Pink Top City Shorts: The Iron Horn

Pink Top City Shorts: The Iron Horn

The heat of Nadrasana hit like an open furnace door.

Even miles deep into the arid thornveld, far from the polished marble terraces and coastal mist of Clerteaux, Narcisse remained an exercise in deliberate precision. He had custom-tailored his safari attire in Argentville before packing it for the voyage: a crisply tailored safari tunic of heavy khaki drill, buttoned securely down the front with polished brass fixtures. Utility dominated the cut, from the pleated bellows pockets across his chest and hips to the smaller buttoned cargo pouches affixed to the upper sleeves.

Tucked neatly into the jacket’s notched lapels was an olive-drab neckerchief, knotted precisely at his throat—a modest pop of contrast that kept the dust at bay without surrendering an ounce of decorum.

A sturdy brown leather field belt cinched his waist, anchored at his hip by fitted leather cartridge pouches. Below, matching khaki trousers fell in straight, utilitarian lines, with flapped side pockets, tucked neatly into tall, lace-up field boots of deep chestnut leather, and a wide-brimmed pith helmet resting squarely above his immaculate white hair.

Narcisse sat upright in the open-sided front passenger seat of the battered Land Cruiser, one leg crossed calmly over the other. His polished leather field boots caught the midday glare, showing not a solitary scuff. Resting across his knees was a double-barreled Holland & Holland .470 Nitro Express, its hand-checkered walnut stock gleaming under a thin coat of protective oil. In his right hand, insulated within a silver-plated traveling canister Armand had packed with absolute care, was a cup of hot Earl Grey, its steam carrying the faint scent of bergamot into the dry scrub air.

Beside him at the wheel sat Tau, a veteran local tracker whose skin was weathered dark by decades beneath the Nadrasanan sky. Tau gripped the worn steering wheel with scarred hands, guiding the jeep through dried riverbeds and past towering acacia trees with effortless instinct.

Tau: “Wind has turned north, Monsieur Beaumont.”

He murmured in low, gravelly tones, his dark eyes scanning the shimmering horizon of yellow grass.

Tau: “If the bull went toward the watering pan at Ol-Darpoi, he won’t smell our diesel.”

Narcisse took a slow, measured sip of tea, allowing the warmth to settle on his palate before lowering the canister. His icy gaze never wavered from the line of scrub ahead.

Narcisse: “Splendid…”

He said, his voice smooth and refined.

Narcisse: “Let us hope the beast possesses enough vitality to make the endeavor intellectually engaging. I find little amusement in shooting an animal that surrenders to circumstance before I have even loaded the brass.”

Tau glanced sidelong at the Frenchman. He had guided dozens of wealthy aristocrats, oil barons, and diplomats through these plains over the years, but few carried themselves with Narcisse’s chilling tranquility. No nervous sweat, no frantic fumbling with binoculars, no boyish eagerness for blood. Narcisse treated the vast wilderness not as an untamed expanse of nature, but as a chessboard.

Tau: “This is no ordinary bull.”

He warned, slowing the Cruiser as they approached a ridge of bleached red limestone.

Tau: “The shepherds call him the Iron Horn. Old, blind in his left eye, but twice as aggressive as any young bull. When he charges, he does not veer.”

A subtle, dangerous smirk played at the corner of Narcisse’s lips. He placed his tea into the fitted brass holder by the dashboard and rested his fingers against the cool steel of the rifle’s receiver.

Narcisse: “Predictable momentum…”

He mused quietly, adjusting his glasses with a knuckle.

Narcisse: “Raw power advancing on a fixed, unwavering path. How exceedingly exquisite—it renders our moment of contact so impeccably certain.”

Tau killed the engine. The silence of the plains rushed in instantly—the drone of cicadas, the faint rustle of dry thornbrush, and, far off near a sunken pool of muddy water, the distinct, rhythmic snapping of heavy branches.

Tau pointed with a single, steady finger toward the thicket two hundred yards out.

Narcisse broke the Holland & Holland smoothly open, slid two heavy brass cartridges into the chambers with a soft, decisive click, and closed the barrels.

Narcisse: “Lead on, Tau.”

He murmured, rising gracefully from the passenger seat without letting a single grain of dirt disturb his poise.

Narcisse: “Let us see if Nadrasana’s finest can withstand a lesson in the precision of a Beaumont.”

