Chapter 1 ~ Vivaldi ~

SO, HERE I AM, sprawled out on the cold, damp floor of a dark cave, naked as the day I was born. My tiny hands are cuffed with these gigantic chains that look like they could hold down a whole friggin' ship! I let out a groan that makes a wounded bear sound like a whimpering puppy. Every bone in my body screams in agony; it's like a sledgehammer-wielding madman has gone to town on me.

As I try to move, the pain just won't quit. I reach for the keys to freedom, lying oh-so-close on the cave floor. But my hands are shaking like leaves in a hurricane, weighed down by the chains and that ceaseless, pounding pain. I have to wait it out, waiting for my secret superpowers to swoop in and patch me up. I know they'll stitch my broken bones, mend my torn flesh, and silence that shrieking pain.

So, I lay there, wincing and writhing on the ground, my eyes tracing over the bloody remnants of my, shall we say, “transformations.” The cave walls are splattered with dried blood, like some abstract painting gone horribly wrong. Deep claw marks scar the stone surface, a testament to my, uh, “vulpine” talents.

Finally, sweet relief arrives! My pain ebbs away, my body stitches itself back together, and I reach for those keys with a triumphant grunt. I fumble with the chains, unlock the darn things, and step out of the heavy metal doors that guard my not-so-cosy cave abode.

As I step out of the cave, a wave of fresh air hits me square in the face, carrying the scent of pine and earth. Ah, the great outdoors! Green trees stretch out as far as the eye can see, and the forest seems to breathe a sigh of relief now that I'm free. I spot a neat pile of clothes tucked away in a corner, waiting for my grand entrance back into the world of the dressed. I slip 'em on, feeling the familiar comfort of fabric against my skin.

To test my newly mended body, I flex my muscles, half-expecting some lingering pain to make itself known. But nope! Not a single twinge—I'm as good as new, baby!

The sun is busy making its grand exit for the day, dipping below the horizon and painting the sky with vibrant streaks of pink and orange. The breeze decides to join the party, turning cool and rustling the trees like a mischievous kid messing up a neat hairdo. Everything in the distance are getting in on the action, their colors fading to shades of grey as twilight creeps in.

Just then, my stomach rumbles—a not-so-subtle reminder that I haven't eaten in, oh, about a month. Yep, time to skedaddle and find some tasty grub to quiet the beast within.

With a speed that'd give a certain red-caped superhero a run for his money, I zip through the trees, leaving nothing but a blur in my wake. The world around me turns into one of those trippy paintings where everything just smears together in a whirl of color.

Before I know it, I emerge from the leafy embrace of the forest and find myself on a quiet road. Cars are about as common as a snowstorm in the Sahara out here, but no matter—my stomach is calling the shots now, and it demands sustenance!

As luck would have it, across the road is a beacon of hope—a neon sign flashing the words “COCO'S BAR.” My lips curl into a lopsided grin, and I practically bounce across the street like a kid on a sugar high. I give a little nod to the bar's fancy, colourful lights and the welcoming glow of the street lights around the doorway. I mean, a swig of Jack Daniel's before a real meal wouldn't do any harm, right? Who am I kidding? I don't really care either way.

With a shrug, I reach for the door, ready to make my grand entrance. But wait, what's this? My eyes land on a sign plastered to the weathered door: “We are closed. Come back tomorrow for more booze. Thank you, and God bless you.” God bless me. Yeah, right. I let out a sarcastic laugh. Some silly human sign isn't going to stand between me and my craving for a drink.

I push the door open with a dramatic flair, a wild cackle escaping my lips. Take that, feeble humans! I step inside, embracing the cosy warmth and leaving the cold, judgmental world behind. The bar may be closed, but that isn't going to stop me from getting what I want. Nope, not today!

As I step inside, I can't help but let out a soft “hmph” of approval. The whole place is like a love letter to wood—shiny, brown wood. It's everywhere! The building itself, the tables, chairs, counter, and yes, even the mugs. I mean, come on, who makes wooden mugs? I wouldn't be surprised if the bar owner is married to a wooden mannequin.

