This is a short story taken from my novel. Originally I had posted it over at Chuck Palahniuk’s Substack. Occasionally Chuck will pick a short story to review. I was lucky enough to be chosen. You can read the original here with his notes. Hopefully the changes I made improved the story and didn’t create more problems. Sometimes when I’m editing I get lost down a rabbit hole. Chuck is extremely generous with this time and what he offers over at his Substack. If you’re into fiction and improving your own writing I highly suggest you check him out.
Thanks for reading,
Will
Colorful Hero
Fuck the def, is tagged across the playground, down slides and over pictograms used to teach children the alphabet in sign language. I wipe paint off a fist with the thumb extended placed over an open hand. Help.
A cell phone sitting on a teeter totter starts playing music into the midnight sky. Autotune and heavy base. Something for the younger generation. There’s a dude sitting on a swing smoking a heavy dose of ammonia or toilet cleaner. I duck under police tape that weaves around play structures that kids play on each day. The phone’s home screen says: Dylan. Like skipping a stone across a pond I whip the phone off a teeter totter off a springy frog across the concrete into the school’s brick surface. The case explodes throwing electronic guts beside blackened meth pipes.
The guy on the swings says, “Bro!”
I say, “You must be Dylan.” The bulbous tubes snap under my weight and I say, “I’m not your bro, Dylan."
People will tell you not to go out after dark because the night is filled with shadows carrying knives and machetes. This shadow doesn’t appear to be much of a threat, but that’s the thing about shadows, they change based on their environment.
Dylan hops off the swing real tough guy like, until I step forward into the light. Dylan backs away and trips over an open case of beer. In a backwards crab walk, Dylan retreats across chalk hopscotch squares, over tic-tac-toe, his sneakers slipping on a sloppy wet penis, moving up the shaft spreading the outline with spilled beer so now it looks more like a infected vagina. I lean over, my fists clenched tight to Dylan’s coat. I pull him close, under the moonlight and with my breath releasing into the air I whisper, “What’s your poison bud, knife or machete?”
Dylan says, “N-n-no, man. P-please. I’m not carrying.”
I drop his dead weight and say, “Well, that’s not true.” I step on Dylan’s wrist revealing a can of spray paint. Looking at the can I say, “I’m a bit of an artist myself.” I double-slap Dylan’s ears and then spray his face blood-red while he screeches and claws at me to stop. I empty the can, throw it aside and say, “You caught me in the wrong kind of mood, bud. Now tell me what you know about the girl here last night.”
In the fetal position, Dylan coughs up a blood clot and sprays it across the sloppy joe vagina. It could be paint, maybe his supper. It’s hard to tell because everyone is color blind in this light. Curled up in the center of the womb Dylan says, “S-stop. P-please stop. Who are you man? Who are you, really?”
The newspaper calls me vigilante. Menace. But before that, back before all of this the newspaper called me something else.
The Street Fighting Emoticon.
One weekend I go to the rowdiest hard-rock-miner hillbilly bar in town, stand outside the doors at two am in a Karate Gi, and as people stumble out laughing and patting each other on the back, I waved them on and say, “Which one of you sons of bitches wants to go?”
That first night was bad.
I crawled home a bloody smashed asshole.
I figured the best way to develop my fighting skills was to fight. I’d get better or die trying. If I couldn’t defend myself how was I going to defend others?
Each weekend I’d show up with a sad face, a surprised face, or an excited face emoji painted across my mug. The paint ignites a reaction deep inside everyone. Sometimes I’d draw a bullseye just to see what would happen. Soon after that, every Monday morning the newspaper printed a sports column called, The Street Fighting Emoticon.
“The Street Fighting Emoticon. The Champ Williamstown Needs!”
