Kill-Gore the Barbarian

Kill-Gore was ruthless. He was a warrior with a wild mane of hair, a tangled, bristly beard, and crazed eyes which warned future victims of violence and bloodshed. He carried a jagged greatsword upon his back. He stank of the blood of his enemies, sweat, and ale. He wore the pelts of wild monsters he strangled to death with his bare hands—the great saber cats’ and cave bears’ yellowed teeth were strung on a necklace he proudly wore. He made the monstrous giants of the Far North feel insecure about their height and muscles—or lack thereof compared to Kill-Gore.

In a word, Kill-Gore was a Barbarian. And yes, I realize that’s actually two words.

That was what his father, Bone-Breaker, had been, and his father, Neck-Wringer, before him. Barbarians. Much to their family’s disgrace, Neck-Wringer’s father, Kill-Gore’s great-grandfather—Paul—had been a simple fisherman. The family didn’t speak of Great-grandfather Paul—so great was their embarrassment. If they caught anyone breathing so much as a word of their shame, well, let’s just say you didn’t want to be that person.

See, being a fisherman wasn’t a reputable profession—not like going raiding or fighting cave bears and wrestling sabercats or killing giants—not like being a Barbarian. That was a noble and mighty profession with a rich heritage among Kill-Gore’s people. If not for Barbarians, their people would be slaughtered by the ferocious giants of the Far North.

Being a fisherman didn’t send your enemies screaming—unless you counted fish as enemies, but Kill-Gore wasn’t sure fish could scream. Or run for that matter. Not like his enemies, who always ran screaming from his formidable presence. And if that didn’t do the trick, his halitosis usually finished them off rather well. Kill-Gore wasn’t ashamed to use the numerous weapons at his disposal, including, but not limited to, his halitosis and general hygiene—or lack thereof.

Kill-Gore was named after two of his father’s favorite pastimes—as was the tradition in their family—and he lived up to his name quite nicely. His father, Bone-Breaker, had wanted to name him “Kill-Gore-Dismemberment-Ale,” but Kill-Gore’s mother, Doris, convinced him that such a name might prove difficult for their son to spell. Not to mention that it’d be a long name for them to say when scolding him.

Can you imagine it? “Kill-Gore-Dismemberment-Ale, you’ve got a lot of explaining to do, young man. Why didn’t you get thrown out of Barbarian school for starting a riot? We raised you better than that!!” Ridiculous. No, shortening it to “Kill-Gore” was much more practical.

Kill-Gore was raised to take up his father’s greatsword and legacy of burning, pillaging, killing, and all sorts of other barbaric activities. He adored his father. He looked up to him. And so, Kill-Gore grew up, following in his father’s footsteps, and became a Barbarian, just as his father wanted.

He was ruthless. He was vile. Throughout the land, whispers of his name brought shivers down the spines of the ferocious giants of the Far North. Among giant-kind, Kill-Gore was notoriously infamous. Their leaders put great bounties on his head, and many giants sought to kill him. So far, all had failed.

His parents couldn’t have been prouder. His mother would tell their next-door neighbor with not a little pride in her voice, “Did you hear? The bounty on my son Kill-Gore’s head went up another thousand pieces of gold. At this rate, he’ll be the most wanted Barbarian in the land! When he comes home to visit, we’ll have to have you over for supper so you can hear all about his conquests.”

As for Kill-Gore’s father, he told everybody who would listen that he was proud of his son and happy for him. Bone-Breaker wasn’t proud of it, but if he were being honest with himself, there were times when he was jealous of his son. There were late nights when he sat in the darkened den of their home, wishing that his son wasn’t such a successful Barbarian. Kill-Gore was a much better Barbarian than Bone-Breaker had been back in his day. Much stronger—with way worse hygiene.

Of course, he couldn’t bear to admit all that to Kill-Gore, so whenever his son asked if he was living up to his expectations for him, Bone-Breaker would grunt and mumble out some suggestion or way he could improve at being a Barbarian. Even if Kill-Gore already was ten times the Barbarian that Bone-Breaker had been.

Kill-Gore didn’t know all that. He still looked up to his father, Bone-Breaker. He thought the world of him and wanted more than anything for his father to be proud of him. But what he did never seemed to be good enough for his father.

Kill-Gore was only a Barbarian because that was what his father had been. I mean, Kill-Gore was good at killing giants and stealing their treasure, but that didn’t mean he was necessarily fond of doing it. In fact, if he were being honest with himself, Kill-Gore actually hated it. He hated himself.

There were many nights when Kill-Gore couldn’t sleep. He’d toss and turn in bed, restless and unable to get comfortable. After his long, sleepless nights, he’d get up and look in his bathroom mirror as he got ready for the day. He didn’t like the face looking back at him.

The truth was, Kill-Gore didn’t want to be a Barbarian.

If Kill-Gore could do what he really wanted to do, he’d be a florist. Shocking, I know, but Kill-Gore loved flowers. He could stare at them all day long. Flowers looked so pretty and peaceful. They were the complete opposite of everything about him.

But Kill-Gore felt trapped. Being a Barbarian was what his father expected of him. He did want his father to be proud of him—even if that meant Kill-Gore wound up terribly unhappy. If he told his father that he didn’t want to be a Barbarian anymore—but a florist—he wouldn’t be proud of him. He remembered what became of his great-grandfather, the fisherman: he was ostracized by the family.

So, Kill-Gore remained a Barbarian—and a deeply unhappy one at that.

For years, he carried on, working hard despite hating his work, but the strain started to take its toll on Kill-Gore. He tried to hide his self-loathing from his wife, Myra, but she knew him too well for that. He couldn’t hide it from her.

