Chapter 224 - Through the Looking Glass
A particularly jagged clam tumbled through the city’s waterways in a drunken stupor, crashing into just about everything in his path as he wandered his way back to his home. The mollusc had finished a long day’s work, begging at the northern wharf for the fishermen to share their booze. It wasn’t necessary, of course. As a filter feeder, the jobless, middle-aged man had no need for anything but the sea. He would grow fat as long as he hovered beneath the waves, a fulfilling life with all the happiness prescribed by the goddess of the flow.
While others were happy to spend their days eating and eating and eating away, Doorknob found his idle existence too numbing. He craved more excitement, stimulation for his mind. Something more than the ever-repetitive crashing of waves.
That was why he sought the bottle, why he participated in degenerate, sinful vices like commuting, work, and abstinence, and why everyone knew his name.
It was precisely his reputation as the district fool that had earned him his place of residence. The southern dock’s locals were strange, often chasing others of his kind away for no obvious reason. Their lack of neighbourly spirit was precisely what made their domain the perfect feeding ground. The reefs were rich with plankton, and the sewage that leaked from the pipe nearby gave the water an extra salty tang, an absolute treat whenever he woke up hungover.
Of course, the clam was not nearly as stupid as he let on. As a self-proclaimed genius, he understood that his most recent home was owned by a mentally ill landlord with a peculiar set of needs. For one, Bloodwing wished for his business to be labeled a “krimminnel sinndackitte,” whatever that meant. His employees, which he referred to as “grunts,” were happy to play along, and Doorknob soon decided that as one who resided on his land, he would entertain the unstable teenager as well.
Each night, he saw them at play with actors from various walks of life. They would transport the crates of goods they traded, and sometimes people as well. Their operations were of an abnormal scale, even greater than those of the weird people up north with the ugly black flags. Sometimes, even the knights would come to entertain the well-off, deranged half-fish. Like all the others, they would fulfill his obsession by referring to him as “Dawn.” Because the gentlemen were so nice, the man’s caretakers often presented the knights with money, a sort of way to compensate them for going out of their way to play along.
Through trial and error, Doorknob found that the man was not as invested into his game as he seemed at first glance. For one, he did not seem to know the difference between dawn and morning. During his first few weeks, Doorknob had shifted between the two of them at random, and the man only ever corrected him in the evening. The mollusc felt bad, of course, and eventually did away with the prank, but because he felt it strange to refer to a man with a lady’s name, he sought another alternative. In the end, he settled on referring to the fish-bug as boss, and he seemed to readily accept. The clam was worried that it was because he still could not tell the difference, but decided that he was better off not thinking about it any further. It was not the reality of the situation that mattered, but rather his intention, after all.
Though peculiar, the man had somehow put together an incredibly successful business model. In addition to just moving people around, he would sometimes sell them back to their friends and families. Doorknob had no idea how he managed to put such an absurd plan into action, but took note of it as a future point of reference. One day, he decided, he would learn from the bug-fish’s ways and come with an equally mind-numbing scheme.
Alas, though the man certainly had a talent for business, not all his deals would work out as planned. And in those cases, Bloodwing would more often than not dispose of the merchandise. The friendly neighbourhood clam had been caught off guard by this at first, but hearing one of the particularly vocal women, who had screamed over and over that she should be killed for being soiled, convinced him that it was a matter of pride and dedication. More excellent goods, he did not think possible. They were just as invested in their quality as the man who sold them.
The soiled goods were often thrown off the side of the pier immediately upon their disposal. The clam had known that his place of residence would come with all sorts of minor inconveniences, but illegal dumping had not been within the scope of his expectations. He almost filed a complaint with the landlord, but perhaps by a stroke of goodwill, decided to aid them in cleaning up their mess instead. After all, the leaking blood was quite delectable, and his razor edges allowed him to shred the discarded goods into pieces just small enough to be caught in his filters.
When the landlord noticed this behaviour, he even seemed to dub him as one of their own, bestowing upon his shell one of the tattoos that were their signature.