Tau crouched low and slunk through the pale yellow elephant grass, his weathered boots moving without a sound. Right behind came Narcisse, gliding with uncanny, effortless poise. Unmoved by the sharp thorns and sun-baked terrain, he stepped with calculated precision, landing his polished boots onto hard soil to avoid snapping brittle twigs.

They reached the crest of a low, ochre-tinted rise. Tau signaled with a flattened palm and sank onto his haunches beneath the sparse canopy of a whistling thorn tree.

Narcisse drew beside him, unbothered by the stifling haze, and looked down into the depression.

There stood the beast.

It was a titanic black rhinoceros, its hide scarred and crusted with gray mud like an ancient, walking monolith. One massive anterior horn swept upward—grooved, battle-worn, and easily three feet of tapered keratin. The animal’s left eye was milky and ruined, framed by deep, callous folds of skin. It tore at the tough brush with hooked lips, ears twitching like radar dishes against the dead silence of the noon heat.

Tau lifted his binoculars, speaking in a breath barely louder than the dry breeze.

Tau: “One hundred and forty paces. Behind the shoulder, through the ribs. He cannot smell us, but if he turns his right eye this way, he will see your helmet.”

Narcisse: “Change my headwear merely to accommodate that creature? What a vulgar notion.”

He murmured, the faint ghost of a smirk gracing his lips.

Narcisse: “And why aim behind the shoulder when I want it to see who ended its life?”

Tau turned his head sharply, alarmed.

Tau: “A frontal shot on an enraged bull? The skull plate is thick as stone. If the angle deflects—”

Narcisse’s jaw tightened as his ire soared.

Narcisse: “I did not spend twenty-six hours aboard private charters and rattling transport simply to perform an execution from the bushes!”

He whispered hoarsely. He raised the Holland & Holland, settling the walnut stock against the pocket of his right shoulder with practiced grace.

Narcisse: “Where is the elegance in shooting something while its back is turned? That is the trade of cowards and weak men, which I am neither.”

Before Tau could utter another word of caution, Narcisse formed a purple bubble the size of a basketball in his hand and threw it at the bull; it landed on its rear, pushed it ahead slightly, and popped at the snap of his fingers.

The rhino’s massive head swung toward the ridge. Its solitary good eye—beady, bloodshot, and burning with territorial fury—locked onto the two figures above the brush line. A deep, wet snort blasted dust from the dry dirt. The ground trembled as the beast shifted its weight back onto its haunches, its massive head dropping low and aligning that fearsome horn straight toward the intruder.

Tau: “Monsieur Beaumont—”

He hissed, his hands tightening on his secondary carbine.

Narcisse: “Silence!”

He commanded softly, without a flicker of panic in his voice.

With a ground-shattering lurch, the bull launched forward. It tore through thick acacia branches as if they were dried reeds, kicking up a rooster tail of red dust that hung in the sweltering heat. Sixty tons of kinetic fury barreled straight uphill, closing the distance at a terrifying speed.

Tau turned ashen. His heart hammered in his ears.

Narcisse stood tall, planting his leather boots firmly into the red sand. His glasses remained perched perfectly on the bridge of his nose, his eyes narrowed, entirely devoid of fear. He watched the massive horn lower, tracking the skull’s precise bobbing rhythm with the cold detachment of a surgeon selecting a scalpel.

The charge sounded like a thunderclap now, musk and churned loam washing over them.

The horn cleaved the scrub bare.

Narcisse did not flinch, lean back, or waver. At twenty paces, right as the bull surged into its final, crushing stride, he tightened his index finger on the front trigger.

The Nitro Express roared, a concussive blast of fire and lead that shattered the noon silence and punched through the heat shimmer. The heavy, solid brass slug struck the precise juncture just above the nostrils, drilling through bone and cartilage straight into the central cavity.

The rhino’s front legs buckled instantly. The sheer, unstoppable momentum sent the massive creature plowing forward through the dirt, kicking up a violent storm of red sand that stopped less than six feet from Narcisse.

Silence fell over the plain again, heavy and ringing.

Narcisse casually broke open the rifle. The spent casing ejected over his shoulder, pinging softly against the stones behind him.

He slid a fresh round from his cartridge belt into the open breach, clicked the barrels shut, and peered down at the motionless titan.

