Duke of Albion Chapter 2

Chapter 2
Danger, High Voltage

Most people, upon seeing a bleeding section of a man walking down the street, would be horrified by the sight that Peter offered them. The citizens of this city however were so used to seeing Mr. Duke behaving strangely, like some rabid animal with no head, that they were hardly even fazed. Surely this was nothing compared to last year when he had broken every object in his home and glued the fragments together into a chunk that he proceeded to toss out the window at precisely three pm on the first day of March.
Children, naturally, were horrified by what they saw since, for many of them, it was their first time witnessing such depravity. The parents holding these children’s hands simply kept their eyes firmly focused on the ground as they carried out their business. They were able to smell the iron odor emanating from Peter’s split body and they could see small, brilliant red droplets of blood spill onto the pavement, but they refused to give him their full attention.
Duke was but a ghost in this city; he was seen, that is certain, but he was rarely acknowledged or spoken to. No one wanted to associate themselves with a man capable of the things so often displayed by Peter on a daily basis. They did not know much about him but what little they knew was enough to frighten them off permanently. This strange creature had a rather short temper, a bizarre fancy for all things red, an unstable disposition and a remarkable ability to snap instantly into madness without reason.
They believed, in short, that to stand next to Peter Duke was to stand next to an angry electric current with the base of its wire in a puddle of water.

It took our less than honorable hero quite some time to make it to his adored café since travel is often difficult when one lacks the equality of limbs. When he did eventually arrive, he propelled himself over to his favorite table, fell into the chair, and awaited the waitress’s presence. He planned to ask for several more napkins than were usually bestowed because he realized that he was dripping blood everywhere and had left a trail that lead out the door and continued down the street to the scene of his dismemberment.
When his napkins and his tea appeared before his eyes he wondered if perhaps it was truly safe to drink the beverage. Had the staff (along with the rest of the city) finally gotten so fed up and disgusted with his abhorrent behavior that they would poison him? He was certain that he would one day meet his end at their hands. He often hoped that if it were to happen it would be slow and painful so that while he endured the torture he would have time to ponder the worthlessness of his years before succumbing to that black abyss where thoughts no longer existed.
He stared at the worn piece of ceramic on the table, debating whether or not he was ready to die. With a tentative hand he lifted the object to his lips and began to drink. Whatever liquid did not spew from the side of him that was a gaping hole went down easily, without a hint of a sting or awkward sensation.
So they had not yet had their fill of him. Peter was not sure if he was pleased or repulsed by this idea. He was grateful to still be alive; he had several pieces of paper that he wished to glue to his wall when he returned home so he needed the extra time. The other point brought forth within his skull was that he was living amongst humans more depraved than he. They were not offended by him or his recent actions. What did it then take to drive his neighbors to their very limits? Could it be that he resided within a society comprised primarily of sociopaths and psychos? It would explain his being in this exact location, that was obvious, but the idea of living around crazed humans frightened him.
He would search out a new city. He would find a place so reserved and sheltered that a mere blink of his eyelid would cause terror to all. Of course, if he moved, he would have to sacrifice his daily routines. What would a different place have to say about his manner of dress? Would they run and hide at the sight of his soon to be stitched form descending a hill into the center of town sporting a ratty old top hat?
The liberties he enjoyed thanks to his city’s understanding of his nature were intoxicating; he would remain here.
Police immunity was definitely a plus as well. No matter how insane his behavior, Peter was never arrested. The police force, in truth, was profoundly confused and frightened by him due to one too many bad scenes that erupted at the station.
Peter would never put up a fight when he was taken in, but he was by no means cooperative. The paperwork filed on him was a botched mess of inconsistencies. The name was identical at the top of each sheet, but the rest of the information was so strange, so out in a realm of its own that attempting to make any sense of the gibberish was a lost cause.
When asked for his birth date, he would sometimes answer that he was born in 1845 or 1711 or any other random year that came into his head. To support his outlandish claims he would commence a lengthy narration of all the year’s events and his personal opinions on each of them. He rather liked the early 1800’s since he had always admired the ambition of Napoleon and relished the chance to discuss his military victories
As for his birth place, it was never listed as London, since Peter decided to sever all ties with that gloriously terrifying place many years ago, but as many different places. Duke, Peter was born in Hong Kong, Moscow, Edmonton, Lima, and even Antarctica, claiming that the only reason he left was because his Eskimo parents shunned him after he tried to coax a whale and a penguin to fight each other to the death while he recorded every strike in his journal.
No matter how crazy Peter’s antics were or were likely to get, he never hurt anyone and that was the bottom line. He was absolutely a menace to himself, but society was safe. So, our man was always set free, and eventually the force didn’t bother to apprehend him anymore. There was really no point anyway since each interrogation lasted roughly four hours due to his stories about lives he never lived. The officers came to the silent conclusion that Peter Duke would be Peter Duke and his actions were to be expected, if not anticipated.
Freedom in this city was, no doubt, his. He could, and often did, conduct himself as he pleased without so much as a wayward glance from the townspeople.
While one half of Peter sat and sipped, the other arrived at the shoe store eager to try on new boots.