The Shaman's Revenge - Prologue

 The Shaman's Revenge - Prologue

It was a Friday morning in mid July 1980, and shaping up to be another baking hot day, as Goran Dragic shuffled painfully down the street, carrying a heavy paper bag. 

The old man was finding it increasingly more difficult to get to the local store, and it was even more difficult on his way home, as now, carrying his purchases. Since his recent illness, his aching body had begun to feel every one of his 82 years. He felt tired, and in need of some peace and quiet. Unfortunately for old Goran, peace and quiet were hard to come by in the fast paced American city where he now lived, an environment so different from the Southern Carpathian mountains of his old homeland.

As he trudged on, his mind wondered back to the land of his youth, a land, which, at that time, was still behind what was then known as the 'Iron Curtain', where the legends and beliefs from an older time were only whispered about in secret. Goran, himself, had been the subject of many whispers at one time, for he was said to have inherited powers, known as the “Magija”, from the warlocks and Shamen in his family history.

In the past, in the high and remote mountain villages, far beyond the reach of civil justice, his ancestor's had used those powers to punish wrong doers, and and to impose natural justice.

Those beliefs and practices had been suppressed under the Soviet system, until they had now largely melted into the mists of history. However, the fact that many had forgotten the old ways did not make the Magija any less potent. It was a new world now, but unlike his ageing body, Goran's powers, and his mind for that matter, were still as strong and sharp as they had ever been. The powers had not been used in many years, but he still had them, and could call them up again any time should he need to.

Thoughts of his homeland were suddenly knocked from his mind by a violent jarring impact to his right side, which sent him tumbling heavily to the ground. 

Knocked from his grasp, the paper bag of groceries smashed onto the sidewalk.

Dazed and in pain Goran looked up to see a handsome young man, wearing only a pair of blue “Speedo” swimming trunks and rubber flipflops, looking down angrily at him.

Jordan Draper, being late for swimming practice, had been running through the streets. Listening to his Walkman, a must have new invention at the time, and distracted by his favourite Punk-rock band, Jordan had not seen the old man, and had barged into him, Knocking Goran over and causing Jordan to drop both his dark glasses and the personal Stereo, the second of which had landed in a puddle of spilt milk from Goran's bag.

"Look what you did you stupid old fuck!” yelled Jordan picking up the Walkman, shaking it and attempting to dry it with his towel “It's fucking broken!” Jordan was very proud of his Walkman, Sony had only release the first version the year before, and, as with most things, Jordan had the newest and most expensive model, now it was ruined. His anger was increased by the fact that his shades had also been damaged.

“you ran into me!” groaned Goran looking around at his new purchased groceries strewn around amongst broken eggs, spilt milk and a the shattered bottle of wine he had bought as his one indulgence of the week.

“You shouldn't have been in my way you old Moron!”snarled Jordan

“Help me up please!” gasped Goran reaching out towards the boy. But instead of assisting the elderly man, Jordan just swore, and aimed a kick at him, his foot impacting painfully with Goran's rib cage and knocking the wind out of his aged body. It was lucky that Jordan was only wearing rubber flipflops, had he been wearing shoes, such a kick would most likely have broken a fragile bone. Even so the kick left Goran moaning and clutching his side in pain. 

 

"That's for breaking my shades, you careless old fuck!” shouted Jordan “Old morons like you should be dead and not getting in folk's way!”

Goran looked up at the youth, and his long trained eyes saw through the handsome face and the firm, tanned and athletic body to the arrogant, spoilt and cruel hart beneath them, and he felt a rage welling in his body of a force he had not felt in many years. “You will pay for this!” he hissed “you will pay!”

“What?” sneered Jordan “Fuck off you demented old fool!” he aimed a second kick at the old man, this time bruising Goran's stomach and making him gasp for breath.

“I will make you pay for this!” gasped Goran

Jordan laughed cruelly and was about to kick his victim again when he saw two men walking down the street towards them “Fuck off, you stupid old fool!” he scoffed “You couldn't even kiss my ass!” he turned his speedo clad behind towards Goran and slapped his butt cheek contemptuously.

“You will be sorry!” snarled Goran, his bony hands clutching into fists. “Just wait!”

Jordan snorted derisively “You are deaf too? you old fuck for brains?” his lips curled into an ugly grin “I SAID KISS MY ASS!!”

Then, clutching his broken walkman and dark glasses, and scowling angrily Jordan ran off in the direction of the local college. He would have liked to give the stupid old fossil a proper kicking, but was anxious not to be identified, and perhaps beaten up, by the approaching men.

Old Goran watched his assailant depart, his shaman's eyes focused directly on the seat of Jordan's skimpy swimming trunks, which the boy had insultingly invited him to kiss, and at the firm, juggling young buttocks, which those speedos hugged tightly and almost lovingly.

In his bisexual youth Goran has not been immune to the attraction of a beautiful male bottom, but now he felt only burning fury, and an insatiable need for vengeance. He might not kiss Jordan's rump, but his had other plans for it! Through the roaring of his rage he felt the ancient power rising within him. “You will pay!” he growled “and you will pay with that little American bottom of yours!! You will pay and you will keep on paying, until I get my revenge!!”

He then spoke in words which no American would recognise, and which few in those far away and mysterious mountains would remember, but they were words which were instantly heard and recognised by other things in a different, darker, place. Things which had slept for a long, long time but which now began to stir.

Moments later the two passers by reached Goran and helped the old man to his feet, as he continued to mutter incantations in an ancient and almost forgotten tongue.

Meanwhile, as Jordan ran off down the street towards the college, he could have no idea of the mystical forces which his cruel and arrogant behaviour had unleashed and that those long dormant forces were now aimed directly at his tender and well rounded, Speedo covered, bottom.

The old man had told Jordan that he would pay for what he did, and the old man never told a lie.

TO BE CONTINUED