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KOOPALINGS : THE TEENAGE YEARS

by Foxy Boy

CHAPTER II: ADVERSITY

A single ray of sunlight was sufficent enough an annoyance to wake Larry from his fragile sleep. As his eyes opened, a wave of dull pain shot down his body, like every muscle was instantly fatigued and brought to rebel. Despite the shallowness of still-emerging consciousness, he didn't mistake the cause for anything besides his addictions. The aching proved a new state of crumble, far-removed from the exhaustion, shaking and pinpoint nature of the pain he'd somehow slept through. It was far more demanding to weather than his accustomed condition; it drained both mental and physical. A new manifestation of total penance, and the rise to a sitting pose took superhuman effort. When he at last righted himself, silent prayers were made that his symptoms would abate, and not escalate to even worse than what his feeble state could push through.

He'd at last begun to feel awake when his bedroom door swung open. Realizing he was nude, and thinking it might be Wendy, he quickly pulled the comforter over his shame. His grip slightly relaxed when he saw Roy instead.

"G' morning, mister soapbox.", Roy quipped as he shut the door and adjuted his shades. "Feel like a million bucks yet?"

"Worst. Question. You could possibly try." Larry groaned. "And I don't even feel up to socking the smug outta you."

"Reconsidering, or y' just frayed?"

"It's like I ran five marathons yesterday. Don't even have the medals or ribbons or sweat stains to show off."

Roy laughed briefly, but his expression turned saturnine. "Well I'll spare you a 'why', since a blind guy would see the answer. Coulda told you goin' cold turkey'll do that. Look at you, a glorious goddamn train wreck."

Larry nodded weakly. "No matter how I look, I feel worse. Like I caught the grandaddy of all flu's and my medicine was a quart of paint thinner. It's not just the smack, either, add in whatever the fuck else I haven't took in twenty-four hours."

Roy shook his head. "Not 'whatever'. You don't feel the meth shakes yet. Right now it's the lack of horse and booze. The joy's just started."

"And man, keep the lingo to yourself. I want that behind me, as far as I care to know it never happened."

"Your body cares, but that'll pass." An indulgent pause, while Roy considered the spectacle before him. "There is a treatment. But if I gave it right now, you'd find shit to throw at me."

"I couldn't hate any kind of relief... I think. What's your solution?"

Roy dove into his jacket pocket and produced a medical syringe, full of a white chalky product. The instant it met Larry's eyes, they widened like saucers, and he pulled the covers over his head.

"GET THAT THE FUCK AWAY, THIS INSTANT!!!"

Roy smirked. "You know what they say, bro. You fall off the steed, you gotta get right back on. Hey, I ain't trying to fail you, I'm helping. Once you do, the pain's nothing but memory."

"I'M NOT READY FOR IT!!! NOT NOW, NOT EVER!!!!" A single moan accompanied his gulping, as he fought the urge for what Roy offered him.

The brick wall that was Roy shrugged, tucking the syringe safely back in-pocket. "You can come out now, the big bad needle's gone."

Larry practically threw the covers off of his head; it flew a good ways down, exposing him well-past his crotch unbeknownst to him. His rapid-fire gasps wound through gritted teeth. "Heartless bastard. You never told me a damn thing-"

"-Whoa there, prince of protest", Roy interrupted cockily. "You never asked what happens. All y' wanted me saying was how to safely heighten the dose."

"And I was one stupid shit!! You-" He felt the breeze below, and the second he looked down and saw what Roy had, he yanked the covers back up while Roy chuckled. Then back into his soapboxing. "You knew when you brought me into that if I ever tried to put it down it would fight me tooth and fucking nail! You didn't think that's valued info!?"

Roy nodded. "Guilty. But before you sue me, I figured if I could handle it, you can. Besides I never told you to quit, and now I even brought a reprieve. This is how you say thanks?"

Larry growled. "What a saint. Just never try that again. I'm dead fuckin' serious."

"A'right, a'right, point taken. I didn't come here to bicker, or for that, anyway. Came to relay an invitation."

Larry gave a stress-dispersing sigh, slowly calmed... And a bit red from unwittingly flashing his bro. "Okay, fine. What is it, from who?"

"Oh, not much, Wendy and Lemmy want you at the mall with'em. They're gettin' ready as we speak, and from the sound of it they really hinge on your company."

