Edwin the Conqueror by William Brody

The distinctive invigorating smell that warns of a storm permeated our little house. I pulled back a pointless lace curtain that my mother insisted was stylish, and squinted outside. Though it was dusk and very little could be made out with any distinction, I could see a little creature of a man scurry for cover. I recognized his awkward step and somewhat sub human figure.

No one could really remember when he arrived or where he came from. He just arrived one day, paid for a week's stay at the old Royal Hotel in advance, and had been a local ever since. He was very much a non-entity in our small town. He spoke very little: just enough to buy himself a loaf of bread and a carton of milk at Mr. Godot’s Café and greet Molly McVeigh. She was the only person he acknowledged. No one knew why. He just did. As to what he did for a living, this was as much a mystery as the rest of his life. Jack Conroy’s cousin Felicity, who worked at The Royal, said that he often received mail from Nepal and Mr. Godot said that he would occasionally buy large brown envelopes in packs of fifty from him. That was it. No more, no less – that was Edwin Shaw.

The only thing that even kept him in anyone’s memory was perhaps his curious figure. If he stood up to his full height, he could just manage to ride the Ferris wheel at the fair. He hunched over, and though technically not a hunchback, he was certainly not normal. His shoulder blades protruded so far from his back that it seemed he was sprouting wings. His stocky legs, always covered in a pair of long brown pants, bent outward at the knees and made him look very similar to a baboon. He had a strange limp. Whether injury induced or not, no one knew, but he would step forward onto his right foot and then swivel slightly on it so that the step on his left foot he took like a crab. His arms were no less fascinating than the rest of his body. They were in length proportionate to the rest of his body, but it was his forearms that made up the majority of his hairy, knobbled arms. To be frank, the man looked like he was the creator’s feeble attempt at modern art.

It was later that very same week that I entered the Dog & Duck. Several people already inhabited the pub and there were several conversations going on in empty tones. There were infrequent cracks at the two pool tables in the small adjoining room. The stale sounds disappeared under a throaty belch. The reverberating sound emanated from Eric. He sat in the far right corner of the indelicate establishment and proceeded to throw peanut shells at poor old Jim.

Jim was born deaf. When he was six or seven, he had been playing in the street when a large truck, occupied by a fresh delivery from the Dog & Duck, had wildly veered around the corner. Jim didn’t even hear his lumbar vertebrae shatter, much less the truck that caused it. He had lost all the use of his legs, leaving him only partial use of his upper body. The incident had left the poor soul, terribly disturbed and it wasn’t uncommon to witness the poor chap drunk and deranged screaming in his terrible, toneless voice.

As it was on this afternoon, Eric sat, surrounded by empty beer glasses, throwing peanut shells at Jim. Jim in turn sat, face on the table, surrounded by empty beer glasses and peanut shells. It was then that the most extraordinary thing occurred. The comical figure of Edwin emerged from the shadows. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he squeaked. The room’s sickly atmosphere died.

Eric roared. His insane laughter echoed throughout the room, amongst several other unsmiling faces.

The reason he laughed was simple. He was known throughout the town as Eric the Viking. There was no affection in the name. He was an absolute giant of a man who had not a single friend in the entire town. When his temper rose, as it frequently did, a single, swollen vein would appear in the centre of his forehead. The rest of his face would go bright red, accentuated by his blonde hair. His body seemed to swell up as if he was about to burst through his shirt. It must have been through one of these fits that his brain had burst, or moved on to greener pastures, for he was not the most intelligent of the human species. The facts were simple - no one incited Eric the Viking.

This, is why the Dog & Duck stood silent, but for the demented laughter. Everyone stood, frozen, not knowing whether to laugh or evacuate. “Oh yeah…” was about all that Eric’s fantastic wit could muster up, “why not?”

Edwin did not reply - he simply hobbled two paces forward. With his legs, it didn’t do much in the grand scheme of things – it was simply his sign that he was not about to back down. Whether from fury, boredom or exhaustion, Eric ceased his laughter and threw a table (the only object between him and Edwin) out of the way. It sent a few of the occupants of the bar scurrying. One huge step later, and Edwin and Eric stood eye to belt-buckle. Edwin took a pace back and then moved toward Eric again. Surprisingly nimble, Edwin leapt up into the air and with a ferocious squeak, karate-chopped Eric on the neck. Eric, taken totally by surprise, stood motionless. An enormous crack enveloped the still echoing war cry.

Edwin shrieked in agony. He lay on the floor, writhing in amongst the peanut shells. His long forearm was a bloody, mangled mess of bone and flesh.

A single, violently swollen vein appeared on Eric the Viking’s forehead.

Edwin and Jim sit together all the time now. They sit at the same table Jim sat that fateful day. They are always surrounded by empty beer glasses – and peanut shells.