Prince Lute and the Sixteen-Year Bender

Queen Horn had a son by the name of Prince Lute. Now, Lute was the most powerful magician in all the land, and during the day he was just as beloved as Queen Horn. He was always playing with children or helping old ladies across the road, and never ever cursed or said anything mean or nasty at all. He was so nice that the people were able to overlook his nightly trips to local bars. Each morning, bar owners all across Sforzando surveyed the remaining splinters of their property and cursed the fact that the most powerful magician in all of the land was a violent drunk.

One day Queen Horn threw a grand party for Lute’s fifteenth birthday and invited all her neighbors and friends. Horn’s sister Alto was there with her husband, King Zither of Slur, and their children, who went to bed early. King Shrinx and Queen Shawm of Dal Segno were there, chatting happily away with representatives of the Line Democratic. Even the mazoku were there. The mazoku were all bachelors and didn’t quite fit in with the rest of the neighborhood, but seeing as it was a special occasion, they made every effort to be civil. Queen Horn found that she rather liked the Phoenix King, Oboe, as she downed her sixth shot of bourbon.

Lute was having the time of his life. Not only was everyone congratulating him on his birthday, but he was also allowed to drink for the first time in the presence of his mother. He knew the old lady knew about his drinking, but she never did anything about it, and besides, she was a lush too. So he took advantage of it, drinking every bit of alcohol he could get his hands on. Soon he was completely sloshed and, with the courage only drunkenness gives, he swaggered up to the Demon Judge, Pick.

“You know,” he said, attempting to poke Pick in the chest and missing, “I never liked your kind.”

Pick raised an eyebrow, wondering why this human was trying to pick a fight. He hadn’t been doing anything except standing in the corner and wondering when the interminable party would end.

“Prince Lute,” he said, trying to diffuse the Prince’s misdirected anger, “I believe you’re drunk.”

“Demon,” said Lute, glaring at him, “I may be drunk, but you are ugly.”

Pick stiffened. Goat’s horns were in this year!

“Yeah, that’s right,” said Lute loudly, putting his hands on his hips and smirking. “Ugly. As in, you were born in the Ugly Tree, and you fell out of it, and you landed in the Ugly Bush, and then all the branches you hit on the way down fell on you, and then the Lightning Bolt of Ugly hit you and started a Fire of Ugly, and then... where was I going with this again?”

The entire room was silent. How could the Prince say such things? The other mazoku moved in around Pick, whispering words of encouragement to their friend.

“Don’t worry,” said Bass, placing a hand on Pick’s quivering shoulder. “You’re not ugly. You’ve never been ugly. Those goat horns look so nice on you. It’s no wonder you were the one to win Kestra’s love instead of me.”

“Don’t say that about yourself,” said Pick, giving Bass a teary smile. “You know as well as I do that the only reason he picked me was that he had a thing for Rezo. And you know how much my hair looks like Rezo’s.”

“Would you like for us to teach him some manners for you, Pick?” said Drum, sidling up next to him and cracking his knuckles. “I believe I can speak for Guitar and myself when I say we would enjoy it immensely.”

“No,” said Pick, wiping his eyes. “This is my fight. I won’t let anyone else get involved.”

Pick drew himself to his full height and glared at the drunken Prince.

“You and me. Now.”

Had Queen Horn been in the room, she certainly would have stopped the brewing violence. However, she was currently in a back room getting it on with the oh-so-nice mazoku she’d met that evening. What was his name, Lobo? Or maybe Hobo? It didn’t really matter, as long as she got laid. Meanwhile, the guests stared at the two contenders fearfully.

Pick narrowed his eyes and spun dark energy into being, gathering it together for a spell that would teach the young Prince some manners once and for all. Before he could release it, though, Lute, being the most powerful magician in the land, turned the energy back on him. Pick died instantly.

For a moment, everything was silent. Then the mazoku stomped out of the ballroom, swearing revenge upon Lute and the country of Sforzando. Queen Horn, just coming back from her tryst with Oboe, stared after them for a moment, then turned to Lute, fire in her eyes.

“Lute,” she said, “did you just insult our neighbors?”

Lute was unable to reply. Horn, as angry as she had ever been, forced her son into rehab, where he spent many long months drying out as the mazoku waged war against his country. Finally, he was declared sober, and he returned home to many a cheerful greeting. He was able to meet his new baby sister--his mother said the father’s name was something like “Robo”--and he loved her very much. Soon, though, it was time to fight the mazoku.

When the armies of the mazoku surrounded the walls of Sforzando yet again, Lute stepped out onto the castle wall alone. He knew it was time to atone.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I never meant to kill Pick. I was so drunk I didn’t know what I was doing. Please stop attacking my country.”