Puzzlement crossed Larry's features. "Wait, so soon?"

"Guess so. She had me ask 'cause she could tell what was happenin' with you last night. Said that knowin' how much we've grown alike, I'd find a better way to tell you." He stopped to take out and light a cigarette, smooth as a G' and dressed like one. "I mean all that change you made sure to show won't cover up the body trauma, they know what happens. She didn't know whether to be glad you kicked the shit and brought us back to focus, or scared about your healthy dose of private hell. Prob'ly worried 'she'd come on too strong' in her own words." His impression of her voice was half-flattering.

"Shit... If I were her, I'd be frettin' for the very same.", Larry joked halfheartedly. He went crestfallen. "... Tell her I can't, much as I'd wanna. No way do I feel enough like a whole man to be out in the public eye."

"Suit yourself. I could still help you back to full strength-"

Roy's words cut short by Larry's narrow scowl.

"Wait, now, hear me out", Roy said, holding hands up as if to shield himself from contempt. "I've quit all kinds of shit before, anywhere from weeks to months, and I'll swear to you as a veteran the next few days are straight-downhill. I know the traps, but there's a way to get you back on your feet, and it DON'T involve puttin' it aside just to deal tomorrow."

Larry leaned back. "I'm listening."

Roy reached in another pocket, this time on his camos, and produced a fat joint. Larry grunted in disgust.

"Thanks but no thanks, that's still a fuckin' crutch."

Roy laughed. "Barely, and it's your choice if you wanna see it as part o' your sitch. It'll get you through the next little while, at least. They really want a piece o' you."

Larry rest his head in his hand with his elbow on the bed. "Which only means you don't. Thanks for stickin' by."

Roy looked down his nose with a smirk. "Well, no offense bro, but you did just cuss my sorry ass out. Besides, now that you're tryin' to get clean, you're pretty much not in the family anymore."

Larry took clear offense. "The HELL do you mean, I just single-handedly brought this fuckin' family together!"

"Didn't mean this family.", Roy replied matter-of-factly.

Larry was about to ask what he meant, when it fell into place. His gaze fell to the bedsheets. "So you are outta here."

Roy nodded. "Have to be. Dad would have me drawn and quartered if he found out I finally jumped the boundaries and brought this in the castle. Plus if I don't find a place to 'partake' I'll wind up like you, and I'll cross that bridge when damn-well ready. Dig?"

Larry's response was a weak nod; he couldn't really blame Roy for wishing to stop this. The shades-sporting prince shuffled up, held out a fist to give daps, to which his lesser complied. He started to walk out, then stopped, faced the chest-of-drawers beside the door, and laid the virgin joint near the edge. He glanced back at Larry just long enough to utter "Stay strong" in a rare edge of sincerity, and with another smirk, shut the door behind him.

Soon as it was shut, Larry fell back onto the pillow and pulled covers tight like a child. Despite the stress Roy had dumped on him, he felt a shade better than when the elder one had entered. Boosted in strength, he bolted up and out of bed with uncommon speed, rushing first to the closet and then his chest-of-drawers, in frantic effort to dress fast as his condition permitted.

In a short span he went from birthday-suit to a polo shirt, denim slacks, his beloved leather pullover and socks under white Nikes. He was fresh and prepped to leave the room when he flashed a final look at the joint lying so close to the door, still unlit, now beckoning. As he stared it down, it made him... More aware of pain he still felt. Whatever part of it that earlier ceased was quick on return, growing restless within him. He didn't want it, but for the sake of recovery knew little choice.

Slowly, almost cautiously, the drawer just beneath it he pulled open, revealing many lighters. A muted groan while another wave of pain shot from head to his toes in three seconds flat. While he did his best to ignore it, he took the joint in hand, brought it to his lips, and lit the illicit therapy, sucking down every bit of smoke he could. Not as partial to this as to some counterparts responsible for his state, but it made a welcome reprieve from at least a few troubles, however temporary. Its respectable girth betrayed its short life, and in what translated to little time it shrank to a modest roach. Its fire was snuffed in an ashtray under his bed, and feeling his pain somwhat eased he made confident steps to exit. Last thing he needed was to be AWOL when the reach of his siblings commissioned him.

