Chapter 7: Vitalium

A green glow lit the bar.

Not green like a summery lime, shining with a healthy brightness, nor green like a jarred olive, subdued in its hue but bursting with succulence, but rather a green of putrid lakes covered in moss and algae, filled with the stench of rotting fish and filthy overgrowth. This was the green of the warty backs of wizened toads, the scaly shells of snake skins, and the moldy look of moss on dead tree branches. This was the green of decay and wretchedness, a pale shade that reminded one of vomit and induced the urge as well. Green as sickly and sad as green can come.

Vines producing thick mucus dangled threateningly from the ceiling and along the walls. They coiled along columns and up the legs of stools and tables. Occasionally, they would even whip out and whack passerby from behind, leaving a trail of slime on the back of their necks and coats.

While the floor tiles were oddly fluorescent, pulsing with the footsteps of the patrons, the ceiling was obscured by a rising fog of smoke, cloudy and white.

As for the patrons themselves, they were diverse in their appearance. Dozens sat along the bar, which stretched out in a long rectangular space, and hundreds of others collected in tattered booths. There were squid-like creatures with multiple tentacles for arms and gooey eyes, reptilian humanoids with tails swishing behind their cloth garments, and blockish beings whose limbs might as well have been constructed with children's building blocks. At one booth, there was a group of bizarre bi-pedals whose bodies were transparent and whose insides were liquid and colorful; at another, there were raucously laughing mammalians with long, angled ears and furry faces, their teeth gleaming sharply in the bar's glow.

At the counter there was a bartender who could only be described as grotesque, since he seemed to be composed of a growth of fungus and mold, protruding at odd places all over his body and grossly speckled over his fingers and palms. His eyes were barely visible among the bulbous pimples on his face, and his lips were rimmed with several, puss-filled boils.

Yet for the hundreds of alien guests at his bar, his appearance did not make much of a difference. They were there for drink, smoke, and other visceral pleasures. When vice was provided, they need not discriminate about the provider.

As the bartender was mixing a drink, he watched a monitor above his shelves of liquor. A highly intense sporting event was on, one in which the players seemed to be trying to scald each other by racketing spontaneously combusting meteors back and forth over an electrified net. As one player got hit, he burst into a screaming, writhing mass of smoking lava. Laughter erupted from the counter.

"Bloody idiot deserved it!"

"What as he looking at? Damn ball was coming straight at him!"

"Those mother fuckers in quadrant eight deserved it! Haha!"

The bartender smirked as he finished off the drink and passed it to the recipient at the counter. As the patron took their glass, the bartender's wrist unavoidably skimmed along the surface of the counter. He turned around to rinse the flesh off in the sink. That counter was disease-ridden, regardless of how much he did to keep it clean. He wiped it down often, but it was more a measure of habit than cleanliness. With the slugs leaving trails of slime from their floppish arms and the bird folk coughing up regurgitated chips everywhere, there was simply no way to keep that place clean. The best he could do was to protect himself and make sure his own hands were clean. He might look the worst of this bunch, but he could take genuine pride in being the least filthy.

"Excuse me?"

The bartender turned around. The recipient of his freshly made drink was beckoning to him.

"Oh boy," he thought to himself. "What's this prick want?" He'd gotten everything from death threats from intoxicated, fungus-loving dinosaurs to ménage a trois invites from extraterrestrial drag queens. There was always something to be wary of when someone didn't just want to take their drink and go.

"What is it?" he grunted, giving the guest a stern look. They were entirely robed in a gray, faded cloak, so he could only see the white skin of their fingers poking out from the draped sleeves. Another bad sign. He kept his distance.

"Your name is Gilgamek Venchnok, correct?"

The bartender's eyes widened in surprise. He stood very still for a moment, ignoring the impatient summons from another customer at the other end of the counter. During that moment, the whole bar became very still for the bartender. His eyes, while obscured by his facial blemishes, glazed over and he wavered slightly. He could feel his rising pulse in the vein of his neck, and as he realized his state, he tried to control himself. He took a step closer to the counter and whispered, "What did you call me?"

"Gilgamek," the hooded person replied. Their voice was raspy, indicating age, but was neither high enough in pitch to be clearly classified as a woman's voice, nor low enough to be a man's. "You were a mercenary captain hired for special missions in the second infantry unit of the Ice-Jin Empire, directly reporting to his most holy and feared Emperor Frieza."

