By J.M. Allison
Roger struggled inside the sack, his head aching from the after-effects of the day’s overindulgence at the Tavern. When he’d agreed to a game of chance with an ogre, this was not what he’d envisioned.
The bag allowed in minimal light, and when he pressed his face against the coarse material, he could make out the crowd of ogres standing opposite his prison. Several torches burst into life.
Roger winced and groaned as the gathered ogres cheered, clapped, and thumped their clubs on the ground. A stout ogre with pale green skin, plaid loincloth, and purple bow tie shuffled forward.
That was him! The one who’d offered Roger a game of chance in exchange for three kegs of ale. He should have known the brute would double-cross him.
“Me Zaboom. This sheep or treat!” More cheers met his announcement. “Four sacks. One have tasty human treat. Others have sheep, okay to eat. You pick, then we feast! Now meet lucky guessing ogres.”
More cheers.
Roger shifted to catch a glimpse of the other sacks. A red vertical line marked the bag to Roger’s immediate right. The sack shifted and swung, suspended from a tripod of logs. A pitiful bleating sounded from inside.
Roger focused to his left. Another sack swung with two black vertical lines marked on one side of the bag.
The crowd quieted as three ogres waddled forward to stand next to Zaboom.
“This BoomBoom.” He waved one hand at the largest contestant.
BoomBoom rumbled something Roger didn’t catch, then thumped his club against the top of his own bald head. The audience roared its approval.
“This Sheba.” Zaboom waved at a short, round ogre with deep green skin. Her tunic sported several large stains, but a bright yellow bow adorned her frizzy brown hair. She nodded to the crowd.
“This JoeBoe.”
A thin ogre with olive skin and large square glasses shuffled forward.
“BoomBoom guess first.”
BoomBoom stepped forward and squinted in Roger’s direction. “Bag one, definitely sheep. It make sheep sound.”
“Which one tasty human?” Zaboom prompted.
BoomBoom rubbed at the sparse hairs on his chin.
Roger let out a loud bleat, imitating the sounds he’d heard from his right.
“Two. Two have human!” BoomBoom nodded his head and smiled.
“You guess two.” Zaboom scurried forward, drawing a long, curved knife from his belt. He raised the blade and looked at the audience. “Sheep or Treat!” Everyone roared together, then Zaboom swung the knife, slicing the bag to Roger’s left and its contents in half.
Roger gasped as the corner of the sack and a lifeless sheep tumbled to the ground.
The crowd thundered their disappointment as BoomBoom flopped on the ground and sucked his thumb.
“Sheba next.” Zaboom waved her forward.
Sheba studied the remaining bags, twirling her hair around her finger.
Roger inspected the side of his sack. If only he could tell what number was on his bag.
“One have sheep. Three have sheep. Two BoomBoom guess wrong. Must be five. Five have human.”
Heads nodded in agreement.
Zaboom drew his knife and approached.
Roger squirmed. His pulse thundered in his ears. He struggled to his feet and reached for the top of the sack. Perhaps he could lift himself up out of the way of the blade…
Zaboom stopped behind Roger and raised his blade.
“Sheep or Treat!” boomed through the air.
Roger sucked in a breath and closed his eyes. The whistle of the blade filled his ears.
“Nnnnn!” The soft whine escaped despite Roger’s best efforts. He waited. No pain. He opened one eye. His sack remained intact. He gasped and suppressed the urge to holler in relief. He wriggled around and squinted out the back of his bag.
Zaboom stood next to another tripod, knife still held aloft, while at his feet lay a corner of a sack and another dead sheep.
The crowd continued to bemoan their disappointment, and Sheba’s lower lip inched out as large tears welled in her eyes.
“No treat for Sheba. JoeBoe guess now. Sack one or sack three? Which hold human?”
JoeBoe adjusted his glasses and squinted at the bags. He approached the bag to Roger’s right and sniffed. Then he pressed his nose against Roger’s bag and inhaled.
“Ahh-chooo.” JoeBoe smeared his nose across his forearm. “Me ‘lergic to sheep.”
“What your guess?” Zaboom pressed.
JoeBoe pursed his lips then jabbed a finger into Roger’s bag. “Are you sheep?”
“Yes.” The word slipped out before Roger had thought it through.
JoeBoe nodded, then moved to the other bag and poked it. “Are you sheep?”
An angry bleat answered him.
“That sheep. It say so. That human.” JoeBoe flashed a toothy grin at the audience as he pointed at his chosen bag. The crowd cheered.
Roger couldn’t breathe. He was going to die here, remembered as nothing but a tasty treat.
Zaboom positioned himself and raised his knife. “Sheep or Treat!” thundered the crowd, followed by wild cheers.
Roger wanted to close his eyes, to block out his last gruesome moments, but terror froze him in place.
Zaboom swung his blade at JoeBoe’s chosen bag and out tumbled a dead sheep.
“Ohhhh.” The crowd sagged as one and JoeBoe released a loud wail.
Roger’s knees trembled and he stifled a sob of relief.
“Look like only sheep eating tonight! Join tomorrow for more Sheep or Treat!” Zaboom snatched up Roger’s sack and lumbered away from the crowd into the woods.
Roger tried to remain upright as the sack swung and jostled him about. Then the bag upended and Roger tumbled out onto the dirt.
“You lucky human. There your ale. We play again when you come back.” Zaboom grinned then shuffled back toward the ogre camp.
Roger scrambled to his feet and took off into the woods, leaving the kegs behind. From this day forward he would never again overindulge in ale or play games of chance. At least not when ogres were involved.
Rate this story:
(0 votes, average: 0.00 out of 3)
You need to be a registered member to rate this.
Loading...ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Tell us your thoughts!