They met twenty paces ahead of his door, raring to go. Roy, in his haste to leave, neglected to inform them what answer Larry gave. He didn't expect to see them so close after leaving his room, and this ignited some nameless fear. He hoped they wouldn't catch that faint but distinct smell. It was midweek, so the smell of broiling pheasant from castle kitchens masked a lot with juiciness.

Wendy was more casual than her norm, in a pink tank top, white shorts and sneakers, her curly blonde hair let down. This was her mall outfit, though she hardly spent tons of time there, so a sight uncommon. Lemmy of course stood in his usual skating attire, sans his board only from the floor being carpeted. They seemed to question nothing of their young contemporary; both were all smiles while he approached.

"Are you ready to make a good spectacle of yourself?", Wendy chided, sweeping stray locks from her face.

"Yeah", Larry muttered, hiding slight authentic shame. "Let's go."

It was a good walk from their bedrooms to the castle entryway, and still further to the huge, detached garage that kept every car the clan possessed. As they hit the edge of the carpet and met stone floors of the main hallway, there sat Lemmy's board, right where he needed. No sooner had he reached it, than his shoes left the ground and kept wide circles around Wendy and Larry. She didn't mind it so much as the latter, who was on edge each time Lemmy rolled behind him. His present paranoia told him every pass could be collision; he tried his best to hide the occassional jump.

"Y'know," Lemmy said while ollie-ing over nothing, "Really wish it wasn't just three of us today. Roy and Iggy were availible."

"Well, give Iggy something to do at the mall.", Wendy replied matter-of-factly. "He feels and looks out of place, what with all the cool kids in pop' clothes and whatnot." She took a moment to adjust her slowly-rising shirttail. "It's never been his style to, like, ignore it."

"At least he sees when he don't fit in", Larry added, mind on-target by the ganja's abling. "It's all choice. He knows like everyone he's noble to begin with, and folks'd gladly hang with him for the celebrity value. We all deal with that, who do you trust? Better as... Voluntary outcast." He quaked when Lemmy veered close enough to blow wind on him.

"Yeah. Commoners can be classist anyway.", Wendy asserted, more for appearance than belief.

"At any rate", Lemmy interjected, "It's probably good he's staying home. He'd crimp my style sooner or later."

"Style?", Larry jeered. "You dress like Tony Hawk at a Pearl Jam concert."

"Hahah, jealousy. All you non-riders have the complex."

"Yeah, I guess I'll feel inferior 'til I get a girlfriend that never talks to me."

Wendy bust out laughing. Naturally, the wheelbound prince didn't share in their amusement.

"It's an unspoken beauty, Cheech. At least I have a steady girl, and her hobbies don't include 'passing out on a coffee table'."

"Tch. I get whatever I want whenever; I don't settle for less than the best. And Cheech?"

Lemmy smiled and nodded. "Yeah, you're Cheech, and Roy's Chong."

Larry rolled his eyes. "Kind of a stretch, ya think?"

"...Okay, then you're Raoul and he's Dr. Gonzo. Better?"

Larry gave a discreet shake of his head. That jab hit close to home, but he let it go.

"Aaaaanyway", Wendy guided away, "I wonder where the 'Dr.' is right now."

"Yeah, he split and we didn't know if you were on the way. Don't think I've seen him in such a hurry since that supermodel was in town filming Cucumber Cun-."

"Heyheyhey,", Wendy scolded. "Watch it, there's ladies present."

"Ladies?", Lemmy asked. "As in more than one?" He looked frantically around. "Where?"

Wendy giggled, using her hands to hold up each breast. "One here, and one here."

"Ewwww", Lemmy said. "Sis tits." All three had a laugh so hard they nearly stopped walking.

"In the question of Roy", Larry fibbed, "It's your guess where he went. He told me he had to get out of the house."

"Yeah, no doubt to do some crimes with fast friends, or vice-versa." She looked at Larry skepticaly. "Are you sure he didn't tell you more?"

"Positive", Larry baldfaced-lied. "I'd have the same faith he's up to something, but nothin' he admitted."

"... Mmm. It's just as well.", Wendy sighed as they reached the castle gate and the guard promptly lowered it. "He's the best at law-survival. Any guy else would be a walking arrest warrant."

The gate was open posthaste and they were on their merry way.