If you’re wondering how someone could ever marry a foul-smelling brute like Kill-Gore—or even consider such a proposition—well, stranger marriages have been arranged. Kill-Gore and Myra’s wedding wasn’t arranged, but it was strange nonetheless.

What Kill-Gore lacked in hygiene, manners, common decency, and the most basic of moral values, he made up for by working hard, being home every night, putting food on the table, and treating Myra with love and respect. Kill-Gore may have been a murderous Barbarian, but he knew the importance of having a good work/life balance. He left his work in the burning giant villages. He never brought it home. Besides, Myra couldn’t smell very well, so Kill-Gore’s stench didn’t bother her.

His other qualities and shortcomings were worrisome, but Myra chose to look past them. Her husband was a work-in-progress. Nobody was perfect, after all. His somber mood and sleepless nights were starting to worry Myra, though.

Kill-Gore wasn’t eating as much as he usually did and didn’t seem to want to talk much at supper. Myra would ask him about a raid on an unsuspecting giant village, and he’d merely grunt. Grunting wasn’t uncommon—he wasn’t very verbose, her husband, but at least Kill-Gore used to tell her about his day. Now, they barely spoke at all.

“What’s wrong, Kill-Gore?” she’d ask him.

Grunt.

Lengthy silence.

Myra wasn’t going to give up, though. She loved her husband dearly and was desperate to get through to him. She knew something was bothering him deeply—she just didn’t know what. He refused to talk to her about it. He kept bottling it all up. He was clearly unhappy, and that broke Myra’s heart. Whatever it was, she’d be there when he was ready to talk to her when he reached his breaking point.

Everyone has one—even fierce and ruthless Barbarians. There isn’t a bottle in the world big enough to hold all of someone’s problems. You can only bottle them up for so long before the bottle shatters and breaks.

Kill-Gore’s breaking point was this: his wife, Myra, told him that they having a child. They had been trying for years, but now it was happening—for real. All of a sudden, Kill-Gore was forced to deal with thoughts, fears, and emotions that he’d been repressing for years and years on end.

On the one hand, he was overjoyed. On the other hand, Kill-Gore was terrified of being a father. Even more frightening was the prospect of raising a son. Because if they had a son, Kill-Gore would be expected to name him “Blood-Guts,” or something like that, and raise him to be a Barbarian, just like him and his father and his father before him.

But Kill-Gore didn’t want that.

Kill-Gore the Barbarian, the fierce and terrible warrior who wasn’t afraid of anyone or anything, burst into tears. Myra watched, stunned, as her strong, silent husband blubbered. He explained everything to her that he’d been holding in since childhood—how he hated being a Barbarian; how he secretly wished to become a florist.

Kill-Gore wanted their child to be happy. He wanted their child to do whatever they wanted to do. And he would be so proud of them. Even if what they wanted to be was a florist or a simple fisherman. No matter what, Kill-Gore would be proud of them.

After Kill-Gore finished pouring out his heart to his wife, he fell silent. Ashamed. Myra looked shocked. Tears formed in her eyes. Kill-Gore was sure she was disappointed in him as well. After all, Myra had married a fierce, blood-thirsty Barbarian—not some lowly florist.

Instead, Myra surprised him. She leaned over and kissed Kill-Gore’s dirty, bearded cheek. With tears streaming down her face, she whispered softly in his ear.

“My dear, sweet husband—you’re going to be a wonderful father. How I’ve waited to hear what’s going on inside your heart and your head. You’ve been holding on to that for so long now. You need to know this, my dear Kill-Gore—I love you and am so proud of you. No matter what, I support you.

“What you want for our child is what I want for them as well. But I also want that for you, Kill-Gore. I want you to be happy with what you do. And right now, you’re not. You can’t live your life trying to be someone or something you’re not. Don’t let anyone tell you differently. No one. If anyone does, they’ll answer to me. Understand?”

“It isn’t that easy,” Kill-Gore mumbled. “What will my father think? He won’t be proud of me anymore.”

“If he isn’t, then your father is a fool—and I’ll tell him that to his face,” Myra said flatly.

Kill-Gore looked stunned, but Myra wasn’t finished. His wife cupped his shaggy head in her hands and looked him right in his crazed eyes.

“Kill-Gore, you listen to me,” she said softly.

“We’re about to have a child together, you and I. We’re in this together. And I’m so very proud of you and the man you are. Whatever you do—make sure you’re doing it because you want to—not because you think it’ll make someone else proud—or not proud if you don’t. Even if that person is your father. If you want to be a Barbarian—then do it. But if you really want to be a florist—then you be the best florist you can be. Whenever your resolve weakens, you think of our child. And you do whatever it takes to become someone our child can be proud of. Focus on that, you hear?”

Myra’s eyes burned fiercely, and Kill-Gore the Barbarian, the fierce and terrible warrior who wasn’t afraid of anyone or anything, felt a shiver of fear go through him. Myra could be a fierce and terrible woman when her ire was kindled. He loved her very much.

He nodded. “Alright,” Kill-Gore told Myra. “Alright.”

Kill-Gore was once a ruthless Barbarian. The giants in the Far North feared his name. That was a long time ago. Now, his jagged greatsword hangs above his fireplace—a memento from the old days. His pelts and furs have all been donated or turned into rugs. He wears less barbaric attire now.

Kill-Gore has kind eyes and a warm smile. His once-wild hair is cut short, and his beard is tamed and trimmed. He bathes once every fortnight and has even started brushing his teeth.

He spends his days peacefully tending to his garden, running a very successful flower shop, relaxing with his wife, Myra, and doting upon his son. He named him Paul—after his son’s great-great-grandfather. And Kill-Gore is so very proud of him.

In a word, Kill-Gore was happy.

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