Of course, the clam already had a reputable job as a beggar and had no intention of taking on another responsibility. Even working professionals such as himself had limits. But after giving it a trial run, at the boss’ insistence, he soon found that there were not as many disadvantages as he first believed. The tattoo only aided in his begging efforts. His friends at the northern wharf gave him more drinks than they did before, most of which were of a higher quality. The greatest drawback was that the people at the real estate company began chatting with him more, but he learned to deal with them by minimizing the frequency of his reactions. He would never say anything, and rarely did anything beyond casually flapping his lids in response. It was precisely this behaviour that had earned the clam his moniker; they had decided that, because he was attached to the building, he would be known as their doorknob.
The nickname hadn’t stuck at first, but it grew on him over the years, slowly turning from an undesired designation to the only one he answered to. He had long forgotten his previous identity, and so too had the system, replacing whatever his old name was with the one that he had come to possess.
Through his long tenure, Doorknob had learned that the business had only one rule: never to disobey the boss. Even if his mind was not in the best of places, Bloodwing ruled over its operations with an iron talon. What he said always went, perhaps because he was a successful entrepreneur, and perhaps because they simply wished to cater to the poor soul.
After associating with the man more closely, Doorknob discovered that Bloodwing was not just a lucky businessman but an idiot savant. His brain was finely tuned for exactly two things: money and martial arts. So famous was his barehanded skill that he would be sent challengers from all walks of life. There was even a second subset of knights that visited, who engaged him to combat in an attempt to prove themselves as elites.
Perhaps because he was a halfbreed, or perhaps because of the state of his mind, the southern wharf’s residents did not appear to believe that it was right for him to be their champion. They soon stepped in to reconcile the difference by hiring “merssenairys” to take him down, but never once did the man have to give up his belt. He fought tooth and nail regardless of the number of holes and scratches that covered his frame, and his semiaquatic nature ensured that the terrain would never prove itself his weakness. His finger wings made it so he could fly faster than other above the ground whilst swimming faster than a clam underwater. He was even better than Doorknob at holding his breath; he could go nearly three hours without having to break for air.
By the tenth failure, everyone, everyone, knew that defeating him was impossible.
And that was why Doorknob was always surprised to see someone try.
The first challenger that visited after the public’s admission of defeat came in the form of a young man. He was a kelpfin, a tail-walking shark with the ability to grow limbs of seaweed and manipulate them in a way that would put any land dweller to shame. From the way he carried his eight weapons, and the ease with which he cut through the grunts, it was clear that the man was a master swordsman.
At least fifty of the sea-crypt organisation’s members were bested on that day. Their heads rolled from their necks, leaving rivers of blood for Doorknob to consume. And yet, despite his jaw-dropping prowess, the blademaster could not match the boss, for though he had removed the half-insect’s wings, his blades could not pierce his carapace. The opposite, however, did not hold true. It took only one well-placed attack for Bloodwing to jab a leg through the shark’s chest and rip out his still-beating heart.
The next challenger was not nearly as successful, claiming only two or three wins on his way to the fish-bug. Perhaps to conserve his stamina, he crept along the building after beating those standing guard outside and carved a hole directly into the boss’ room. As someone that lived beneath the wharf, Doorknob did not catch sight of many of the details to follow, but the boss eventually stumbled out the front door, laughing as he chucked the intruder out into the water.
It was the third challenger that finally brought a change to the status quo. Rather than an individual, the real estate agents were stuck facing a group, albeit one that was made up of only a few members. With how female they were, Doorknob expected the intruders to be defeated in seconds, but strangely enough, the boys were unable to stand opposed. One by one, they were beaten by a particularly strange creature that moved on four legs whilst carrying a pointy stick in its mouth.
When the boss emerged from the building to meet them, he faced the four-legged freak alongside the one whose head was a triangle. Doorknob had expected to see one of the usual landslide victories, but the boss was quickly suppressed. He was violently beaten, over and over, until he finally fell to his knees.