Crawling over broken meth pipes, glass slicing into Dylan’s hands, he looks back at me like a beaten dog. Cigarette butts and dried leaves stuck to his face, the paint locking them in place. There’s something oozing out from both ears and I sense he’ll get a taste of what it’s like to be deaf. Dylan crawls between the teeter totters and under the police tape. I grab a leg and drag him back over the glass and say, “When I’m through with you bud, you’ll be a bloody smashed asshole.”
Talking too loud like he can’t hear his own voice Dylan says, “Take it easy, man. I didn’t rape anyone.”
I pull Dylan up off the ground and in one fluid motion throw him against the school’s brick surface and say, “Who said anything about rape?” Up close and personal we share a moment. Dylan’s eyes go wide. My makeup, devil-red with black hollow eyes. The paint cracks from the cold, stiff against my skin. A permanent scowl. I use makeup to conceal my identity but it does so much more. Red instills fear, shows strength. It’s said red can stimulate a faster heartbeat and breathing which gives me an advantage in a fight. I use green to calm and harmonize. It helps people relax when I’m trying to help. Blue is a calming agent as well but it can often be perceived as cold and unfriendly. Sometimes I’ll splash on a bit of pink to balance it out. It all works on a subconscious level.
With my arm pressed against Dylan’s throat I say, “Where did your friends run off to? Cowards like you run in packs. A herd of sheep sticking their little peckers where they don’t belong.”
A neon yellow glow from inside my mouth, Dylan admires my mouth guard shaped like fangs. Dylan chokes, “You got it all wrong, man. We’re just out having a bit of fun.”
I slam my head into the bridge of his nose. It cracks like a broken potato chip and I say, “That’s the problem with this town. Everyone is out having a bit of fun.” I let him slide down the brick wall of the school. Spitting blood Dylan says, “What are you, some kind of hero?”
The first time I tried to be a hero I was a failure.
A town this small is easy enough to monitor the troubled spots but instead I walked through residential areas with barbeque still fresh in the air. I hid behind manicured bushes watching vacant streets.
I was about to call it a night when up ahead someone was being attacked. This was it, I thought. My heart pounded. No drug in the world can duplicate what was coursing through my veins. I ran, wind against my face, chin up, controlling my breathing like I practiced, but when the two men hug, and then stagger away the butterflies in my stomach wither and die. A drunken fight between friends.
Hallmark should have a card for that.
I try to stop mid-stride but the shoes I was wearing had no grip and the ground was slippery with mud. My feet flew up into the air and I landed on my back and then rolled down a hill through long grass, over broken bottles and rocks until I stopped at the bottom of the valley.
I couldn’t move. It’s how one single thought can paralyze you. How one belief can take down a nation. It’s why early childhood years are so important. Parents who destroy their children’s future in those early years because they suck as parents.
A voice says, “You got yourself in quite a mess, kid.”
I say, “I know, Mom.”
Looking over me, smoking a cigarette my Mom says, “You kicked the tar out of a lot drunken fools outside that bar, kid. What made you think you were ready for this? You look a damn fool.”
The tight nylon suit snug up my butt and one sleeve stretched longer than the other. The shirt stuck to my skin from sweat. My chest itched and my nipples chafed from the logo. An absolutely ridiculous costume. Orange doesn’t go well with green and lightning bolts should not be mauve.
I say, “Maybe I’m still looking for you Mom.
She says, “I told you, kid. You should have gave that up years ago.”
I sit up and my mom says, “You starting a war or a revolution?”
Either way it was time to grow up.
I say, “I’m just trying to make a difference.”
My mom kneels down, with a cigarette in one hand, and the other hand stroking my head she says, “Are you going to be a vigilante or a renegade?”
When I don’t reply she says, “You should have stuck to being a social worker, kid.”
I say, “The system is broken.”
A voice from the shadows says, “Hey, Hero. Let our friend go.”
I smile, look over my shoulder and say, “I knew if your pal screamed loud enough you’d come scurrying.”
