The Republic of Selegania, Box Set, Volumes 1 through 4

By Daniel Lawlis

The determination of Richard Simmers (alias, Righty Rick), a down-on-his-luck, almost national boxing champion who spends his days at the lumberyard and evenings at the bars of his small town, puts him on a dangerous path towards unthinkable wealth . . . and danger. With the sudden criminalization of a new form of curious tobacco on the market, his old boxing skills, his inhuman strength from the lumberyard, and his desperation to acquire the fame and wealth that barely slipped through his fingers years ago suddenly combine to turn him into a kingpin few survive challenging.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Daniel Lawlis
• Release date: Aug 24, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215630099

Book preview

Chapter 1

Get that crap head!!

It was Big Timmy. Timmy may have been just five feet tall, but that was plenty tall enough if your name was Little Ed, had four feet between your head and the ground, and weighed about sixty-five pounds. Little Ed preferred Edward or Eddie, but Big Timmy didn’t usually ask his special friends like Ed what they preferred to be called. Special friend was the clever term Tim used whenever Mrs. Reichart, their fourth grade teacher, told Tim to leave Eddie alone (Ed liked Mrs. Reichart just fine, since she called him by his second-favorite name, Eddie): Sorry, Mrs. Reichart, just talking to my special friend here, Tim would say with a snide smile on his face. And although Ed had been told he wasn’t the brightest kid in the world (stupid little idiot was the term Big Timmy used), he knew full well Tim didn’t think of him as a friend. In fact, it was one of the few things in Ed’s dreamy world he was fully certain of.

Tim’s real friends were Hairy Larry (Larry took pride in the fact that he had the longest hair in the fourth grade, which he achieved by growing it a full three inches, something most of the parents cut short at two, as long hair was seen as a sign of troublemaking, and in Larry, they found adequate proof), Snobby Bobby (his daddy was rich . . . at least by Ringsetter standards), and Brian. Plain old Brian. Ed actually wished Brian had a nickname because he was meaner than Larry and Bobby put together, and Ed wasn’t sure if this was his true nature or if he was just trying to earn a nickname, but he suspected it was probably some combination of the two.

Ed knew he was in for it today, which was why he had taken off running as soon as Mrs. Reichart rang that pretty bell she always kept on her desk to let them know they could go home. Ed had been mostly in a daze that afternoon, dreaming about wizards, magic, and plans for his future, but Timmy, Larry, Bobby, and Brian saw what they always saw—a little idiot too stupid to think about anything. He had in fact gotten scolded a couple times by Mrs. Reichart when she did one of her famous walks around the class (he called them privately her tours) and saw, instead of long division, long magical staffs and longer wizard hats.

He could have gotten lines for something like that, but she had possibly noticed the black eye he was wearing and taken pity on him. She had told him many times, If you ever need to talk, Eddie, I’m here, and a couple times she had forced him to stay after class to talk about the decoration he too often wore on his face when coming to school. Mrs. Reichart was a nice person. Of that, he was sure. But he didn’t dare talk to her about Our Business.

That was what Dad called it when he got drunker than a skunk and slapped Mommy nearly senseless. He had previously been safe from Our Business, but he had gotten a slap last night. All prior facial artwork had been compliments of Big Timmy and the gang, but he would no sooner tell Mrs. Reichart that than he would about Our Business. Keeping your mouth shut is a virtue! his dad had often told him, and although he wasn’t quite sure what a virtue was, Dad’s tone when he said it made it sound like something that could keep him out of trouble.

Our Business didn’t happen too often—only about every other week. Ed would usually hide in his Spot. His Spot was a small room behind his closet. He could sneak back there through a hole Dad had left one night after his work boot hit the wall. Ed noticed that, when Dad kicked something, he didn’t actually kick anything; instead his boot hit something. And he never really slapped Mommy either. Mom gets in the way, Dad would say.

Ed was doubtful, but to be fair, he didn’t usually stick around to watch once Dad started moving his hands around a lot. First, Dad yelled. Then, he moved his hands a lot. Then things started to fly. Plates, books—small things. Sometimes, after that, Dad just went to sleep. Once things were quiet for an hour or so, Ed would come out from his Spot. He usually smelled a lot of beer and would see Dad sleeping on the couch, and he would hear Mommy in her room crying.

But sometimes Dad didn’t fall asleep, and on those nights it was best not to leave the Spot. The Spot wasn’t so bad really. He could usually see well enough to draw in there because a small crack on the side of the house let either sunlight or moonlight through. He liked to draw wizards mostly, and sometimes, he pretended his wizards spoke to him. But he had to talk to them real quiet because he didn’t want anyone finding out about the Spot. He never knew when he might really need it.

No one had ever found him though. That was part of the reason he knew it was a special place, and he imagined that the wizards he drew kept Dad from finding him. Lately, he had been seeing the wizards a lot, even when he wasn’t in the Spot. That was the reason for his raccoon eye. Dad had started talking loud last night and had started to move his hands around. Normally, he would have been long gone by this stage. But it wasn’t until he saw Dad’s palm slap Mommy’s head a couple times that the wizards disappeared and he realized it was time to go to the Spot. Something really foolish though had made him think he could stop Dad’s hand from hitting things, and he had yelled out, Stop it!!

Dad didn’t like that idea very much, and he had backhanded Ed and sent him flying about three feet backwards. Ed didn’t waste too much time after he landed to get back on his feet and run to the Spot real quick. He didn’t like what he heard while he was leaving though. It sounded like a lot of crying.

He knew that now would be a good time to make it back to the Spot, but unfortunately he was slower than Big Timmy and the rest of his companions. They had walked behind him calmly while leaving school so that Mrs. Reichart wouldn’t notice, but the last stretch of walking back home was through the woods.

