The next month was a blur of clashing steel, home-sewn stitches, and moonlit
trysts on the dank bare mattress we now slept on. In order to subsidize our new
lifestyle, Alice emptied her savings and cashed in her 401K. She took all her
vacation at once, and we used her money to build an arsenal the Saxons would
have died for.
Swords were our first love, so we added a few Medieval replicas, including one
with a screaming skull face at the end of the handle. Each new item brought us
joy, but I nearly broke down weeping the day the Double Ball Flail arrived. In
essence, it was a mace, little more than a wooden shaft with two spiked balls
dangling from chains. But when it first connected with the plaster of our
bedroom, it sent a nugget of wall soaring across the room like an asteroid.
James next door knocked half-heartedly, but when I connected with the sheetrock
again, he was quiet for good.
The Flail was the last of our “dream items.” We’d spent the weeks following, putting together full suits of Mail Armor, based on
the suits worn by the Celts. They were made of Blackened Steel. They were
moisture resistant. And they made us look like soldiers of the devil. The heft
of the armor strained our sore muscles, but there was little risk of home
injury with it on. We combined it with a few choice pieces of German Gothic
Armor. Some Pauldrons for shoulder protection and some Open-faced helmets to
top it all off.
Most mornings we spent training in separate rooms. Then we met for intense
combat simulations around lunchtime. Our skills were nearly equal now, and the
matches ended more often in exhaustion than sexy time. I knew just when Alice
would aim for my groin after a counter, and she knew when I would try to brain
her with the Flail before I even swung. Despite our growing cache of armaments,
the thrill was sadly slipping away.
Then one day we called the catalogue hotline, and they rejected our credit
card. An hour later we had finished off the last of our Easy Mac and Canned Chicken. I
recognized the feeling before Alice did. We were warriors growing restless.
I don’t remember whose idea it was to rob the liquor store. Alice now says it was
mine. Either way, we decided on our first raid a few days after the money ran
out. We traveled, half-armored in Alice’s forest green Jetta, and then we parked by the dumpsters and put on the rest of
our gear. The mood before the first raid was tense. We were both sweating. I
held my Crusader. Alice had her Falchion. It was dark in the shadows of Dave’s Liquor Shop and we embraced before stepping into the fluorescent light.
“Good luck, my maiden,” I said. “We’ll meet afterward in the romantic hours of the dawn.”
“Even the most hard-bitten fighting man needs love,” she said. “And you have mine.”
She bit my ear hard until it bled, and then shrieked out her battle cry and ran
across the asphalt to the sliding doors of Dave’s. With a single blow, the glass door shattered before her. I followed quickly
into the fluorescent depths of the store.
“What the hell is this?” asked the counterman, a balding fellow of fifty, “You’re paying for that door, you crazy bitch.”
“She will do nothing of the sort” I boomed. And to illustrate my point, I sliced open three bottles of Sour
Cherry Pucker with one swipe. The Pucker sluiced out of the open tops like
fresh blood from giant arteries.
“Hand over the riches” demanded Alice, pointing her Falchion at the clerk. “And one tankard of Michelob for our thirst!”
And that’s when it happened. Just after Alice had made our demands, a startled customer
jumped out from behind a display of Shiraz and screamed. We’d thought the shop was empty. Alice whipped around and swung blindly at the air.
I didn’t have time to move. I tried, but my armor was too heavy. Her blade caught me in
the cheek.
“Curses!” I remember yelling, “my face.” I crumpled to the linoleum.
The blade should have severed my head. The only thing that saved me was my
helmet, which I had ordered a size too large. It dipped a little to the side,
and the sword had glanced off the metal before striking flesh. I looked down at
my new tunic; it was already soaking up blood.
“My dear sweet brigand,” Alice cried, and fell to my side. She took off her helmet and examined my
wound. She dabbed my cheek with her soft fingers, then she kissed my hair.
“I see a yonder light?” I said. “Valhalla perhaps?”
Then, before I lost consciousness I saw Alice’s face, frozen in a sad rictus. And also, the owner of the store holding us at
gunpoint. He looked upset. Alice gave me one last look and then threw down her
sword.
“We have met defeat,” she whispered. “I’ll soon join you in hell, Steven.”
Only, I didn’t die. Or go to hell. These days, I wait out my time in the county jail. During
the therapy portion of our sentence, Alice spoke first and managed to convince
everyone that it was all my idea. I had brainwashed her or something. And I
guess technically I was the one to start it. But she always had more of the air
of a warrior about her if you ask me.
The state gave me the option of community service, but I chose to stay in jail.
I thought I could use some time to think. Also, I don’t have a job, and nothing looks too promising on that front. For a while, I
thought I might try to work at one of those Medieval Times restaurants in New
York, but lately I’ve been feeling something rise up in me again. Most nights, I don’t sleep well. But sometimes I drift off just for a bit. Then I wake up in the
middle of the night and I can already feel the Flail in my hand. My armor is
tight against my chest. And I am running, always running through a
supermarket in these dreams. I am laughing. I am raiding. And my blade is
always well-tempered.
