Impossible Possibilities

4. On the Road

Another Longer chapter.  Enjoy :)  Vote?

Count DeMonteior was one of the best councilors I’ve ever had. His precision with a bolt was unperceivable, his aim with a scope was incredible, and his strike with a dart was among the top five percent.  I couldn’t have asked for more when I acquired him as my personal coach.  He helped me get from the rank of Seed Spitter to the rank of Tip Crusher in a fortnight.  I’ve never progressed up the ladder as fast as this ever before, moving up six ranks on the sixty-level chart.  At this rate I could make it to into the top five ranks before the age thirty five, a record only two people have ever accomplished.

We’d spend hours upon hours on the range shooting, my aim went from a greater than two thousand to a greater than twelve hundred, an incredible increase I gladly boasted about.  I was determined, no; I knew I would pass Count Gebbens precision of greater than sixty at this rate.

I opened my eyes and looked into the scope, I was done thinking back on the past months.  I needed to focus on here and now.  The target, I couldn’t find it—was it behind the tree? Floating?  Where was it? All I could see was clouds.  Square clouds.  This scope must be broken, no—what was I shooting?  Why can’t I remember what I was shooting, I was so close to being the best, but I couldn’t even remember what I was shooting.  Only square clouds were in my scope now.  I tried to pull my eyes away from the scope, but the square clouds stayed.  I moved my head as if to get closer to the clouds and jolted up in reaction.  Awake.

I heard some sort of sharp squealing in the distance; it was coming from down the hall.  I got up out of the bed and dared the open expanse of the room until I was able to feel the safety of the door frame.  The squealing grew louder as I felt my way down the hall and out into the living room.

“It’s the damn terrorist again.”  I heard the potato man grumble from the area I remembered was the kitchen.  There was a terrorist attack?  Here?  What were they going to do?  We have to hide, we had to get out of the building.  I don’t want to die. “Look at them, they’re just sitting there.  Peaceful protests… What the hell is wrong with these people?”

I felt my way along the wall till my bare feet felt the tile in the kitchen, “What do you mean?”  I asked.

“They always do this, protesting peacefully, without war we will all perish of starvation and old age.” 

I had to learn more, how the hell was peaceful protest ever a bad thing?  So fingering my way around the kitchen I found something that resembled a stool and sat down.  I then went on to ask, “What do you mean? War is bad.”

“No odd one.  War is good; war is our only method of populating the world.  Without war who would gain their rage and slice off body parts?  We need war to have our children.  Those damn terrorist are going to be the end of us all, preventing war with their hippie drugs and songs of love and peace,” how would cutting off your leg or arm in war ever be a good thing?  My stomach growled, which brought up another interesting question, how did the machine in my belly button work?  Could I stick, say, a pencil in it and sharpen it?

“And don’t get me started on those terrible countries like Gorgostan and Falenstan. They refuse to declare war on us, we demand war to help reproduce.  But if they refuse war we’ll be forced to invade and force them to war—even hippies will get frustrated and throw out a bit of rage and slash at someone, eventually.”   I heard the blender and decided it was best not to test the pencil theory.  Either way I doubt digesting lead would be a good thing.

The blender stopped, “Look at that filth.  The guards on the bottom floor have come out with the axes and swords and those filthy terrorists started tossing about flower necklaces and backing away.  They’ll run away the second the guards get too close.  They’ll never let the guards use their rage.  It’s no fair if they never fight back anyways, we’d only be helping them to reproduce their hippy ways but they’ll never strike back.”