Ed was no dummy, and he was focused on walking home as fast as he could. If he couldn’t make it all the way home, he would go to the Hideout. The Hideout was a small tree house about three hundred feet up in the air, and although he wasn’t the fastest tree climber in the fourth grade, for some reason Big Timmy and his friends always gave up following him after about the first twenty branches.

It took somewhere around a hundred branches to get to the Hideout, but Ed knew why they gave up after twenty. You had to walk across the Pathway—a branch about as wide as his waist but as long as their whole school building, which was pretty long, all the way over to the tree that led up to the Hideout, and straight down was a good sixty feet. The tree that the Pathway led to had no branches below that point, so the only way to reach the first branch was to walk across the Pathway. After that it was easy, but for some reason Big Timmy and his friends didn’t like the Pathway too much.

He had followed Ed there many times, and once he had even taken two steps onto the Pathway before he turned around and said to Snobby Bobby, This knucklehead’s got nothin’ to live for; he’d jump and die, but the ground don’t want him! and snickered mercilessly. And Big Timmy’s other friends laughed too, but Ed had seen their faces for a brief moment, looking over his shoulder, and he saw they were real scared.

Hairy Larry had laughed the loudest, and Ed heard him say, Yeah, let’s get out of here; we’re wastin’ our time with this retard! They all thought that was a good idea and slowly and carefully climbed down the tree. We’ll get you, crap face! yelled Brian from below.

Ed remembered that day very clearly. It had happened last year, and he knew Big Timmy was furious about Ed getting away like that. Ed had watched them for miles and miles from the Hideout and smiled and laughed so loud he was sure Big Timmy could hear him. In fact, that was probably the reason Big Timmy was so sore over it. Ed had had a fine afternoon that day, drawing wizards, playing with an imaginary sword, and even using a magic staff, although it wasn’t a real magic staff . . . not yet anyway.

It was a real stick, and it was strong. He had put it between two branches many times and hung there as free as a monkey with his legs dangling in the air hundreds of feet above ground. And it had never cracked or even made a fuss. He had a pocketknife up there in a small hole inside the tree (well, actually it was Dad’s pocketknife, and he had stolen it, but he didn’t feel particularly bad about that).

He used the pocketknife to make cuts on his magic staff. These weren’t like his drawings. He was careful with his drawings, but he was real careful with these. He usually spent days just thinking about them before he started to make these cuts on his magic staff. And then he would practice on paper not once or even five times but around ten times, and then and only then would he make a cut on his staff. He found this system worked well, and he wouldn’t have been too quick to listen if someone had suggested otherwise.

The cuts—or carvings, as he was beginning to call them, after a recent vocabulary lesson at school—looked nice. He had almost showed them to Mrs. Reichart one day because deep down he knew she would agree, but there was a problem. No, there were four problems, and their names were Big Timmy, Hairy Larry, Snobby Bobby, and that no-nickname retard Brian (he had considered calling him that on occasion because his instincts, which he was beginning to learn to trust more and more as he got older, told him that even if Brian beat the heck out of him for that it would hurt Brian worse than the beating he would give Ed).

There was no way—not even a chance—that he could take his magic staff to school and show it to Mrs. Reichart without one of those bullies snatching it from him and doing Kasani knows what with it. Mrs. Reichart was nice, but she wouldn’t let him keep it at his desk. No, he’d have to put it in the corner where everyone put their extras (as Mrs. Reichart called such things as coats, bags, and toys). And he knew that he didn’t have an extra magic staff, and that it would be gone by the time the school day ended, probably before he even had the chance to show it to Mrs. Reichart.

This made him sad, but it was a whole lot better to keep it safe up in the Hideout, even if he couldn’t show Mrs. Reichart how well he was learning to carve.

He could really hear the gang’s footsteps behind him now. He couldn’t quite see his house from here, but he knew right where it was. The path ahead of him in the deep forest he was in continued for about as far as he could see and then turned right. He knew his house was close to where the path turned there. He would never make it that far. He could tell Big Timmy was getting real close.

His ears told him Big Timmy was a lot closer than Snobby Bobby or any of the others, and his instincts told him that Big Timmy planned for big payback today for Ed getting the best of him last time they had a tree-climbing contest.

Ed decided right then and there to turn left and go towards the Hideout. Chances were good that Dad would be about as dangerous as the gang behind him tonight, but on the other hand, last night had been a bad night, and usually there were a few good nights after bad nights, and after really bad nights, which last night could probably count as, sometimes Dad was nice for a few whole weeks. But not always.

But it didn’t matter much because Ed knew he wouldn’t make it another minute before Big Timmy grabbed him and gave him a beating that would give his raccoon eye plenty of bruises to keep it company.

Ed dashed left, headed off the path and into the forest.

You’ll never make it, dreamer boy! Ed heard Big Timmy yell, and almost wet himself because he could tell Big Timmy was a lot closer than he thought.

The leaves crunched loudly and rapidly like the kettle corn that Mommy made, as Ed’s feet rushed through the leaves, his eyes fixed unshakably on the tree that led to the Pathway that led to the Hideout.

But there was an equally fast—no, faster—sound coming behind him. He knew what—or rather, who—it was.

He saw the tree closer and closer and closer. He pumped his legs like he had once seen a wolf do that was chasing some poor animal through the forest.

Closer, closer, closer.

He knew that if he could at least make it to the tree he had a chance. He was pretty sure he could climb faster than Big Timmy, but he usually had a head start. Today he wasn’t sure he would.

Success. He reached the tree, threw down his school bag, and grabbed the first branch. He pulled upwards and was about to hook his legs around it (he knew once he did that he could really start to climb fast), when suddenly he felt something grabbing his right foot.

