Leech

Chapter 21

The thing that had started their argument was not forgotten, by any means. Marx certainly was polite and helpful over the next several days, as Kirby recovered his energy and strength. He took it almost to an eerie level, always willing to get Kirby something, always waiting at his slightest whim.

It was one of these times, as Marx was getting him water, that Kirby paused him on his way out.

"Marx... Um, about what started all of this..."

Marx turned, surveying him thoughtfully. "You mean the fact I ate one of the kitchen servants?"

Kirby winced. "Uh, yeah that. I know it's said and done, so there isn't much I can do to change that. Nor do I know why you did it - and I don't really want to know. But I was thinking, we need to come to some sort of compromise."

"Compromise?" Marx tapped his lips. "That means give-take. We'll have a give-take."

"Under my terms."

"But still a give-take?"

Kirby shook his head. "A little, maybe? But I think compromise was the wrong word - I don't mean that I'll let you do whatever you want."

"So, you're implying I'll follow whatever rules you feel like putting on me?"

Warning. Kirby could detect it sharp in his voice, more because he knew Marx too well than because he physically heard it. He spoke delicately, "I'm not trying to imply anything... or put rules on you. I was just thinking that, because you do care about me, you might consider respecting the fact that the servants are my friends, and you shouldn't..." he grimaced. "You shouldn't eat them?"

Marx looked to be considering it, then Kirby realized another front he needed to cover - "Oh, you can't eat anyone in Dreamland. Or uh, outside, if there are good people outside... yeah..."

"At all?" Marx stuck out his bottom lip unhappily.

"At all?" Kirby recoiled. "So this wasn't the first time?"

"Not often," he pouted, "but occasionally is more than never."

Kirby covered his mouth and choked back a retch. With one hand he signaled Marx to wait, then closed his eyes and breathed slowly and steadily for a few seconds. Once he'd collected himself, he shook his head vehemently. "Yes never, Marx. Not again."

Marx crossed his arms and surveyed Kirby critically. "Then I have one condition of my own."

"Yes?"

"Watermelons, you see, are my best friends. My favorite fruit, definitely - and it really pains me when you eat them, because they are my friends. Best friends. I will give up eating other two-legged flat-teethed mammals, only if you give up eating watermelons. Forever."

"You're not taking this seriously at all!" Kirby despaired.

"I totally am, myep - just making a comparison here, but you don't care to listen to it."

"Except it's not an equal comparison! Don't you realize how messed up that sounds?"

"Watermelons are people too."

"Oh are they?" Kirby bit back, not at all amused by Marx's tactics. "Then how about I just set a watermelon right here and leave, if it's all the same to you?"

Marx made a small whining noise. "No, that's not the same."

"I'm not seeing a difference."

Marx held out both his hands like a scale. "This is you," he said, nodding at his left hand, "And the other hand is a watermelon." He lifted his left hand high above his other one. "See; you're much more important, because you're my favoritest."

Kirby stared. "Are you trying to tell me you want to eat me?"

"No; I'm saying since you're my favoritest, I will oblige your comprohmize."

I'm not giving up watermelons!"

Marx sighed. "Let me repeat that. I will oblige your comprohmize - without my condition. Because I am just that nice."

"You will... wait, really?" Kirby sat up straighter hopefully.

"Yes. Need me to sign a contract or something? Make it all formal?"

"Err, no, as long as you know you won't ever do it again."

"Newp. Never again. Understand that this is a big sacrifice though."

Kirby cringed. "Do we really taste that good?"

"Of course not."

"... But didn't you just imply it was your favorite food? Since you said it was like me giving up watermelons?"

"Sure, but that doesn't mean it tastes better than other meat."

By this time Kirby was very confused, and severely disgusted. Nonetheless, disgust had a habit of being accompanied by curiosity. "Then why?"

Marx crossed his arms. "I have my reasons."

"That... is a really stupid excuse."

"Well, then why don't you come up with a better one?" Marx snapped. "Does it really matter?"

Kirby shrank down on the bed. "I just wondered... And wondered how you'd even start that kind of thing." He shuddered. "How you could even think of it."

"Don't start questioning the things I think. I don't want your questions."

His menacing tone warned Kirby off, but he was unwilling to drop the subject so quickly, just because he'd touched on something that was evidently sensitive. Privately, he thought it was more sensitive to himself, since Marx obviously didn't care about his wrongdoings. "I think I should know," Kirby said quietly, "I haven't even told anyone, for you. If I'm keeping this secret for you - which I shouldn't even be doing - maybe you should at least tell me why I should."

"I think you expect too much." If words were objects, his would be barbed wire.

Kirby licked his lips. Cautious, but determined. "It can't be that hard to tell me - it's the least you can do, right?"

"I looked after you for two days, tended to you while you were sick, and even agreed to your stupid compromise - where you never even gave up something for me. You'd think that'd be enough to satisfy you, but this is how you repay me?" A demented hatred burned in his dark purple eyes - a hatred that brought nervous foreboding over Kirby.

"I'm sorry, I just want to know-"

"No. Go away."

"Wh-what?"

"Go away. Get out of my house. I don't want to see you right now."

Kirby clutched the covers. "Marx, I don't think I can walk right now. I still feel dizzy."

"You should've thought about that," he snapped. He grabbed Kirby's arm and viciously hauled him off the bed. The wind rushed out of Kirby's lungs when he struck the floor, and instantly the room around him spun, his dizziness surging a tenfold. Crying out, he curled up and tried vainly to reorient his senses - but the floor was still up and ceiling down, with black spots flashing in his vision.

Something jabbed hard into his spine and he realized Marx was kicking him.

"Stop, please stop!" Kirby unfurled and tried to squirm away only for Marx's booted foot to strike his unprotected side. He managed to unsteadily get to his hands and knees while Marx's onslaught continued, and crawled pitifully a few feet away before collapsing and curling into another ball.

"Please stop," he whispered, hoping desperately his vertigo would leave soon and he could stand properly. Marx paused.

"Leave."

"I'm trying."

"Try harder." With this, he gave one last painful kick to his back, then turned away.

Kirby wasn't sure where he went; wasn't sure where in the house he was. Several minutes passed, where his breath slowly returned, and his vertigo cleared. Still, if he made any quick movements or tried to fully stand, it would return swiftly and he would have to sit quietly unless the feeling passed.

Gradually, he was able to crawl to the front door, kneel to open the door, and crawl out again. He only went a few yards from Marx's house - enough that would constitute having left. Then, exhausted and feeling as if his own home was much too far away, he slipped into sleep in the bushes outside, as close as he could get to the house itself.

When he woke, hours later, aching from the purple bruises on his back and side and parched, he found he was able to unsteadily stand. He staggered all the way to his own house, and when he arrived at his house, there was a watermelon placed in the very center of his floor, with a neat red ribbon around it, like a present. The watermelon was rotted through and infested with maggots.