Never Fear - The Tarot: Do You Really Want To Know?, Page 3

  Rathben sputtered and moaned as he awoke. “What?… Where?… Help…” The last word said in the most pitiful of tones. Mincey chuckled and replaced the ball gag.

  “I do not want to hear your pathetic pleas. We must continue.” He reached between Rathben’s legs for one of the cages. It contained a large, dark-brown rat, its claws scrabbling between the bars of the cage. He set it on the magician’s stomach and Grutha stepped over and threaded a long leather strap through a ring on the top of the cage, then secured it to either side of the table. Rathben squirmed, only succeeding in agitating the rat more.

  “Patience, my pet.” Mincey wagged a finger at the rat. He reached to the underside of the cage and pulled a small strap. The bottom of the cage slid free. Rathben’s jiggling stomach clenched as the rat’s claws clenched his girth. His stomach clenched again as the rat’s teeth ripped away the first piece of his flesh.

  Mincey watched for a while with fascination as the rat frantically ripped, chewed, and swallowed, its blood-covered paws leaving tiny footprints on untouched sections of stomach. Chomp. Rip. Chew. Swallow. A natural repetitive process. Almost hypnotic, Mincey thought.

  The queen remained silent throughout and refused to look at the carnage being wrought before her.

  Mincey noted that the rat was well into the magician’s innards and the blood had stopped flowing. He was dead. “Ah, one entertainment finished. Feast on, my pet. It is your brother’s turn now. I fear he has grown quite impatient. I have been a neglectful father. This must be rectified at once.” He took the other cage and went to the naked queen. “I have saved my little Percy for you. He is very dear to me. I am sure you will enjoy him. I am certain he will enjoy you.”

  The queen squeezed her eyes shut and turned her head as far away as possible. Mincey could see the tears leaking out. He brought the cage close to her face. The rat’s claw swiped through the bars and scored her cheek. The queen screamed and a line of blood began to flow. The flowing blood caused the rat to become spasmodic and it violently thrashed back and forth, looking for egress to the juicy flesh just out of its reach. Mincey held the cage firmly.

  “Please, no… Mincey… I will do anything… please… my love…”

  Mincey spat in her face. “My love! How dare you! How many others have you said that to?”

  “Only one,” she pleaded.

  “Liar! You will tell me… or do you want to end up like your lover here? Whose child is it? Whose? TELL ME!” He shook the cage in her face.

  “Yours,” she whimpered. Her eyes opened.

  He leaned in. “LIAR!”

  She screamed, “I don’t know!” Then softer, “I don’t know.” The tears flowed again, choking off any other words.

  “We could have had everything… a child… and heir… a kingdom!” Mincey was swept up in rage, the cage swung wildly in his hand.

  “Please, Mincey… the baby,” Anya tried to calm him. “Have mercy…”

  Mincey’s head jerked to her. “Yes, the bayyy-bee.” He looked into the cage, then made a decision. He turned to the dead Rathben and put the cage on the man’s chest. “I will assuage your hunger, my sweet little Percy.” The ebon eyes of the rat glistened in anticipation; its claws scrabbled frantically. And as he had done with the first cage, Mincey slid the bottom hatch away, allowing full access for the rat to Rathben’s chest. “That’s it. Feast, my beloved pet. There is certainly more than enough to sate your hunger.”

  He turned back to the queen. “And you, my queen, will get to meet my horse.”

  Anya gave a sharp intake of breath and let out a sob.

  Mincey untied her, and with Grutha’s aid, led her to a large, long, wooden, triangular stand set on four wooden legs. Anya pled and cried all the while, struggling to get free. The stalwart Grutha held her fast, as if she were no more than a babe in his arms. “My horse, my lady.” Mincey gave an exaggerated bow. “Grutha, please assist me to help our queen onto her mount.”

  They guided her to the small step next to the “horse.”

  “Do not do this, Mincey… What must I do?”

  The fear in her voice made Mincey smile. “Mount the horse… as you would mount one of your lovers.”

  She tentatively raised a leg, putting a hand on the back of the pyramid.

  “Grutha,” Mincey said.

