Part II of the King-Is-Dead Trilogy
by Rakk

( Part I )

A retired wizard, Dom Zarro, from the far-off and fabled lands of Oz,
happened to settle down in the little borough of Bowie-by-the Bay, and
began to look for challenges and challengers to meet his mettle. He had
heard about this father-and-son duo who played racquet-le-ball, and
decided that he might un-retire his old racquet, and see if he could
generate a little action, perhaps even to the point of reviving his
old skill on the court. It had been many years since he had played,
and many a flagon of Old Tooths Ale had bulged his belly, but he was
pretty sure that the grazers and Z-slashes remained in his repertoire.

By chance, one day, when he was leaving The Ace-in-the-Corner Pub, he
almost ran into a man hurrying along the cobblestones with an oddly
shaped package in hand. “Begging your pardon, my good man”, he said,
“are you a player of Racquet-le-ball? And in that packet, is that by
any chance…” “But sir”, said the hurried gentleman, as he paused
to look carefully at the wizard, “Do I have the pleasure of meeting
The Dominator?” Dom Zarro smiled and replied, “It has been many years
since I have been called The Dominator! Please call me Dom.” The
other said, “And please call me Rakk.”

Not a day passed before the two gentlemen found themselves on
the court. And certainly, the years had taken a toll on The Dominator,
but still, his Z-slash shot was a fearsome one, as the ball ripped
from the left wall to the right on his serves. And when he happened to
occupy the front of the court, the Z-slash shot kissed the front wall
so slightly and low, it required a dive of desperation for Rakk to
return it. But Rakk had observed the sag of Dom’s belly, and used his
old strategy, serving to the right wall, then the left, then the right,
until Dom was gasping for breath, and barely able to continue.

The games continued on a regular basis, once a week, always two days
before, or two days after a father-son game. Rakk was careful not to
wear himself out by scheduling games too close together. The wiles
and sneaks of the wizard paid off when the father had to contend with
the ever-growing skill of the son. The Z-slash shot completely
baffled the son, and every trick that The Dominator pulled out of his
decades-old repertoire transferred over to the father’s games against
the son. Months of brutally desperate games passed, and it was as if
the son was not playing his father, but The Dominator.

But time wore on, as it will, and still after months the son had not
beaten his father. Time made his legs lengthen in adulthood, so also
his arms, and it became harder and harder for the father to sneak a
ball past him. His speed and agility increased as fast as his height
and reach, and the grazing Z-slashes had to be ever more accurate for
the father to win.

——-end of part II———