Other thoughts diverted Lemmy. "Where'd Morton go last night?" He asked, jumping board over stone steps leading from gate to sidewalk.

"Home," Wendy passively replied as she and Larry descended more traditionally. "It was too late to go anywhere else."

"Except a bar", Lemmy answered, turning a full 180 and stopping a few feet in front of them. "He can't fool me, I know he drinks like a Senator."

"Except he doesn't like bars", Larry replied as he sort-of nudged Lemmy forward to get him rolling backwards. "He takes brews with two conditions: cold and in private."

"Yeah, but why wouldn't-SHIT!!" Lemmy couldn't steer going backwards, and he'd rolled off the sidewalk's edge, hit the grass, stopped short and started falling. His company doubled over in laughter.

"Assclown fucker, I haven't taken a spill in three effing months!" He almost whined as he got up and jumped back on, going the proper way. "Thanks for scratching my record."

"Anytime, Colonel Klutz.", Larry giggled, happily distracted from issues.

The grandoise garage they reached. Once inside, down the long line of rides to Wendy's Trans Am, parked closest to exit but furthest from their entry. Her keyless entry chirped, all three piled in and they made for the road; windows down, Wendy keeping the beat to a Fiona Apple CD with her head, which she cranked near max volume to drown out the noise of wind.

While Larry didn't mind, Lemmy was less keen on riding with. Not a big fan of her music, and neither of cars in the first place, since it meant being off his preferred four wheels. Until recently, when he'd accompany someone's car he'd opt to hold the tailgate in order to stay riding and still be with them, Marty-McFly style... The practice halted with a brutal reality check. Cruising along behind a buddy's Land Rover in that same fashion, he didn't see the open manhole he was headed for; luck sufficed to keep him from rolling across the center, but in grazing the outside edge he was instantly stopped, slamming his chin down on the bumper he'd so tightly held. Several hours of corrective surgery - naturally on their father's bill - put it behind him, but not something either wanted a second time for different-yet-plain reasons.

So he tolerated autos, albeit without much to say. Considering the loudness around him, it was hardly worth struggling to shout over.

*************************************

"Damn it, vere did I misplace zat vest? I know it vas here last I saw it."

"Have you checked the upper shelves, or in the bureau? Last I saw, it was one of those... I can't for the life of me recall which."

Ludwig's frustration scarcely bothered Esmerelda. If his temper showed its ugly face, it came only when mad at himself, exposed under no other circumstances. She'd actually grown to adore it; in her mind it was cute, an idle flaw in her dashing husband.

While she answered his yell she set before the large mirror on her vanity, affixing her beloved pair of diamond hoops. True stunners from David Yurman, worth a working-class mortgage - her wedding gift from Ludwig - and she wore them to dinners, shows and galas they attended, altogether quite a number.

"Darling", she cooed, still hearing Ludwig shove things around in their closet, "Don't fret about the vest. That tux was made oozing style with or without outerwear. You look grand just as it is, not ever less."

Her genial ways burned away his anger to cinders. Calm took over him. "Love, ze support's appreciated, but if I vere to go out vith it like so, I vould look like a vedding usher."

"Well, then just tell anyone curious that you came from a wedding. They all think us the busiest couple in the kingdom, they'd scarce give a little white lie a second glance."

"I vouldn't have to lie if I could just find ze damn thing."

Esmerelda's sigh punctuated an adjustment to her hoops, primping while in rise from the chair. Movement would be slow in her heavy pearl dress; the Manolo Blahnik pumps made balance also an issue. Living fond of these goods Ludwig and her family would oft present her, but all things have a price: much of it taxed her in one way or another, save perhaps for the bejeweled clutch that barely left her side. In truth she rarely complained; after all, it was a pittance to endure, getting the best of everything, especially compared to the very real price tag such pieces carried. She'd finished making herself up, and turned to watch Ludwig still sift through the mess.

"Eureka!", Ludwig shouted almost gleefully.

"Was it on the shelves like I suggested?"

"No, against ze vall on ze left side. Guess eets been longer than I thought since I've vorn it."

Her voice held warmth. "I knew I'd missed it on you."

He stepped out to put it on, shirtless an in-view while assessing the sleeves. Once she 'sipped' a look of what she was glad to own, his chest and its fuzz patch with symettry and colour like his coif - she took this chance to ask the all-important question.

