Boris—Up Close and Stinky
There were footsteps and then a click of the lock.
I sat up as the door opened with a swish.
The Masked Man pulled me to my feet. ‘Move!’ he commanded. He then pushed me down the corridor. My hands were still tied behind my back. He held onto my right arm so tight it ached and shoved me forward. Passers-by stared at me and shook their heads. No one dared look into my eyes.
I struggled. ‘You monster! I hate you!’
‘You’ll thank me one day,’ he muttered.
‘Well, that’s what you get for falling behind and looking at a poppy.’
‘What are you? The Grim Reaper?’ I jerked my arm back and forth trying to loosen his grip.
He tightened his hold on me. ‘You’ll find out soon enough.’
‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’
I glanced behind. A whole set of masked guards trailed their leader who pushed me along.
‘This way.’ He flung me through double doors.
The scent of antiseptic mixed with a putrid pong stung my nostrils. ‘Ugh! What’s that wiffy…?’ I gagged. Then with hand to mouth, I looked up.
Boris lounged on a reclining armchair. He rested on his shell showing off his abdomen. His flesh was covered in gaping wounds infested with maggots.
Nymph-like blue ladies fanned him, while Grey females dabbed his sores. His beady eyes shifted under his eyebrows that spanned the width of his forehead and joined at the bridge of his nose. His tongue poked out of his mealy mouth searching for the pimple volcanoes that long ago surrounded his mouth. His tongue found none; for now, these had been rendered extinct pockmarks that spotted his pale complexion.
‘Ah, my executioner, who have we got for my pleasure today?’ asked this throne-lizard man. He waved to a nearby blue maiden.
She scurried to a chest of drawers and returned with a pair of hipster spectacles.
Boris his hand shaking, lifted them to his face. He blinked. ‘Ah, that’s better.’ He smiled. ‘Oh, I see, we have a real treat! I’ll enjoy her.’
I squirmed in the executioner’s hold. ‘God, help me!’ I rasped as if I had met the devil himself. Then louder, I said, ‘So Boris, what have you got in store for me this time?’
‘I think something extra enjoyable for me and painful for you. After all, you and your friends nearly fried me.’ He puffed up his weedy chest like a bantam rooster. ‘But then, I am invincible. I’m not the galaxy’s most wanted for nothing…’ Boris gestured for me to come near to him. ‘I must admit, I had a little help from my son—how did you like him?’
I assumed he meant the nasty character holding me. I glared at the masked man. ‘I hate him. He’s a creep, just like you!’ I imagined the son of Boris in his real form would be a fat slug-like character with horns and a pitchfork. And he’d smell like rancid body odour from an underarm that had never been washed. ‘Why would I like some cockroach uglier than Gollum, you know, from “Lord of the Rings”?’ How did this creature, Boris inspire Nero, Napoleon, Hitler, and other current psychopaths? I stood my ground and curled my lip in defiance.
[to be continued…]
© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2019
Feature Photo: Hohensalzburg Fortress © L.M. Kling 2014