Hawkman
03-07-2010, 12:01 PM
“So, what’s it like, being a Dark Lord,” I asked.
“’S alright, I suppose,” came the grudging reply.
This utterance was followed by a pause which threatened to extend into infinity, punctuated only by the periodic rasping of his respirator. So I was just about to prompt the strange individual in front of me into elucidating on his somewhat unenlightening statement, when he suddenly decided to do so of his own accord.
“It ain’t what it used to be, Dark Lording,” he said. “I mean, when I started, things was different. You got to choose your own Dark Lording outfit; you know, lots of black leather and spikes, a nice shiny helmet what hides your face, and then there’s the boots. Very important, boots are. You can’t go struttin’ round the universe, laying waste to worlds and enslaving millions if your feet ain’t right. You got to look after your feet when you’re Dark Lording.”
At this moment the train stopped at a station and with the cessation of the ambient sounds associated with underground train movement, he was momentarily distracted from his discourse by a scritching, tinny beat. It was emanating from earphones attached to a spotty youth two seats down the carriage. The youth’s head nodded in time to what he obviously believed was music.
The Dark Lord’s impressively impassive, full-face-masked helmet, turned to regard the source, and then he raised his black-gloved hand and made a gripping gesture before miming a viscous tug.
The youth’s head was suddenly jerked backwards against the window and he clawed ineffectually at his throat as he was strangled with the cable from his own I-pod.
It didn’t take long.
After a moment the Dark Lord released him and the youth slumped forward. With glacial slowness, he fell out of his seat and landed in a tongue-lolling heap on the carriage floor. The scritching had ceased. The occupant of the adjacent seat emitted a sigh of relief, gave his newspaper a satisfied little flick and savagely kicked the body at his feet. The doors closed and the train moved off.
The Dark Lord returned his attention to me and continued.
“And then there’s the cloak. Cloaks look really good. They billows out behind you, and they makes you look real impressive, like. They gives you, what you might call, presence.”
“Oh yes,” I conceded, “cloaks always look good.”
“That’s the trouble, though, it’s that old thing about style over substance, init. You looks good, striding over the corpses of your fallen enemies, with your cloak billowing out impressively behind you, and then it gets snagged on a bit of metal somewhere and either rips, which pisses you off, or pulls you up short and makes you look stupid, which is worse.
‘What they don’t tell you when you’re choosing your Dark Lording outfit, see, is that cloaks is impractical. ‘It’s ’why I ain’t wearing one now, but it don’t feel right.”
I felt for my companion at the diminishment of his sartorial elegance. I tried to cheer him up.
“I bet the travel opportunities are good though,” I said.
“Well, you’d think so, wouldn’t you,” replied the Dark Lord, with somewhat less enthusiasm than I’d hoped. “I mean, flashing through the universe, umpteen times faster than the speed of light in your own personal star cruiser, bristling with every kind of instrument of electric death anyone ever thought of, sounds like a good idea, but it ain’t what it’s cracked up to be. I mean, when you arrives somewhere, it’s not like the locals are pleased to see you. Gives the wrong impression, see.”
“I take your point,” I said.
“I mean, before you know it you’re up to your nuts in an intergalactic war - all death and screamin’ hoards - so before you can get to marvel at a civilisation’s wondrous art, you’ve had to flatten the bloody planet and everything’s just a mess. Call that job satisfaction? ‘Cause I don’t.”
“But you’re here,” I said, “And I haven’t noticed an intergalactic war going on. Can’t you take in our civilisation, see the sights and marvel at our art?”
I found my self on the receiving end of a look from that full-face mask, which managed to convey the message that its owner thought I was taking the piss.
“I’m on vacation,” he said, eventually. “And anyway, any ‘civilisation’ what thinks that unmade beds, their own crap, or half a shark is art, ain’t worth bothering with.”
I could sympathise with his position but I wasn’t ready to give up just yet.
“But we’ve thousands of years of civilisation,” I said, “What about the pyramids, they’re pretty impressive.”
“Come off it,” replied the Dark Lord, “They’re practically falling to bits. It’s not like you’ve produced anything worth-while recently.”
He had a point. Desperately I tried to think what a Dark Lord on his hols would be looking for. I guessed a good time might be fairly high up on the list. A mischievous idea popped into my head. Before I could stop myself I heard my voice saying, “Have you been to Las Vegas?”