Chapter 2

It had been with no rapidity that Koksun had convinced the reclusive Tristan of the benefits of imparting speech to birds and abandoning his solitary attempts to discover the knighting of a man of common birth in Sodorf. Thus, no one and nothing—not wiry Koksun, not the tiny konulans, and not even the majestic pholungs—were aware of all of Tristan’s means of egress from his abode. It might not even be exaggerative to surmise that those exits the pholungs were aware of had only entered their awareness because Tristan found it convenient to his purposes that they would too carefully watch these instead of employing a more widespread surveillance of the surrounding topography.

To Tristan, life resembled a chessboard, and while trust was not a concept he ever adhered to in the proper sense, to whatever small extent he did confide in anyone it would best be measured by the minute degree to which to which he lowered his vigilance. From the moment the pholung Istus announced his betrayal to him, he knew he had to assume all the birds had betrayed him. His effort to slay them by summoning a storm (which drained no small amount of his powers) had been thwarted when the pholungs had the audacity to charge him headlong, something he was quite unprepared for, having been long accustomed to intimidation filling the gaps left by deficiencies in his powers.

Although he could have dispatched a great number of them to the other side of eternity, he lacked confidence that not even one lucky pholung would complete its charge, snatch him with its merciless talons, and then fling him off the edge of the cliff, a fall he would likely not have the power to stop, given the amount of energy he had already exerted summoning the storm without even so much as the aid of his staff.

It was then and there that Tristan decided the time had come to get the hell out of there.

Koksun didn’t say anything. He was in the most remote corner of the room, crouched low to the ground, tail tucked between his legs, looking at Tristan with a plaintive, apprehensive expression, every large and miniscule muscle in his small frame tensed and ready to spring into action and propel him far from danger with such velocity that would make jealous even the crisscrossing bolts of lightning outside, if Tristan so much as made an inch of movement in his general direction.

Tristan looked at him balefully, to which Koksun replied, Meooooowwwww, sorrowfully, in that singular way cats have of apologizing that saves them both the undignified tears and the lugubrious speeches of their human counterparts, either or both of which Koksun could have done, but he had been a cat long enough to know those situations where his human attributes were but the crudest of tools for effecting what a feline could achieve with scant effort.

But it was the human attributes of his brain that enabled him to recall that he was arguably to blame for his master’s doom. He had seen his master unceremoniously deposited into his abode like a rock flung from a catapult and needed no reminding that he had cogently argued long ago that the birds could be turned into manageable spies. Had there been time for a debate, Koksun would have first pressed Tristan for details concerning the occurrences leading up to this change of events, and if Tristan had admitted to killing Istus’s family without any real justification, Koksun would have lambasted Tristan for needlessly killing good spies and giving an incentive for rebellion where perhaps before none had existed.

Nonetheless, there was no time for a debate, so poor Koksun was left with the unfortunate impression that the treachery had been the result of some failure on his part.

Tristan had said nothing to Koksun before retreating behind his bookshelf.

Although Tristan had resided in his comfortable cave for centuries, he had always been of the mindset that he must be ready to abandon it at any moment. He had a tunnel leading many miles away, reaching slightly east of Dachwald before rising to the surface inside a hollowed-out tree in a deep forest. His thinking at the time he had constructed this passageway had been to escape widespread enemy scouts searching for him on foot. Since it was avian scouts he had to escape,

he felt immense relief the passageway would not only lead him far from the cave but also deposit him into a thick forest where nothing would be visible from the air but a ceaseless canopy of verdure.

It pained him to leave so many books behind, but he knew that he could only take several. Fortunately, during his many solitary nights he had redacted the most significant portions of the voluminous texts in his abode and compiled four books that contained the majority of the most essential information on Glisphin. He packed these quickly into a bag, put a sinister blade into his belt that was too long for the category of dagger but yet too short to achieve a consensus as being a sword, and then grabbed his staff, which could double for walking or more destructive activities. A wrinkled hat completed the costume of a harmless, elderly gypsy.

Right as he was about to head out into the tunnel that would take him to Selegania, a country he hadn’t visited in centuries, he felt the most peculiar desire to take his feline companion with him. He put his bag down to the floor, opened the passageway, and went out to see Koksun.

It’s not your fault, Koksun, Tristan said. I did something foolish, and I spoiled everything. Are you coming?

Koksun looked at him warily. Cats are not easily put at ease, once their perception of danger has been aroused, and Tristan’s mindset towards Koksun had been momentarily murderous after he was tossed into his cave. But the humility of such rough treatment had brought Tristan down from his manic state of murderous euphoria and restored him to his calm, calculating persona that would have made him properly disposed for a professorship.

Koksun meowed again, not sorrowfully as before, but in a curious manner, as if his meow were the tongue of a snake reaching out into the ambience to search for the scent of treachery. To his surprise, his keen eyes and keener nose detected not the slightest trace of hostility in Tristan but rather reconciliation. And practical thoughts started to enter Koksun’s mind, such as the fact he was hundreds of feet above ground and not entirely sure how he planned to close that distance or, conversely, to survive more than several days if he stayed alone in the cave.

But then a mountain of resentment grew inside his mind, as he quickly realized—this time, with his human intellect—that Tristan’s composure could not have changed so drastically unless the treachery of the pholungs had been entirely Tristan’s fault. This human intellect was inconvenient for Koksun because once it triggered his resentment, a feeling more powerful than the survival instinct itself in some felines, he meowed aggressively at Tristan and then let out a hiss for good measure.

Shrugging his shoulders, but unable to hide from Koksun’s keen eyes a lump in his throat that any human would have missed, Tristan turned around, went through the passageway, and disappeared from Koksun’s sight.

Koksun was beginning to have second thoughts, but by the time they arrived Tristan was gone and the door to the passageway closed.

