Published on 2012/01/22

The Boy What Was Called Up To No Good

Mlaz Corbier

A long time ago there was a chap bollocksing about known on the cobbles as The Aristocrat. He was called that because he intended to fork his fortune together in a way like all the aristocrats had been doing the very day our isle showed Her pretty face above the waves’ violence: by screwing over the honest people. Taxing the blood out of them was very popular indeed, but not as popular as forcing loans from them simply because a peasant ought to cough up copper when someone with a long name what’s hard to pronounce drops by. These bluebloods obviously never had the slightests of illusions to return the coins, and our fine aristocrat made everyone believe he had such a long name as well. Unfortunately, nobility quickly became known as something rather annoying, like when during a long walk there’s a stonelet in your boot that you can’t find no matter how often you take the boot off to look for the little bugger.

So there wasn’t none around no longer who loaned money to a nob for no other reason simply because he acted like a complete knob: The Aristocrat needed a different way of guaranteeing his luxury extravaganza. That was the day he was lured into the city’s darker shadows -- there where the elves live. With his last money he hired some thugs to beat up a well-to-do who had taken up the peculiar idea to refuse giving him a bag of marigolds. And then, within the time it takes a kettle to boil, there wasn’t anyone left to kick in the brains no more and he was back in the loaning business! He still had his eggmen neatly lined up, hadn’t he? so he let the idle basterds fight in shady locales and made more pretty pennies on the bets placed on these fixed fights, and with his good-for-nothing pickpockets nicking even the dirt from under the spectators’ nails, he also earned the less pretty pennies. His piles of coins grew and grew, so his power and privileges grew and grew. He was soon the ringmaster in all of the city’s shady and more profitable circuses. Now no one even dreamed about putting him out of business no longer; especially not the long arm of the Law what was smoothly bought into his pockets a long time ago.

Everything was going just so swell right up to the moment when the least likely of creatures stood up against him: a young father who hadn’t anything to lose after even the holes in his socks had been taken away from him. So one night the chap smugly burnt one of the mobster’s boxing dens to the ground. To show no one played with his acorns, The Aristocrat gave the geezer the same death his pretty pugilist pit had died as he made his hooligans set the little abode ablaze with the father and his family still within dreaming of dearer days to come.

Holy catastrophe when it was found out an eight-year-old lad had survived that inferno. The Aristocrat needed a grave dug fast and filled even faster. But in those less liberal days people didn’t consider doing in orphans an honourable profession. After yet another wanker had declined him his wish and was barked out of his office, The Aristocrat walked to his window to stare out of his damned city and ponder how this little monster was to be taken care of. The Aristocrat leaned out of his window and before he could say a randomly long word such as incomprehensibilities, he was pushed out.

With feline reflexes he could just grab onto the window’s frame; he even smiled as he thought the gods watched over him. However, that smirk got wiped off his face very quickly indeed. As he looked up he stared into the face of a little boy of maybe just about eight years old, a boy, in fact, who had more dæmon in the eye than there was in his own. Those oculars told him he was in wicket much stickier than glue in a gumball. The crime lord stole a look down, the floor miles away and a hundred million times harder than his squishy organs.

‘Oh-ho, what you’re up to, boy-o?’ he said to the child as he looked back at it.

The child answered him, calm as a summer’s eve. ‘I am up to no good,’ he said and sluggishly trod on The Aristocrat’s fingers.

Mlaz Corbier lives in the north of The Neatherlands and fills his days with laughing at commoners and writing fairy-tales.