Let me share a #speculativefiction story about a monster. A steemmonster. A Goblin Shaman.
Read on if you want to know what his day would be like.
Kunk felt well fatigued by another day at the arena. Dust and sweat clinging to him, the smell of blood and charred meat and bone still in his nostrils, he headed towards the showers. Once under the hot spray of water in the cabin, he started humming a tune again. A different tune, not the one to saw despair among the adversaries of him and his, but one of satisfaction. Satisfaction of the job well done and the very few brethren lost while sustaining only minor wounds himself.
He put on his clean civil hood and cloak afterwards, over a clean vest with an expensive sash, he left the heavy wooden staff in the locker, careful not to crush the tiny skull or any of the feathers, put on his boots and headed out onto the boulevard.
He hailed a taxi and headed down 3rd Avenue and then east down Westchester into Bronx. Leaning back in his seat he absent-mindedly crossed his red eyes with those of the seemingly Caribbean driver, which were almost as read as Kunk’s.
‘Sup, bro?’, the driver asked politely, stifling a fit of coughing.
‘Just tired’, Kunk replied in a low and relaxed voice.
‘Fightin’ them bad folks?’, the driver asked, trying to start a conversation just in case the client was not that dead tired as he might look.
Kunk just made a sound coming from his throat as if he were to spit. But in an approval kind of way.
‘You know, I was a pretty successful pit fighter myself… I mean I survived long enough to buy my own taxi, and that has to prove something. Almost no fractures in my career. Former. Career, I mean.’
Kunk made another sound of approval, something like a bear ordering coffee after long hibernation.
The talk went on, with or without his participation, intersections went by… Lights, so many magic lights… And people. A lot of humans but of another kind. Unarmored and generally not that fanatical as those he met at work. A lot of them attractive, even. Wenches showing either well tailored clothes the kind he saw here for the first time, or a lot of flesh. And colors. Not his preferred green but still attractive. None of them liked being called wenches but he did not like being called freak, either. So he ignored their talk. And there were those of them who did not mind as long as he paid.
Come to think of it, that new wench he knew from work - the one with the fierce blue eyes and honey colored hair, and who was obviously also into huge staffs, was not so bad… but also not easy-going at all. She literally tried to singe his eyebrows the other day. And kind of killed the poor imp. It might have been somebody he slightly cared about...
‘Stop by that pub’, he grunted.
‘No problem. Five dollars’, the driver announced in the same matter-of-factly tone.
‘SBD only’, Kunk said.
‘Fine, my man. Green is green...’
Kunk did not get that reference, since all money he knew were invisible and his card was black with gold letters on it. Gold as the nails of his fingers and toes. Besides, was the crazy Caribbean talking about money or was he a racist? No, he couldn’t be. He seemed friendly.
Kunk paid the bill and headed towards the pub entrance.
He knew in an instant there was something off the usual - a couple of guys were flashing with their cameras this side of the door and once inside…
‘Careful not to step there!’
… there was a plump faced ginger officer in the narrow hallway. Did he mean that pool of blood? Too late.
‘Sorry, mate, can’t enter this evening’, the policeman said. ‘A brew gone sour, maybe, brawl gone wrong here. If you get my meaning.’
Kunk didn’t. He didn’t get a lot around here. Least of all where that Big Apple was. Anyway. His squat green face must have said so for the officer now turned his whole attention to Kunk.
‘Excuse me, mate, may I see your papers? Work permit, tourist visa? You from the Shards?’
Kunk grunted as a ‘Yes’ and dug under his mud colored robe to produce what was asked of him. He rarely did that - do as asked. Other than casting curses while working, that is. But he was bored of his day and since he was obviously not getting a pint here he was eager to get to his burrow.
‘There, thank you, mate. Permit seems fine, alright. A license to ki… ah, alright. Only while on the job, remember that, would you…’
Yes… Yes, he would. What did they think he is, some kind of a m… wait… an asshole?
‘So what, a little murder and a goblin can’t have a pint this evening?’, Kunk sounded very disappointed by the habits of those drama makers.
‘Exactly, mate, sorry’, confirmed the ginger. ‘Maybe this time tomorrow. We’re expecting the investigating crew now. In fact, it would be kind of you not to touch anything. Mess up with evidence, I mean.’
What evidence? Evidently somebody has been gutted here, blasts did not leave that much blood and arrows either made it spray in a line or soak into your clothes. Amateurs.
‘You got donut crumbs in your beard’, he remarked while exiting.
He walk below the street lights and among uncomfortably tall people for a few intersections and stopped by his colleague shaman Old Josh near the iron brazier where he always fed things to the flames. They talked to him, the flames.
‘Yo, Kunk, buddy!’ Old Josh saluted. ‘Did you know the Knicks lost ninety to a hundred and fourteen by the Mavericks? At home! Bloody shame! If I were younger and it was the old fashioned Irish football instead, I’d be showing them some tricks…’
‘Yeah, buddy…’, Kunk replied with a sigh. ‘Bloody shame, indeed. The pub was closed this evening.’
‘That right?’, Old Josh sounded really interested. ‘I guess the flames will tell me all about it tomorrow.’
Kunk slammed the door of his rented room, hung up his cloak and threw himself in fron of his ancient workstation. He was still hungry and thirsty but that would wait. He would go find another pub in about an hour or so. He did not mind the dark, in fact, he preferred it.
First, time to deal with his Steemhumans daily quest.
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