Duke of Albion, Chapter 1

Chapter 1
He runs at thirteen; he is efficient in two


Peter awoke only to find himself once again a prisoner of his own pointless existence. The remnants of last night’s (or perhaps several nights before, it was hard to be sure since Peter was known to sleep for days at a time in some kind of substance induced half-death) party were evident all around, bathing the room in a depressive after math of debauchery.
Slapping his hand, heavy with the weight of a wasted life, to his face he decided not to move, but rather to remain as the lump he had been for whatever amount of time had indeed passed, and sit in his chair. He had lost so many minutes, hours, days, to absolutely nothing that another minute couldn’t possibly destroy anything.
As he sat, his thoughts began to run wild. What had happened when last he was awake? He had no friends that were worth remembering if indeed others were responsible for the mess that was strewn before him. Perhaps it was an act solely committed by he himself. But no, why then go to such lengths to create this territory of rubbish? This was surely the work of strangers, religious fanatics angry at his godless existence. How had they gotten in? His flat was high enough that entry by window was surely impossible. The door then, he pondered. They must have broken it down with a wooden cross and continued to bash and break their way through his possessions while he peacefully slept; surely he didn’t open the door for these bastards. What trickery would they have to use to reach this goal if it was so? He could not give them and their tongues so much credit. He knew he was being over-analytical if anything but for the time being, it seemed fitting to blame worshipers. After all, what haven’t they been known to destroy?
Seeing as how he did not make this mess he certainly had no intention of cleaning it and began to rise from his chair with the mind to dress himself and perhaps venture out into the city.
The image reflected in the bathroom mirror, he thought, bore hardly any resemblance to him as the eyes were without light, the skin dull and grayish and the hair possibly dryer than straw. Despite his physical distractions this was a good day. His skull was not aching with the pains delivered swiftly and often by his lingering childhood fears and the strange birds he usually saw flying around his head were nowhere to be found.
“Marvelous”, he mused. “Finally I shall have solace and solitude without that infernal flapping of wings and clapping of beaks filled with the bodies of lowly creatures” Although, should they return, and hungry, they might be struck with the fancy to feast on his ears and extract from them all his knowledge although there was not much to be found.
“Let them try. I shall remove their wings with my garden shears if they attempt to rob me of my thoughts” Peter eyed the enormous, rusting clippers that he had mounted onto the bathroom wall for precisely such an occasion. They shimmered, almost beckoned him to free them from their holsters so that they could dance their way into the lives of others and claim them for their own.
No. Not today, not now. They would remain where they were. There is nothing more dangerous than angry garden shears with appetites for revenge and insatiable hunger. He would be forced to let them down and thought it wise to shimmy out of the room sideways so that they would not notice his departure or the reason behind it it.
Once free from his new enemies he stalked to the window to survey the often crowded streets below. If at any time there were more than 13 people on the street besides Peter, he would return to his flat and wait, sitting in his window counting until the number returned to its safety point at which time he would once again try his excursion. The preciseness of his phobia was acute; 13 meant that if they were to break into groups of two bent on his destruction, (a thing that was sure to happen one day soon at the rate he was going) one would be separated, left with no partner, and by default, nominate himself as the canvas for Peter’s showmanship. One he could handle, he could devour, leaving the others so badly horrified and incapacitated by fear that they would cease in their endeavor, and set our man once again on his way.
Upon seeing that there were but five others taking their morning strolls, Peter threw on his tattered velvet overcoat, stomped down the stairs and out the door.
His purpose was clear in mind on this day; he would go to his favorite café for tea before proceeding onwards to buy new boots. To anyone else, a day such as this would seem unbearably dull but to Peter Duke it presented an interesting challenge. The café was located at the end of a miniscule alley off a deserted street in the oldest part of town and the shoe store in the modern quarter. In order to accomplish both tasks at hand he realized that he must combine these two worlds. Old and new, in his eyes, did not belong together. If you are to spend any moment of your day in the old district, there you should remain for the duration. Naturally, the same went for the modern quarter, so Peter could not see how his plans were going to fall in line. He must tackle both errands, but he could not abandon his rituals, this he knew and it irritated him profoundly.
Wiping the gray rain from his brow he marched on towards the shabby café, his head swimming in confusion and indecision. Perhaps he could find some great knife with which to split himself in two. That way he could be in both sectors on the same day without breaking any self-made laws. Yes, yes, a knife or a sword would do nicely although he was not sure how he would repair himself once the venture was concluded and both halves awaited their reunification.
Surely there must be some great doctor with experience in this field. That was it then, he would seek one out! Content in his plan, he continued on in his stride towards his seething cup of tea, all the while searching vigorously for a store selling cutlery.
To the extreme pleasure of his eyes, he spotted that which he wanted at the end of his own street. A small, dark shop with nearly rotted shingles on its roof and a sign that was no longer completely visible read ‘Kitchen Wares’.
Peter entered the tiny establishment to find an elderly man seated behind the old pine counter at the very back of the shop. Believing it better not to waste time looking for his weapon of choice, he decided to ask the owner which one he thought to be of relative sufficiency.
“Pardon me, Sir, but what type of knife would one use if they wanted to be in two places at once? That is to say…which is best for slicing through bone?” The old man raised his eyebrows in reaction to Mr. Duke’s bold statement but simply motioned for our hero to follow him down the aisle towards the silverware.
“This one happens to be quite sharp”, he said holding up a blade of about seven inches that glistened like a child’s eyes on Christmas morning.
“Yes, it is a lovely piece of metal but the serrations will tear my skin; I seek something that leaves but clean cuts. A large scale scalpel if you will”
“You may try the cleaver, then. As long as you slice quickly, you will have your clean cuts”. The old man tentatively handed Peter a rather large, square tool with a bulky handle made of wood and metal. The object immediately felt right to Peter and the smile that overtook his face was uncontrollable.
“Fine craftsmanship, I’ll take it. And any cutting boards you might have would be greatly appreciated as well. Thicker would be better, I think.”
After leaving the shop with all that he needed, he proceeded down a small alcove that hid him completely from view. Placing the new block of wood on the ground and positioning his feet on it, he raised his instrument and thrust his arm downwards into his skull.
He was surprised by his own strength as the knife continued to fly straight through his being in a perfect line. Oh, do not doubt, blood was shed, but this small factor aside the operation had been a great success. Peter was now split in half and free to act as he would.
With not so much as a glance at each other, the two parts of Mr. Duke set off in their separate directions to complete their separate tasks.