Welcome everyone. Here’s the Sweet Saturday Sample: #SweetSat
Damian stood and rushed in amongst the exhibits. Perhaps in the maze of displays he could gain an advantage on the machine-like man that stalked him.
Tools, weapons and vehicles of deranged madmen from across the globe filled the room. Though he appreciated the opportunity and any advantage it may provide him, it was a dangerous place to have led a possessed Frenchman wearing a creepy mask.
Bertrand dropped the club and moved to a weapons rack. In its display were several African spears Damian had brought back after defeating his, what the newspapers had called, “Nemesis in Natal.”
The long spear cut through the air with a confusing sound. The shaft warbled like the flexing of a strip of sheet metal while the spearhead produced a shrill whistle. The combination of the two sounds made it difficult to judge the speed of the missile.
Stockwell dove for a totem pole he had saved from “The Inuit Incident” hoping the carved animals would shield him.
The tip of the spear embedded itself in the face of a smiling beaver and sheared a tooth from the carving. Stockwell tried to pull the weapon free and turn it on his murderous friend, but the blade had buried itself deep between the beaver’s over-pronounced teeth.
Bertrand threw another spear. The warble roared and the whistle screamed across the room. Stockwell slid behind a monolith that had been a key clue to the “Evil on Easter Island.”
The spear struck the rock and threw off a cascade of sparks as it was deflected far out of Damian’s grasp. Bertrand grabbed another spear from the rack. Stockwell cursed himself for not bolting the weapons down or mounting a “do not throw in the house” sign on the rack itself. He rushed across the room weaving in and out of the various trophies. He leapt over a bed of nails from the “Insanity in India,” vaulted over a pommel horse from the time he went up against “The Genocidal Gymnast” and slid behind a gong that had been the centerpiece of an evil emperor’s lair in “That Thingapore in Singapore.” The papers weren’t always clever.
The third spear struck the gong just as he stopped behind it. The sound was deafening. In the cavernous room the ring bounced off the polished floor and metal displays. He clasped his hands over his ears and fell to the ground. Then he saw it. The reflection in a giant mirror that had once been the property of “The Vain Villain” showed Bertrand grasping at his own ears behind the mask.
Damian Stockwell kicked the gong. This sound was louder than the spear strike. He kicked again, jumped to his feet and ran to the “Chaos in Camelot” display and grabbed a shield from a suit of armor. Behind the safety of the shield, he advanced.
The gong faded, Bertrand recovered and returned to the spear rack. He hurled one after another at the approaching Stockwell.
The impact of each was not slight. The shield bucked in his hand with every strike. Yet, he advanced quickly, deflecting spears until the South African weapons rack was all but empty.
Bertrand held the last spear in front of him and the two warriors collided.
Stockwell battered and bashed the Frenchman with the shield as the valet struck against the metal with the spear.
The weight of the shield and the force of the blows tired both combatants. Even the influence of the mask could not overcome the tremendous fatigue both men suffered.
Bertrand dropped the spear and tore the shield from Stockwell’s hands. The Frenchman lowered his head and drove his shoulder into his employer, lifting him from the ground as he charged across the room.
The charge ended at the window. The sill caught Stockwell just above the waistline. His back and shoulders shattered the glass. He grabbed the mask and placed his foot on the valet’s chest. A powerful shove forced the Frenchman back as the mask finally released its hold. The momentum carried Damian’s arm out the broken window. His grip on the mask had been tenuous and despite the force of the kick it had struggled to remain in place and weakened his grip. The mask sailed out into the air above the street.
It never struck the road. It dissolved in midair. One moment the mask had been whole and hideous. The next it was a flash of green mist. It was gone.
Stockwell cursed. In his lab the mask would have revealed its secrets.
Bertrand groaned.
Damian grabbed him by the elbow and helped him stand. “Are you okay, my friend?”
“It feels like someone tried to rip my face off.”
“Yes. That was me. You’re welcome.”
The valet looked confused as he surveyed the trophy room. Then he held up his bloodied hands. The pain began to show on his face.
“Monsieur, what is this? What happened to my hands?”
“Well, you punched a lot of glass and things.”
He winced as he touched the glass shards protruding from his hands. “Mon dieu. What is going on?”
“I don’t know, my loyal friend. But, we’re going to find out. You’ll want to tend to those hands before we head to South America.”
“South America. Where in South America?”
“I don’t know. I was still examining the DV when you put your fist through it.”
“I did what?” The Frenchman was shocked. “I remember nothing except looking at the mask in the box.”
“You don’t remember putting on the mask and going all Frenchy crazy
on me?”
The Frenchman shook his head. He blushed to hear of his actions.
“Hmmm. I’d already deduced that the mask had an effect on your nervous system, but this sudden amnesic episode must mean that it made you stupid as well.”
“I do apologize, monsieur.”
“No apologies are necessary, my friend. Aside from putting on the mask and trying to kill me, none of this is your fault. But, we must get to the bottom of this. It’s a shame the mask disintegrated and took its secrets with it.”
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Thanks for reading
- ben
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