Belt Buckles

There is a rare creature in the desert that is rarely seen. It is called the Dog Bug.

A desert Dog Bug isn't a creature to be trifled with. Its length is that of a small horse and it's height could match that of a short man full grown. Looked at from bottom to top, one would find it's paws are that of a dog, its legs wrapped in tough fur. But it's torso.... now that's where things get tricky. The shell that covers their body differs from creature to creature just like the fingerprint or for the less cultured the butthole of man. Every single one is made different.

The one in question today has a shell of a dazzling red that was layered with swirls of green, a beautiful combination that would almost make one of the things beautiful. Almost.

However, the face of the dog bug, in a twist of fate that could be described by the Wizard Jelawi as the humor of the 'Most high.' was the ugliest face of any creature one could ever see.

It's face can only be described as a contorted imitation of a disfigured roach, followed by antennas wet with green drool that dribbled down from their spindly mouth and an accompanying odor that could put off the strongest of noses.

The dog bug is a truly unpleasant creature.

In 204 hours the boy would take one for a ride.

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Buckles were hard for the boy. Often, he struggled with their clasp at the best of times. Being raised in the orphanage, they had used thin ropes sewn inside their pants or the loops of overalls to tie their clothes to them. And so , when the boy was finally given a belt for himself, on account of the fact that no one wanted to see his arse fall out of knickers while he was doing his chores, he had struggled to adjust.

It had now been six months since he had been picked up by the group of brigands and he had managed to figure out the clasp for himself and he had no problem using it.

The buckles of the dead however, were another matter entirely.

The boy wiped his brow of the sweat that had been building and cast his eye over the sand swept earth. He sighed. There were still six dead men to go.

With a soft yank , the buckle came free and the man's knickers fell loose, the boy looked away as best as he could as he removed the pants and looked them over. 'Good ', he thought, no brown marks.

The dead had a nasty tendency to shit themselves.

With a casual carefulness that showed how practiced he had become with his movements, he tossed them into the pack he had on his back and moved on to the next.

"Hey , Sad Eyes! "

A short pale skinned man with a walk of what he referred to as 'swagger' walked up and stopped over the dead now naked man looking carefully.

"You missed a spot," The man said, and with one decisive motion stuck his hand in the man's mouth and yanked his arm back.

With a 'ploop' and a 'shpluk' sound a tooth came free. The gold coating of it shining in the sun.

The boy had tried his best up to that point. But seeing the gum and blood mixed together turned and vomited on the floor.

"We got a spitter boy's. Yahahaha!"

"Ahh, he almost made it through this time. "

"Ya gotta toughen up that gut boy. "

"I tells you , he's still soft, he is. "

"Soft as turtle shit he is. "

"He's better than you Georgy! "

"I swears to Gods! Says it to my face Mot. I dear you!"

The boy paid no attention to the tumble taking place, his hands were on his knees and his throat burned as he breathed deep trying to catch his breath.

"Ya alright boy? " The man asked. He walked forward and tossed an arm around the boy.

"Hard to look at ain't it. How bout you take a break and let good ole Uncle Jack handle this, ay? "

His greasy breath stung the boys nose, and his closeness made the boy shiver a little.

With a shrug the boy slinked himself away and stood up, his eyes slightly tearing he shook his head and went back to his work.

'That guy gave him the creeps,' he thought.

As the boy went onto the next body good ole Uncle Jack stared after him, for a second too long apparently, for a roar came unto him from behind.

"Get back to work Jack! Riches don't loot themselves. "

Jack turned red and started scratching his head, his demeanor back to an unusual swagger.

"Got it Captain. Got it. Was just tryna help thee boy. I'll get right on it. Right on it Captain. "

A large tanned man watched him go. He walked up to the boy who was throwing a long necklace into a bag then looked up into the sky with a hard look in his eye before scratching his head and speaking.

"Say Eyes."

The boy turned. "Yes Captain? "

The man looked over his arms that had begun to harden from months of swinging a sword and his palms that had toughened enough to be considered leather.

"Swing you're blade. "

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The boy looked confused but obliged. He dropped his pack on the ground and drew the sword from the rope on his waist.

He swung down, pulled up and did so again. An act he had grown accustomed too in recent months.

"Enough. " The large man said.

The captains eyes turned thoughtful again. "About how old are you Sad Eyes? "

This time it was the boys turn to scratch his head. "Seven.... I think. I'm not sure sir. "

The man nodded at that. It was common enough for orphans not to know their age.

He thought of a matter deeply before nodding at a thought.

"Keep that sword close to you boy. You understand me. Even in sleep, I don't want to see it leave your waist. "

Then the Captain turned and left, leaving the boy to sigh and pout at the new task the man had thrown on him. 'It was always something', the boy thought.

In the distance a man licked his lips maliciously.