“No,” he said, “Where is it?”
“Nevada, in the United States,” I replied.
“Maybe I’ll give it a shufti,” he conceded, grudgingly.
I wondered what he’d do to it when he got there. I figured anything would probably be an improvement.
“It can’t all be bad though, being a Dark Lord,” I said, hopefully. “Aren’t fabulous wealth, and millions of followers who have to do your bidding, part of the job description? Sounds like a pretty good gig to me,” I was hoping to illicit some sort of positive response from him. I should have known better.
“Listen Earthling,” he said, “I may have four hundred gazillion Etherian mega credits, but they’re no bloody use to me here, are they? I had to mug an old lady just for the tube fare.”
‘Oh dear,’ I thought.
“Millions of followers who have to do my bidding; you think that’s what Dark Lording’s all about do you?”
“Well isn’t it?” I replied nervously.
“No, it bloody well ain’t. What you get, with being a Dark Lord, is Storm troopers, mate. Storm troopers is good at pulling triggers and blowing stuff up and sod all else. They’re nearly all cyborgs or clones and they don’t get picked for being bright. If I want anything else doing, I got to either do it myself, or stand over ‘em so they don’t muck it up, which means I might have well have done it my self in the first place. Millions of followers who have to do my bidding… Pull the other one, it’s got bells on.”
“Sorry,” I said.
“Never mind, chum, it ain’t your fault. You wasn’t to know. Truth is, I feel better for having got it off my chest, like. I haven’t had such a good moan for years. You’re a good listener you are, so I ain’t goin’ to kill you, not today anyway.”
This news was something of a relief. The train was pulling into Embankment station and the Dark Lord stood up and moved over to the door.
“This is my stop,” he said.
The train stopped and the doors opened and he stepped out onto the platform.
“Be seeing you kid,” he called, as he disappeared into the crowd. I rather hoped not.
The last I saw of him, as he stomped morosely up the escalator, was the effect of his passage, hurling late night commuters out of his way to the accompaniment of twangs and yelps of pain, as buskers were flayed by their breaking guitar strings.
“’S alright, I suppose,” came the grudging reply.
This utterance was followed by a pause which threatened to extend into infinity, punctuated only by the periodic rasping of his respirator. So I was just about to prompt the strange individual in front of me into elucidating on his somewhat unenlightening statement, when he suddenly decided to do so of his own accord.
“It ain’t what it used to be, Dark Lording,” he said. “I mean, when I started, things was different. You got to choose your own Dark Lording outfit; you know, lots of black leather and spikes, a nice shiny helmet what hides your face, and then there’s the boots. Very important, boots are. You can’t go struttin’ round the universe, laying waste to worlds and enslaving millions if your feet ain’t right. You got to look after your feet when you’re Dark Lording.”
At this moment the train stopped at a station and with the cessation of the ambient sounds associated with underground train movement, he was momentarily distracted from his discourse by a scritching, tinny beat. It was emanating from earphones attached to a spotty youth two seats down the carriage. The youth’s head nodded in time to what he obviously believed was music.
The Dark Lord’s impressively impassive, full-face-masked helmet, turned to regard the source, and then he raised his black-gloved hand and made a gripping gesture before miming a viscous tug.
The youth’s head was suddenly jerked backwards against the window and he clawed ineffectually at his throat as he was strangled with the cable from his own I-pod.
It didn’t take long.
After a moment the Dark Lord released him and the youth slumped forward. With glacial slowness, he fell out of his seat and landed in a tongue-lolling heap on the carriage floor. The scritching had ceased. The occupant of the adjacent seat emitted a sigh of relief, gave his newspaper a satisfied little flick and savagely kicked the body at his feet. The doors closed and the train moved off.
The Dark Lord returned his attention to me and continued.
“And then there’s the cloak. Cloaks look really good. They billows out behind you, and they makes you look real impressive, like. They gives you, what you might call, presence.”
“Oh yes,” I conceded, “cloaks always look good.”
“That’s the trouble, though, it’s that old thing about style over substance, init. You looks good, striding over the corpses of your fallen enemies, with your cloak billowing out impressively behind you, and then it gets snagged on a bit of metal somewhere and either rips, which pisses you off, or pulls you up short and makes you look stupid, which is worse.
