The Chosen Dave

The first chapter in a new kind of fantasy (Chapter 1)

In the heart of an ancient marsh in Florida, the mangroves whispered the names of ancestors from times past, for anyone willing to pause for a moment and listen. The sticky air hung heavy with the scent of brackish water and flowering jasmine, a reminder of what this place had been before civilization carved its signature. Through the grass and reeds, there was a tightly packed white gravel drive, not unlike the 29 other tightly packed white gravel drives leading to other mid-century modern constructions that lined the winding circular cul-de-sac. The crunch of the gravel underfoot competed with distant bird calls—nature's protest against the manufactured peninsula.

This particular cul-de-sac lay on a pile of land formed by large mechanical creatures some 13 odd years ago. They were driven by men who had taken their roles in order to pay for smaller ranch-style houses further inland. This was not their story, even though they were integral to its very existence. Our story lies at the end of the tightly packed white gravel drive, behind a door marked 1247. A door just like the other 29 doors, in a house that looked like 5 others on the peninsula, though a keen observer might notice the small collection of unusual shells arranged with curious precision along the porch railing.

Here we would find a man not unlike other men. He was a man who had exactly 23 pounds of unwanted weight (10.43 kg for those who like better units of measure). He had a haircut that was commonly described as business in front and party in the back. He wore the suit of his people daily with only the slightest variation, typically which light beer sponsored his tank top. His cargo shorts were all camo with variations in color and wear/tear. His name was Dave, well, he had been born David but he didn't approve of the formality there. Dave had eyes that were such a deep brown in certain light they appeared to match his pupils. Those eyes were frequently shielded by a pair of neon green framed sunglasses, and he was rarely seen without a can of light beer intended to keep him pleasantly buzzed as he went through his day. Days that were routine down to the hour.

Dave would wake at exactly 7:05 AM. By 7:15, he was making instant coffee, the aroma cutting through the lingering mustiness of the house. At 7:30, he was walking to the nearby beach with his metal detector looking for treasure, occasionally finding bottle caps, lost jewelry, and spare change dropped by tourists.

By 9 AM, he was back home to change into his work attire (this included putting on the same white button-up shirt and a tie). At 9:33 AM, Dave began his customer service calls to handle any issues a variety of clients might have with software he didn't understand. 12:30 PM, break for lunch—always a sandwich, always cut diagonally because that's how his mother had done it. 2 PM, open the first beer and put it in a coffee cup, the condensation forming a ring on his desk that matched dozens of identical rings, a calendar of mundane days. 4:42 PM, sign off. 5 PM, find a competition on the television and watch while drinking as quickly and efficiently as possible. 10:30 PM, straight to bed, occasionally lying awake and wondering about the life he'd left behind.

Dave was what many would say an unlikely hero. Typically people only really questioned how he could afford such a nice house. Dave liked to keep his working life a mystery. He loved that many people thought he had a secret life, when really he just had stumbled into a very easy job that no one seemed to care enough about to get rid of it. Just another human male from a manmade beach in Florida, indistinguishable from the landscape of forgotten ambitions. That all would change on the morning of October 22nd at exactly 9:37 AM.

Dave sat staring into the camera light on his webcam while he followed the taxonomy of responses. A mundane but typical support call. When he heard the faintest of whispers: "Dave..." The sound hissed like a villainous snake, carrying with it the scent of saltwater and something ancient.

"Hey buddy, you look distracted. I need to log in here and get my job done..." The man on the other end of the video call impatiently moaned, a distant echo in Dave's suddenly altered reality.

"Sorry, I heard something." Dave's fingers hovered over the keyboard, suddenly uncertain. "Let me get back to troubleshooting here. You say you typed the password in the password space?" The routine questions felt suddenly hollow, like reciting a prayer when his parents drug him to church as a child.

"Dave... CLOSE THE LAPTOP." The hissing voice seemed more threatening this time, carrying with it the rhythmic cadence of waves against a shore.

