George Knows Best [Mud Wizard LitRPG]

The Mud Tyrant was sitting in the Mud Street on his Mud Throne before the Mud Gate in the Mud City. At his feet lay a golden place mat (George), breathing softly, and a few paces off stood his dark angel (Sophie), scowling at everyone and everything.

It was rather a busy street, truth be told. Really it was the main city thoroughfare, the Via Appia, one bold highway cutting across the metropolis, connecting gateway to marketplace to council hall. It saw sizable foot traffic, as people buzzed about their business, crossing and crissing the city with their various duties and engagements. A city never sleeps.

The continuous flow of people tacked sharply as it approached the dangerous muddy island where the hooded monster was said to live. Tacked sharply, slowed and crawled past, as people gaped and whispered at the flaming wreck of a man and his dog.

"Barely defeated, they say?"

"Barely defeated!? Just look at him, Susan. Boy was whipped! He's not even wearing shoes."

"Do you think he likes being muddy? Is it a fetish thing?"

"You don't know about the mud high? They call it brown cocaine."

"Really? Hey, do you, I mean, do you know a guy?"

"You know what happens when you deprive someone from sleep too long?"

"What?"

"They start going crazy. The brain devours itself. Hallucinations. Loss of self-control. Wild aggression."

"For crying out loud, what are we doing keeping him in the city?"

One charitable soul had assumed he was some manner of street beggar: a despondent, young man, sitting in the street, with a muddy cloak and a dog curled up at his feet. She dropped a loaf of bread on his knees.

"You know who that is right?"

She fought her way back through the flow, snatched up her loaf, harrumphed and carried on her way. The adoration of the general public knows no limits.

"That dog has a heart of gold. Man doesn't know how to take care of him."

"Someone ought to take that dog away from him. It's animal cruelty.

"See her. Yeah that's the one. She's his girl."

"No way!"

"You didn't know? Total gold-digger. They're calling them Mr. and Mrs. Villain."

"That's kinda cute."

"Now Margaret, just listen to the facts. On their first date, there was a 'fire.' The 'fire' burned down her house and damaged two or three neighboring home. And what do you think happened?"

"Well go on Arthur."

"She bought up the whole lot at a steep discount. Pennies on the dollar. Pennies, Margaret! Rather convenient accident, don't you think? And don't get me started on the amulet industry. She's got her fingers in every pie."

"Whatever you say Arthur."

Bob and Sophie were riding high on a wave of universal unpopularity. The voice of the people is generally unpleasant and always critical. Democracy is a society for the loved.

And then an old woman teetered through, single-handedly derailing the highway flow. She was rolling about under a monstrosity of an antique vase; it was an awful, expensive-looking, blue-glazed artifact, one of those items with zero practical and suspect aesthetic value.

Our old hag could barely circle its girth with her two stubby arms and she most certainly could not see over the rim. Her strategy was to wobble loudly forward and shriek at everybody to get out of the way.

She had almost tripped over two dozen times in the space of four staggered steps. It was a divine mercy that the vase remained whole and intact. And divine mercy is not something to be depended on. One kind, respectable young man thought so at least. He, upon noticing her plight, gallantly offered to carry the vase for her as far as needed. Truly the heart of chivalry is not dead in our younger generations.

The old woman listened, poked her head around the vase and... exploded on him. Bloody, stuck-up, thinks-he's-a-hero, greenhorned pighead, ought to mind his own beeswax. She was no tottering imbecile who couldn't even carry a vase from point A to point B. She was a strong, independent senior citizen. No doubt he was hoping for a tip or some illicit favor. Begone vulture!

Our fine young man exited at pace, red-cheeked, brow-knitted and with a firm, unyielding resolution never, ever, no matter what was at stake, to help another soul again in his life. He had grown up at last, our fine young man. He had grown up into a sour, cynical adult. Chivalry dies young.

The old woman, reeling from this dreadful sexual invitation disguised as "an offer to help," somehow missed Bob. Somehow she overlooked an entirely stationary, six-foot mud throne planted in the middle of the road. Maybe it was her failing eyesight, maybe it was heavenly karma for her general ill-will towards all mankind, maybe it was the curse of the blue vase. It can happen to the best of us. Any punch-drunk chap can attest to the curious invisibility of street lamps.

