Legendary Weapons

“Like I aint’ seen you naked before,” Gabe said, wandering over to the stack of VHS tapes piled near the old television. “What do you got left to do?”

Grum shimmied down the hallway, nearly turned sideways so his board shoulders didn’t scrape the walls. Once in the bedroom, he opened up his quest log.

* Iron Clothes

* Get Dressed

* Drink Coffee

* Eat Breakfast

* Go to Work

He didn’t dare scroll lower. To the one quest left forever incomplete.

Better to focus on the rest: Simple Daily quests.

“I will only be a moment.”

He liked to think of them as comfort quests. At level 1, while he toyed with a wooden axe, they were there. And at level 99, with the world at his beck and call, they were there. Ready to be checked off. Grum savored it, the satisfaction of seeing the list vanish under his effort. Back home, he’d completed thousands. Slaying endless droves of innocent animals, delivering parcels to faraway towns like some abominable mailman, escorted so many lost people—back from very obvious and heavily populated areas—that you’d think it was fashionable to wander off and scream for rescue.

Grum! Varmint Genocider!

Grum! Postal Postman!

Grum! Finder of incredibly obvious and easily locatable townsfolk.

Every tasks, mundane, but he’d completed each with tact and gumption, amassing a constant flow of experience points, and a hoard of cosmetic rewards; turning his helmet into a turnip, his axe a severed mannequin arm. Once, he kicked in a castle door and found himself wielding a massive limp phallus.

The gods, playing their games.

Grum shook away the thought.

But here?

Nada.

Nothing except a perpetually refilling quest log. Combing hair. Commuting. Hitting snooze, or scrubbing scabby dishes. And on Sundays, he’d open his heavy eyes to find weekly quests. Weeding. Mowing. Trash. Recycling. Laundry.

But… they were quests, and quests required doing, so Grum set up Eli’s old ironing board, grabbed a spray bottle from the bathroom and placed it atop.

Then, he reached under the bed and felt around until his fingertips found what he was after. His hands wrapped around smooth leather. The weight, heavy on his wrist as he began dragging the Demonfire Battle Axe out from under the bed.

The burgundy grip wrapped round and round, showing every curve of the twisted ebony shaft. He pulled, revealing the twin serrated blades, flanking a pewter goat’s head. Spiraled horns dragged along the carpet and he lifted, clutched her in both hands and pulled her close. He sucked in a breath, and blew dust from her blades.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Long ago, he’d ripped the Demonfire from the clutches of Ithgar, the Unholy, and since then, Grum never had eyes for another weapon.

A legendary weapon. A unique weapon of untold power.

Together, they’d slain the Goddess Demire—cleaved the wings from droves of the Goddess’s angels.

Grum closed his eyes, trying to feel his rage, to channel it into the blade, to turn the blades molten like he had done countless times.

Together, they had severed the legs and shorn the horns of the Demon Arinaxis.

He concentrated harder, breath hot in his mouth, eyes darting behind his lids, trying to find that heat in his gut that would bubble and burst from his screaming mouth, those claws under his skin that threatened to rend him from the inside, rip through him and destroy whoever or whatever faced him.

But, over the years, this place had caused his rage to atrophy. He had no need to unleash carnage on the lands. There were no elder dragons to hunt. No gorgons. No roving armies smacking their shields at his gates.

There was only coffee stains, and ripped recycling bags. Late night car alarms and irate cafe patrons. There was only…

“Weeds.” Grum spit the word.

Clutching them by their bastard heads and yanking them from their earthy bed. For each pulled, two in its place. Never ending. Never. Ending.

He felt it in his stomach first, acid rising in his throat. The muscles in his shoulders and neck clenched, and though it wasn’t rage, Grum’s irritation trickled down his arms, flowed through his fingers and into the grip. Warmth blanketed his face and Grum opened his eyes to find the air around the Demonfire’s blades glimmering with heat.

Not molten, but that was probably for the best.

Grum whistled a shanty, placing a salmon-colored shirt across the ironing board. He picked up the spray bottle as Gabe sauntered in, reading the back of one of Eli’s VHS tapes.

“Oh my God, G. Some of these are classi—“ Gabe froze, the arm holding the VHS sprung up to point at Grum. “Tell me you’re not ironing with the Demonfire.”

“I am,” Grum said, spraying the pants down with the bottle. He took the Demonfire and ran it down the shirt’s seam with a satisfying hiss. Grum breathed deep, pulling the moist air into his nostrils.

“Man, that’s like… like…” Gabe’s shoulder’s drooped. “I don’t know... Honestly, I’m too frazzled to think of a good comparison.”

Grum flipped the shirt over. “It is a tool. An efficient one.”

“You’re killing me, G.”

Still steaming, Grum took the shirt off the board and threw it on. He stretched the pants across the board and started spraying them. “I also use it to warm my towels while I shower. And to make pancakes.”

Gabe held the tape up. “I came in here to make fun of you sweating to Joe Bambi’s Erotic Yoga… ”

“I stay limber to avoid sprains.” The Demonfire hissed across Grum’s dress pants.

“Honestly, its a good idea,” Gabe said. “But, Eli does have some actual classics out there. Ton of 70’s and 80’s movies—a lot of dope cult stuff. Campy horror. Some comedy classics. A few stand-up specials. Lots of professional wrestling tapes. Some old game shows.” He stared back at the tape, his eyes aglow. “I used to watch the hell out of all that stuff when I was little.”

“You are still little,” Grum said, wiggling into his dress pants.

“Wanna try me, tough guy?” Gabe got into what he must have assumed was a threatening pose. “I’ll show you some of the moves me and cousins use to use on each other.”

“I assure, you,” Grum said, buttoning up his shirt. “I am terrified.”

Gabe smiled. “Figured as much. You ready?”

“Yes, I’ve check off Iron Clothes and Get Dressed. Go to work will complete once we arrive, and I then I will complete Coffee and Breakfast.”

“When did you check off Take a monster dump?”

“Before you arrived.”

“Spank it?”

“Bef—“

Gabe waved him off. “I don’t want to know.” He stopped and rifled through a few of the VHS. “Lots of memories here, G.” He tapped the tape in his hand. “We should do a movie night or something.”

“I will see if my quests allow for it.”

“Make that your quest. Movie night at Eli’s. I’ll bring snacks. Some booze maybe. We’ll laugh our asses off, man. Maybe invite Romy or June.” He met Grum’s eyes. “You could use something like that.”

Grum opened the door and paused. “I do not get to choose what quests are given to me. I am only in control of completing them.”

Gabe put down the VHS and looked over the pile. He slid past Grum, saying, “That’s a damned shame, man.”