"I'm sorry I need to, uh, I'll transfer you to another agent..." Dave stammered and then hit the transfer to next agent button on the edge of his screen, his heart hammering against his ribs like it was trying to escape.

Dave stood and looked around his empty office. Nothing looked out of place—his Daytona 500 calendar, his poster for Smokey and the Bandit all lined up just as they had always been. Even his stack of magazines he keeps meaning to go through were unmoved. As he was assessing the room, the light began to flicker in a pattern that seemed oddly familiar, like a half-remembered code from another lifetime.

Flick,

Flick, flick,

Flick, Flick, flick,

Flick,

It was a pattern that kept repeating itself... over and over again. Dave squinted his eyes and decided that this was not the time for sobriety. He rushed quickly, but cautiously, down the stairs from his office and into the kitchen where he acquired a can of light beer and a half shot of tequila. The tequila was reserved for what he privately called "days of disruption"—days when the mundane cracked to reveal something else beneath. With beer in hand, he returned to the light which was still flickering out the pattern, casting shadows that seemed to move with purpose across his walls.

"HELLO!" Dave roared confidently, though a tremor in his hand caused beer to slosh over the rim of the can.

"DAVE! We are calling to you. Also, did you leave to go get a beer? A haunting voice is calling to you from the ethereal plane and you went and got a beer?" The voice shifted from otherworldly to exasperated in an instant. "Dave... we... okay... one second."

The voice got quieter, as if conferring with others beyond Dave's perception. The room temperature dropped several degrees, and somewhere in the distance, a seagull gave an alarmed cry.

"Are you sure this is the chosen one? This guy? We have an entire universe to choose from... Okay, okay." The voice returned to its normal hiss that seemed more directly aimed at Dave, though now tinged with a formality that hinted at ancient protocols being reluctantly followed. "Henceforth, David of the Southern Peninsula, thou hast been chosen, against my recommendation mind you, to save thy people from the encroaching darkness."

Dave took a long sip of his beer while staring at the light flickering. His mouth stayed open even as he pulled the can slowly away from his lips. Something stirred in the back of his mind—a fragment of knowledge from his studies long ago, a myth about ordinary men chosen by the gods.

The voice sighed, its formal tone collapsing. "Dave, I'm going to cut to the chase here. Normally we do a long-winded backstory and explain why you were chosen, but I just don't think that is, uh... necessary here. So let's just say you were chosen at random to retrieve a magical item. That item lies bin or around Tampa Bay, where the veil between worlds grows thin with each passing tide and the ancient ones await their awakening. "

Dave's eyes widened slightly. Just last week, his metal detector had gone haywire near the shoreline, but he had just thought it was from spilling some beer on the control box. This was clearly connected even though he was not in Tampa Bay. Dave leaned towards the lamp rising on the tips of his toes with intrigue.

"We cannot tell you exactly what or where it is because... well, because that would be too easy honestly. Also, the ancient texts forbid direct revelation to mortals, lest the Balance be disturbed." The voice seemed to be reading from a manual now. "Either way, you have to find this magical item and destroy it, because if it were to fall into the wrong hands... into the grasp of Those Who Dwell Beneath... Seriously that’s what they’re called his time? Ugh… well either way the time of man would be over if they get it."

A flock of pelicans outside Dave's window suddenly took flight in perfect unison, as if startled by an unseen presence.

"Dave, in order to achieve this mission, you will need to form the fellowship... wait, we already used that... a band? Yes, band of adventurers to join you. This band must be 5... yeah, 5 adventurers, as decreed by the Laws of Quest Numerology section 28-7C of GSC 18-37.56. Do you understand your mission?" The voice hissed, and for a moment, the light bulb seemed to take on the shape of a serpent's eye.

Dave stared blankly at the light and took another long drag from his can of beer before he spoke. He felt something unfamiliar stirring in his chest—not fear, but perhaps the faint ember of purpose.