Narcisse: “That was nothing. I struggled more with my naughty little nephew and his ragtag of idiots from his treehouse club.”

He turned back toward the ridge, motioning with the polished muzzle toward the Land Cruiser.

Narcisse: “Nevertheless, have the men secure the horn and the head, Tau. I believe this will make an exquisite centerpiece for the study in Clerteaux. And do hurry—my tea is growing cold.”

Tau stood frozen for a few seconds longer, his gaze shifting from the fallen colossus to the Frenchman who had barely shifted his footing. The scent of cordite lingered sharply in the dry air, mingling with the copper tang of fresh blood and hot dirt. Slowly, Tau lowered his carbine and let out a long breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

Tau: “A clean kill, Monsieur.”

He said, his tone carrying a newfound, guarded wariness.

Tau: “Many men claim they can face an iron horn head-on. Very few remain standing to admire the work.”

Narcisse: “I’m not like most men.”

He said tersely.

He strolled deliberately back up the slope, his posture straight and untroubled by the steep grade. Reaching the shade of the Land Cruiser, he unclasped the silver canister from its brass fitting on the dashboard and took another swallow of tea. It was tepid now, but the clean bergamot notes were sufficient to clear the bitter powder smoke from his throat.

From over the ridge, the faint rumble of a diesel flatbed signaled the arrival of the skinners and field dressers Tau had arranged to follow their trail. Three local men stepped down into the brush, carrying heavy canvas tarps, salt bags, and skinning knives. They stopped abruptly at the sight of the rhino’s position—not tucked away in the brush, but dropped squarely in the open path, dead at point-blank range.

Narcisse observed their hushed murmurs with an amused detachment, slipping his hands into the pockets of his tunic.

Narcisse: “Ensure the cape is preserved down to the shoulder without serration.”

He directed, his tone crisp and clear over the idling truck’s hum.

Narcisse: “The taxidermist in Clerteaux is notoriously particular about symmetry. Any jagged tears along the neckline will be deducted from the finishing fee.”

Tau translated the instructions into Swahili with a sharp nod, gesturing for the crew to begin their work before the midday heat spoiled the meat.

As the men secured the massive horn and prepared the salt wraps, Narcisse leaned against the Land Cruiser’s side panel and pulled a monogrammed linen handkerchief from his breast pocket. He carefully polished his glasses, squinting out across Nadrasana’s sprawling horizon.

The vast, dry expanse was undeniably striking, but its charms were finite. The savannah’s raw, unrefined simplicity lacked the delicate intrigues of high society. A charging beast, after all, only offered one move: forward. Tristan and his friends were another story. Narcisse always had to be one step ahead of his nephew.

He slipped the glasses back onto the bridge of his nose, his green eyes sharpening behind the glass.

Narcisse: “Tell me, Tau…”

He said, watching the dust kick up as the skinners drove their steel.

Narcisse: “How soon until the private airstrip at Ambohimasina can clear our departure back to Nouvelle Gaule?”

Tau: “By nightfall, if the winds hold.”

He answered, securing the Holland & Holland into its leather travel sheath behind the Cruiser’s bench.

Tau: “You do not care to celebrate the hunt at the lodge?”

Narcisse gaped incredulously at him.

Narcisse: “A glass of inferior whisky among tourists and peasants reciting hollow exaggerations?”

He chuckled softly, a dry, melodic sound without warmth.

Narcisse: “Hardly my idea of leisure. My home awaits, and unlike wild game, my naughty nephew and his ragtag of delinquents and corporate lapdogs require rather constant reminders of who pulls the reins.”

He stepped up into the passenger seat, entirely unruffled as the Nadrasanan sun began its slow descent over the plains.

~

The private jet touched down smoothly on the coastal tarmac of Clerteaux just as dusk was bleeding into a rich indigo across the Mediterranean horizon. A cool, salted sea breeze swept over the runway, carrying away the lingering, dry phantom heat of Nadrasana that had clung to Narcisse’s heavy leather luggage.

Descending the mobile stairs with his customary unhurried poise, Narcisse had already traded his sun-bleached pith helmet for bare, immaculate white hair. He folded his safari jacket neatly over one arm, leaving him in a crisp linen shirt and tailored purple trousers that looked as though they had never been within a thousand leagues of red dust.