"How do I look?", the query smiled. She turned to show him every angle.

His grin lived long, stunned heartily. "Like a million dollars, my sweet."

"Really? The dress alone is worth that", she joked. They approached each other, shared a kiss. Ludwig, conscious of her outfit's delicate nature, fought urges to embrace, a gesture she saw respectfully.

"I suppose it's off to the show, then", she said when lips parted. "I've missed Gerard performing well onto a year. He's not easily gone without." Tender in teasing her groom, running a painted nail soft up his chin's dimple.

If she tested him, he'd play the part. "I'd agree. Refresh my memory, how long haf' you known that lecher?"

Her gentle pat-smack on his shoulder wrapped the bit. "This May, six years, since I charmed his cafè at Rutger Park. I admit once I knew he was a trained staccato I fixed on his every word. In fact, if not for you I might be wearing his ring."

"Zen it's lucky your charms didn't vaste on him."

She pursed lips playfully and continued. "Oh behave, he saw to it we have three free tickets to the premiere. Which means I've an extra, if anyone's of interest."

"I vouldn't have an inkling of suggestions."

"Well", she replied thoughtfully, "I considered Wendy. I don't see why she can't take to a night with the arts."

"My dear", Ludwig answered, taking her face in hands lovingly, "You're a miracle, but not all vomen are partial to ze fine escapes. I doubt it's Vendy's idea of a good time."

"Oh. I suppose you know her much better."

"Indubitably. Anyvay, I'm fairly sure she has plans. I overheard her vith Lemmy about zey and Larry making a day of Westland Mall, so zey're likely zere as ve speak."

She flatly held reactions back. "Then I won't be a bother." Her eyes went to the glass, with a turn left and right for a mirror inspection. "It's so nice if they're sharing more time. You have an interesting family that I believe has chemistry together."

"Somevat. Most of zat history's collaberation acting out. Vonce upon a time I vas complicit in mischief."

She paused, treading lightly. "Is... That your cause for half-avoiding them lately? Afraid to slip into old habits?"

Two masculine hands met her shoulders, touch of affection. "No. Eets I don't vant you exposed to ze low-brow. You're leagues more precious."

She smiled, though torn to a degree. To be thus for him, while they were elsewise... Psychologically quarantined... She turned to meet the door, hiding thoughts. He followed her out and down for the castle gates; a driver had their Rolls Royce at the ready. They stood the sole members of the bloodline to employ a chauffer, the others far too independent and unkeen on staples of 'highness'.

As the tires kissed the blacktop, Mr. and Mrs. Ludwig Von Koopa toasted champagne in chilled glasses, honouring a show that would embrace their eminence. They still had no clue who might accompany them; maybe best to be no one. Esmerelda's folks kept slim company beyond business, and Ludwig's brethren lived in far different headspace. So any possible trio went dead, lost to anticipation of a perfect night, the vacancy of no more significance than the bubbles in their glasses.

Save, maybe, for a sudden push within her. "Darling, do we have time to grace my father?" Esmerelda coupled this with a peck on her husband's cheek. "I know it's short notice, but he hasn't called today. It's a bit unusual."

"I... Dunno, I vish ve did. Eet's a good drive from here to will-call. I allowed an extra quarter-hour, but zat covers traffic."

"Oh. It's a pity, I talked to mother the other day and (hic) she asked that we stop by when we could manage. Whoo", she continued, rubbing her temples. "This bottle's aged well, I'm feeling it."

Ludwig smiled. "My love, you have ze lowest tolerance for spirits I've zeen."

She laughed, a tad sloppily. "I know, it's been said by both of them. I wonder what yours would say right now-"

Ludwig's smile ran away from his face. She knew immediately the error of her words, and tried apologies.

"Dear, I didn't mean-"

"-Think nothing of eet. I know vat you vere trying for."

The heir-prince's gentility helped betray his feelings. Though in total innocence, Esmerelda hit a nerve, this she knew; but upstanding man that he was - and close to sober - his tongue easily held. It didn't live in him to call her down for honest mistakes; he had respect more than to reduce himself in that fashion.

Her question, though awkward, held some merit, if only for the fact that Ludwig had pondered what his mother might think of many things, from school years to his marriage to their jetsetting. And there existed his greatest possible sadness, knowing he'd never know.

