The Cough

It was typical for Fitz to be rowdy on Wednesday nights, though this evening was uncharacteristically interrupted by a violent half-cough that sprayed blood on The Goose.

Fitz apologized, “gee oh... oh I’m sorry sir, I’m so sorry I’m…”

Fitz cut himself off with another chuckle. A fine sprinkling of crimson dotted The Goose for a second time. Fitz covered his mouth with his palms. More blood. Some made it through his stubby fingers that bore a closer resemblance to bratwursts than human phalanges. Hot thin blood misted out between his hands like steam. He tried to catch the red projectiles as they hurled towards The Goose a third time. Fitz swung his meat-hand at the soaring droplets, determined to prevent his shame from disgracing The Goose again, but he stumbled and ham-fisted The Goose in the ear.

The Goose hollered. He stood quickly to avoid any further coatings of Fitz’s blood or swings of his meaty hands. But his rush to stand was careless and his skull smashed square into Fitz’s jaw. Fitz yelped. He wailed loud and hard. The Goose followed suit. Yet Fitz cried so loud and so hard that he triggered a horrible fit of hacking and coughing. It lasted until The Goose’s face was coated in a crimson so encompassing that it was reminiscent of a microwaved Ziploc sandwich bag.

Fitz and The Goose feared Plague. Often they sat in silence, prostrating before The Goose’s birch mantle, their idols, secreting nightmares of Plague. These waking dreams oozed out still in silence as they sipped cognac or tea with milk. The Goose’s underlings came and went. Business still needed to be handled. Fitz made a point to always greet these cutthroats and always see them off through the heavy door. All of The Goose’s business was conducted in the shadow of mortality and pestilence.

Now, The Goose was a witness to these dreams’ manifestation in his sanctuary. Before his beady eyes, Plague took hold of Fitz, it contorted him to a cackling menace despite all the rituals. Plague was banished from the halls, and Fitz knew this well. Every cough Fitz wretched forth was accompanied by a poor disguise of a laugh or chuckle. The effect was a terrifying cocktail of comedy and Plague. The masquerade was unconvincing, but that was not the point.

In all the years of partnership and cahoots, Fitz never laughed. Not once. Fitz was a grim man. His disposition was serious and grave. He was a man of subtle rage and enormous appetite. The Goose once observed in terrible awe as Fitz consumed an associate whole. Still, The Goose appreciated Fitz’s attempt to mask his inevitable demise with a macabre joke. It brought comfort to The Goose, and he knew Fitz was masking his descent to Plague for both their sakes. The Goose would have liked to compensate Fitz for his valorous failure, but he was beyond accepting such a thing.

Fitz laughed one last cough, then dropped stone dead on the bearskin rug, his face buried in the luxurious fur. Silence returned. Only the music of the fireplace remained.

The Goose solemnly produced a fine handkerchief and wiped Fitz’s blood from his eyes. His vision unobstructed, the sight before him was glorious. In his final moment, Fitz created a romantic portrait of struggle with the bearskin. His corpse was laid atop it as though it was a testament to the battle between men and beasts. Or so The Goose thought, he never possessed an eye for beauty or art. The alien sensation built inside him until he could stifle it no more. He wept. He wept and wept and felt in his chest the grandest pity and admiration for his dear departed partner.

“Oh my Fitz, it’s really gotten you now hasn’t it,” he cried. He wept to exhaustion and collapsed back into his velvet armchair, Fitz resting beside him.

In spite of all the horrors The Goose witnessed this Wednesday evening, he took solace in that he escaped the corruption of Plague yet again. He lounged now in triumph. His pity was now expelled from his body and evaporating from his cheeks before the heat of the roaring fireplace. He thought to call his lackeys to remove the expired Fitz, but decided on waiting a bit longer. He would relish this moment of clarity and victory over the demons that consumed his fallen comrade.

A thin smile cracked his tight lips. He chuckled.