it. Unfortunately for the
people that lived on the land below, they were relegated to artificial light
that streaked down from the underbelly of the ebon-skinned elves’ floating
town.
Momotaru slowed as
he strolled past a wooden cart with robes and hats hanging from hooks and
display shelves. One item stood out to Momotaru: a dark green, conical hat. The
merchant noticed him and began rubbing his hands in anticipation of the sale.
“This hat was
created by the master craftsman De Pono himself in B.E.D. 2003, and it’s believed
by some to be imbued with special creative thinking powers. The stories tell it
that he was inspired to create this hat after meeting the Enigma Twins outside
Tundra Mountain. You seem like the type to have a green hat, yes?” said the
merchant.
“How much?” asked
Momotaru.
“I will cut you a
deal, good sir. Ten credits, how’s about, yes?”
“I think I’ll keep
walking.”
“Ah ha, uh wait,
this hat is special, yes?”
“All the items in
your shop are not worth ten credits.”
The merchant jumped
from behind his cart, carrying the hat with him. “Seven credits, my friend. It
is the lowest I can go on such an item of this high quality; I am practically
giving away a national treasure, good sir. At least try it on and see how it
fits, yes?”
A fine hat indeed,
Momotaru could not argue that fact and finally consented. Besides, the money he
was spending was not really his own, and his father had very deep pockets.
The old man smiled
from ear to ear, all the while bowing and praising him for making such a fine
purchase. The man’s accent was from the country Villus, across the Northern
Mizuki Ocean and was as thick as the grease in his jet black hair and oiled
beard.
From the reflection
of the mirrors, Momotaru could see a group of rough young men gathered on the
other side of the road.
“If I were you, I
would put that hat on and hide, newcomer,” said the merchant.
“Thanks, but I think
I will take my chances,” replied Momotaru. “These shirks are known to
me.”
“Well, good day to
you then, sir,” said the merchant. “I need to prepare my offering.”
“Offering?”
“Nothing… never
mind. I have said too much already.”
The merchant
disappeared behind his cart, kneeling to rifle within the hidden compartments.
Momotaru could hear the sound of coins clanking together. Part of his unique skills,
obtained by working with his father’s business, was that Momotaru could
determine the value of credits based on the sound of the platinum, gold and
iron clinking against one another; well over one thousand credits were placed
into a small bag.
Across the street, a
small group of teenage thugs sat astride giant cats. The Felidae Gang. The
large felines, larger than the average horse, had two large fangs protruding
from their mouths. The members of the gang each tattooed a paw print on the
right side of their faces. The lower ranking members of the group rode upon the
more common orange-and-black-striped felidae. Their leader rode a rare white
furred tiger with black stripes. The man wore a white bandana tied around his
forehead; dark eyes looked out over a jutting nose that could act as a spear.
The leader
dismounted from his felidae, patted the large cat on its head and gave it a
kiss on its wet nose. The animal yawned widely, and stretched, arching its back
deeply as its paws extended forward. The beast sat down on its haunches and
proceeded to clean itself.
The leader walked
over to the merchant without saying a word, merely extending his hand. The
merchant tossed the man the bag full of credits.
“What are you
looking at,” asked the leader, addressing Momotaru.
“Teenage scum that
should give this man back his hard-earned money.” Momotaru viewed the boy
through slanted eyes.
“Mind your own damn
business,” said the leader. Two of the gang members walked over to stand
between Momotaru and their boss. The boss leaned over the cart to grab the
merchant by his collar, and then whispered something he couldn’t hear.
“Move along here,”
said one of the low ranking members.
Momotaru shifted his
weight slightly as his hand rested on the katana at his waist.
“This doesn’t
concern you,” said the gang member as he crossed arms the size of tree trunks
across a broad chest.
“I’m sure the elves
would be concerned,” said Momotaru.
“You must be new
here. Elves don’t give a crap about us humans. Long as we stay out of their
way. Now stay out of our way before we take a concerning to your wellbeing, if
you catch my drift.”
“What?” shouted the
merchant, trying to break free from the grasp of the gang leader. “You can’t do
that.”
“Watch me,” said the
leader with a nod to his comrades.
They hopped on their
tigers and strolled down the street.
The merchant was
mumbling to himself, bewilderment and fear in his eyes, which kept flicking
back and forth from the hat on Momotaru’s head, to the sword at his waist and
then back down to the items in his cart as he shook his head.
“I will get the
money back for you,” said Momotaru, who could not help but feel responsible.
Besides, what was the point of having a weapon and all his years training as a
monk if you were not going to use it?
As Momotaru walked
away he could have sworn the merchant said something that sounded like, “No,
you will end up in a hearse,” or maybe it was, “No, you will just make things worse.”
Either way, his mind was made up and he was on the move. Momotaru yelled after
the gang strolling away on their tiger mounts.
“Hey kid,” said
Momotaru.
The leader spared a
glance over his shoulder, yet kept moving forward, forcing Momotaru to run
after them. Once he caught up, Momotaru yanked the youth off the back of his tiger
mount, pinning him to the ground with a foot on his throat. Momotaru unsheathed
his adamantite black metal sword. With the tip of the katana drawing a small
point of blood on the gang leader’s cheek, he said, “Give that man back the
money you stole.”
“You have just made
the biggest mistake of your life,” said the gang leader through clenched teeth.
The other members
dismounted, and began unsheathing the varied assortment of daggers and knives
strapped to their waists.
“One more step and
he dies,” said Momotaru, as his blade hovered millimeters from the man’s eye.
“Don’t move,” said
the leader. “Oz, give him the damn credits.”
“But Jobs…”
“But nothing. Give
it over, damnit!” shouted the gang leader, Jobs.
Oz, who wore an eye
patch tossed the brown, well-used bag full of coins.
Catching it with his
free hand, Momotaru secured it to the open satchel on his belt. He slowly began
moving away, leaving the steel pressed to Jobs cheek for as long as possible.
Then he was running at full speed, Momotaru tossed the merchant the bag. He
glanced over his shoulder and the Felidae gang was riding their tigers hard after
him. The brothel’s stable was full of parked horses. He ran into the stable
delivering a devastating body blow to the stable boy that left him curled into
a ball, groaning. Momotaru leapt onto the back of a glistening brown horse. They
wheeled around and charged down the street. He could hear the tigers roaring
only meters behind him, with their masters shouting about what they would do
once they caught him.
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