He bowed his head. The mazoku looked at him, then at each other.

“You know, Bass,” said Guitar, sheathing his swords, “he really does seem to regret what he did, despite the lame apology.”

“You’re right,” said Bass. “And I never liked Pick anyway. He stole my man.”

“You are both correct,” said Drum. “You should not feel obligated to avenge the death of one who caused you so much pain, Bass.”

“You’re right,” said Bass. “We should invite him to the wedding. We need another usher anyway.”

Bass invited Lute to be an usher at Drum and Guitar’s wedding as a gesture of peace.

“You two are getting married?” squealed Lute. “That’s so cute!”

And so Lute left with the mazoku to go back to Hameln to get ready for the wedding. When they got there, Lute was introduced to Sizer and thought she was just the cutest thing. She wanted to stay up late and help Drum try on his dress one more time, but Bass sent her to bed, as it was time for the bachelor party.

It was quite an event. Vocal provided the stripping, and demon brew, the tastiest form of alcohol known to man or mazoku, was served in immense quantities. Lute abstained, remembering what his mother had told him before he left.

“If you so much as look at a drop of alcohol while you’re away,” she’d said, “I’ll send you to Olin for rehab.”

Even with such a dire threat, though, Lute followed each cup with his eyes as it passed by him. To distract himself, he talked to the tipsy mazoku, trying to get a whiff of the alcohol on their breath. He did his best to avoid Bass, who was moping in the corner in front of a large picture of Demon King Kestra--who, Lute had to admit, was very pretty--and instead conversed with Drum and Guitar.

“Actually,” said Guitar after Lute had asked how they had gotten together in the first place, “I have to thank you for that. If it hadn’t been for you, we might not be here now.”

“Guitar and I had admired each other secretly for years,” said Drum, putting an arm around his soon-to-be-husband. “Pick’s death, and our subsequent attempts to comfort Bass, allowed us the opportunity to know each other better, and one day we simply realized our love for what it was.”

The happy couple shared a deep kiss, and Lute looked away, wishing he had a nice martini or maybe a Sam Adams to help ease the discomfort. Drum, ever the considerate sort, asked him what was wrong. When Lute told him, he considered the problem for a few moments, then slammed one daintily-clawed hand into the other in triumph.

“You are here as an ambassador of peace, are you not?” Lute nodded, not quite sure what Drum was getting at. “Then your mother would certainly not object to you participating in a drinking contest in that capacity?”

Lute’s world brightened. Guitar quickly gathered all the mazoku around and seated Vocal on Lute’s lap. Orgel brought over the first shots, and the great Mazoku-Sforzando Drinking War began.

“Intoxicaaaaatiooooon! Intoxicaaaaatiooon stiiiiiill so faaaaaaaaar!” sang Drum, slamming yet another shot glass onto the small table between himself and the Prince. He waited for Lute to pick up his own drink, but it became clear after a moment that the young man had passed out. The other mazoku had either passed out as well or gone to bed, except for Bass who was still in the corner with the picture of his lost love. Drum stood and draped a warm blanket over Guitar, who had fallen asleep on the couch, and gave him two goodnight kisses, one from each of his heads. Then he roused Bass from his grief.

“Bass,” he said, “I believe our young guest has fallen into unconsciousness. It pains me to bother you when you are so distraught, but you are the only sober one here, and you are well aware of my policy on drinking and flying. Would you please take him home before Vocal decides to take his silence for consent?”

Bass blinked blearily up at him and agreed to take Lute home. Vocal was unconcernedly dry-humping the Prince’s leg, but he slunk away when Bass approached, muttering something about Orgel Bass chose not to hear. He lifted Lute up and settled him comfortably in his arms. As he did so, the boy murmured something. Bass listened carefully.

“Bes’... King of Demon... Pandora’s br... Box... hmm, sandwich...”

What Lute had actually said was “The best brew in the land, fit for the King of Demons himself, is in Pandora’s Breadbox. Hmm, sandwich.” To this day, he does not know where this mystic knowledge came from. However, it didn’t matter at that point, because Bass had heard what he wanted to hear. New hope rose in his chest. He knew where Pandora’s Box was--that greedy old hag, Queen Horn, had it. No longer would she keep him from his love!

But before he declared war on Sforzando again, he would take Lute home. No one would ever be able to say he was a neglectful host. He gathered up his Hell Corps, a fitting escort for someone of royal blood, and made his way to Sforzando.