The bartender—or Gilgamek, as he was indeed formerly known—was now leaning directly on the counter, despite the filth he knew to be collected there. His eyes were narrowed now as he peered into the faceless cloak of his guest.

"Who are you?" he demanded, trying to sound forceful. Even he could hear the tremble in his voice, though, and was uncomfortably aware of his feeling of vulnerability.

"Consider me a well-informed friend." Gilgamek could hear the smile in the stranger's voice, but he did not feel comforted. "My name is not nearly as important as what I have come here today to share with you."

"Hey! Could I get some service down here, you tottering, cheese-faced waste of flesh!"

The customer sat at the end of the bar banged his fist on the counter to add emphasis to his final insult, resulting in a resounding whoop of laughter from the patrons listening in. Gilgamek, feeling simultaneously pissed and shaken, reached below the counter, grabbed a bottle of beer, and tossed it directly at the aliens head, making direct contact with his skull. As the customer eyes rolled into the back of his head and he toppled off his stool, collapsing on the floor, the patrons hooted and hollered with more laughter.

"Shut up the lot of ya!" Gilgamek barked to no effect. He didn't even care as they designed more creative insults for him. He kept his eyes on his hooded guest, while trying to ignore the feeling of his stomach churning. Without a face in that hood, how he was supposed to read this guest's expression? Was he being toyed with, or could this person be serious? And if it was the latter… Gilgamek couldn't even ponder the possibilities if that were the case.

"What do you mean you got something important to tell me?" he tried to say as calmly as possible. He was eager to appear cool and collected. He was wise enough to know that if he revealed his true level of fear, he could endanger himself more—and not knowing what kind of danger he was in, that was a risk he simply could not take. "How do you know I used to work for… him?"

The guest completely ignored his questions and continued pleasantly.

"I'm impressed by what a recovery you made since your battle on Planet Vaigon. The Imperial Guard was certain you were dead. How miraculous that you managed to return yourself to such a healthy and vibrant state!"

Gilgamek paled, as in fright, but his face contorted in anger.

"Are you suggesting I deserted?" he said, his voice dangerously low.

"On the contrary!" the customer gave a wheezy chuckle. "I think you gave your all – and by your all, I mean your all. Your strength, your body, your breath—your life."

Gilgamek was visibly worried. While his other customers were clearly oblivious to anything but their own conversations, his growing sense of insecurity was making him paranoid. His cloaked guest took notice.

"Why so nervous, Gilgamek? I'm not saying anything that's untrue, am I?"

The bartender made no response. For a few moments, he listened to the thumping of his heart beat in his ears. It reminded him of the war drums on the battlefield, the little boys solemnly pounding their mallets against the animal skin of their instruments, signaling for the impending demise of thousands of men. They would rise over steep hills, mountains, plateaus; they would battle under hot suns, cold moons, wet and dry skies in equal measure. Dripping with sweat and blood or dehydrated and spitting kernels of salt, he would always hear that thump… thump… thump as he charged forward to meet waves of violence.

He looked his guest over as these thoughts ran through his mind. Up until this time, their head was bent low over the counter. Now, they were sitting upright, yet their face was no less obscure than before. Gilgamek knew the dark magic – a concealing technique for those who did not wish to be seen. He was as suspicious and fearful now as he could be.

"Nothing you've said so far is false," he stated, peering into that dark abyss, "but it's certainly outdated information. His Emperor passed nearly a decade ago. His regime ahs since fallen. This," Gilgamek waved his hand at the unruly assembly of space travelers, "is what's left. Drunkards. Thieves. Fools. They move through the galaxy now without purpose. Leader after leader has tried to take his Emperor's place, but none have succeeded. As such, the universe is a mess. It has been for a long time. And so have I. all I live for now is to booze up these buffoons and follow the races with the small coins from my paycheck. So forgive me if hearing my long since forgotten past leaves a…" Gilgamek licked his lips with a long, warty tongue, "sour taste in my mouth."