The facts of the matter are that our old woman hooked the corner of Bob's seat. Her balance was instantly and irrevocably comprised. She fell like the Tower of Pisa, crashing down into a pile of mud, dust and pottery. Her prized vase was shattered into a thousand-thousand pieces. The whole highway ground to a stop as everybody gapped at the old woman on the floor.

The old woman's face started to flush. White, frothy foam billowed up from between clenched teeth. Mud dribbled from her mangled hair. She dragged herself upwards. Anger is the perpetual motion machine.

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"You tripped me! You tripped me on purpose. An old woman, no less. A grandmother. You should be hanged. Struck up! Crows should peck out your eyes! You godless, whore-son, backstabbing cretin. I demand recompense. That was a family heirloom. Priceless."

She punctuated each word with a quivering point at Bob's chest. Bob, who was sitting there, unmoving, unseeing, thoughts high up in the sky and the storm. And yet witnesses began to murmur. Maybe he really had tripped her. Couldn't put it past the Mud Tyrant. A bad business. A bad business all round.

"Aren't you going to apologize? Apologize this instance! Apologize! No human decency. This city has gone to the pigs. You should be on your knees, begging for forgiveness. I'll teach you."

She hobbled forward, rage-dizzy, pointer finger menacingly extended. And for the first time, she actually made out her adversary. She had been under the mistaken, but forgivable impression that she was facing down a large, squarish, brown-colored, mud-smelling man. Only now did she make out that it was a chair and that in chair was a young, hoodied thug.

"You, you, you..." Her face was beetroot red, her wrinkles white with burning fury, her lips trembled, and froth drooled down from her mouth. She looked like she might pass out. She clutched her chest and staggered. The crowd oohed. It's not every day you get to see someone battle against a heart attack. And it's not every day you see someone beat back their heart attack and fight on.

"A chair!" She screeched. "A chair here! In the middle of the street! Where do you think you are? Your personal living room!"

She zigzagged closer, ferrying great buckets of spit into Bob's personal space with each word.

"Look at you. Even now, you go on sitting there, chuckling, oh the poor, old woman off her rocker. I'll show you. Get up! Get up! This instance. You should be ashamed of yourself."

She jabbed the words home with a vicious poke to Bob's stomach. She caught him in the lower sternum and his diaphragm reacted automatically, forcibly expelling air. Bob's eyes focused, his vision zeroing in on the figure in front of him. Something old, ancient, but red-faced, wrinkles on wrinkles.

"Dead?" He asked.

"You, how? I, I... I'll have you know that am I considered youthful for my age. I was quite the looker in my day, thank you very much. Still am, to one who can appreciate such things."

Now who are you and I to judge the truth of such a claim. Her skin would have looked magnificent on a two-hundred year old tortoise. Her hair glorious on the head of a sixteenth century mop salvaged from some deep-sea dive. And after all, looker means somebody who people turned around to look at, right?

"Dead." Bob concluded wisely.

"Why, you, I, oh, I..."

The old woman was ticking down towards a final and all-destroying explosion. Anger had become rage had become fury had become furnace had become nuclear. Thankfully a peace-loving, middle-aged balding man stepped up.

"Miss, sorry, just a word of warning, that's there, Bob Brown."

"Who?" She rounded on the speaker. He wilted a little, but held his ground. Now was she hard of hearing or did she just not know who Bob was? The man decided to split his odds.

"Bob, Brown," he shouted, "the, leader, of, this, here, you know, city."

"Oh, that's you, is it?" She was looking at the speaker. "Well you ought to do something about scoundrels like this. Come on then, leader."

"No, no, no," the poor, peace-loving man backed away, "not me, him, him. Not me. I'm nobody." He pointed at Bob in the chair. The old woman got the message.

"You! You're the man in the charge. Well I never voted for you. Someone should haul you off to prison. Rotten to the core. You can always judge a person by how they treat an old woman. You are a wretched, twisted, power-drunk little man and I've got your ticket!"