Chapter 3

It was not until several hours later that Istus and the other pholungs returned, at which time Koksun let out a nasty hiss towards Istus—whom Koksun sensed to be the culprit for the unfortunate change of events—and was dispatched from the cave with the same rudeness with which Koksun’s master had not so long ago been flung into the cave.

Many a person, from the simplest laborer to the wisest philosophe, has repeated the observation that a cat has nine lives. That axiom was put to the test when Koksun was unceremoniously ejected from the place he had called home for many years with his master. Several hundred feet of empty vertical space is no trivial barrier for any non-avian creature to suddenly find between himself and terra firma. But with the double advantage of nine lives and decades of climbing experience before his feline transformation, the odds of survival were increased on Koksun’s side.

Istus was preoccupied placing boxes of explosives inside Tristan’s lofty abode and had tossed the despised cat aside more as a nuisance than a threat to be annihilated. Thus, Istus did not notice that, while the force he applied against Koksun’s small frame should have been sufficient to send him over the ledge and beyond hope of survival, Koksun had instinctively splayed out his limber body like a bedsheet, thus decelerating enough to hit the ground briefly before going over the edge.

Koksun didn’t waste the opportunity. Ten claws dug into the mercilessly hard ground with the passion of the treasure hunter’s spade, creating a few sparks. As he began his descent, he once again splayed out his body and dug his claws even more passionately against the now vertical stone. He had the fortune of several times grabbing nooks in the cliff wall deep enough that he almost came to a complete stop, and in a jerky fashion continued his way down the cliff like a sled down a hill intermittently slowed by small obstacles.

Once the first tree branches became visible, he decided to make for one, thinking this better than his current circumstances, which, if continued, were likely to wear down his claws to nothing. He pushed against the cliff wall, grabbed a branch at no small speed, bending it considerably as a result, which then, perhaps not wishing to make Koksun’s acquaintance, pushed back, flinging Koksun through the air.

Koksun landed on another branch, gripping deep into its pulpy center with all ten claws, prepared to hang on even if flung with the force of a hurricane, and indeed he clung to the branch despite it making no inconsiderable effort to get rid of this creature that seemed destined to be shunned by all, both living and non-living. Quite content himself to leave the branch, now that it had stilled and the departure would thus be on his terms, Koksun pried his claws from the branch like ten knives from the body of a brutally stabbed victim, and scurried along the branch towards the trunk in such a way that several squirrels took admiring notice.

Upon reaching the trunk, Koksun did not find himself in that predicament that many an over-ambitious cat has found itself—that of ascending incredible heights only to discover that its prowess at ascending is eclipsed only by its lack of prowess in descending. Koksun’s mind still contained all the knowledge and motor reflexes he had acquired from years spent as a biped, during which he had become a most proficient climber. For the briefest of seconds, he himself considered the paradox in which he found himself, as he effortlessly began to descend the tree, realizing that it was far easier than it ever had been when he had merely ten fingers rather than an array of claws, upon which he concluded that cats’ difficulty in this maneuver must be due to lack of confidence because he was nearly to the bottom of the tree by the time he recognized the irony of his pleasant descent.

His feet pushed against the earth, and soon all four legs were moving in breathtaking unison like the ingeniously crafted gears of a machine. He knew that, as far as predators were concerned, he was putting himself at great risk by being on the same ground tread by wolves, bears, and large snakes, but he was also aware that, unbeknownst to these creatures, a far greater menace lurked above, one that these animals would not have thought a danger if it were placed in front of them.

Many times, he had heard Tristan brag about the effects pheorite would have on the Sodorfians once the war came, and when the war did come he heard even more of its terrible results. Koksun recognized the smell immediately when the pholungs began stocking the cave with boxes, and he didn’t think that they were putting them there as storage. Based upon the descriptions by Tristan—whom he had never known to exaggerate—the amount they were putting there would be sufficient to blow the cliff to kingdom come, and thus—wolves, bears, snakes, or not—he figured he had better get out of this valley as quickly as possible.

Chapter 4

Something was indeed grabbing Eddie’s foot, or rather someone, and if you guessed Big Timmy you hit the jackpot. Eddie grabbed onto the branch as hard as he could and tried to pull himself up. For a moment, he almost succeeded in swinging his left leg around the branch. If he could just get up there, he knew he could give Timmy a good kick to the face with his free leg and get that jerk to let go.

He pulled and pulled and swung his left leg up several times towards the branch. It clipped it once, and momentarily hooked it on another try, but then the weight of Timmy was too much, and just as he came close as heck to getting his left leg around the branch, he felt his fingers lose their grip on the tree, and he went falling down faceup and landed flat on his back.

Ughhhhhh, was all he could exclaim as the air completely exited his lungs, perhaps not wanting to stick around for what was to follow. Above him, like a man suddenly awakening on the surgeon’s table, he saw a pair of gleaming faces loom above him. Had Eddie been a well-traveled man, he may have momentarily reflected that he was experiencing what many a downed gazelle experienced, looking up to see a pack of wild hyenas surrounding it, preparing for lunch.

Eddie was not a man, and he was even less-traveled, having made few excursions other than to school, the Spot, and the Hideout. But he did have one simile pass through his mind, as he had seen a pair of wild dogs hunt down and corner an injured rabbit, and he now felt awfully like that rabbit.

Special friend! What’s the rush?! snickered Snobby Bobby.

Haaaaa!! shouted Brian in delight at Bobby’s wit.

Big Timmy didn’t say anything, nor did Hairy Larry. Their eyes did their talking for them. These gleamed down on Eddie like the eyes of a cobra transplanted into the smirking faces of these two jackals.

Eddie wasn’t sure what would happen if he got up, but he felt like it couldn’t be that much worse than what would happen if he stayed lying down.

He stood up. Slowly, he felt himself being surrounded. Hairy, Snobby, Big, and plain old Brian were on all sides of him now. Big Timmy faced him head on.

