19
LOUIEʼS CAFÉ
Scott
Shreveport, LA
Caddo Parrish
November 1st, 2014
Present Day
_____________________________
As the world came to an end, The Dogged Man, too, ate a croissant.
With guns cocked, Scott watched Wil circle the wolves to the right as Roderick, Olʼ Man Louieʼs short order cook, took to the left. The kitchen cooked them all at once, burning as the Dogged Man ate, growling pulverizing the room like brutal, piercing knives. Olʼ Man Louie sharpened his knives, milking the screech for the entire joint to hear. The highland wolves, including Louise and Lynx, stood their ground, as they continued to spit blood into the ground, readying for a fight.
The tension was thick as butter, craving a knifeʼs sharp blade.
And yet, The Dogged Man continued to sit and eat, a ghost oblivious to the world.
Propping a scorched pecan pie on the table, Lafayette watched as The Dogged Man continued to eat, wiping his bruised, bleeding hands on the booth.
Then, he cracked.
"The f*ck is going on?" he screamed, frustrated.
"Lafayette," Wil snapped through gritted teeth.
Lafayette glared daggers at Wil, flipping The Dogged Manʼs table and whipping his breakfast to the wall.
"THE F*CK IS GOING ON?"
The blood spattered from The Dogged Manʼs mouth, slicking him up in a sanguine darkness, spreading across the surface. As the coffee brewed, bubbling in the kettle, the blood diffused in the coffee, making the entire café grip the edges of the bar, hairs pricking on their necks. The wolves stepped forward, almost instinctively backing up Louie, and as they did, the kitchen came alive. The knives hitting the meat, the bloody flesh ready to lap up its victims, and then striking the bar. Scott flinched backwards, watching the knives soar, ghostly growls disarming, distorting, consuming, and corrupting the entire dive bar.
"Beowulf," Scott snarled.
The Dogged Man rose, deathly quiet.
"Only Scotsmen call me by that name," The Dogged Man said, voice level. "And youʼre no Scot."
"Close enough," Wil spat out, snapping his gun upwards.
"Close enough," The Dogged Man agreed.
One step, two step, three step, four.
When the Dogged Man took a step towards them, he brought death to winterʼs door. The wolves decayed into corpses dressed in thick black, from those ghastly paintings Scott had seen engraved in the Orderʼs coffins, boneless beasts with sullen eyes and ghostly bodies. The Dogged Man walked along the dark undertones as the earth turned to ash, dust, and ice, along the corpses of the men.
"We havenʼt much time, lads," The Dogged Man warned. "So ask what you will of me and be done with it. But before we do, I have one question: you knew who I was and you knew how to find me. How?"
Silence.
"HOW?"
The Dogged Man clenched his fists with stamina to last the night. Scott approached him, Wil and Lafayette still with guns cocked, handing him a paper.
It read and Scott said:
If death must take me;
and my blood-covered body heʼll bear as prey,
ruthless devour it, the roamer-lonely,
with my life-blood redden his lair in the fen:
no further for me needʼst food prepare!
However, remember, my brother,
what blesses my blood-covered body
is a sigil:
LO, praise from the prowess of people-kings
the world will begin the way it ends, by
a body of christ, for the blood of a brother,
And it was spoken thus:
Man to man, he made harangue,
From Hrothgar to Beowulf, bade him hail.
Man to man, he made harangue,
From Hrothgar to Beowulf, bade him hail.
"What is it you think yʼer doin'?"
One step, two step, three step, four. Scott stepped forward.
"The Italians can call you one name, the French another, and I reckon I donʼr give a flying f*ck what the rest of the world calls you. But what I reckon I do know, is youʼre searchinʼ for something, and whatever youʼre searchinʼ for, is the same thing that got my son killed."
The Dogged Man, Beowulf, let out a toothy grin, canines blackened by the blood.
"And how do you know that?"
"A gut instinct. A feeling."
The Dogged Man scoffed, stare deadly.
"Interesting to know youʼre gamble your life for a feeling," he said simply.
A cock fight. Two egos, suffocating each other for a single breath. Scott, caving into the anger, raised his shotgun, sneering with contempt.
"Oh, I promise, Iʼll do more than that."
Scott and The Dogged Man stood their ground, sizing each other up.
"What are you looking for, wolf?"
"Not going to ask my name, Scotty?"
The Dogged Man smiled. Ready to call Scottʼs bluff.
"Make no mistake of this: I will skin you alive, by skin and bone," Scott sneered, raising his gun.
"Foolʼs errand. You, more than anyone, Prescott O'Malley, should know the power of names given your birthright," The Dogged Man countered.
One step, two step, three step, four.
Blood. Rivers of blood. From the blood of Hell and knocking on deathʼs door, filled Louieʼs. Coughing hoarsely, Scott blinked twice and saw the tears of blood roll down his face, their faces, as marauding soldiers sewn from skin, flesh, and teeth materialized from the bowels of the grave. Panic surged through him like a violent wind, coagulating like the blood that baptized his face, and as they came, The Dogged Man watched the dead crave their vengeance, tearing through man-after-man. Roderick grabbed Louise and Lynx, Wil grabbed Lafayette, and in that graveyard of blood and bone, the sky grew into that midnight red. The rougarous and corpses danced in the night, those fair dames slain and gutted before him, hungry for that bloody business.
The Dogged Man, despite it, though, stood his ground. Scott shook in his bones.
"I have walked this earth in search of the king I was meant to kill for centuries. A slave to the night and all its terrors, a servant to chaos and all the chaos the Wyrd Sisters wish to bear. By the blood of a brother, by the Blood of Christ. Hell is in my eyes and yet I cannot reach hell until that blood sends me there. I killed those wee babes to find the steward that may free me of my curse. I killed those Italian heretics to find the thane that escaped this fate, to learn how to free myself, the brother that betrayed me I am bound to my kingʼs command. So, ask me my name. Only then can I grant you the vengeance you seek. Ask me my name, Prescott."
The fire consumed them.
The dead screamed.
Louieʼs ripped itself apart from the inside-out.
"WHAT IS YOUR NAME, BEOWULF?"
A knight from hell, quiet and in his prime.
"Angus. My name is Angus."
The knight from hell.
Macbethʼs lead knight.
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