Armand stood beside the polished black Rolls-Royce, hands clasped behind his back, his posture as rigid and unyielding as a marble pillar.

Armand: “Welcome home, Monsieur Beaumont.”

He murmured with a modest bow, stepping forward to take the leather case and jacket from Narcisse.

Narcisse: “It is good to breathe civil air once again, Armand.”

He said, slipping his hand into his pocket as he walked toward the open passenger door.

Narcisse: “The country has its charms, but its climate lacks discretion.”

Armand: “I trust the venture was a success, sir?”

Narcisse: “The Iron Horn of Nadrasana will be arriving via cargo ship through Clerteaux within the fortnight.”

He replied, settling into the vehicle’s supple leather interior. A small, dry smirk graced his lips.

Narcisse: “It proved remarkably obstinate right up until the final thirty yards. Ensure the gallery wall opposite the terrace is cleared. It will hang between the Italian tapestries.”

Armand: “Naturally, sir. It shall be attended to before week’s end.”

He replied smoothly, closing the car door with a muffled, satisfying thud before taking his place at the wheel.

The car glided effortlessly away from the airstrip, its tires humming against the clean coastal roads of Clerteaux. The lights of the seaside villas shimmered in the distance like scattered diamonds against the dark water.

Narcisse: “Perfection, Armand. Now, bring me up to speed. Who has had the audacity to cause trouble while I was away? Did my naughty little nephew and his friends do anything absurd? Did Victor go off with his prized whale?”

He asked as his jaw tightened.

Narcisse: “It’s funny, because I don’t recall giving Victor permission to date that pig fuck.”

He hissed through clenched teeth.

Armand adjusted the rearview mirror with practiced care, his dark eyes meeting Narcisse’s reflection for a brief, measured moment.

Armand: “Madame Charlotte has been... rather difficult these past few days, Monsieur.”

He began, keeping his tone carefully neutral as the Rolls-Royce wound along the coastal cliffs.

Armand: “She has retreated to the solarium, refusing visitors, and dismissed two of the kitchen staff over trivialities. It appears her moods stem entirely from Basile Bellegarde’s boy.”

Narcisse paused. His brows furrowed.

Narcisse: “Fabien?”

Armand: “The very same.”

He replied.

Armand: “Madame made a series of rather unsubtle overtures toward him before the weekend—she visited his house and says she witnessed him with another woman.”

A sharp, brittle coldness descended over the rear passenger seat.

Narcisse didn't raise his voice, but the sudden tension in the air was enough to stifle the engine’s hum. A dark, possessive scowl twisted his lips, completely stripping away the leisurely calm he had brought back from Nadrasana.

Narcisse: “Is that so?”

He murmured, his voice dropping into a dangerous, seething hiss. His green eyes flashed with venomous irritation as he stared out into the dark waters of the bay.

Narcisse: “Charlotte thinks he’s the reincarnation of that boy who spent his time with the sailors: Julien. That’s preposterous! Fabien is so much better than that low-life unwashed runaway! That vermin didn’t have a home!”

He snarled under his breath.

Narcisse: “No one ever set out to find him.”

He muttered.

He leaned back against the leather, his chest rising and falling in tight, measured breaths as his mind calculated every piece on the board.

Narcisse: “She has a perfectly fine husband, and she wants to take what’s mine!”

He snapped.

Armand remained silent, his steady hands guiding the vehicle through the dark, winding coastal roads. He knew better than to interrupt the storm brewing in the backseat.

Narcisse’s fists clenched tightly against his knees, the refined composure he had maintained across oceans suddenly fracturing. A sudden, sharp breath shuddered through his chest, and before he could stop it, a hot tear spilled over his lashes, cutting a silent path down his pristine cheek. Another followed in rapid succession, streaming down his face as a strangled sob escaped his throat—a sound raw with humiliation and bitter fury.

Narcisse: “Why must she ruin everything?!”

He choked out, slamming a fist against the armrest as tears blurred his vision. His voice trembled, losing all its usual cold, melodic authority.

Narcisse: “I built this life! I brought order to this family! And she believes she can simply reach out her hand and claim Fabien because of some piece of shit she met at the docks when she was a teenager?! Fabien is nothing like that piece of trash!”