Why did you ignore me during class all day?! said Timmy.

Larry let out a loud cackle. Don’t you know you’re our special friend?! Larry chimed in.

Timmy grinned slightly but didn’t reward Larry’s quip with an actual laugh. This was Timmy’s show.

Yeah, like Hairy said—you’re our special friend! Don’t you want to be our friend?! Timmy inquired of his subject. Timmy then shoved Eddie hard, causing him to step back a couple of feet and almost lose his balance.

Special Friend. Special Friend. Special Friend, Special Friend, Special Friend! Snobby cried joyously, then laughed like a hyena.

Brian suddenly rushed forward and shoved Eddie hard, slamming him against the tree. The other three let out war whoops of excitement.

Eddie was somewhere else. Not physically. Though he’d have liked that immensely. His mind was wandering far, far away. He had seen Mommy get a distant look on her face sometimes when Dad was fit to be tied, and many times that seemed to make Dad get bored and go to sleep. He wasn’t sure if that was going to save him from a beating, but he couldn’t think of anything else to try.

Brian suddenly punched Eddie right in the stomach. Eddie hunched over but didn’t quite fall down. He remained doubled over, mouth gaping wide open, trying his hardest to breathe again, but it seemed that the air just didn’t want to come back. Eddie wasn’t sure where it went, but he wished he could have followed it into the sky.

Hey, don’t hog him! commanded Big Timmy, rebuking his subordinate, Brian.

Sorry, Tim, Brian shrugged pathetically.

All of a sudden, Timmy swung his right fist as hard as he could at Eddie, slamming it into his left eye and knocking him back against the tree.

Hahahahahaha! shouted Snobby, laughing furiously. You’ll make Oscar Peters jealous! he jested. Oscar Peters was a legendary bare-knuckle boxing champion in Selegania.

"No, stupid head. That won’t make Oscar Peters jealous. This will make Oscar Peters jealous!" and suddenly Brian started delivering a flurry of body shots to Eddie, punching him with blinding speed, his fists resembling a woodpecker drilling at full capacity.

Eddie tried to cover himself up, but he blocked one punch for every four that landed either on his ribs or his stomach.

EDDIEEEE! GET IN HERE!!

Oscar Peters—that is to say, no-nickname Brian pretending to be Oscar Peters—stopped suddenly, standing at attention like a buck private facing a no-nonsense drill sergeant. As did Timmy, Larry, and Bobby. They each looked like bank robbers caught red-handed in the vault by the sheriff and a well-armed posse.

But they didn’t see anybody, even though they looked around in every direction.

Trying to look tough, Big Timmy said, Hey, no hard feelings, Special Friend! We’re just trying to toughen you up! He paused for a moment, Then, you’ll get to be one of us! he said unconvincingly.

Larry let out a cackle.

Timmy was pretty sure whom that voice belonged to that had demanded Eddie’s presence, and whose tone had suggested his hide would be the price of non-compliance. It was Richard Simmers, Eddie’s dad. Richard was special too, but not in the way Eddie was special. Eddie was special because he liked to zone out and stare into space for hours on end or draw wizards. Richard was special because he liked to fight. Timmy, who wasn’t exactly the analytical type, had wondered a time or two how Richard and Eddie could be father and son, and he had concluded Eddie must be adopted.

No one liked to cross Richard. He wasn’t the biggest man in Ringsetter, but darn close, and he was known as one of the strongest men at the local lumberyard, and few people considered him a wise target for a bar fight. Timmy had learned this from his dad, who had seen Righty Rick (as he was popularly known) in action a few times and had warned Timmy to steer clear of him at all costs.

Let’s scat, guys! Special Friend here has to go see his Daddy! This brought only a weak, halfhearted cackle from his troupe. They didn’t want to be within half a mile of Righty Rick if he even half suspected they had hit his boy. Truth be told, they weren’t even quite sure what Righty Rick would do. It was no more the town secret that Righty Rick roughed his old lady up only about every other week or so than it was that Oscar Peters, the best bareknuckle boxer in the history of Selegania, was from the north. But, they suspected—not at a conscious level, as these four were not prone to deep thinking—that maybe Righty Rick figured it was his job to beat up on his family and not anybody else’s.

Tim tried to be brave and start walking back the way they came in a dignified fashion, but suddenly he shouted, Last one back to Main Street’s a turd! and took off running with an enthusiasm that far exceeded any fourth grader’s desire not to be thought of as waste product. Every last one of them could almost feel Righty Rick’s hands wrapping around their necks to slam their heads together like a group of beer bottles.

Chapter 5

Let’s move! Let’s move! That stack ain’t done yet! the foreman’s voice barked.

Mr. Richard Franklin Simmers, already better known to the reader by his honorary title of Righty Rick, was only slightly more than halfway through another miserable, sweaty, backbreaking day at the lumberyard. His fourteen-hour shift was far from over, and he and his crew had to move a lot more of the many mountain-sized wooden beams from one end of the yard to the other before the foreman would be satisfied.

Six a.m. to 8:30 p.m., six days per week, was his typical schedule, with a whole half-hour break (unpaid) to take some of the sting out of the long workday. But whether he was in the process of hauling a two-hundred-pound beam over his shoulder with the help of a companion, lifting one from the ground (which it seemed to cling harder and harder to as the day wore on), or lowering it onto the humongous heap they piled up each day, his mind was always somewhere else.

This—and perhaps only this—trait proved his paternity to Eddie, though few would have known. Unlike Eddie’s open daydreaming, Righty’s occurred while his body moved swiftly and precisely, leaving no clue to the most ardent observer that his mind was many miles away.

And whereas Eddie daydreamed about wizards and other nonsense, Righty daydreamed about his glory days. The days when he was considered the inevitable bareknuckle champion of Selegania. That meant a lot of things, but one thing above all it certainly meant was no lifelong career at the lumberyard working like a horse all day for crap wages.