  The big man stepped forward and grabbed Anya’s waist. She put her hands out to brace herself on the sharp apex of the horse as Grutha set her upon it.

  Mincey scurried away to retrieve two more cages, similar to those that held his pets. Grutha maintained his grip on the queen, steadying her, while Mincey scampered around affixing the two iron cages over the queen’s feet. When that was done, the queen struggled to reposition herself but the cages proved to be too heavy and weighed her down—the exact intention of the cages. She moaned or cried out with every effort.

  “One final touch,” Mincey said. He was manic with excitement. He extracted a rope hanging from a wall. “Her hand, Grutha.”

  Grutha grabbed one of the queen’s hands and extended it to Mincey.

  Anya screamed as her weight pushed her down onto the sharp wood. “The pain!” she screamed.

  Mincey put her hand behind her back. “The other one. Behind your back. NOW!”

  When she didn’t respond. Grutha grabbed it and gave it to Mincey. Mincey tied them together.

  The queen slumped forward, but was unable to ease herself. Her crotch took her full weight and the point of the pyramid began to press up into her. She cried out.

  “Can you feel the cages pulling you down, my queen? Now, you will answer me truthfully.” He came around from behind the horse to face her. He kept Grutha in place, lest she fall from her perch. “How many lovers have you had?”

  “Only you and Rathben… I swear!”

  “Liar!” Mincey hissed. “No woman can be trusted. You are like my whore of a mother. You will tell me!” He went over to Rathben’s mutilated corpse and fiddled with the rats’ cages until he had them secured back inside. He brought them over to the queen.

  “It seems I have lied as well. I have decided to use my pets on you.”

  “No!” Anya involuntarily jerked. She winced and gasped in pain.

  Mincey bent down and opened the cage on Anya’s right foot… and inserted the first rat.

  “NOOOOO!” Anya was out her mind with panicked screams.

  “How many others?” Mincey demanded.

  “Three,” was her screamed response.

  “WHO?”

  “Sir Galen.” Another scream.

  “Who ELSE?”

  “Jeston…”

  “Who?” Mincey paused, bloody rat in hand, trying to recall the name.

  “The king’s footman. And… and a friar… I do not know his name. Only once.”

  “You are a whore!” he spat out. “Whose child is it? Whose?”

  “I do not know.” Her voice was high pitched and shrill. Apparently his pet had found an exceptionally tender toe to nibble.

  Mincey moved to her other foot.

  “Rathben! Rathben!” the queen shouted. “Rathben is the father! Stop…”

  Her screams and cries became muddled in his ears as Mincey sorted his thoughts… and his pets fed on her feet.

  He had to know. “Were you two plotting to kill the king?”

  No response.

  He grabbed her bound arms and pulled her back.

  This time her scream was ear-splitting. He noted the blood running down the “flanks” of the horse. Splitting indeed, he thought. Once the tender flesh of her nether regions began to separate, the severing of her body would not take long. “Tell me! You were plotting to assassinate the king… and then me!” As he said the last word, he tugged her back hard. A steady stream of blood flowed now.

  She screamed and screamed. “YES! YES!”

  “As I thought,” he said calmly, more to himself than to her. I will now leave you to your thoughts of deception and treachery. You will join your
lover in death. And your hateful spawn!” He gave a final harsh tug, hoping the horse had now penetrated her womb and destroyed the vile unborn child within her.

  The queen’s head lolled back and forth, her moaning had ceased. Mincey listened closely. Silence.

  Silence, except the slurping, tearing gnashes of his pets as they gorged themselves on the dead queen’s feet.

  “Thank you, Grutha, for your excellent assistance. A fine job, as always. I will report your loyalty to the king.”

  Grutha said nothing.

  *

  “Sire, it is done.” Mincey gave a small bow to Zendar. He and Grutha had cleaned up the remains of the queen and the magician and burned the corpses. His sated pets were returned to his bed chamber, flesh and blood engorged.

  They sat in the king’s private chamber. Two flagons and a tankard of mead sat on the small table between them. King and fool. Father and son. Zendar handed Mincey a flagon and took the other himself. He raised the flagon high. “You have done well, Mincey. We will announce that the queen has run off with Rathben and that they will be executed forthwith if they are ever found again.” They both took a long draught.