For a moment, it looked like Bloodwing still had a chance. The triangle-fetishist made an attempt to speak to him, providing him ample opportunity to twist one of his wings back into shape, but the lazy sea foam-coloured creature in the back interrupted the fight before he could act. A kick removed his head, sending it straight into the shallows where the drunken clam lay.
Because it fell near him, Doorknob did exactly as he always had and consumed it whole. He expected the idiot’s flesh to be as sweet as his heart, but for some odd reason, he found it strangely bitter. Like the taste of a piece of kelp that had floated for too long at sea.
It appeared that, following his loss, the boss surrendered his business to the strange group that defeated him. Doorknob did not quite understand why, but as the furthest thing from a sore loser, Bloodwing never showed his face around the wharf again. He had expected the employees to stay at least, but they were also replaced. With the change in management came an equal change in operations. He began seeing different goods being shipped, and in far fewer quantities. While he suspected that their acumen for business was not as well honed, the clam was unable to draw any concrete conclusions. That, of course, was inevitable. Doorknob knew little of real estate, only that it was all about repetition.
The new owners did not appear all that happy with his presence. One day, when he was stumbling drunkenly along the wharf, he was greeted by a small resident coloured brightly like a coral. He didn’t quite get what she said, but the gist was that he was going to have to go away.
Doorknob was understandably upset. The southern wharf’s waters had been particularly bountiful, after all, but he did not struggle, resist, or even speak up against the loss of his home. It was out of respect that he kept silent, for the agent was kind enough to open up her mouth and transport him with her own four legs. In the darkness of her belly, he was unable to see where they were going, but frankly, he cared very little.
The sizzling bath was wonderful, and he felt as if he could hear Bloodwing calling. Whatever the case, he closed his eyes and allowed his consciousness to drift. Then and there, he finally understood the creed that all the other clams shared.
It was exactly as his mother had always told him.
Good tides were freely blessed upon those patient enough to wait.
Chapter 224 - Through the Looking Glass
A particularly jagged clam tumbled through the city’s waterways in a drunken stupor, crashing into just about everything in his path as he wandered his way back to his home. The mollusc had finished a long day’s work, begging at the northern wharf for the fishermen to share their booze. It wasn’t necessary, of course. As a filter feeder, the jobless, middle-aged man had no need for anything but the sea. He would grow fat as long as he hovered beneath the waves, a fulfilling life with all the happiness prescribed by the goddess of the flow.
While others were happy to spend their days eating and eating and eating away, Doorknob found his idle existence too numbing. He craved more excitement, stimulation for his mind. Something more than the ever-repetitive crashing of waves.
That was why he sought the bottle, why he participated in degenerate, sinful vices like commuting, work, and abstinence, and why everyone knew his name.
It was precisely his reputation as the district fool that had earned him his place of residence. The southern dock’s locals were strange, often chasing others of his kind away for no obvious reason. Their lack of neighbourly spirit was precisely what made their domain the perfect feeding ground. The reefs were rich with plankton, and the sewage that leaked from the pipe nearby gave the water an extra salty tang, an absolute treat whenever he woke up hungover.
Of course, the clam was not nearly as stupid as he let on. As a self-proclaimed genius, he understood that his most recent home was owned by a mentally ill landlord with a peculiar set of needs. For one, Bloodwing wished for his business to be labeled a “krimminnel sinndackitte,” whatever that meant. His employees, which he referred to as “grunts,” were happy to play along, and Doorknob soon decided that as one who resided on his land, he would entertain the unstable teenager as well.
Each night, he saw them at play with actors from various walks of life. They would transport the crates of goods they traded, and sometimes people as well. Their operations were of an abnormal scale, even greater than those of the weird people up north with the ugly black flags. Sometimes, even the knights would come to entertain the well-off, deranged half-fish. Like all the others, they would fulfill his obsession by referring to him as “Dawn.” Because the gentlemen were so nice, the man’s caretakers often presented the knights with money, a sort of way to compensate them for going out of their way to play along.