My eyes widen as I spot the motherlode—glass bottles of booze, all lined up on wooden shelves behind the counter. “Ooo,” I murmur, impressed. Well, at least they didn't try to make wooden bottles. I chuckle to myself, my mischief metre hitting the red zone.

I swagger over to the counter, where a row of stools stand at attention. I hop onto the one in the centre, plop my elbows on the smooth wooden surface, and rest my chin on my hands. Sure, I'd come in with my heart set on Jack Daniel's, but now, faced with this kaleidoscope of bottles—all different shapes and sizes, filled with colourful liquids, and adorned with fancy names—I'm like a kid in a candy store. So many choices, so little time!

Just as I'm getting cosy, I catch a glimpse of something—a glistening, bald head peeking out from behind the counter. The thing shines brighter than a diamond in a goat's butt! I clear my throat and drop my voice a few octaves. “Hello there, my good man,” I call out, trying to get the owner of this peculiar noggin to pay attention. “Mind serving me the strongest brew you've got stashed back there?”

But, alas, my words fall on deaf ears. The mysterious head just keeps bobbing around behind the counter, ignoring me completely. My eyes roll so hard that I nearly see my brain. It's time to kick it up a notch.

“Hello, are you deaf?” I bellow, my voice bouncing off the wooden walls. The bar falls silent, save for the sound of my heavy breathing. Finally, the bean head stops bobbing and slowly, ever so slowly, turns in my direction. In a voice as deep as an ocean trench, the mysterious barkeep drones, “We are closed. Come back tomorrow for more booze. Thank you, and God bless you.”

I mean, seriously? That's the exact same spiel as the sign on the door! This guy is really starting to tick me off. God bless me, my foot!

“Listen, man,” I plead, trying to be the voice of reason. “I get it; you're probably beat after a long day, but how about just one wooden mug of your strongest brew? I mean, you're still here, and I'm in dire need of some liquid courage.”

But this guy is a real stickler for the rules. “No,” he grunts, all business. “Rules are rules, and we're closed.”

“Please,” I beg, my voice wavering like a nervous schoolkid. “Just one tiny drop of liquor?” I hold up a single, trembling finger, hoping to appeal to his softer side.

"Still no," he growls, shutting me down like a faulty carnival ride.

"Okay, okay," I say, scrambling for a compromise. "What if I just sniff it?"

"No." His answer is as blunt as a sledgehammer to the face.

Defeated, I groan and grit my teeth. Anger bubbles up inside me like a volcano ready to blow. What the heck is this guy's problem? I lean forward, trying to get a better look at what he's doing behind the counter. Maybe if I can just figure out what's so darn important…

And that's when I see it. This dude is hunched over the sink, scrubbing wooden mugs like his life depends on them. I mean, seriously? Is he seriously choosing dirty dishes over a paying customer?

"Hey, Mr. Bean Head!" I holler, my voice piercing the air like a thunderclap. The guy jumps like he's been shot, his head snapping up in surprise. "Get that shiny dome of yours over here and serve me some beer!" I jab my finger on the counter with each word, leaving little doubt about my frustration.

His head stops bobbing, and he slowly turns to face me, his glare as icy as a Siberian winter. I watch, wide-eyed, as he begins to rise, unfurling like a Transformer in slow-motion. And let me tell you, this guy is a skyscraper of a man! If Bruce Banner morphed into the Hulk right then and there, I wouldn't be half as shocked.

His arms are like mountains of muscle, and his chest is bulging so much that I'm afraid it might just burst open at any moment. The guy is ripped straight out of Greek mythology, a hulking giant that would make even the Incredible Hulk and Mr. Olympia bow down in awe.

But as I sit there, mesmerized by this marvel of a man, he leans in, his words cutting through me like a knife through butter: “What did you just call me?”