Twenty years prior, she'd discovered the imminence of her seventh child, and when she broke the news to Bowser, he of course was blown away. The castle - stately and bustling then just as now - went abuzz for weeks, with rumours and speculation and speculative rumours about her due date, the gender, whom it would take after, what all interested parties hang on. And no one could ever be more eager than she.

She'd always said that seven was a good and desirable number, and had thus far brought six healthy babies to the world with hardly a sickness or struggle for any of them. Often she'd take a stroll around the castle once her belly began to show, displaying proudly her good fortune and fertility, mostly for the womenfolk. There were, by most acounts, few able to compete with her sleek frame and straight sandy hair, a fact she definitely relished but questioned. Her mild jealousy was a trait that to Bowser was beneficial; it bade her keep conscious of her looks, a motive to stay shapely, a feat she accomplished through all seven pregnancies. Some might've said she was even more winsome 'great with child' than in everyday condition. As with many mothers-to-be she'd exhude a sort of radiance, exhibiting finer traits of a carrying lady, seemingly immune to picking up the negative sets.

When the first few tests confirmed it was a boy, she was still happy, if slightly disappointed. They had but a single daughter, and behind the scenes she'd hoped for another, being not incredibly close to young Wendy. Polar opposites in most every way, as she was quiet, reserved and tactful, while Wendy... Took after her father. But her acceptance, drowned out by her husband's joyous celebration at the prospect of another son, would be overshadowed by something more sinister.

Shortly upon entering the third trimester, she'd come aware of pains around her lower stomach, unlike those she'd come to expect from six previous gestations. Sharp and pronounced, and depending on what she ate and the time of day, crippling. Soon after confiding in Bowser, his lack of much concern drove her to dismiss it as a combo of acid reflux and stress of going through these arduous changes for a seventh time. It made perfect sense, so she was only too apt to accept this comforting prognosis and attempt to move on.

As her baby grew heavier, it only grew worse. It might've made more sense if more like a muscle pain; that would mesh with the fact that she was of course older now than in prior carries. But it was neither the right kind of pain nor the right place to be discarded so easily as that. With two months to go before delivery, she gave in and went for more specialized and invasive tests, trying to garner much-needed peace of mind.

The mandatory few days, and the tests came back. Most were clear.

One was not.

A tumour had developed on the underside of her stomach. The size of a softball, it had clearly been there a while. Malignant.

It couldn't come at a worse time. The finest specialists money could buy all agreed that surgery would be impossible without killing the baby; the wall of her uterus closed near-totally around the cancerous mass. Even if they'd somehow find a way around that, the chemo and other treatments imperative to slow or stop its growth would most likely have done the same to her baby. Or cause crippling deformities or a wide spectrum of lifelong mental deficiency... Pronounced retardation to palsy, and those lay on the more hopeful end.

The only way to even somewhat guarantee the unborn's safety was to wait, deliver, and hope her body would be strong enough - and the tumour small enough - to remove and treat.

Symptoms persisted, worsening through these last sixty days. She began crying out in her sleep. During the day, she'd cough up small amounts of blood. When out on the few errands she lent herself to do, dizziness frequently overtook her; pushing her to sit and rest for up to fifteen minutes at a time, before she'd muster the strength and equilibrium to rise and go on.

Late October, and labour was imminent. The heathy, voluptuous beauty she'd inhabited was vanished, replaced by pallid skin and tear-evoking frailty. When the hour finally came she could barely stagger into the ambulance bound for the maternity ward, and her delivery which six times prior had been a relative breeze was plagued with complications, horrid pains pushing and a duration nearly thrice that of her other children.

Ludwig, being oldest and firstborn, was the only one made to accompany his parents at the hospital. The rest - too young to fathom the situation let alone accept it - stayed home in the care of trusted servants, neither Bowser nor his wife having close family on good terms. Before he'd come along, he was given express instructions to sit in the waiting room and do nothing, no matter what happened or what he might hear. Unfortunately, as the King and Queen forgot amidst such chaos, the waiting area sat within earshot of delivery rooms. There weren't a great deal of barriers betwixt the two that muffled the audible.