It meant having nice things, early retirement, pretty women, and respect. He had been on the right path towards these things, knocking one hapless opponent after another senseless with his fearsome right hand, which was starting to gain such a reputation opponents were shaking as they entered the ring with him.

There was only one other opponent anyone even thought stood a chance against him, and that was Oscar Peters. He and Oscar were about the same age. Oscar came from the northern part of Selegania, Righty from the south. They had both claimed absolute dominance in their respective spheres long before their meeting, but the only question was who the champion of all Selegania would be.

They were each just twenty years old, very young to have risen to such prominence, and the future seemed as bright as the sun for both of them, regardless of which one proved to be second best, because there was a mile gap of skill in between them and third place. Yep, those were the days. That was when he had gotten permission from Janie’s dad to date, and then to marry, her.

But then came the accident. He had been moving some large furniture inside the house, when it slipped and pulled the heck out of his wrist muscles in the process. The next day at the gym, he noticed his right wrist got kind of tender whenever he gave the bag a gentle reminder of why he was called Righty, and whenever he really laid into it, he could feel bolts of pain shooting through his wrist.

If he had been patient, he would have taken it easy for a week or two, let his wrist heal, and then continued training. The fight with Oscar wasn’t scheduled until two months from then, and he could have gotten back into physical shape in the six weeks after his two-week hiatus. But he had fame and fortune on his mind, and nothing was going to get between it and him . . . or so he thought.

By the following week he could barely hit the bag, and when he did it hurt so bad it felt like someone had peeled the skin back, found the most sensitive nerve, grabbed it with a pair of pliers, twisted it into a knot, and then wacked the whole thing with a sledgehammer. Pain forced him into a hiatus that prudence could not.

He didn’t feel better two weeks after the hiatus began. Or after another two weeks. In fact, as of the night before the fight, he could barely hit the bag without feeling some pain, and he had lost a lot of physical stamina in the interim. He had never liked running very much, and the jump rope irritated his right wrist almost as intolerably as the heavy bag.

Oscar—or so Righty heard—had become aware of this injury, and although he had been determined to beat Righty before, this had redoubled his determination to win, as it now seemed a possibility—maybe even a probability—whereas before he privately feared Righty was going to give him the whipping of his life in front of everybody and maybe even injure him so badly his career would be over.

Second place may have been the last rung before first. But whereas first place got you fame and fortune, second place gave you an upper-middle-class lifestyle, one you could only maintain while you continued getting in the ring with savage beasts ready to break their knuckles over your face crawling their way past you to first place. Then, once it was all said and done, you faced so-so job prospects, as it was no secret that years of bareknuckle brawling took away some of your smarts. But a single win at first place was enough to provide comfort for the rest of your life, and several wins at first place could grant you luxury for life and even the respect of the country’s gentry, so important was the sport to Selegania’s national pride.

Oscar knew this was his chance. He figured that if Righty was hurt as bad as they said he would only have to worry about attacks from Righty’s left side, which were pretty sub-par. Righty’s prodigious uppercuts and hooks with his right hand—on par with the power of an earthquake or lightning bolt—had made it unnecessary for him to master the softer art of the jab.

Righty preferred brawling, it could be said, over real boxing, but whereas other brawlers would get worn out by a skilled opponent’s bobbing and weaving, that was because they had to go for the head to do any serious damage. That was where Righty stood in a class all his own. He could punch an opponent’s body so hard the bones in the shielding arms would break after a couple hits to the same general area. That left only about two strategies for his opponent. He could try to hurt Righty quicker than Righty hurt him, which was a thorough exercise in folly, or he could try evasive footwork.

Righty could run down and corner the most elusive opponents with the skill and tenacity of a prized bloodhound chasing down its hopeless quarry. Opponent after opponent had fallen in pain and agony from the devastating body blows he would deliver with his merciless right hand. Those unfortunate enough to get hit directly in the face were often scarred for life—literally and figuratively.

Righty was nervous before the fight for just about the first time he could remember. He was afraid to hit Oscar full force because if he did, and it didn’t finish him, he would no doubt feel that pesky lightning bolt of pain shoot through his wrist again, and he didn’t know if he could take it.

When the bell rang, Righty forgot all about the risks of injury. There he was, Old Oskey, as he sometimes referred to him, and his instinct was to kill him just the same as if a wolf suddenly saw a squirrel dart right past him.

Righty came out swinging. Oskey must have just about had a heart attack because his eyes grew to the size of dinner plates, and he immediately went on the defensive. Righty was swinging his fists wildly through the air as if it were a fifteen-second round, rather than the five-minute round it actually was.

Oskey was taking a first-rate whipping. Righty was slamming one fist after another into him, but holding back just a little with his right. He was compensating with speed. But after Righty caught Oskey with a good left uppercut to the gut that doubled him over, Righty couldn’t help himself.

He brought his right fist down full force planning to break Oskey’s jaw into about three pieces, but Oskey saw it coming and executed a maneuver he had planned just for this occasion. He moved into the punch and tucked his chin to his chest, exposing the most solid part of his pate to his antagonist.

Righty’s fist crashed down onto it with crushing force, cutting the scalp immediately, and causing a stream of blood to come flying out that—to the inexperienced eye—would have appeared the result of a fatal, skull-crushing blow, rather than the ghastly scalp wound that it was.

Righty’s wrist snapped nearly in half. The pain was so great he almost had an out-of-body experience. Within seconds a mouse-sized lump appeared, and it wouldn’t be long until it was the size of a small kitten. Righty screamed in pain and anger.

This is where accounts begin to differ, and to those not accustomed to Righty, it is something one would be best off not discussing unless he has first learned the details precisely as Righty recalls them and repeats them word-for-word. What Righty saw was the referee moving towards them in an effort to pause the fight and see if Righty could continue.