He ripped off his glasses, wiping furiously at his eyes with the back of his trembling hand, but the tears kept coming, fueled by years of resentment and possessive desperation.

He glared out the window, his chest heaving as the city lights blurred into streaks of gold and indigo.

Narcisse: “He belongs to me, Armand… not her. Never her. If anyone will possess him, it will be ME! And that goes double for Tristan! They’re MINE!”

~

The wrought-iron gates of the Beaumont estate groaned open as the Rolls-Royce swept up the winding, gravel drive toward the towering Beaumont manor.

Armand brought the car to a smooth halt before the heavy, carved double doors. Narcisse emerged before the butler could even step out to open his door, his strides long, purposeful, and brimming with suppressed venom. He swept past the foyer, his polished shoes clicking sharply against the tiles, entirely ignoring the waitstaff who offered polite bows.

He found Charlotte in the grand reception salon.

She stood framed before a tall arched window looking out over the moonlit grounds, draped in her frost-blue off-shoulder gown and sandals adorned with rubies. The air in the room was dense with brooding resentment.

Narcisse: “I have returned from a grueling expedition across Nadrasana.”

He said, his voice quiet, icy, and sharp as a surgeon’s blade.

Narcisse: “Only to discover my sister throwing petulant tantrums and terrorizing the domestic staff like a spurned schoolgirl. Because of some boy you met when you were fifteen at the docks!”

Charlotte stiffened, turning her head slowly to cast a chilling, disdainful glare over her shoulder.

Charlotte: “Do not lecture me on decorum, Narcisse…”

She retorted, her voice dripping with aristocratically venomous pride.

Charlotte: “I witnessed someone who resembles Julien with another woman! How was I supposed to act?”

Narcisse took two measured, menacing steps forward. When he spoke, the fury beneath his calm facade was terrifyingly evident.

Narcisse: “And who gave you permission to solicit Fabien Bellegarde in the first place?”

He hissed, his green eyes narrowing to slivers. Charlotte’s eyes widened slightly in surprise before hardening into indignant disbelief.

Narccise: “You have a husband!”

Charlotte: “And I don’t want Victor! I never wanted Victor! I had to produce a son for Papa!”

She fired back.

Narcisse: “And you did! Tristan is the most beautiful little prince ever! Father would be SO PROUD!”

He shot back venomously.

Charlotte: “No, he wouldn’t. The only one proud of him is you, Narcisse.”

She hissed. Narcisse seethed at her, clenching his fist tightly as his tears burned behind his eyelids.

Narcisse: “As for Fabien, he is MINE! Tristan is MINE! If anyone will make Fabien and Tristan subservient, it will be ME! Fabien will get on his knees and give me sweet, sweet oral sensations!”

He jumped up and down, flailing his arms. Charlotte glowered at him.

Charlotte: “You’re depraved, Narcisse.”

Narcisse froze and lowered his gaze to her.

Narcisse: “...I’m depraved?”

He said slowly.

Narcisse: “...As if I didn’t hear what our dear father did to you?”

He scoffed bitterly, tossing his hands into the air and shaking his head in sheer disbelief.

Narcisse: “And yet, you put him on a pedestal!”

He threw his arms up.

Charlotte: “Papa loved me very much, Narcisse.”

She spat.

Narcisse: “Yes, Charlotte. He wasn’t very subtle about THAT!”

He hissed.

Unable to bear another second of his searing words, Charlotte let out an infuriated gasp. She turned on her heel, her ruby-adorned sandals slapping sharply against the marble floor as she stormed out of the salon, her frost-blue gown swirling behind her in a cloud of silk and fury.

She retreated up the grand staircase, ignoring the startled glances of the hallway servants, and marched down the corridor toward her private suite. Slamming the heavy oak doors shut behind her, she let the reverberating thud echo down the hall as she locked herself in her bedroom.

~

The heavy mahogany doors of the grand foyer stood propped open as four delivery men in crisp gray uniforms maneuvered the massive timber crate through the threshold under Armand’s vigilant, silent supervision.

Narcisse stepped out from the library doorway. He wore a deep plum double-breasted suit jacket over a high-collared white shirt, a dark purple cravat, purple trousers, and white loafers. He held a slender china teacup, steam curling upward.

Narisse: “Careful with the pry-bar on the left corner.”

He called out.