"Yup, I think I can do that," he answered with unexpected steadiness. "I'll call Mike. He was in a ZZ Top tribute band back in '04, plays a hell of a good bass guitar."

"Uh... sure, that's not really the band we meant, but as I've been told by my manager, I'm not here to tell you how to do your mystical task but just here to assign it... no need to stress out again. This isn’t my only Choosing Ceremony… it’s a big galaxy and they can’t all be like Florian… they were incredible… but your flaws are not for me to fix." The voice seemed to consult notes. "Anyway, good luck, Dave. We will be in touch to give you hints as the journey goes on. May the waters guide your path and the stars illuminate your purpose." There was an awkward pause. "Toodles."

The voice's hiss of the word "toodles" was cut short by the click of what sounded like a telephone receiver clicking off.

Dave quickly finished the last sips of his beer and moved with newfound purpose to the closet in his bedroom. He decided for such an important task he needed to dress in his most adventurous attire. Pouring through his collection of trucker hats, he picked the one with the least amount of sweat staining. It was blue and featured a patch that said "Ted's Tavern" with two mugs of beer framing the words.

As he pushed aside hangers, his fingers brushed against the wooden box containing memories from before Florida. A life Dave had forgotten and left behind. For a moment, he hesitated, letting his finger trace the outline of the delicately carved box. Dave then pushed it aside, this was about the future not his past, that was dead and gone.

He then started rifling through his shirts and found one featuring a giraffe that said "Billy's Serengeti Experience OKC." The shirt still smelled faintly of a bonfire from four summers ago—the last time he'd done anything that could be considered an adventure. He felt confident and ready to go.

Dave sped down his stairs to put on his thong flip-flops and grab his keys, wallet, can of chew, and of course his trusty pocket knife.

He rounded the corner of his house and entered his garage where his precious 2007 Jeep Wrangler (Sahara edition) sat. The vehicle had seen little adventure beyond the occasional grocery store run, its off-road capabilities wasted on suburban streets. Hopping in the doorless driver's side, he adjusted the mirror to give one final look of approval to his appearance. He was ready for adventure... just one thing was missing. He didn't actually have a plan where to go.

Tampa Bay, he thought suddenly. The voice had mentioned it specifically. Perhaps that was where this journey would begin. NO… that’s too easy and he needs a band. Looking quickly to the back seat Dave realized one member would need to be on the thin side or this ride would not be comfortable. Who could he call in this time of need. Who would even believe him.

Dave hit his garage door opener and watched as the aluminum clacked up and the exit opened, the sound of cicadas rising with the afternoon heat. He pulled out his phone and pored through the contacts list. Dan... no, fuck that guy... Alice? No, she hated him... Jeff S? Nah, it had been too long. He decided to start with Mike; maybe he had an idea. He flicked quickly through the list until he hit Mike and then pushed to call, watching as a single osprey circled overhead, its pattern echoing the flickering light from earlier.

Ring

Ring

Ring

"Hey, it's Mike. Leave your name and number or I'll assume you're a scam."

Beep

"Mike, I'm headed to your house. We're on a mission from... uh... well, a voice, gawd damnit... fuck it... MIKE, IT DON'T matter! I'll explain when I get there, but put your shit on and get ready. We are heading out!"

Dave hung up his phone and hit the button to close the garage. This was it, he felt. This was the moment when his life finally had meaning. The thoughts of going nowhere had fled from his body. He was chosen. His chest seemed to expand with a sense of pride. He may not understand his mission, he may not even know where this journey would take him. He just knew this was it. He meant something.

The engine revved deeply as he pulled to the edge of the packed white gravel driveway and set out on adventure. As his taillights lost focus in the distance, a shadowy figure lurked not too far away. Its exact features were hidden in the hood of a sweatshirt. They were tall and loomed sinisterly as they walked slowly down the drive.

Their head jerked towards Dave's taillights and emitted a sound that several neighbors would later report as the shriek of a dying llama.