-----;---;--:

It would be hours before the brigands would finish their task of looting the dead and burying them.

On their walk back to the camp they had set, some gave slight prayers for the dead, some cursed the damned lizards and their appetite for destruction. Others simply smiled while thinking of the good loot they had acquired.

All were exhausted.

When they arrived and their packs were emptied and loot tossed into the largest tent they had, the boy sighed. It would be a chore to clean those later.

"Alright you sloppy bastards," the captain began. "It's a solid batch of loot we got this time. And so, tomorrow we'll be heading into a city to cash out. "

The camp descended into cheer.

"Wooooooo!"

"We're up now boys!"

The Captain lifted a hand.

It was then that a large belly popped out of a tent with humongous crate in hand.

With a small boom it hit the floor.

The chef kicked the top open and the bottles inside glittered in the moonlight.

The Captain smiled.

"So let's drink you bastards. "

""Yeaaaaa!!!!!!!!""

"That's my fuckin Captain!"

"Ya blind bat, yo probably can't even see the Cap can ya Mot. "

"Say that to my face Georgy!!!"

Even the boy laughed as a fumble broke out, and the men cheered as they grabbed a bottle for themselves.

The boy tentatively walked forward, around the bustling men, under stampeding legs and by a hand that almost clipped him, to pick up a bottle for himself.

He pulled out the loose cork and gave it a sniff.

"Ugh, " he thought. But with a bit of curiosity at the dark sloshing liquid went to take a sip.

As the liquid rushed forward and almost hit his tongue a meaty hand popped it out of his hand.

"None for you sad eyes. " A large belly said from above.

The boy looked up with a pout.

"Alright Khale. " He said sadly then turned and began walking to his tent his feet dragging all the while.

His pout increased as a couple brigands pointed and laughed at his predicament.

"Yahahahah! Boy thinks he can drink huh. "

"Thinks he's got hairs on his chest ay?

"Best get some milk boy!"

"Your one to speak Mot, bet you drunk from the tit until ten!"

"You're gonna get it this time Georgey!"

The boy made his way away from the noise as the brigands boomed into another impromptu gambling match.

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It would take hours before the camp went quiet but eventually even boisterous brigands must sleep. Few torches stayed lit as snores echoed through the dark.

Besides the buzzing of mosquito's no life could be seen walking around. No life that is except good ole Uncle Jack. He walked silently , a cut of dark rubber like material slapped upon his boots and a see through mask upon his face.

He waltzed carefully sneaking behind and slinking around tents stopping on occasion as he listened closely. Soon a sinister smile took over his features, lightly he opened a tent smaller than the others and crept inside.

----------------:

The boy didn't sleep well. The camp smelled of foul liquor that annoyed his nose, the heavy snores annoyed his ears, and the sword digging into his waist made him uncomfortable.

He found himself in an awkward place between sleep and wakefulness. Half of him dreaming of the old days of the orphanage with a smile, running through the fields with his brother. Life was good in the dream , their were no swords, no dead people, no fire, just fun.

He almost fell all the way into sleep. Until his brother who had been pushing him on the orphanages swing stopped and rubbed his nose.

"Hey , ______" he said. "What's that smell?"

The boy looked back at his bro and sniffed. He knew that smell. 'Liquor, who in the orphanage drink liquor. '

His brother stopped pushing him.

"You should go check it out. "

He frowned his eyes filling with tears. "Big bro." He said turning around. But it was too late.

The dream vanished. His eyes opened up with a slight blur. It took him a second to get used to the dark, but when he did-

He froze.

The figure almost seemed surprised. Wrapped in all black, face hidden beneath a mask it hovered over him hands on the sides of his head.

The boy felt a fear so deep , that he no longer felt fear, just a coldness that crept into his bones.

With one swift motion so fast it was a blur a hand lunged to his throat. The boys legs kicked up, but the weight was too heavy, he couldn't move.

Tears ran down his face as he felt his breath shut off. He sobbed. He couldn't even call for help.

It was then the man reached for his belt buckle, hand struggling to remove his pants, he shifted, a slight shift that made the boy's sword dig into his waist.

Later the boy wouldn't remember what happened entirely.

He wouldn't remember yanking his sword free.

He wouldn't remember the first stab he made into the man's gut.

Nor the second.

Nor the third.

Nor the fourth.

Nor the fifth.

Nor the sixth.

Nor the seventh.

Nor the eighth.

Nor the ninth.

He wouldn't remember the scream that ripped from his mouth.

He wouldn't remember Khale ripping open the tent with his butcher blade in hand. He wouldn't remember the brigands that eventually showed to watch.

Really he wouldn't remember much.

But when the Captain eventually put a hand on the boys shoulder and steered him out the tent and put a bottle in his hand. He would remember the taste of the liquor as it ran down his throat.

It was disgusting.

198 hours until Bug-Dog