She concluded her harangue with another full-power chest-jab. Drive home the point. Communication by violence. But Harry was lying in wait for her. See Harry had been taken by surprise before. You don't expect to get assaulted by a female fossil on the public road. But Harry was a smart cloak and he had learned not to trust appearances. Bob was having a hard enough time already. He didn't need superfluous ribbing.

The old woman had committed to her attack. Nothing good comes from holding back on youngsters. The strong arm of punishment and all. She condensed all of her system-enhanced strength into her fingertip. Then Harry hardened. Her thin, spindly finger rammed into an immovable object. There was an unpleasant snapping sound. The old woman howled as she toppled backwards, somersaulting over and roughing up her face on shards of pottery.

"Attacked! Somebody save me. I'm a poor, old woman. Completely harmless. I couldn't injury a fly. He attacked me, out of blue, quite unprovoked." She put her hand to head. "I'm bleeding! God have mercy. I'm dying. He's killed me. Call the police. Somebody. Anybody."

Bob possessed the imperial calm of the catatonic individual. The sky could have fallen down on his head and he would have stoically endured, maybe throwing out a mumbled "dead?" Of course that meant he didn't get up to help the old woman. He didn't apologize. He didn't explain that his cloak was semi-autonomous.

The crowd noticed all of these points. The crowd noticed and drew their own conclusions. They had had a bad opinion of Bob going in. And picture the scene: their Mud Tyrant was sitting on a big throne while an old woman moaned at his feet, clutching her finger and bleeding from her head, all against a backdrop of broken pottery.

"The Mud Tyrant has attacked an old woman in the square."

"The Mud Tyrant is killing civilians."

"The Mud Tyrant is going on a rampage."

Sophie tried to step in. "Are you all imbeciles? You saw what happened. It was her fault. Robert hasn't even moved."

The old woman twisted on Sophie. "It was her that made him do it. Sorceress. She ordered him to. She was, she was..." And then nodding to herself in quiet pleasure, "she was jealous of my good looks."

Nobody, not even the angry mob, not even the bitterest enemies of Bob and Sophie found this lie plausible. The lie even had a damping effect; the spectators began to question the general credibility of the old woman. With luck the whole unfortunate sequence of events might have been salvaged then and there. But the old hag pivoted, "she said, I was too ugly to be walking the street in broad daylight."

The mob roared. "The Cow Witch and the Mud Tyrant are attacking an ugly, old woman."

"Who said ugly?" The old crone protested.

"They're beating a poor, ugly woman to death."

"Hey that's slander."

The city was already a tinderbox. News that their failed leader and his concubine, Mrs. Monopoly, were persecuting poor, defenseless, ugly old women was all the spark the city needed.

"Throw them out. Crucify them. Murder them."

"Down with Bob. Up with George."

"Topple the Mud Tyrant."

Numbers were swelling. They were on the main road. Sophie looked worryingly about. A hundred people had already gathered. A hundred, angry people. A hundred, angry people ringing them in.

"Robert, Robert," Sophie knelt down over Bob. "Robert, I really need you right now."

Sophie tried slapping sense into the man. But Bob was drifting through dark thoughts. George too was on his feet now. He was circling Bob's throne, snarling warningly, snapping at anyone who got too close.

One man threw a stone. Other stones followed. Pop! Pop! George picked them out of the air. The people were edging closer. George was only one dog. Sophie was growing desperate. Bob wasn't responding. He had abandoned her. She couldn't rely on him. And if Bob wasn't going to protect her, then she would just have to protect herself. Sophie pulled out a pistol. Big mistake.

The crowd's anger spiked. She was going to shoot them. She wanted them dead. She had started it. She was to blame. George yelped as a magical cage ability came down on top of him. Ping! The crowd swarmed forward. Sophie was knocked down. Ping! They were kicking her. Ping! Two lads had hoisted George up and were marching him away. Ping!

Sophie screamed. George howled.

"What are you doing?" A quiet, dangerous voice.

The Mud Tyrant rose from his seat. His eyes black-circled. His gaze hard.

"WHAT ON EARTH DO YOU THINK YOU ARE DOING?"