Floki moved his right hand to the next hold on the mountain's surface and held it tightly as he hummed his daughter's favorite song. He was motivated every time her warm breath landed on the back of his neck. He moved his left leg to another crevice but couldn't get a firm hold on it. He slipped, lost his other footing, and dangled with his right hand bearing his weight and his daughter Anya's.

"Are you done, sir?"

The author looked up from his writing sheet. He was so drunk and engrossed in the story that it took him a few seconds to realize where he was. He was sitting in an open booth in a corner of an ancient-looking, dimly lit bar called The Jug. He put down his pen, looked around the table, and saw half a dozen empty glasses he had ordered earlier.

"Three more Jagermeister shots, please," he said with a smile to the waitress.

The waitress, who seemed to be of Eastern origin, was a short and thin woman with her hair tied in a bun in the back. She wore the bar's red uniform, which looked sinister in the light of the thick candle burning at the center of the round table where he sat. As the waitress nodded and left with the empty glasses, he continued writing his story, which somehow felt like an old memory.

Floki tried to get his foot back on one of the edges but failed. He looked down at the rugged terrain filled with sharp protrusions; he could only see a few meters below, beyond that, was veiled in hazy darkness. However, he knew the ground was several hundred meters below him. Just when he was about to give up, he heard the faint hum of Anya singing behind him and realized that giving up was not an option. He took a deep breath and calmed himself down, continued to hum the tune, and with great struggle, brought his left hand to the same hold that he had held on to with his right and began to slowly oscillate his body, trying to get his left leg on one of the edges. Every time he oscillated, he got closer and closer to the firm hold until he finally stood on it.

Life wasn't always this bad for Floki.

He heard a whooshing sound from his left, and he instinctively bent down as a needle went over his head and stuck to the wall next to him. He turned to see the Eastern waitress in her red uniform, who now had her untied hair over her shoulders. She took a knife from under her long sleeve and rushed towards him with the knife's edge pointed at him.

The author stood up quickly, but all the Jagermeister he had drank led him to lose his balance, and he fell back on the seat. When the waitress was just about to reach him and thrust the knife into his heart, he grasped the candle in his right hand and hit the side of her head with all his strength. She rolled down to his left, screaming with pain as the hot melted wax of the candle spread on the side of her head, covering her right ear and eye.

He stood up slowly, holding the table as his support. He dropped the candle and turned to his left to face the waitress who had fallen down on the ground, screaming with pain and trying to get the wax out of her ear and hair.

The author had a fair complexion, a clean-shaven face, and dark and messy bedhead hair. He was tall and muscular, probably in his late thirties. He wore a bright yellow vacation T-shirt with red polka dots and dark trousers that went up to his knees and had a fishnet pattern.

"Are you angry at me? I just want three shots of Jagermeister," slurred the author in drunken confusion. He began to sway towards the waitress. Something heavy hit his forehead, causing him to lose his balance in his drunken stupor and fall back. But the story he was so passionate about continued running in the back of his mind like he had fallen on a remote controller and pressed the play button.

Anya was the apple of his eyes. She was a fair-skinned six-year-old girl with curly hair tied into two buns over her head. Floki loved to see her innocent eyes sparkle with joy and her face break into a big smile whenever he swung her in the air. She was so tiny the first time he held her in his arms. He had kissed her on the forehead and promised to protect her no matter what.

He stood up, rubbing his forehead, still drunk. He looked around to see who had thrown the salt box at him. A small man was standing on one of the tables in the middle of the bar. He held a baseball bat in his right hand and a pepper-box in his left. He threw it in the air and smashed it with the bat. This time, the author was ready and caught the pepper box before it could hit him.

The small man wore a black coat and trousers over his striped white shirt, and his disheveled hair looked green in the dim light. His face was filled entirely with scars and a broad forehead; wearing a scowl didn't make it any better.

"Why are you hurting me instead of getting my shots?" asked the author in an annoyed voice, who was still too drunk to make sense of the situation.

The small man didn't respond but jumped from his table and sprinted towards him. The author picked up a chair beside him, took it high, and smashed it on the small man as he approached. The author smiled at his quick thinking, but it was short-lived, as the baseball bat hit him right on his head.

Somehow, the small man had jumped above him before he could smash the chair on him. The bat broke from the impact, and the author fell back on the table where he was writing, toppling the table with him as he fell to the ground.

He still didn't lose consciousness; he stood up, holding a chair and the table for support. He could feel his head swimming due to the impact of the bat, but fortunately, there was no wound, and he wasn't bleeding. He turned to face the small man and saw that the waitress was still on the ground. The small man stood in an attacking pose; there was no one else in the bar; that's when it dawned on the author that these two people were not the bar employees.

"You guys won't get me my shots?"

The small man nodded no and rushed towards him with a knife in hand.