The stranger took a turn to pause. The white fingers gripping the thin stem of their glass picked the beverage up off the counter and brought it up to the dark opening of the hood. Gilgamek watched as a pair of violet-black lips protruded, very slowly, from the shadows—a shiny glass making their presence fully known. They folded over the cusp of the glass and sipped the liquor out without making a sound. Then, they pulled back, retreating into the darkness of the hood just as slowly as they emerged. The glass came back down on the counter. Finally, the stranger spoke.

"What if I told you the return of his Emperor was not only feasible, but imminent?" they hissed. "What if I told you that you are the key to returning his Lord Frieza to all his former glory?"

Normally, Gilgamek would have laughed at such an absurd notion – just as he had laughed at an amateur pornographer from the other night inviting him to be part of his up and coming film. But it was wonder that drove him forward, for how did this mysterious figure know so much about him? And how did they manage such ancient magic to cloak themselves? They spoke with elegance and clarity where his other customers woofed and croaked. He knew there was something unique about this one, so he gave the customer a chance.

"Sounds like drunk talk," he said, "but it's idealism, which I'm not used to. I may not be an optimist, but the number of cynics that come in and outta here is sickening. They've given up all hope on things ever returning to normal, and it leaves me feeling sick.'

"I'll tell you what, though. If I could return his Emperor, Lord Frieza, back to power, I'd do it in a heartbeat. I don't care what anyone says. He was a god. He ruled the universe the only way it can be run – with force. And I was proud to serve him. Didn't matter that my face looks the way it does." Gilgamek suddenly puffed his chest out and bore a marked expression of pride. "All that mattered was my ability. I was a captain of the second top mercenary infantry unit of the Ice-jin army, ranked just below Captain Ginyu. Had I not valued my own team so dearly, I would have joined his. We never competed the two of us, though, because we knew we were all working toward the same goal – the reigning order of the Emperor. We would have gladly traded the madness of the galaxy for his hierarchy, and I know if Ginyu were still alive today he would agree with me in saying we'd still make the same bargain now. Freedom's a farce when this is how people use it."

And precisely at that moment, a brawl broke out between two inebriated bird folk, who were circling each other in a predatory fashion, flapping their wings in a fluster and attempting to poke each other's eyes out with their beaks.

The guest across from Gilgamek chuckled again.

"Living creatures are indeed fickle. By themselves, they're useless, powerless, and pathetic. En masse, they're witless and impulsive. But occasional rarities occur – like yourself, sir. Honorable folk who can think for themselves and follow through on thought-out plans. His Emperor was the best of them, and it is a joy to hear you still pronounce him lord."

"Don't get too cheery," Gilgamek retorted. "You act like he's already alive and breathing. But I don't see how he's back – or coming back – and I certainly don't see what I've got to do with it."

"Impatience is one of those undesirable qualities, my friend," the guest said with glee, causing Gilgamek to blush. "But not to worry, for I too am impatient – just as impatient as you to see the return of his Lord Frieza. And, as I said before, you do have an important role to play in his rebirth."

Gilgamek was torn between his desire for his cloaked guest's words to be true and his gut, which told him that the whole conversation was pure madness.

His customer, however, was sudden in their demonstration of impatience. Not only had all the drink from their glass mysteriously disappeared, they were now risen from their bar stool and tossing coins on the counter. Gilgamek could hardly process the speed of it all, and yet his guest was readily prepared for him.

"You are familiar with the element vitalium, I am certain." They pulled the sleeves of their cloak over their thin white fingers.

Gilgamek squawked.

"What… how… how do you…" he stuttered.

"Never mind that," the cloaked guest hissed. "I must be going now. We've already spoken too long. But if you're truly loyal to the Empire, you will meet me at Willo's Grove tomorrow morning, quarter pas three. Understood?"

Gilgamek rushed in making his mental note. "Tomorrow, Willo's Grove, quarter past three," he repeated mechanically.

"Excellent," said his guest. "I will see you then."

The bartender was just about to summon them back – was it quarter past three or quarter to three? – when he realized the figure was gone. While the bar was undoubtedly crowded, there were at least a dozen steps to the door and he hadn't seen anyone go up or down them, nor had he heard or seen the door open or shut. He looked up at the ceiling, covered in as thick of fog as ever, and sighed.

"Damn, if there's ever a time I needed a drink myself, it's now," he muttered, and proceeded to fill a frosty mug with beer.

The ruckus of the bar continued uninterrupted.

To be continued…

~Fina Arvanthol