What Oscar saw was First Place—his one chance to knock Righty the Mighty off of his pedestal and into obscurity. Righty was so shocked when Oskey’s fist connected with his jaw that he didn’t even have time to block. But his cat-like reflexes kicked in soon enough, and he launched himself towards Oskey, grabbed him with his left hand, yanked him forward, and prepared to bite the jugular of that no-good cheater.

The ref, who was not aware that Righty had decided to explore his primal nature’s lowest depths, thought instead that Righty was merely trying to headbutt Oscar, which, while not technically illegal, was frowned upon. (If we wanted to see headbutting, we’d go watch the antelope, gentlemen would often say when asked their thoughts on the matter.) The ref put out his hand to block the headbutt and found out the hard way what Righty really intended.

Bones went crunching between Righty’s molars like dry twigs underneath a hunter’s boot. The ref screamed out in pain and anger that the fight was over, Oscar Peters was the winner, and Richard Simmers was disqualified.

It turned out that a lot of people failed to see what Righty saw, and the fine gentlemen of the boxing commission decided bareknuckle boxing would be better off without Righty the Shark, as people had taken to calling him, provided Mr. Simmers was believed to be no closer than a hundred miles away from said conversation.

Thus, boxing days were over, the lumberyard beckoned, and Righty was now just another sweaty, groaning horse toiling away under the hot sun in a job so miserable its sting could only be soothed by large amounts of ale, a medicine of which Righty partook nightly, much to his wife’s detriment.

His boxing days existed now mostly in his mind, although occasionally his legend would die down just enough that he had to rekindle it in the tavern by knocking a young smart aleck’s face in for a minor infraction. His right hand had healed completely after several months without boxing, much to the dismay of anyone who ever heard the legend and made the mistake of thinking the injury persisted.

As for his wife, he had never punched her. That, he was sure of, although he did have a hard time remembering what happened after a lot of his drinking binges at the tavern. He noticed a bit of shadowing around her face from time to time, and he admitted to himself during his rather deep philosophical reflections at the lumberyard that he probably was the most likely culprit. But on the other hand, that was small potatoes compared to what she did to his heart.

He put food on the table. He worked like a dog. And if the only way he knew to momentarily forget the torture of his existence fourteen hours a day was to drink himself until he saw double, that was his business! Usually, by the time he got home from the tavern, he was in quite a good mood, and the only thing he wanted—far from fighting with Janie; he still loved her dearly—was a little lovemaking.

But she always turned him down, and that was where he lost his temper. For years he had convinced himself it was spite, that she didn’t want to make love to a no-good loser like he was (he suspected she always wanted to be married to the champ). But, as Righty had gotten older, his thoughts had become a bit deeper, and it occurred to him that maybe the smell of alcohol emanating from the cavernous interior of his stomach with the strength of stench rising from a decaying carcass wasn’t nature’s recommended aphrodisiac.

He had managed to get himself sobered up lots of times—that is, if you count two days in a row without drinking sobered up—and he noticed she did start to be a little friendlier with him the longer he stayed sober. But then the misery of his job grew and grew like steam in a tightly closed kettle until he determined he would either go drink or go crazy, and he preferred the former every time.

But, this time was different. He had spent the whole day feeling bad because last night he had hit the kid. Deep down, he loved him. He was a strange, wizard-drawing little runt of a son, but he was his son. Although he often doubted whether Janie still loved him, he never suspected she had had an affair. And Eddie had been born not too long after the good times ended. He knew that twinkle had formed in his eye when Janie still loved him.

And Righty had been beaten up on enough by his old man to know that wasn’t anything nice. And Righty had always promised that he’d never do that to his kid. He hadn’t hit the kid too many times, although he couldn’t be sure that last night was the first. But this time he remembered it. And that had bothered him all day.

He realized, insanity or not, he was going to have to turn his back on the tavern . . . at least for a while.

Let’s cut her short today! shouted the foreman unexpectedly. Those words were as soothing and magical to the hapless oxen shouldering their mountainous loads as the question, What would you like for your birthday, dear? is to a young child, and it seemed every bit as rare.

Perhaps twice, maybe even three times a year, Foreman Steve cut the day short, and not a soul amongst these beasts of labor dared ask the reason for it. There were those that suspected it had something to do with his lady friend, Elma Parkers (she was a real looker too!), while others thought maybe even just watching men perform such arduous tasks hour after hour eventually became as tiresome as the work itself. One or two individuals ventured so far as to suggest Foreman Steve felt sympathy for them from time to time, but this theory had never gained much traction.

Righty felt a sudden joy pulse through his veins that eclipsed even the ecstasy he normally felt on such rare occasions when his daily torture ritual was cut short.

Time to hit the tavern! a voice yelled, and cheers erupted.

He almost joined them but at the last moment bit his tongue.

No, not today, he thought. Today was going to be different. He had some making up to do, and coming home late from the tavern smelling like a distillery wouldn’t exactly be the right approach. A small feeling of willpower and determination had been growing inside of him all day, starting out at roughly the size of an acorn but growing larger and larger each hour of the day.

The last decade of his life kept playing through his mind like scenes from a play, and he didn’t like what he saw. Drinking, scuffles with Janie that he couldn’t remember later, working all day under the blazing sun, drinking, scuffles with Janie that he couldn’t remember, and so forth until he hated himself down to his miserable, rotten core.

He wasn’t a man without willpower. He had just been, and still was, a man without a path in life. While rising through the ranks of the bareknuckle world, he had been dedicated and disciplined. No late nights at the tavern. In fact, no time at the tavern.

