Merlin AND Arthur on the Run

Arthur Runs

An educated individual, other than myself, will tell you that when you are high, you need to just go along with things. I have never been high before. At least not more than a contact high that I got a few years back from a girl I’d rather not think about. This seems to be becoming a bit of a pattern, but, anyway, I can tell you that there is no way that I was in my right mind at that moment. 

If you put a gun to my head, as evidently some phantasms of my darker reaches were trying to, I’d have to guess that I was still cozy in my bed, that I had indeed pissed myself in my sleep, not a habit - not even remotely - and that whatever I had drank from that bottle was abjectly not, or at least not only, vodka. It was only pretending to be vodka. Vodka does not make one see wizards or give one dreams about people shooting you. 

Anyway, there is no chance that guns actually sound in real life like they do in films. Bang Bang all you like, I know you aren’t real. And the bloody bike taxi - sorry, “rickshaw” - well, who the hell runs from gunmen, in car, on a sodding bike cab. A true Merlin would do better. He’d have a broomstick or something. Get in, he says? Fine. I’ll get in, and see where this takes me.

I hopped into the cab with the lunatic and, to my surprised, it started moving on its own. No driver, nothing. It literally started peddling itself. That’s when the something very horrifying happened. “This is not a dream, boy,” the old man said, looking back and forth over his shoulder as the sound of an engine got closer. Another couple of shots rang out, clanging and clattering into pavement and shattering some nearby windows. I let myself smile. 

“Oh, and how are you supposed to prove that, Merlin?” I accused wickedly. The old man fumed. I would enjoy this more if my dream-wizard wasn’t in denial. It looked like I would have to convince myself…myself. 

“Fine, but do you know what would happen if you were to die in a dream?” he asked. Actually, I did. That’s when the serious part began to come into perspective.

I said, “you have a heart attack and die in real life.” I wasn’t sure if that were actually true or just some kind of myth. Frankly, I didn’t put much in it, but one can’t gamble one’s life away on this sort of event.

 In any case, my creepy subconscious wizard had a point. That’s when I realized the rickshaw-taxi-bike-cab thingy was going at thirty or forty miles an hour, and yet we were still hearing gunshots. I chose to ignore the impossibly fast bike-cab and focus on the more immediate danger. I said, “Right, listen, can we turn, because going straight doesn’t seem to be helping much,” I paused, “in whatever activity we’re actually trying to, er, help.” 

Street lamps flicked by us at regular intervals, making everything seem like it was happening from second to second, like a strobe light at a party. One instant the old man was poker-faced, the next, dark, and the next, he was grinning. “Turn left at the intersection!” Merlin yelled out to the air, and the taxicab obeyed, and the force of the turn nearly hurled me out of the carriage. 

For a moment, I was not sitting on anything, hovering inches above my seat, waiting for my head to smash against the pavement or my body to be hurled through a shop door. Air roaring, hands groping at the small metal roof above, I genuinely thought I was going to go over, but then the mad taxi-bike’s course reoriented, becoming once again straight, and I landed back in my seat with a thick impact and obligatory thump. More gunshots split the silence and I heard the screeching of tires from behind. 

They were still following us. Then again, Merlin had nearly done half their work for them with that sharp turn.

 “Lesson two, always buckle up, Arthur!” cried the old man. Then, to reassure me or whatever, he began laughing hysterically, as if he had made the world’s funniest joke. I, for one, was not amused.

 My face felt flush, as if I had been hanging upside down for too long, and my eyes were watery. I rooted around for a seat belt, deciding to take the advice, but it turned out that Merlin had already clipped himself into the only one. Wonderful. Positively, wonderful. 

Then came the sound of automatic weapons, and I began to realize how very serious my situation might be. I wondered if it was suicide if your subconscious is trying to kill you and save you at the same time. The old man answered, even as I was beginning to suspect he would, “that seems probable.” As if to chime in with his answer, a bullet clanged off the front supporting bridge of the taxi-shaw…rickshaw. That was it: rickshaw. 

“Good lad, rickshaw,” said Merlin. “Now, your getting at it.”

I lost it and said, “Stop reading my mind, d****t!” Another gunshot brought me back to reality. 

Author's Note

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Reviews

[Coyote Poetry]

A very good chapter. I like the interaction of the characters. The storyline is entertaining and the intense situation is create a fun story to read. A excellent chapter.
Coyote

[Duddly Doright]

Your writing has style. ... Have you ever thought about Re-writing the Script from the the 1950"s movie'' The Bridge over the River Kwai?''....You have the technique and penmanship of a professional writer, The sections of the novel I read through are not bland, or simple in character, but could use a little more adventure in the main story line, Somewhere between Monty Pythons Flying Circus and James Bond, or possibly just a little of both.