Through trial and error, Doorknob found that the man was not as invested into his game as he seemed at first glance. For one, he did not seem to know the difference between dawn and morning. During his first few weeks, Doorknob had shifted between the two of them at random, and the man only ever corrected him in the evening. The mollusc felt bad, of course, and eventually did away with the prank, but because he felt it strange to refer to a man with a lady’s name, he sought another alternative. In the end, he settled on referring to the fish-bug as boss, and he seemed to readily accept. The clam was worried that it was because he still could not tell the difference, but decided that he was better off not thinking about it any further. It was not the reality of the situation that mattered, but rather his intention, after all.
Though peculiar, the man had somehow put together an incredibly successful business model. In addition to just moving people around, he would sometimes sell them back to their friends and families. Doorknob had no idea how he managed to put such an absurd plan into action, but took note of it as a future point of reference. One day, he decided, he would learn from the bug-fish’s ways and come with an equally mind-numbing scheme.
Alas, though the man certainly had a talent for business, not all his deals would work out as planned. And in those cases, Bloodwing would more often than not dispose of the merchandise. The friendly neighbourhood clam had been caught off guard by this at first, but hearing one of the particularly vocal women, who had screamed over and over that she should be killed for being soiled, convinced him that it was a matter of pride and dedication. More excellent goods, he did not think possible. They were just as invested in their quality as the man who sold them.
The soiled goods were often thrown off the side of the pier immediately upon their disposal. The clam had known that his place of residence would come with all sorts of minor inconveniences, but illegal dumping had not been within the scope of his expectations. He almost filed a complaint with the landlord, but perhaps by a stroke of goodwill, decided to aid them in cleaning up their mess instead. After all, the leaking blood was quite delectable, and his razor edges allowed him to shred the discarded goods into pieces just small enough to be caught in his filters.
When the landlord noticed this behaviour, he even seemed to dub him as one of their own, bestowing upon his shell one of the tattoos that were their signature.
Of course, the clam already had a reputable job as a beggar and had no intention of taking on another responsibility. Even working professionals such as himself had limits. But after giving it a trial run, at the boss’ insistence, he soon found that there were not as many disadvantages as he first believed. The tattoo only aided in his begging efforts. His friends at the northern wharf gave him more drinks than they did before, most of which were of a higher quality. The greatest drawback was that the people at the real estate company began chatting with him more, but he learned to deal with them by minimizing the frequency of his reactions. He would never say anything, and rarely did anything beyond casually flapping his lids in response. It was precisely this behaviour that had earned the clam his moniker; they had decided that, because he was attached to the building, he would be known as their doorknob.
The nickname hadn’t stuck at first, but it grew on him over the years, slowly turning from an undesired designation to the only one he answered to. He had long forgotten his previous identity, and so too had the system, replacing whatever his old name was with the one that he had come to possess.
Through his long tenure, Doorknob had learned that the business had only one rule: never to disobey the boss. Even if his mind was not in the best of places, Bloodwing ruled over its operations with an iron talon. What he said always went, perhaps because he was a successful entrepreneur, and perhaps because they simply wished to cater to the poor soul.
After associating with the man more closely, Doorknob discovered that Bloodwing was not just a lucky businessman but an idiot savant. His brain was finely tuned for exactly two things: money and martial arts. So famous was his barehanded skill that he would be sent challengers from all walks of life. There was even a second subset of knights that visited, who engaged him to combat in an attempt to prove themselves as elites.
Perhaps because he was a halfbreed, or perhaps because of the state of his mind, the southern wharf’s residents did not appear to believe that it was right for him to be their champion. They soon stepped in to reconcile the difference by hiring “merssenairys” to take him down, but never once did the man have to give up his belt. He fought tooth and nail regardless of the number of holes and scratches that covered his frame, and his semiaquatic nature ensured that the terrain would never prove itself his weakness. His finger wings made it so he could fly faster than other above the ground whilst swimming faster than a clam underwater. He was even better than Doorknob at holding his breath; he could go nearly three hours without having to break for air.
