The world’s history is not ours and, we are its disjointed wind-driven puppets. Boiscul was a man whose gods looked down and smiled. So far, a raging fate for his carcass.
His destiny changed as he followed a caravan of servants, beasts, and wagons that brought luggage and supplies to war. Over a pass, a four-wheeled cart, gone mad and got lost on a steep descent, crushing our man, all the bones and flesh of his legs kneaded.
Its survival was due to a young barber-surgeon seeing here a way to train his hand, to not arrive knife-virgin on the battlefield. About bodies cut up, he’d only seen it in books. After the violence done to him, Boiscul instantly regretted his cutter brother’s interest.
Ultime brutality, his sweaty stumps were dipped in boiling oil to prevent infectious diseases. That killed him more than anything, he was left for dead and abandoned on the campsite at dawn. By chance, life didn’t leave him, and he woke up a few days later.
In the morning, he was surprised to get nothing left after his ass. Enraged, with no remembrance, he saw here Devil’s hand. He could now stand on his hands. Thus reduced by half, he crawled to a safe house by body strength. There, his throne on wheels was made.
The way he got his four-wheeler and headed the broken bodies company deserves to be counted. And, In this misfortune, he won his title of Lord of Boiscul. A legend was born, in the land of madness, where people lost their limbs as the tree saw its rotten fruit fall.
In a fishy world of pirouettes and pity, when one loses limbs, he’d find himself crawling for life. After that, little chance to get a skateboard, even it was a pleasant way to foster destiny. Such was the brotherhood of Boiscul, an imaginary place terrifying men.
Many stories involved Boiscul’s Lordship, I can’t resist telling the most famous one. The foolish war against reason. How a skateboard attack, in a double fortune, brought them gold and fear as rewards, rising Boiscul in the highest nobility of cheaters and crooks.
Location was critical and, perched on a ridge they launched an attack against the kingdom’s crate. It must be said, once ejected, nothing would stop them with the risk of ending up crushed on a tree or a stone. For their salvation, they couldn’t miss their target.
Imagine the fright of archers and guards in front of such combatants, the time to find a meaning to all this, they were punctured by new manufacture tools from the paraphernalia of these boards. It was said that such machines were created by an engineer in Milan.
This mechanical army, disturbingly equipped, was interpreted as an evil deed. The pass was feared to be haunted and one must not get too close. The massacre of a new horsemen unit returned there to solve the mystery only increased the excitement and fear of people.
Men on wheels in cities were, therefore, suspects, but no one dared to stray from the straight and narrow. To not be damned or lost forever, they didn’t want to be involved with these strange tramps, mechanical dwarves that nobody wants to take care of, to stay alive.
Before that, Boiscul was nearly an animal, a screaming one, a foolish, a beast of burden, maintained in his misery space. Over time, Boiscul made himself accepted. Each time more present. Each time, spoking until he yelled, taking advantage of being invisible.
Cut in two, you’re half visible. Reduced that way, you increase your possibilities all the more, that’s the paradox.