A tradesman had brought a contagious sickness to their village. The first symptom of the illness was weak knees that would make the person unable to walk. Soon, they would have high fever, and in a matter of two weeks, they would die, bleeding from all their pores. Floki was devastated when Anya lost strength in her knee, and Floki's whole life came crashing down; he had no idea what to do; no one knew the cure for this disease.

This time, he was ready; he jumped on the small man and overpowered him as the small man tried to stab him. The author crushed him on the floor with all his might, held on to his knife hand tightly, and twisted it until he let go of the knife. He took the knife as the small man struggled to push him aside, stabbed it into his right eye, and held it there as the blood spurted out of the hole, and his body slowly began to stop struggling and went still.

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

He slowly stood up, feeling dizzy, and walked into the bar to get some Jagermeister. He found one bottle on the top shelf, broke its seal, and began to drink it in one go. He heard a shot, and a split second later, the bottle exploded in his hand. Before he could have chugged half the bottle, the alcohol had spilled all over his clothes and on the ground.

He turned to the direction where the bullet sound came from. His head swam as he turned and had to hold the bar table for support. A young woman dressed in a cowboy's suit stood in front of him; she wore a dark cowboy hat, and it was difficult to make out her facial features in the dim light; all he could see was her left jawline and hair braids over her shoulders. She wore a dark shirt under a black cowboy coat and trousers. As the author gazed at her confusedly, she pulled the trigger again. It hit the author right in his chest, and he slammed into the stand behind him where all the alcohol bottles were placed. The bottles fell along with him, making a huge mess of alcohol and broken glasses on the ground.

Floki lived on the foothills of a long stretch of snow-capped mountains known as Jotunheim. Kash was deep in this mountain range, a mountain more treacherous than the rest. There lived an old Jotun, a giant, on the top of Kash, and the legend was whoever was brave enough to climb its top and give something precious to the Jotun would gain immortality. People from Floki's village began their journey towards Kash to save themselves or their beloved from this deadly disease. Floki carried his daughter on his back and went towards Kash with a rare pearl passed on to him from his ancestors.

The girl in the cowboy suit entered the bar counter and saw him fallen on the ground sideways with alcohol and glass pieces all around him. She held his hands and dragged him out of the bar counter. The sound of glass pieces crunching under his body filled the bar. When she let go of the author's hands to take a quick breather from all the pulling, she saw something shining on the author's chest pocket. It wasn't clear before due to all the alcohol that had splashed over his clothes, but she saw that he had no blood or wound over his chest.

She realized that the bullet had just hit the metallic badge in his chest pocket; on a closer look, she saw that the silver badge had the front view of an eagle with its wings spread high and majestic. The sun rose in the background, encompassing the eagle, with its rays shaped like lightning. The badge was commonly used by Latin's lieutenants. She decided to kill him for real this time and pulled out her gun. Only this time, the author, who was faking to be unconscious, threw his leg up in the air and kicked the gun out of the girl's hands. In another swift moment, he used his other leg to swipe her off her feet, and she fell hard with her face to the ground.

He climbed over her, preventing her from moving, and then picked up the gun that had gone under the nearby table.

"This is what you get for ruining such a beautiful bottle," and he shot her in the back of the head. He let go of the gun and sighed with relief as he continued to sit on her and look at the hole in the back of her head. He stood up slowly, and the effect of alcohol had reduced a bit, and he felt a little more steady. He looked at the bar counter, which was now empty, as all the bottles had shattered on the ground. He picked up the badge that had fallen in the scuffle and looked at it but couldn't remember where he got it from. He was happy it saved his life and slid it into his trouser pocket.

"What should a man do to get some Jagermeister around here!"

All he wanted was some peace so he could write his story and have his drinks. The doctor had told him writing would help him regain his memory. He sighed and turned around to find the door, get back in his stolen car, and find another bar where they serve Jagermeister. He hadn't even taken three steps before he heard some chairs rumbling behind him, and as he turned, he saw the waitress had stood up; she had removed the melted wax from her hair and face. She had gotten hold of the knife which he had used to stab the small man's eye. The knife was still wet with the small man's blood. She screamed in rage and ran around the tables to reach him.

He realized he wouldn't be able to reach the gun he left on the floor before she could get it and stood there silently waiting for things to unfold. Turns out he was safe where he stood; the waitress skidded on the alcohol-drenched floor in her rage and, in her hurry to stab him, fell on the broken glass pieces, with one of the more significant pieces piercing through her neck and popping up from the back of her neck as her body writhed on the floor. The author couldn't take in the pathetic scene of the waitress writhing with pain and the faint gurgling sound coming out of her, so he took the gun and shot her in the head to end her pain.