He had had his first sip of liquor a month or two after his . . . well, not exactly loss to old Oskey, because anyone who had seen that fight knew he had been cheated. But it had still been called a loss by those pompous, prim gentlemen of the boxing commission who robbed him not only of the rematch that should have resolved that draw (and upon arriving at this word he smiled inwardly for precisely classifying the outcome) but also of his chance as the best boxer this world had ever seen to continue with his career.

Ever since that day he had no purpose. Liquor numbed his senses and helped him forget he had no purpose, but that was about it. But, today, he realized he had at least one—no two—purposes for his life. Their names were Janie and Eddie, and he was doing one hell of a job of losing whatever tiny fragments remained of their love towards him. But, there was something deeper than that—not to discount Janie and Eddie. For reasons he himself could not have given if a knife were put to his throat, he felt there was something he was supposed to do with his life. Something that didn’t involve working fourteen hours a day hauling wood around like an ox.

He needed to find himself a goal and stick with it. Maybe there could be meaning to life after all.

Comin’ or dreamin’?! asked Thomas, breaking the deepest reverie Righty had had in perhaps his whole life. Thomas grinned. I’m buyin’ the first round! and gave Righty a hearty slap on the shoulder.

I’m a little hung over from yesterday still, Tom. Thanks though.

If any other man had said that, Tom would have ragged him ragged, but Tom knew whom he was talking to and just said Suit yourself smiling and walked off.

Chapter 6

Janie stood in the kitchen crying. Her right cheek was still tender where had slapped her last night. He had never punched her. Even drunk he had enough sense to know that one punch could crush her skull like an eggshell. But she had a sore cheek nonetheless.

She had been cutting some ham when she stopped to sharpen the butcher knife, which just wasn’t slicing the ham the way it should be, and she should know, as she had cut many a ham before this one.

As she caressed the honing steel with the knife in brisk, smart strokes, she drifted off into another world. Whereas Righty’s daydreams consisted of his glory days and how they had devolved into beastly labor, Janie focused on how their relationship had changed over the years.

Despite his monstrous conduct in the boxing ring, he had always been sweet to her before he started drinking. This wasn’t one of those typical cases, she assured herself emphatically. To Janie, Typical Cases were those scenarios where a mean-tempered brute masked his nasty pith until the third date or so, or until the lady so much as made an untactful comment, and then gave her a beating most muggers wouldn’t dish out, only to thereafter start that endless cycle of beatings and apologies.

Typical Cases were where the inevitable happened, and the lady was just too blind to get out after the first shellacking. This was different. Much different. If that no-good cheater Oscar Peters hadn’t swung at Richie while his wrist was practically snapped in half and the ref was moving in to separate them, the fight might have been rescheduled, or at least Richie would have gotten a rematch.

She could have just about jumped in there herself and taken a bite out of Oscar after what he did. Janie was no stranger to Richie’s ability to feel sorry for himself and make up excuses. Ten years of marriage had been a good instructor as to Richie’s expertise in those two tasks. But, in this one case, she knew Richie had gotten cheated.

And that was where all the trouble had started. She knew Richie was made for boxing like an ax is for cutting wood. It was in his blood, and the eviction from the world to which he belonged had destroyed the very marrow of his soul. Richie had never drunk a drop of alcohol before The Travesty. Nor had he ever laid his hands on her before in anger. In fact, even after The Travesty, he had never once laid his hands on her while sober. It was just when he was drunk. Sadly, that was most of the time when off work.

Her patience had lasted as long as it had because deep down she knew he still loved her. Deep down, she knew he hated what he had become. Deep down, she knew it was the infernal liquor that brought out a meanness that otherwise never existed towards her.

But she had long ago grown weary of justifying his behavior. She knew it always started when she wouldn’t make love to him. Truth be told, it wasn’t because she didn’t love him. She could even understand why he drank. But that didn’t mean she had to make love with a foul-smelling creature. If he wanted to make love with her, he should have the decency to know that he was going to have to shower every once in a while and keep his distance when he smelled like embalming fluid, as was the case when he returned from the tavern.

She had never told him that. But why should she? It seemed like so much common sense to her.

But, she was tired of waiting for a change that was never going to happen. And, at that time, as she stared blankly off into space, the butcher knife still making its SWISH-SWISH-SWISH-SWISH sound on the honing steel, she formed a resolution. If she smelled one drop of liquor on that man’s breath when he came home tonight, it was over.

She wasn’t sure yet where she would go. To her parents’ house probably, although she wasn’t sure if they would take her. It wasn’t that they had had any falling out. No, they still saw each other regularly. It was just that her parents didn’t currently seem to be in any state of mind as to wish to accelerate their moment of death, and she herself wasn’t quite sure what Richie would be capable of if she left him.

The way she saw it, The Travesty had led to his drinking, which had led to his meanness. If she took herself and Eddie away to live at her parents’ house, that was likely to compound his feeling of rejection, which would mean more drinking. She was scared enough of Richie when he was drunk now (only last night she had seen him backhand poor little Eddie), and she didn’t like the thought of him getting any drunker or meaner than what she was already accustomed to.

She continued the SWISH-SWISH-SWISH-SWISH of the knife that was already more than sufficiently sharp to shave with. One thing was certain. Richie wasn’t going to hit little Eddie again.

SWISH-SWISH-SWISH-SWISH

Eddie might be a bit dreamy, but she knew he was smart. Janie was a bookworm, and she had never quite understood her attraction to her polar-opposite husband. Her intellectual side had never been so much as caressed by Richie, much less stimulated. But the day when she saw him level a robber with one punch who was threatening an old lady with a knife, something primal had been stirred inside of her. That was a man who could protect her.

She hadn’t dared approach him, but she attended one of his boxing matches, and as he walked down the aisle from yet another easy victory over a highly skilled opponent, something magical had happened. From no closer than thirty feet away, their eyes had locked, and her heart