Birth of a Monster

This book
is a work of fiction. All names and places are the product of the
author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Copyright
© 2015 by Daniel Lawlis

All
rights reserved.

Birth of a Monster
(volume five of the series
The Republic of Selegania
).

Stock photo ©
mythja

(Adjustments to photo made by Daniel
Lawlis)

Birth of a
Monster

Chapter 1

The next day, Righty resolved to spend
all his time at his wife and daughter’s side, but sensing the
fidgetiness in her robust husband, Janie insisted he go outside and
stretch his legs.

Whilst doing so, he decided to take
advantage of the opportunity and stop by Comfort Hospital, where he
astonished the secretaries at the front desk by making an anonymous
donation of $1,000,000 falons. One secretary nearly insisted that
such a magnanimous donation be rewarded, at least, by a personal
thank-you from the hospital’s owner, or perhaps even by a plaque of
some kind, but Righty insisted on anonymity as he exited the
hospital with benevolent firmness.

From there, he went and purchased a
fine coach and an excellent team of horses to accompany it and then
returned to the doctor’s home.

When he arrived, he was surprised to
find Janie sitting on the bed, rather than lying on it.

“I feel better; I think we can go home
now,” Janie said smiling.

Righty was tempted to take her up on
that offer immediately, but he insisted they wait until the doctor
arrived that evening and gave his opinion as to whether the journey
would be safe.

The doctor inspected Janie and then
looked at the new coach Mr. Simmers had bought, and then told them
that while it would probably be best for her to stay another night
she would probably be able to make the trip home safely.

Bright and early the next morning,
Righty tucked Janie and Heather into the coach and then left a
brief note with the maid thanking the doctor for his kind
services.

Righty then mounted the coach and was
about to take off when he saw the following note:

There was an unusually large donation
at the hospital yesterday, and descriptions of the donor bore an
uncanny resemblance to my most-welcome guest.

Many thanks for your
generosity.

Your friend,

Dr. Ridemern

Righty smiled, cracked the whip, and
set off towards Ringsetter.

Chapter 2

Righty felt like a tortoise lumbering
along in that coach, in spite of the fact it was moving at a
respectable clip by any reasonable standard. When they arrived
home, he was relieved Janie and the baby were fast asleep, as this
meant he wouldn’t have to invent any lies to get out of the house
for a moment.

He carried Janie and the baby into the
house one by one, placing his wife on their still very humble bed
inside their still very humble home, and setting Heather into a
comfortable crib.

He then set off towards the garden in
the woods, and as soon as he was safely out of earshot of the
house—for his winged friends had no small amount of discretion—his
feathery pals began to congratulate him wholeheartedly on the new
addition to the family.

Righty accepted a healthy amount of
cheers and accolades, but the astute creatures soon realized Mr.
Simmers had left the pleasurable comfort of his abode for more than
just a late-night chat with them, so they respectfully grew silent
and prepared to listen.

“First, we exterminate this garden. I
don’t want so much as a loose grain of Smokeless Green to be
visible here by tomorrow morning.” Without further comment, Righty
took out a machete and began hacking away at the plants with all
the ferocity of a man seeking to clear a path through the jungle
while a wild beast pursued him from behind.

Harold, not needing to be told what to
do—he had developed a knack for anticipating Righty’s
instructions—picked up the felled stalks and set off into the night
sky, carrying them miles away into the forest and then dropping
them. The konulans, though weak individually, gave a thorough
demonstration of the power of cooperation, grabbing onto the cut
stalks in tandem, sometimes with as many as four or five grabbing
onto the same one, before leaving terra firma behind and setting
off in Harold’s general direction to discard the once-cherished
plants into the sullen bowels of the forest like the shredded
correspondence from a lover who has moved on to greener
pastures.

Righty then set to work with a shovel
and began digging the roots up on by one and setting them into
small piles, and Harold joined in, inserting his talons into the
ground, gripping the roots, and then yanking them out.

With the help of his small army, Righty
reduced what would have been a three-day project for a lone man
into a grueling three hours.