There was no mistaking Kash; no other mountain was covered with so many skulls and bones of all the people who had tried to climb it and failed. Floki and his daughter were the only ones who had reached this place. Everyone else was either dead or left far behind. Floki began to climb the mountain with his daughter firmly tied to his back with a cloth. After what felt like ages and infinite struggles, Floki made it to the top with his daughter still breathing. The tiredness from the gruesome journey, along with the contagious disease, had finally caught up to him, and he fell face down on the green patches of Kash's top after losing his knee's strength.

The author sat in the stolen car and opened the drawer below the car radio to smoke a puff. He looked back at the worn and torn building with a slanting blue neon title board that lighted only 'he Ju' from 'The Jug' as he placed the cigarette between his lips. The bar was situated right next to the river Tiber. It was initially painted in white and cream, but over time, it had been covered with mosses, making it look black with green patches. But that evening, the bar looked reddish as the sun set behind it, and the river turned into orangish red, reflecting the bloodshed inside the bar. He looked for the lighter in the drawer but couldn't find it. He searched around his seat and near the front windshield, but it was nowhere to be seen.

Before he could shout out of frustration, the car lit up as the bomb placed under it exploded. The front half of the vehicle was thrown upwards due to the bomb's impact, and he got thrown out to the side. The last few lingering effects of the alcohol also left him as he hit the ground sideways and was completely alert.

He stood up, holding his right arm that had taken most of the impact as he had fallen; his shirt and trousers were half burnt with many holes in them. He walked away from the burning car that had flipped. He took his first puff of smoke from the cigarette, the only good thing that came from the bomb blast.

"Thank you for lighting my cigarette," he said aloud, facing the bar again. A timid man stood in front of the bar's door. He was holding something, most likely the remote controller of the bomb, in both his hands. He was shaking out of fear as his plan had failed. The guy looked like a rat transformed into a human; he was so thin that even a strong gust of wind might carry him away. He wore a long white coat like he was a scientist. He threw down the remote controller and stuttered, "How are you not dead?"

"Lucky, I guess!" said the author as he closed in on the timid man.

"That bomb was too strong for any human to have survived; you came out of it with just burnt clothes; I can't even see a single wound on your body," stuttered the timid man; he wanted to run so badly, but the fear had held him to the spot.

The author covered the space between them and stood before the timid man.

"Like I said, I am lucky."

He held the timid man's face tightly with both hands and, with one quick snap, turned it one hundred and eighty degrees. The shy man fell back as the author let go of him.

The sun had set, and the only light came from the burning car. The bar stood lonely with the river on its back and a few trees and haphazardly grown bushes ahead of it. Only a faint sound of the vehicles buzzing on the nearby highway could be heard. As the author decided to walk out, he saw the road that led to the bar had only one car parked to the side; it was a gray car, typically seen in that region; there seemed to be someone sitting in the car, a woman maybe, but the author couldn't make her out. The car's front lights showed a young boy, probably not older than ten years, and an older gentleman standing right outside of the bar compound. They looked like they were waiting for him.

The young boy held a spin in his hand and a concerned face. He had worn ragged clothes, a shabby blue shirt, dark trousers that went up to his knees, and plain slippers on his legs. His dark hair was cut to look like a mushroom, and his light-skinned, innocent face had dirt on it. Something about the boy made the author feel he was not a poor child. The older gentleman beside him was bald, and the few hairs left on the sides had turned gray; he had a bandaid on the left side of his forehead and a few wound marks on his right cheek that looked like it was made by a wild animal. He was tall and thin, with his face covered with wrinkles. He wore a round reading glass, shabby clothes, and worn-out slippers.

Floki woke up in a cave with shadows and lights dancing on its ceiling. When the smell of cooked food hit Floki's nose, he salivated and sat up with renewed strength. He turned to his left, where he felt the heat and light source. The huge Jotun sat on a rock, stirring a big black heating pot. The Jotun was dark-skinned and had a distorted jawline; his long, unkempt hair was long enough to reach his shoulders. When the Jotun turned to Floki, he saw the eyes were located at different heights. He wore minimal clothing to cover his private parts. His face had several marks from long-forgotten battles. The Jotun looked at Floki and smiled, showing his broken and dirty teeth, and said, "Congratulations on becoming immortal!"

Floki was confused. He realized he couldn't see his daughter around. "Where is my daughter?"

"Well, I accepted her as a gift and gave you immortality. It had been a long time since I had eaten human meat. Come, sit, and let's taste your daughter," said the Jotun, pointing to the pot.

As the story unfolded with that horrific ending in the author's mind, he felt like puking, but he controlled himself. The author stood before the boy and the old man.

"Do you guys want to kill me too?"

"No, we are here to seek your help," said the bald old man.

"What is it?"

"Take us out of Latin's territory, and in return, you will get your memory back, Mr. Floki."