‘What they don’t tell you when you’re choosing your Dark Lording outfit, see, is that cloaks is impractical. ‘It’s ’why I ain’t wearing one now, but it don’t feel right.”
I felt for my companion at the diminishment of his sartorial elegance. I tried to cheer him up.
“I bet the travel opportunities are good though,” I said.
“Well, you’d think so, wouldn’t you,” replied the Dark Lord, with somewhat less enthusiasm than I’d hoped. “I mean, flashing through the universe, umpteen times faster than the speed of light in your own personal star cruiser, bristling with every kind of instrument of electric death anyone ever thought of, sounds like a good idea, but it ain’t what it’s cracked up to be. I mean, when you arrives somewhere, it’s not like the locals are pleased to see you. Gives the wrong impression, see.”
“I take your point,” I said.
“I mean, before you know it you’re up to your nuts in an intergalactic war - all death and screamin’ hoards - so before you can get to marvel at a civilisation’s wondrous art, you’ve had to flatten the bloody planet and everything’s just a mess. Call that job satisfaction? ‘Cause I don’t.”
“But you’re here,” I said, “And I haven’t noticed an intergalactic war going on. Can’t you take in our civilisation, see the sights and marvel at our art?”
I found my self on the receiving end of a look from that full-face mask, which managed to convey the message that its owner thought I was taking the piss.
“I’m on vacation,” he said, eventually. “And anyway, any ‘civilisation’ what thinks that unmade beds, their own crap, or half a shark is art, ain’t worth bothering with.”
I could sympathise with his position but I wasn’t ready to give up just yet.
“But we’ve thousands of years of civilisation,” I said, “What about the pyramids, they’re pretty impressive.”
“Come off it,” replied the Dark Lord, “They’re practically falling to bits. It’s not like you’ve produced anything worth-while recently.”
He had a point. Desperately I tried to think what a Dark Lord on his hols would be looking for. I guessed a good time might be fairly high up on the list. A mischievous idea popped into my head. Before I could stop myself I heard my voice saying, “Have you been to Las Vegas?”
“No,” he said, “Where is it?”
“Nevada, in the United States,” I replied.
“Maybe I’ll give it a shufti,” he conceded, grudgingly.
I wondered what he’d do to it when he got there. I figured anything would probably be an improvement.
“It can’t all be bad though, being a Dark Lord,” I said, hopefully. “Aren’t fabulous wealth, and millions of followers who have to do your bidding, part of the job description? Sounds like a pretty good gig to me,” I was hoping to illicit some sort of positive response from him. I should have known better.
“Listen Earthling,” he said, “I may have four hundred gazillion Etherian mega credits, but they’re no bloody use to me here, are they? I had to mug an old lady just for the tube fare.”
‘Oh dear,’ I thought.
“Millions of followers who have to do my bidding; you think that’s what Dark Lording’s all about do you?”
“Well isn’t it?” I replied nervously.
“No, it bloody well ain’t. What you get, with being a Dark Lord, is Storm troopers, mate. Storm troopers is good at pulling triggers and blowing stuff up and sod all else. They’re nearly all cyborgs or clones and they don’t get picked for being bright. If I want anything else doing, I got to either do it myself, or stand over ‘em so they don’t muck it up, which means I might have well have done it my self in the first place. Millions of followers who have to do my bidding… Pull the other one, it’s got bells on.”
“Sorry,” I said.
“Never mind, chum, it ain’t your fault. You wasn’t to know. Truth is, I feel better for having got it off my chest, like. I haven’t had such a good moan for years. You’re a good listener you are, so I ain’t goin’ to kill you, not today anyway.”
This news was something of a relief. The train was pulling into Embankment station and the Dark Lord stood up and moved over to the door.
“This is my stop,” he said.
The train stopped and the doors opened and he stepped out onto the platform.
“Be seeing you kid,” he called, as he disappeared into the crowd. I rather hoped not.
The last I saw of him, as he stomped morosely up the escalator, was the effect of his passage, hurling late night commuters out of his way to the accompaniment of twangs and yelps of pain, as buskers were flayed by their breaking guitar strings.