When it was finished, he sat down,
sweat streaming, rather than dripping, from his brow, and welcomed
the small konulans as they fought for a seat on his lap or nearby.
He petted their rascally little heads and told them how
indispensable they were. He gave a nod and a smile to Harold, a
less-emotional creature, who showed by his returned gaze that he
also felt thoroughly appreciated.

But Harold, like Righty, was all
business.

“You said ‘first.’ What else did you
have on your mind?” Harold inquired.

“I need five of the bravest birds for a
special mission.”

So excited were the little devils that
they began chirping and licking at Righty’s face hysterically,
forgetting, it would seem, that they were fully conversant in
Righty’s language.

“We need to keep an eye on our friend
Tats.”

The konulans didn’t exactly seem
dejected, but their reaction revealed a different job had been on
their minds—perhaps that of watching the newborn—but nonetheless
Righty quickly had his volunteers.

“Great. Now, there’s a small gap in the
bedroom window shade in case you want to go look at the baby for a
while.”

No sooner were the words out of his
mouth than he and Harold sat alone. Harold looked at him
quizzically, obviating the need for a question.

“Truth be told, it should have started
a long time ago. But now it’s imperative. Tats is a man who knows a
lot, and he is my key to Sivingdel. He needs to be both protected
and . . . .”

Righty paused uneasily.

“Supervised?” Harold
proffered.

“Yes. I believe that’s precisely the
word,” Righty said, with a serious look on his face. “The stakes
are higher now, Harold. Anyone or anything that threatens my
organization ultimately threatens me, and anything that threatens
me threatens Heather,” Righty added, with a chill in his
words.

Chapter 3

Tats was on a routine run at the
moment, pulling about a hundred pounds of Smokeless Green in the
back of a wagon labeled “Flower Delivery Services” towards Crabs’
house. Crabs was now unequivocally number three in the gang, being
right underneath Tats.

Tats saw Crabs’ mansion draw closer and
closer as his team of horses dragged the wagon merrily down the
street of this plush neighborhood. As he approached the gate, he
didn’t see any of the usual underlings Crabs had out there. To a
certain extent, that was a relief. He felt their menacing scowls
were far more likely to alert any passersby to the possibility of
this house being used for questionable activities than to do
something productive, such as scare off would-be
troublemakers.

Nonetheless, he felt it a bit odd that
they were gone.

Little pricks are probably
shirking
, he told himself, expecting at any
moment to see them sauntering around the house smoking on a cigar
only to then put some spark in their step once they saw Tats and
come running towards the gate like a pack of guard dogs.

He saw nothing, and the gate wasn’t
locked, which he discovered with just a slight push.

There’s no way I’m turning
around now.

It was about an hour trip to his
closest mansion from here, and he wasn’t about to head back there
with the same merchandise he had brought and not a single falon to
show for it.

“Screw it!” he said out
loud.

He pulled the gate all the way open,
got back into the driver seat, gave the horses a good “Heaah!” and
then began to roll inside the premises.

The grounds were uncannily quiet, but
he angrily disregarded the oddity and marched towards the door,
ready to give Crabs an earful.

“BAM! BAM! BAM!!” Tats pounded on the
door with a clenched fist.

Clank.

Tats heard the gate shut behind
him.

He turned.

“POLICE!!!!”

Two burly men slammed into him so hard
from opposite sides that his insides just about came out his mouth,
and while his mind was still trying to come to grips with what was
happening, he felt the painful pinch of steel against his
wrists.

“Got a special flower delivery, ya
young punk?!” one of the cops said, laughing, and then delivered a
vicious uppercut to his stomach. Tats winced but neither puked nor
had the wind knocked out of him. Faithful execution of Mr. Brass’s
boxing exercises had made his abs little distinguishable from an
oak plank.

Then, more cops swarmed out of various
hiding spots along the perimeter, as well as from the inside of the
house.

The door opened, and one by one, Tats
saw the scowl-faced troupe bound and gagged, a look of fury and
regret painted over the visible portions of their face. Last out
was Crabs, also bound and gagged, and with shame written all over
him.

“You two know each other?” asked one of
the cops, laughing raucously before delivering another punch to
Tats, this one right to the face. Tats moved his face with the
blow, deflecting a lot of the punch’s power, and commuting what
would have been a closed eye for a week to just a banal black
eye.