  “A fine solution, Sire. Have you thought about an heir, now that the queen will not be producing one? You have no queen or progeny…” Mincey let the implication linger in the air.

  “I have thought, Mincey, and I have learned many things which were not known to me before. Without you, I would never have known of the deception surrounding me at every turn. I know of no other way to repay your loyalty…”

  Mincey’s breath grew faster at the anticipation of the king’s next words. At last! I will be given my just deserts. King. I will be king! His mind reeled at the thought. He felt light-headed. His mind fuzzed. He grew dizzy. Intoxicated with the thought of all that power.

  Zendar reached for a small piece of thick parchment Mincey had ignored, lying on the table. “This is for you,” Zendar said. I had it especially created by one of the monks. A fine job, I must say.”

  Mincey’s curiosity was piqued, noting that the piece of parchment Zendar held was about three inches wide and six inches long, a plain brown back.

  “I must also give laud to our fine executioner, Grutha. He has also been most loyal and has kept me informed in other goings on in the castle.” At the mention of his name, Grutha stepped forth from the shadowed corner of the chamber. Mincey started at his unexpected appearance.

  “Yes, My King, Grutha has been most loyal in aiding me in culling your betrayers,” Mincey said, his attention returning to the back of the parchment the king still held before him. He recalled a visit by an Italian prince, who brought several of these parchments—cards. What was this one for? A gift, Zendar had said.

  “Yes. Loyal…” Zendar said, nodding. He waved the card back and forth. “…as I had thought my son would be…” The statement hung in the air.

  Mincey tried to focus on what the king was saying. He blinked hard. The card began to blur. What was happening? He’d only had a small amount of the mead. There was still half of it left. The mead. The taste. Not quite right. A bit bitter.

  He’d been poisoned.

  The king.

  He rocked on his stool. Grutha took a step toward him, his hulk appearing larger than Mincey remembered.

  The king slapped the card down, face up before him. “I wish you to keep this with you for the rest of your life… as a reminder.”

  Mincey stared at it. It was a drawing. A drawing of… Him! He stared at his own likeness. There was inscription scrawled across the top. He tried to focus.

  The words: The Fool.

  His head fell forward and struck the table.

  *

  Darkness. He was dreaming. He was bound tightly with leather straps. He struggled to free himself.

  His eyes were open.

  He wasn’t dreaming. He was in some sort of wooden box. There was no sound. In his hand… something? The card. The card Zendar had given him before he—

  He felt a movement. Heard a… scratching sound.

  Something brushed his leg.

  Then something brushed his head.

  A sharp prick on his ear. Pain. Something had bitten him!

  Another sharp bite on his ankle.

  They were in the box with him.

  No! The rats. His pets.

  His coffin.

  What had he done? Zendar… Grutha… His carefully thought out plans. All those years. How could he have been so foolish?

  THE FOOL.

  He screamed.

  2

  the magician

  hal bodner

  Upright: Power, skill, concentration, action, resourcefulness

  Reversed: Manipulation, poor planning, latent talents

  Just because I’m different from the norm doesn’t mean I’m crazy.

  According to an IQ test I took in the fourth grade, I’m much smarter than the average person. Given the current state of television and modern politics, I tend to agree. A few years ago, a Scientologist was handing out pamphlets and enticed me into taking one of their personality tests. Until then, I had no idea it was possible to fail. But I wasn’t offended. If anything, I was amused that they thought I was potentially too much of a sociopath even to join a religious cult.

  Often, I’ve seen crazy people standing in front of convenience stores and talking to themselves. If you bother to stop and listen, they make no sense. And if you make the mistake of getting too close, the stench of their unwashed bodies is enough to make your eyes water. It takes a certain kind of crazy to let yourself sink that low.

  That’s not me.

  Obviously, I’m not like that at all. I take great pride in my appearance. I dress well; certainly, I bathe regularly. Thanks to a combination of good genetics and wanting to get my money’s worth out of a gym membership, I’m in great shape. And while I may not be movie-star handsome, I can compete with the guys on the soaps.