Ludwig on that night was six-and-a-half, old enough that many things etched in his memory, most he should never be witness to. The shreiks of labour pains, suffering of persistent tumour symptoms, the yells and shouting back and forth between incredibly stressed doctors at the most important delivery of their lives and careers, and a father and husband at his wit's end. All of it churned in Ludwig's head, a carousel of hurt and confusion. Worse than all this was not knowing how or why; but through it all, he stuck fast to his father's command, and sat patiently praying for it to end.

The feminine screams rang out clear for the entirety of labour up to now. Suddenly, the cries of a newborn baby, still mixed with his mother's. In time, hers were no longer heard; the baby's remained.

The next few minutes were then and for two decades hence a hellish blur to Ludwig. The sounds of his new brother were followed by deep, baritone wails he'd never heard before, yet instinctively knew to be his father's. No speech between doctors or nurses for several minutes. Then low, despondent mumblings, and the door to that forever-saddened room swung open.

Inside lay the form of a body covered head-to-toe by heavy white sheets. Ludwig stared into the still-open threshold, saw his father kneeled on the floor, shoulders convulsing, the doctor holding tight and secure his still-crying son, with nurses fixed like zombies at the empty table. In the blink of an eye, Ludwig put two and two together.

He started to scream, and run, towards what he knew to be his mother's limp form. His high-pitched screams of "NO!!! NOOO!!!" alerted the attentive staff, who took him by his arm, dragged him back kicking and sobbing to the chair he'd occupied so well and patiently before. At first, he strained to break free, but from his chair he again glimpsed his father's breakdown - a King's momentous loss - through his misted eyes, and what little maturity lived at such a tender age changed him to quell the fit and find his composure.

Larry's health was unsteady throughout infancy; first colic, then croupe, sometimes stubborn ear infections. Busybodies theorized it was a way of pining for his mother, or the terrible things his newborn eyes must've seen at their first open glimpses. Still others pushed the old wives' tale that it came from taking formula, making illnesses common and severe. But the surviving parent barely cared either way, only went about his fractured life, raising them in solitude.

Doubtless a part of Bowser died the day his last namesake entered the world. He withdrew, waxing cold, distant, introspective, self-critical. In her life she'd been one of few catalysts to bring out the best in him, the power to coax his love and benevolence from its hiding place. With that gone, the dominant, tyrannical side of character was given the reigns to unchecked control.

Problems would begin to surface. He resented the cruel nature of her passing, the bare facts of single fatherhood. No one dared protest or muffle his iron fist, no sensitive counter caught his methodology, the harsh tactics ruling or harsh practice with his growing brood. Through the resentment of him, their teacher-king, seven twinkles of his eye moved to be like him; in unwitting hopes that by this, he would somehow more accept and cherish them, ideal from his abusive views. It was a small step from this to mischief, for which they'd eventually be known and infamous throughout their lands.

Ludwig, though no saint of any stature, never sank to quite the same levels of his siblings, the depravity that haunted Roy, Larry and to a lesser extent the further four. Memories of that dreadful day burned too deep; memories of her, what she'd want for them, dissolved thoughts within him to behave how she'd never approve of.

He grew older and wiser; the innocence so lost matured him faster and severe compared with the others. And through meeting Esmerelda, whose sweet and kind demeanor brought him echoes, he felt he'd recovered at least part of what passed on. The happiness in this cemented that bloom and grounded his thinking.

Not lost on him, these effects, and every so often he'd be urged to thank his better half, never really telling her why. She assumed for loving him, and though this was partial truth it by no means included a full picture, one he doubted she nor anyone could grasp.

On this day they sat together, zestful for each other's company en-route to a truly royal evening. He perceived the light behind her eyes; they danced with passion that told him of her love, trust, devotion. Gently he traced fingers through her silken locks, gave a smile, a "Thank you" and no more.

**********************************************

Roy shuddered at the dankness of the alley he ducked in. Normally a dreary scene put him at ease; many of his past deals were in this same setting. Tonight was different... He'd never owed such a steep tab.

Pulling his jacket tight over his torso to repel the cold, the new moon was ushered in and unforgiving. Up ahead, in dim reflections of roof lamps, he glimpsed the outline of a filthy dumpster. This likely niche would be the meeting place.

