2016 quiver

horse on a Sunday afternoon. The stairs led to a spacious room, its walls covered in purple paint and gold embroidery that resembled the tip of a spear. There was no sign of the Governor. Cushioned chairs that matched the walls surrounded a small table, set with white and blue china and tea steaming out of the pot. On the side of the room a doorway led into a bedroom with Russian Oak cabinets and a bed, fit for almost five people with a comforter made of red and gold silk.

In the corner of the room, there lay a middle-aged corpulent man, fattened by years of feasting and a sedentary lifestyle. He lay on his back on a red-silk couch, adjacent to a small nightstand with wine and a copy of the Holy Bible. The man’s grey fur coat left not an inch of skin to be seen.

“You are the doctor, are you not?” asked the Governor, shuffling his massive body along the side of the couch.

“Yes. What is your name, sir?” asked Jacques, throwing his medical bag at the foot of the Governor.

“Gonzalo de la Torre,” answered the Governor. “What is yours, doctor?”

“Jacques Otxoa, Governor.”

“Where did you study? What assurance do I have that you will help?”

“I have no university training. I am a survivor of the plague, and the methods that I use have been used on me. Trust me, Governor, my treatments are... legitimate. First, though, we must discuss payment,” said Jacques.

“A small chest under my bed contains all the gold you’ll ever need. Take it, and cure me,” said the Governor.

“Ah, splendid. Now, let’s begin.” Jacques pulled a long whip, one that might be used to flog a soldier, from his bag. “Governor, roll over and lift up your coat. You have sinned greatly. Only through a punishment, a justice in the name of God, will your sins be forgiven.”

“I understand,” replied the Governor, rolling over into a sprawling position.

Jacques cracked the whip, and the Governor squeezed his eyes and hands, bracing for the coming pain. Jacques flogged the Governor, cutting through skin as if it were merely linen. Blood flared across the Governor’s back, splattering it on his coat. After almost forty lashes, with the whip itself covered with blood in its entirety, Jacques rolled the Governor onto his back.

“Now, we must begin the next stage of your treatment,” explained Jacques. The Governor clenched his teeth and managed to nod his head, the slightest bit of movement causing him to squeal as a piglet. “But first, good Governor, I must enjoy myself.

I’ve had a long journey, and you wouldn’t want me to be stressed, now would you? If I’m stressed, you see, the whole operation might go sour, and so would your health.

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