  Were it physically possible, even I’d fuck me.

  So, you see, I’m not really crazy.

  Here’s the thing...

  I’ve seen the news footage of thousands of people starving in Somalia. It seems like a terrible waste. In the Middle East, they keep tossing social undesirables off of buildings or, worse, beheading them. Where’s the fun in that? A single suicide bomber can kill hundreds of people in seconds. With all of that going on, it seems clear that human life is pretty worthless.

  Think about it. Even the most infamous serial killers in the US, men like Ted Bundy and John Wayne Gacy, murdered less than a few dozen people apiece. There was all that fuss over Jeffrey Dahmer, and he only killed eighteen. Manson’s total was even less.

  It’s not like they committed genocide. The impact was minimal. When it came to Gacy and Dahmer, most of the victims weren’t even missed. Take a look at the scumbags Aileen Wuornos killed. It was only seven men, but some people might think she was doing society a favor.

  If only people in general, and the police in particular, weren’t so touchy about it, my burden would be a lot easier to bear. Even if I truly was mentally disturbed, self-denial would be the cause. And there’s absolutely no reason for it. Only someone who’s truly sick could get turned on by the idea of snuffing out another human life. If it were up to me, everything would miraculously heal between sessions, nice and neat, leaving me with an unblemished, blank canvas to start with the next time. I’m not a homicidal maniac; death gives me no pleasure.

  Pain, on the other hand, does.

  When I was about eleven years old, I was obsessed with a slightly older boy. Danny was physically mature for his age, a sturdy child who excelled at sports. I suppose there was a bit of hero worship on my part, made even more acute by the fact that Danny barely acknowledged my existence.

  One day, right in front of our house, Danny took a spill from his bike. As I was the only other person around, I came running. Unluckily for him, he’d been wearing shorts, and the sidewalk scraped the first few layers
of skin from one knee. Where a tree root had taken a nice gash out of his scalp, he bled freely. Poor Danny clutched his skinned leg and cried, but it wasn’t until he wiped away the blood dripping into his eyes that he discovered the loose flap of skin on his forehead. I suppose it was one of those injuries that was painless until you knew it was there, and once you did, it became agonizing.

  Danny started screaming.

  “It hurts! It hurts!” he bawled. “Make it stop!”

  As I stood by, helpless and not knowing what to do, I saw that the fall had also torn his shirt and exposed part of his chest. One nipple peered through the rent in the cloth, and to my astonishment, I noticed there were a few hairs growing around it.

  Something clicked inside me. I shuddered, and I think I even moaned. Danny’s sobs made my knees wobbly and I had to grab onto a fence post to remain upright. The sound of his pain bounced around inside my head until it was the only thing I could hear. I wanted to capture each cry as if it was a physical thing I could hide in a secret place and treasure.

  At the same time, I could not tear my eyes from the line of perspiration, tinged pink from the droplets of blood, that trickled down from his scalp and onto his chest. I yearned to lick it away, to press my face to his naked skin, to take the plump little nubbin of the boy’s nipple gently between my lips...

  ...and to bite down on it as hard as I could.

  The mental image caused the pit of my stomach to twist. I struggled to inhale as if the wind had been knocked out of me. There was a building pressure in my groin, like I had to pee worse than ever before. Something released, and horrified, I thought I had wet my pants right in front of Danny. A wave of incredible pleasure washed over me and my crotch pulsed with something that was both warm and wonderful. I cried out, half a moan half a shout.

  My very first ejaculation.

  Momentarily, Danny forgot his tears and looked up at me with an uneasy expression. I guess my reaction had been pretty extreme. I could not take my eyes off the bit of bare flesh revealed by his open shirt, and once he was back on his bike with his feet on the pedals, a horrible fear seized me. That delicious feeling—what if I never felt it again? What if it was inextricably connected to Danny himself? Until the accident, I’d always been a non-entity as far as he was concerned. Once he was gone, would he once again relegate me into invisibility? Worst of all, what if he hurt himself again? What it he hurt himself so badly that he was in excruciating pain? And what if I was not there to witness it?