By the tenth failure, everyone, everyone, knew that defeating him was impossible.
And that was why Doorknob was always surprised to see someone try.
The first challenger that visited after the public’s admission of defeat came in the form of a young man. He was a kelpfin, a tail-walking shark with the ability to grow limbs of seaweed and manipulate them in a way that would put any land dweller to shame. From the way he carried his eight weapons, and the ease with which he cut through the grunts, it was clear that the man was a master swordsman.
At least fifty of the sea-crypt organisation’s members were bested on that day. Their heads rolled from their necks, leaving rivers of blood for Doorknob to consume. And yet, despite his jaw-dropping prowess, the blademaster could not match the boss, for though he had removed the half-insect’s wings, his blades could not pierce his carapace. The opposite, however, did not hold true. It took only one well-placed attack for Bloodwing to jab a leg through the shark’s chest and rip out his still-beating heart.
The next challenger was not nearly as successful, claiming only two or three wins on his way to the fish-bug. Perhaps to conserve his stamina, he crept along the building after beating those standing guard outside and carved a hole directly into the boss’ room. As someone that lived beneath the wharf, Doorknob did not catch sight of many of the details to follow, but the boss eventually stumbled out the front door, laughing as he chucked the intruder out into the water.
It was the third challenger that finally brought a change to the status quo. Rather than an individual, the real estate agents were stuck facing a group, albeit one that was made up of only a few members. With how female they were, Doorknob expected the intruders to be defeated in seconds, but strangely enough, the boys were unable to stand opposed. One by one, they were beaten by a particularly strange creature that moved on four legs whilst carrying a pointy stick in its mouth.
When the boss emerged from the building to meet them, he faced the four-legged freak alongside the one whose head was a triangle. Doorknob had expected to see one of the usual landslide victories, but the boss was quickly suppressed. He was violently beaten, over and over, until he finally fell to his knees.
For a moment, it looked like Bloodwing still had a chance. The triangle-fetishist made an attempt to speak to him, providing him ample opportunity to twist one of his wings back into shape, but the lazy sea foam-coloured creature in the back interrupted the fight before he could act. A kick removed his head, sending it straight into the shallows where the drunken clam lay.
Because it fell near him, Doorknob did exactly as he always had and consumed it whole. He expected the idiot’s flesh to be as sweet as his heart, but for some odd reason, he found it strangely bitter. Like the taste of a piece of kelp that had floated for too long at sea.
It appeared that, following his loss, the boss surrendered his business to the strange group that defeated him. Doorknob did not quite understand why, but as the furthest thing from a sore loser, Bloodwing never showed his face around the wharf again. He had expected the employees to stay at least, but they were also replaced. With the change in management came an equal change in operations. He began seeing different goods being shipped, and in far fewer quantities. While he suspected that their acumen for business was not as well honed, the clam was unable to draw any concrete conclusions. That, of course, was inevitable. Doorknob knew little of real estate, only that it was all about repetition.
The new owners did not appear all that happy with his presence. One day, when he was stumbling drunkenly along the wharf, he was greeted by a small resident coloured brightly like a coral. He didn’t quite get what she said, but the gist was that he was going to have to go away.
Doorknob was understandably upset. The southern wharf’s waters had been particularly bountiful, after all, but he did not struggle, resist, or even speak up against the loss of his home. It was out of respect that he kept silent, for the agent was kind enough to open up her mouth and transport him with her own four legs. In the darkness of her belly, he was unable to see where they were going, but frankly, he cared very little.
The sizzling bath was wonderful, and he felt as if he could hear Bloodwing calling. Whatever the case, he closed his eyes and allowed his consciousness to drift. Then and there, he finally understood the creed that all the other clams shared.
It was exactly as his mother had always told him.
Good tides were freely blessed upon those patient enough to wait.
