It was a dim, cloudy Sunday afternoon outside; but inside the ornate, high-ceiling Gothic church, hundreds of banks of candles cast a warm, glorious light over everyone in the church.Mom and Aunt Frances and my deceased father's mother, Grandma Rose, drove me to the front entrance and let me out on the sidewalk while Aunt Frances parked her car in the lot behind the church. I stood on the sidewalk for a moment looking down at myself, all got up in the immaculate suit and shiny new shoes, my hair slicked with a hefty, odorous portion of Wildroot Hair Cream. I asked myself if it were really I in this costume. If I bent my arms, the sleeves of the suit crinkled and wrinkled stiffly, but when I straightened my arm the cloth fell back into a smooth, neat tube. I wore a tight starchy white shirt with a flowery bow tie my aunt had chosen. The bowtie and the thick collar dug uncomfortably into the front of my throat.I felt out of place, as emotionally removed from the impending ceremony as I. As we walked on, people actually got out of our way.Eventually we ended up running into a patrol of guardsmen coming out of another bar some distance from the one we'd exited. The patrol was in a foul mood and they were pushing people out of their way as they made their way into the street. One of them tried to push me out of the way and the guardsman ended up on his ass."Hey," I bellowed with indignity, "watch where you're going."The response to that was immediate. The patrol leader took one look at his man lying on the ground and then one look at me and my party and then he grabbed for the hilt of his sword. I didn't let him get to it.I quickly moved towards the man and struck out at him with my hands. I had decided that killing the local soldiers was counter productive to what I was intending so I didn't go for my weapons. Instead I hit the man in such a manner that it immediately numbed his sword arm and caused him to release his grip on his blade. My second blow hit him in the.
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