He halted a moment, trying to see everything on or around it. Crooks who were out drugs or money you expected to be shady and dangerous reclaiming what was theirs. In the event someone - or something - waited with such intentions, he needed the upper hand.

Slow did he start towards the dumpster again, circling at a distance. No one present on any side, and there was little else nearby where a jerk might conceal themselves. The possibility he'd been 'stood up' hardly stemmed his fear at all; he was vaguely aware of his quaking while creeping on the receptacle for a closer look.

He'd barely reached its front side when the top door creaked suddenly open. A figure grabbed his neck, slammed him to the cold iron walls. He struggled to shake its hold, caught a glint from below and swiftly froze.

Say hello to a steak knife, long, polished and sharp like new.

"Took your sweet time", a low voice seethed from behind him. "You made me think... You took me for a fool."

Whomever it was had him so tight he could barely speak. At length, he managed to sputter out "I... Have... Your... Dough."

These were the magic words - the knife lowered from Roy, and the neckhold was released.

"Glad you're not as dumb as you sound. Hand it up, don't you dare look back at me One sudden move'll net you a new coffin."

Roy slowly, carefully, rummaged through his pocket and produced a hefty bankroll. He held it up to a slimy hand; it was promptly snatched, the perp' never moving out the trash bin or its shadows.

"That's all of it, all w-one hundred-G's", Roy stuttered. "N-now am I free to go?"

It waited several seconds to answer. "Not quite. Seeing how you're back in the black with us, we're ready to negotiate. You ain't forgot the last batch, and its quality?"

The hand that snatched the money now produced a small briefcase. Roy quickly took it, set it down and opened it a tad.

He saw just what he'd expected; powder, rocks, syringes. Eyes widened accordingly.

"I knew you'd appreciate", came the raspy cackle. "Keep that unassuming case to boot. You'll be a regular Trump cartin' it home."

Roy admired it for a short while, but closed it, lifted it and slowly handed it back. "I can't", he said. "I didn't bring more cash than to settle things."

The dealer's eyes, which had before shown average in the halogen light, now narrowed. Once more, the hand shot out from the dumpster, this time securing his eyelid. He huffed air, curbing any noise and maybe saving his life.

"Listen, like never before", the voice furied, "You're takin' it. When it's gone, you'll be back to pay on my terms. And if you do well to as you called it, settle things, business will boom. Understood?"

Roy, with mounting terror, gave nods in agreement. His release was once again, prompt.

"Now cut out, bitch", the dealer ended, " Before there's unwanted eyes." It placed the briefcase tight in his hand, and he damn-well couldn't refuse a second time. He took it, strolled away cool, back out to sidewalks, careful to appear hella-casual.

Why it unfolded that manner was mightily self-evident. If Roy was to have his fix, he was to stay in debt. Pure leverage... Whether or not Roy scrutinized the gravitas, he was in over his head, slave to his avenues.

As he rounded a nondescript corner, approached his car, regret flooded his faculties. He'd been told to park far from there, to shake suspicions; this alone raised a red flag from the start. Never mind that he agreed to a place where no one witnessed, if it went like this... Or if he'd been hornswoggled and shanked, shoved in with the day's garbage, where his body'd rot like so much trash.

At present, no escape. The man owned him, and every exchange, every depletion, meeting, only dug his hole deeper. He alone knew, and knew it was better this way, wrong as he could be with that.

'I'm savin'em from a waste of worry. Ignorance is bliss, yeah? I'll come clean one day, I'll prostrate myself, we'll all be a posse again, like Larry wants.'

He'd just entered his car, clicked the seat belt and reached for his keys when he paused, staring down the case placed beside him. It was leather, accessible... Calling... Beckoning. He tried to ignore and crank the engine, but will was weak. He needed it.

He clicked open the latches, removed a needle; that bastard, one was already filled and ready for what tugged at his mind. Fumbling through his jacket, he produced a tourniquet, rolled up the left sleeve and wrapped it tight on bare arm. Teeth clenched while the tip was inserted and the top pushed down. It took the longest moment, but soon the issue was moot, and familiar waves washed over him. The needle was removed, the tourniquet untied and placed with some hardship back in the briefcase. Sighing deep and long, he fiddled with his keys before finally finding the ignition, enjoying the engine's roar.

As he rolled away, the weight on his mind was getting home, to attempt forgetting.

To be continued...