Yokai Red

Teako was fucking done with the war. Most Red Goblins died early; not Teako, he was hard to kill. He had survived thirty-eight battles, six betrayals, three friendly fires, and one cooking accident with a boiling cauldron of oil. No goblin in the Gunpowder Fact dared to mention the oil incident. In those days, Teako packed grenadines with black powder for the Red Goblin artillery crews. Teako had a secret to not blowing himself to pieces. His secret was simple: never smoke while doing it. He learned that from a stolen book with singed pages, written by a goblin whose final chapter was mostly ash. Now Teako sat on a wooden chair atop Sh’mole Mountain, guarding turnips instead of trenches. His helmet was a copper flowerpot. His old war banner held up bean vines. Below, armies crawled through the valley like ants with banners, shouting about honor, borders, revenge, and other things that ruined good soil. Teako watered his garden and smiled. When soldiers climbed toward his mountaintop for glory, Teako sighed, opened the book, and checked one recipe from his Gunpowder Faction days. “Still works,” he muttered. He rolled three packed lit grenadines downhill. The explosions bounced through the rocks, tossing helmets, boots, severed limbs, and several very surprised Red Goblins into the air. Silence followed. Then, dark, wet rain fell over the turnip rows. Teako looked at the red splatter soaking into the dirt. “Were those ours?” he asked. The turnips never answered. He shrugged, picked up his watering can, and sat back down. “Shit,” Teako said, “the turnips did need waterin'.”