Meanwhile, Drum, being the only person awake in the castle, was baking cookies. Of course, since he was quite intoxicated despite his clear speech, the cookies he made were not so much cookies as slabs of something which, while not quite poisonous, were certainly inedible. After prying them off the baking sheet with a trowel he’d found under the sink, he placed them in a Tupperware container and stuck them in the back of the refrigerator, where they would eventually mature into the Lemon Bars That Ate Hameln. The heat of the stove had made Drum extremely sweaty, and so he decided to go for a quick dip in the pool.

An enormous splash roused Guitar from the couch. Correctly deducing that it was Drum in the pool, he smiled and made his way outside as well. No harm in a little nighttime skinny-dipping with his husband-to-be. What he saw when he got there, though, sent fear through his very soul: Drum was face-down in the water, not moving.

“Drum!” he cried. Guitar tried to pull his love out of the pool, but he was simply too big. He grew more and more frantic as Drum sank further and further towards death. His panicked cries woke Sizer, and together they finally managed to pull Drum to safety and get him breathing again. Guitar clasped his hands together as Drum’s eyes opened, tears of joy running down his face.

“Uhn,” slurred Drum, his other head growling inarticulately. “...Eh? Who are you? Get out of my way, weaklings!”

Guitar and Sizer stared in shock as Drum went off to bed to sleep off the worst hangover he’d ever had. Sizer was distraught. Drum had been like a mother to her ever since her own mother had encased herself in crystal (meth), never to be heard from again. Why was he so cold now?

“Fine,” she cried, “I don’t need a mother. I’ll just take Father!”

She lifted off and flew to Slur, where she killed a large portion of the population and most of the royal family in her grief. Guitar continued to stare at the place where Drum had been, his heart slowly freezing. Drum didn’t remember him; he’d been without air for too long, and the resulting brain damage had changed his entire personality and wiped all memory of their love. Where was his articulate, affectionate Drum?

“Bass,” he said darkly, “this is your fault. You invited that human here. ‘Let’s make him an usher’ you said. King of Hell, you will regret this day!”

He wiped the tears from his eyes and went to bed, where he lay awake for long hours every night visualizing his revenge against the mazoku he blamed for the loss of his one and only love.

Meanwhile, Bass was waiting in front of Sforzando Palace for Queen Horn to come out, Lute in his arms. The young Prince was stirring, a good sign. Bass smiled for the first time in a long time. At last, at last he had hope--perhaps this time, with both Pandora and Pick out of the way, Kestra would be his! Queen Horn came out onto the castle wall, wondering what was happening. When she saw her son in Bass’ arms, a mother’s instinct consumed her.

“Lute!” she screamed. “You’ve been hitting the sauce again, haven’t you? I’ve had enough, young man! You can go and drink your life away somewhere else, but I won’t have you setting a bad example for Flute!”

With that, she cast a spell, killing most of the Hell Corps and decapitating Bass. Lute flew through the air.

The young Prince groaned and finally woke up, wondering where he was and what had happened. He vaguely remembered agreeing to a drinking contest with Drum, and maybe some necking with Vocal, and now he was here, but he didn’t know where “here” was. After a moment he was able to determine that “here” was flying through the air. He reflexively grabbed onto the first thing that came into his field of vision, which happened to be Bass’ head.

“Huh?” he said.

“Hey, Lute,” said Bass’ head, “I’ve got a deal for you. Let me take out your soul and stick a bit of my own in, OK? I’ve gotta get Kestra back, and I can’t if all I can do is give head.”

Lute considered it for a moment.

“I don’t think that would be a good idea,” he said.

“I’ll give you a Corona,” said Bass’ head.

“OK,” said Lute. Bass summoned up a bottle of Corona, and Lute happily drank his soul away.

Years later, Drum would remember his long-ago love for Guitar, only to realize that he was no longer the same mazoku he’d fallen in love with. He ended up killing Guitar, and they spent all of their afterlives trying to work things out. This was immensely complicated by their forced sharing of one body, a frustration which Drum still blames Guitar for.

Sizer, traumatized for life by the sudden change in her “mother’s” personality, would spend her entire childhood ruled by her Electra complex, unable to let go of the notion that Kestra would be a real father to her. She tragically found out late in her teens that her father was just as much of a bastard as anyone else. Flying north in her grief, she joined a commune, where she now grows organic herbs and celery.

Lute eventually sobered up after 16 long years and gave Bass’ head the boot. He now lives in Sforzando with his mother, his sister, and Clarinet, a young man whom he’d helped down the first steps on the path to alcoholism as a child. The general population of Sforzando was extremely happy to have their Prince back, but there was one segment which was not...

Each morning, the bar owners of Sforzando surveyed the splintered remains of their property and cursed the fact that the two most powerful magicians in the land were violent drunks.