LotS/The Story/The Saga of Drunken Ragnar/Thetaleofthetape

The Tale of the Tape

"Tell me what happened!" the hero roared. He shook the man, and each time the man's head bumped against the bar. "Tell me!"

"Wait!" Svana said. She grasped Ragnar's arm. His muscles were like metal boulders in her grasp. "Let him talk, before you end up cracking his skull open!"

Ragnar grunted, but he stopped shaking the barman.

"Tell me about this woman! Who did I kill?"

"You don't remember?" he gasped.

"No! I don't remember anything about last night! Someone poisoned me... or something... With metal spiders."

"Oh... You mean the Cybersmash Surprise!"

"What?"

"It's a homebrew! I named it after my favorite Twisted Steel-"

"You did it? You're the one who put those spiders in my body?" Ragnar shook him again.

"You asked for it! You asked for it!" the man cried, as his head bumped upon the bar.

"Ragnar!"

Svana tugged at his arm once more. Again it didn't move, for the weaver wasn't equal to the might of his muscles or his cybernetics. But her voice and her touch did what her thews could not, and again the barman's skull was spared.

"You're the one who wanted it!"

"What? I asked for robot spiders in my drink?"

"It was a bet! I told you I could get anyone wasted, and you didn't believe me. So I gave you a pint of Cybersmash Surprise. And you wanted another one. And another. And another... I lost count of how many you drank. I tried to cut you off, but you said you'd chop my head off if I didn't keep them coming!"

"Those spiders..." Svana said.

"They were invented for cyborg soldiers. The army they worked for had special systems put into them, so they couldn't get drunk on the job. But some black market techs came up with those little machines, so the cyborgs could still get hammered. One or two pints normally puts anyone down. And your friend here..."

"Bah... It'd been a long time since I'd drunk without my implants. Maybe I didn't know my limit..." Shame burned on the warrior's face.

"The woman he killed..." the weaver said.

"You can see it for yourself. There's a security console behind the bar."

Svana picked her way over the shattered glass with careful steps. She found the console. Soon a holographic projection opened in the space before the shelves of smashed bottles. It showed the room from a high angle. And there was the son of Ragnar, his great bulk sat at the bar. There were many empty glasses before him. And something else as well...

"My axe!"

The foe-hewer, the terrible weapon that had struck heads from necks and cleaved men in half, lay on the bar beside the empty glasses.

"Stupid... Stupid stink-beast..."

Svana turned as the Rylattu came behind the bar. Her hands tightened on the word-axe. But Bel hadn't come to renew the ferocious contest. One blue hand was pressed to her injured head. The other groped along the shelf and grabbed an unbroken bottle. She untwisted its cap with her mouth, then glugged the purple booze within.

"Sorry about your head," the weaver said.

Bel shrugged.

"Sorry I didn't blast the worthless brains from yours." She took another drink. Then she pointed at the screen. "That's me!"

Within the image, that holographic chronicle of Ragnar's mysterious adventure, the bouncer stood beside one of the booths. She was leaning towards its occupant, a beautiful woman whose fair face was framed by curly black tresses like silken curtains. The bouncer listened as the human whispered to her. Then she leaned away, went to the bar, and whispered to Ragnar in turn. After several moments the hero's past self nodded his head.

"What did you say to me?" the Ragnar of the present demanded.

"That female stink-beast gave me credits. In exchange, I told her about every paid killer who came into the bar. She wanted to hire the best of them. I'd introduced her to two others already -- another puny human and a hideous, disgusting creature. Even more disgusting than you stink-beasts. But she wanted to hire more. And I told the wretched woman that you'd collected a big bounty."

"What was the job?"

"The sniveling female didn't tell me."

The hero, the weaver, the barman, and the bouncer all looked on as the holographic Niflung staggered off the bar stool. He tottered away, his heavy frame stumbling under the weight of drunkenness that has pressed many men beneath it, leaving his foe-hewer on the bar -- beside the glass corpses whose innards he had drained.

He fell into the booth, opposite the woman. She leaned in close to him -- showing her breasts, stroking the hair back from the left side of her face. Her smile was alluring, her lips the curved red of seduction. Svana frowned, and murmured the word 'slut'. But the holographic woman ignored the unheard jibe. She whispered words that the weaver couldn't hear.

Then the holographic son of Ragnar roared. He stood, and grabbed the woman by her arm. Terror filled her beautiful face. Her lips weren't alluring now. They moved quickly, as though begging, pleading. But the Niflung was unmoved. He threw her onto the ground, where she sprawled on her chest. The hero raised his boot. It crashed down on her head. Twice. Thrice. After that she lay still. Her skull was a crushed, splattered ruin. Her brains were on his sole.

"Ragnar!" Svana groaned.

Her pretty face was pale. Her bright eyes were wide. She had seen her share of death. Ragnar himself has shown her much that day, when he waged war against the Curry Caliphate and smashed both bodies and turbans with his ferocious might. But this... The weaver felt vomit seething in her stomach, threatening to gush forth and douse the world as Ragnar's had before.

On the screen, the warrior stormed towards the exit. No one tried to bar his path. Behind him the woman's body lay upon the floor, and his foe-hewer on the bar.

"What happened to my axe?" he asked. This time there was no growl, no roar. His voice was quiet.

"Forward the vid," the barman said.

Svana did so, welcoming the distraction for her hands and mind. The image quickened. The denizens of the image milled around the corpse, gawping and chattering with supernatural speed.

"There!" the barman said.

The weaver let the vid return to its true speed -- the sometimes slow, sometimes swift pace at which lives are lived and deaths inflicted. A man entered the image, coming from the doors. He was a slim human with tall, spiky hair and goggles wrapped around his head.

"Metro Mash," Bel said. "A local hitman. The human she'd hired before you smashed her inferior stink-beast brains."

Metro Mash joined the crowd, stared at the corpse, and yelled soundless words at those around him. In the midst of the babbled answers, a woman pointed towards the bar at which Ragnar had sat not long before, that still bore his empty glasses and foe-hewer. Mash picked up the foe-hewer and ran to the door. He disappeared from the image, along with his prize.