thing?” Big Tom asked, looking up at his best friend with his big and soppy puppy-dog eyes.
Vincent looked back down at his friend. Could he really go through with this? Did he actually have to? Vincent had tried to work out another option all morning, but had come up blank. The order Grimbowl had given him was to make friends with Barnaby. Barnaby’s condition was that he had to beat up Big Tom. Vincent knew that if he didn’t do it, didn’t gain Barnaby’s friendship, his head would explode with pain.
There was no way out. He had to do it.
“You have to do it, kid.”
Vincent’s head snapped around and down. Grimbowl stood two meters behind him, watching.
“What is it?” Big Tom asked. “Is it the thing?”
“It is the thing,” Vincent said, having a sudden brainstorm. In one swift motion he grabbed Big Tom in a headlock and clamped a hand over his eyes.
“Hey!” Big Tom said. “What’re you … ”
“Shh,” Vincent said. “You’ll scare him.”
“Him?”
“A magical creature,” Vincent said. “Like something out of a fantasy movie. And it’s standing right in front of you.”
“Kid?” Grimbowl said. “What are you doing?”
“He’ll talk to you, if you listen just right,” Vincent said.
“Really?” said Big Tom.
“Vincent … ” Grimbowl said.
“What was that?” Big Tom asked.
Perfect, Vincent thought. He believes he’s going to see something. He can even hear Grimbowl now.
“Take a look,” Vincent said, and he removed his hand from Big Tom’s eyes.
Big Tom stared. Then he stared some more. Grimbowl glared up at Vincent, not pleased at all.
“Is that thing … real?” Big Tom asked.
“That thing,” the elf said, “is Grimbowl.”
Big Tom was so surprised he would have taken a step back, were he not still in Vincent’s headlock.
“This doesn’t change anything,” Grimbowl said. “You still have to beat him up, Vincent.”
“What?” Big Tom asked, craning his head around to look at his friend.
“I have to,” Vincent replied. “It’s … a long story.”
“No it isn’t,” Grimbowl said. “Kid, Vincent has to beat you up so that Barnaby will be friends with him.”
“Huh?” said Big Tom. “You wanna be friends with that jerk?”
“It’s not like that,” Vincent said, looking over his shoulder at the jerk in question. Barnaby looked impatient, and so did Bruno and Boots.
“Let me go!” Big Tom shouted, and he began struggling like anything. Big Tom, apart from being very fast, was also an expert struggler. He’d gotten so good at it that only the two of Barnaby’s bodyguards could successfully hold him.
“Quit it,” Vincent said, clutching tighter. He knew it was hopeless; in seconds Big Tom would break free and run away, and Vincent wouldn’t have a prayer of catching him.
“Vincent,” Grimbowl said, “I order you to beat up your friend.”
Oh no, Vincent thought. I’m out of options.
Vincent grabbed Big Tom’s shirt front with his free hand, pulled him up and around, then drove his knee into his friend’s stomach. Big Tom doubled up, and Vincent swung both fists down hard onto the back of his head.
Big Tom collapsed to the ground. Vincent turned him over, squatted on his chest, and pinned his arms with his knees.
“Vincent, stop,” Big Tom moaned.
“I’m sorry,” Vincent said, and he swung again.
Vincent had read once that when mass murderers were killing, their minds went off to another place and left their bodies to do the work. He wished that would happen to him. What he was doing made him feel sick to his stomach.
Confident that Big Tom had had enough, Vincent stood back up. Big Tom lay on the ground, crying. His nose was bloody and his left eye was black, not the worst beating he’d ever had. It could have been much worse.
At least, that’s what Vincent told himself.
“Bravo!” cried Barnaby, clapping his hands as he and Boots walked toward the scene of the fight. “You sure showed that little
Vincent looked back down at his friend. Could he really go through with this? Did he actually have to? Vincent had tried to work out another option all morning, but had come up blank. The order Grimbowl had given him was to make friends with Barnaby. Barnaby’s condition was that he had to beat up Big Tom. Vincent knew that if he didn’t do it, didn’t gain Barnaby’s friendship, his head would explode with pain.
There was no way out. He had to do it.
“You have to do it, kid.”
Vincent’s head snapped around and down. Grimbowl stood two meters behind him, watching.
“What is it?” Big Tom asked. “Is it the thing?”
“It is the thing,” Vincent said, having a sudden brainstorm. In one swift motion he grabbed Big Tom in a headlock and clamped a hand over his eyes.
“Hey!” Big Tom said. “What’re you … ”
“Shh,” Vincent said. “You’ll scare him.”
“Him?”
“A magical creature,” Vincent said. “Like something out of a fantasy movie. And it’s standing right in front of you.”
“Kid?” Grimbowl said. “What are you doing?”
“He’ll talk to you, if you listen just right,” Vincent said.
“Really?” said Big Tom.
“Vincent … ” Grimbowl said.
“What was that?” Big Tom asked.
Perfect, Vincent thought. He believes he’s going to see something. He can even hear Grimbowl now.
“Take a look,” Vincent said, and he removed his hand from Big Tom’s eyes.
Big Tom stared. Then he stared some more. Grimbowl glared up at Vincent, not pleased at all.
“Is that thing … real?” Big Tom asked.
“That thing,” the elf said, “is Grimbowl.”
Big Tom was so surprised he would have taken a step back, were he not still in Vincent’s headlock.
“This doesn’t change anything,” Grimbowl said. “You still have to beat him up, Vincent.”
“What?” Big Tom asked, craning his head around to look at his friend.
“I have to,” Vincent replied. “It’s … a long story.”
“No it isn’t,” Grimbowl said. “Kid, Vincent has to beat you up so that Barnaby will be friends with him.”
“Huh?” said Big Tom. “You wanna be friends with that jerk?”
“It’s not like that,” Vincent said, looking over his shoulder at the jerk in question. Barnaby looked impatient, and so did Bruno and Boots.
“Let me go!” Big Tom shouted, and he began struggling like anything. Big Tom, apart from being very fast, was also an expert struggler. He’d gotten so good at it that only the two of Barnaby’s bodyguards could successfully hold him.
“Quit it,” Vincent said, clutching tighter. He knew it was hopeless; in seconds Big Tom would break free and run away, and Vincent wouldn’t have a prayer of catching him.
“Vincent,” Grimbowl said, “I order you to beat up your friend.”
Oh no, Vincent thought. I’m out of options.
Vincent grabbed Big Tom’s shirt front with his free hand, pulled him up and around, then drove his knee into his friend’s stomach. Big Tom doubled up, and Vincent swung both fists down hard onto the back of his head.
Big Tom collapsed to the ground. Vincent turned him over, squatted on his chest, and pinned his arms with his knees.
“Vincent, stop,” Big Tom moaned.
“I’m sorry,” Vincent said, and he swung again.
Vincent had read once that when mass murderers were killing, their minds went off to another place and left their bodies to do the work. He wished that would happen to him. What he was doing made him feel sick to his stomach.
Confident that Big Tom had had enough, Vincent stood back up. Big Tom lay on the ground, crying. His nose was bloody and his left eye was black, not the worst beating he’d ever had. It could have been much worse.
At least, that’s what Vincent told himself.
“Bravo!” cried Barnaby, clapping his hands as he and Boots walked toward the scene of the fight. “You sure showed that little
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