Narcisse: “The taxidermist assured me the mount’s oak shield is sixteenth-century reclaimed timber. I would hate to see French history bruised by hasty hands.”

The final pine plank fell away with a muffled thud, revealing the colossal head of the Nadrasanan bull rhino.

The craftsmanship was terrifyingly lifelike. The thick, slate-gray skin had been treated to perfection, folding into heavy, weathered creases around the snout and neck. But the forward horn—three feet of scarred, obsidian keratin, sweeping skyward with deadly intent—dominated the room. Its single milky, blind eye and the cold, glass replica of its sighted eye gave the creature an aura of stubborn, indomitable malice, even in death.

Narcisse took a measured sip of his tea, a subtle, razor-thin smirk playing at the edge of his lips. He turned his gaze toward the empty gallery wall between the two antique Italian tapestries, where Armand had already measured out the reinforced iron anchors.

Narcisse: “Armand.”

He said softly, without breaking his gaze from the beast.

Narcisse: “Raise it to the center mount. Let it keep an eye on whoever enters my house; that includes trespassers such as Tristan and his little friends. They will know who they’re dealing with.”

Armand bowed slightly. Stepping past the shattered timbers of the shipping crate, he signaled the two installation specialists who had accompanied the freight van from the docks, their padded canvas straps and heavy iron pulleys already arranged across the checkerboard marble.

Armand: “Steady on the primary hoist.”

He directed.

Armand: “The joists above the cornicing were retrofitted precisely for this load. Keep the lateral tension even. If the plaster cracks, you will answer to Mademoiselle Beaumont, not Monsieur.”

The handlers tightened their jaws, visibly chastened by the reminder, and hauled back on the braided hemp ropes.

Slowly, almost reverently, the colossal mass of cured hide, bone, and iron-mounted oak lifted from the floor. Dust motes danced through the high clerestory windows, catching the deep luster of the sixteenth-century backplate as it cleared the baseboards. Suspended mid-air, the Iron Horn's silhouette seemed to blot out the morning light, casting a jagged, primeval shadow across the polished floor that reached to the tips of Narcisse’s white loafers.

With a deep, resonant thunk that sent a micro-tremor through the surrounding floorboards, the oak backplate locked home into the recessed steel brackets. The handlers immediately scrambled up their step-ladders to secure the hidden locking bolts behind the flared shield, cinching them tight until the mount became one indivisible extension of the manor’s ancient stone ribcage.

The bull now dominated the high gallery.

Mounted squarely between two massive, faded Italian tapestries—depicting mythological triumphs in muted greens and faded golds—the beast’s raw, prehistoric savagery struck an unsettling, deliberate contrast. Its slate-colored, folded skin drank in the ambient hall light rather than reflecting it, deep-set and immovable. The left eye, clouded with the white milk of old trauma, remained locked in its blind, indifferent stare, while the right eye, rendered in hand-blown Bohemian glass with an amber, ringed pupil, caught the morning sun and seemed to burn with a fresh, living animosity.

Above both towered the horn—three feet of ribbed, battle-scarred keratin, curved like an executioner’s scythe, pointing straight out over the open foyer.

Armand stepped back onto the floor, dismissively tipping the laborers toward the service corridor with a sharp gesture of his white-gloved hand. Once the side doors clicked shut and the hall settled back into its pristine stillness, the butler retrieved a soft microfiber cloth from his tailcoat pocket and lightly dabbed away an imperceptible smudge of packing grease from the bronze framing hook before retreating three paces to Narcisse’s side.

Armand: “The installation is secure, Monsieur Beaumont.”

He stated, clasping his hands behind his back.

Armand: “Centering is flush to within two millimeters of the middle archway.”

Narcisse took a slow, deliberate sip from his teacup, letting the delicate bergamot notes crest on his tongue before the fine porcelain touched the saucer’s rim with a crisp, tiny ring. His gaze traced the sweeping arc of the forward horn, his green eyes narrowing. He turned on his heel and walked toward the arched entrance of the sunlit terrace.

Narcisse: “See to it that the silver presentation plaque is engraved before evening, Armand.”

He instructed over his shoulder without looking back.

Narcisse: “ ‘Nadrasana, 1987. A Mere Impediment.’ Nothing more.”

Armand: “At once, Monsieur.”

He said, bowing low.