Three guys with machetes and two girls behind them twirling knives. Dylan, his face stained from blood and paint, his nose pushed all the way left stands up. One of his friends chucks Dylan a machete. Chipped and stained the sword hangs by his side. Dylan picks a cigarette butt stuck to his face, flicks it at me and says, “Now you’re fucked.”
“That’s a matter of perspective, dickhead,” I say.
In the distance police sirens echo across the night sky.
I say, “Can you hear those sirens Dylan? That’s your future calling.”
Pointing to his ear with blood oozing out Dylan says, “I can’t actually. If it’s the police you’re talking about, do you think they’re coming for me Hero? I imagine they’re more interested in you. The Unknown Vigilante. The hero Williamstown doesn’t need. Isn’t that what the newspaper is saying?”
Strapped to my back is a pack full of supplies. A make-shift grapple gun clipped onto the pack for easy access. First aid kit. Food. With the sirens fast approaching I’m trying to remember what I have at my disposal.
Looking like a rotten tomato that’s been kicked around the garden Dylan says, “And my names not Dylan. That’s the boyfriend of the girl from last night.” He says, “Rape is just a mater of perspective. For all of us, we were just out having a bit of fun.” The girls behind him giggle and my chest tightens and my hands vibrate.
I say, “Her name is Lisa and the hospital is flying up a surgeon because of what you did to her. They say she may never be able to have children. You put her boyfriend in a coma and the doctors say he may never wake up.”
Pretend Dylan says, “She can thank me later.”
The police sirens are getting louder. Getting closer. Everywhere in town is a five minute drive.
I’ve entered panic mode.
I’m about to blackout from rage.
Breathe.
Engage the parasympathetic nervous system.
Immediately stop the production of adrenaline.
Reduce all possibilities of complete and utter madness.
Now breathe.
Instead, I slap my adrenal gland into overdrive and amp up production. I run straight at them like a Viking heading into war. The six of them are holding their hands out in a stopping motion, their faces molded in horror. No weapons. No attitude. The girls are hysterical. A spotlight blinds me and a voice echoes, “Freeze!” I’m tackled before I can reach their throats. Another police unit came on foot, sirens are still on the way.
On my back the beasts surround me, grabbing their batons, shoulders hunched, their breath exhausting into the cold night air like a herd of horny bulls. I’ve made fools of the police and they want revenge. Not justice. Bloody revenge.
Laughing, I say, “Well get on with it you bastards.” I tighten my stomach in preparation for the blows. Light from the moon shines on their smug smiles, on their badges, on their guns. The police begin the assault. Fists like cinder blocks. Batons like lead. It’s a strange thing, when you endure this much pain you become numb to it. An out of body experience. If you’re trained you can use this to your advantage. Everything becomes slow motion, you’re watching it but not believing it. My arms are spread. Each cop has an arm, has a leg. I’m a symbol of grace. This is my crucifixion.
I’m no longer laughing.
The moon disappears and everything goes black hole dark.
On the ground, just out of reach is my salvation. My way out. The police are too concerned with breaking me they don’t notice I’m inching closer. A rib snaps. A tooth is kicked out of it’s hole. I’m blocking the barrage with my right arm, and reaching with my left. In one quick jerk I grab onto the grappler, aim it into the darkness and Kachhhhhh! A release of air from the pressure release valve.
And I’m gone.
A homemade grapple gun with a high-powered military grade reel strong enough to pull my two-hundred-pound frame up into the air and away from the police. Soaring through the darkness I slam hard against a tree and then wrap myself around it, digging the tiny spikes on my boots into the tree for support. Appear to disappear. My whole body is a heartbeat as I grip the bark pulling away from the tree.
The police are searching the perimeter. The girls are crying and the guys are shaking hands with the police and thanking them for coming when they did. Just another one of my victims. An ambulance pulls up and a cop is walking fake Dylan to the paramedics. He looks back, up into the trees where I could be hiding and nods.
From up here you can see the white outline of a person under the swings. Another is sketched under the monkey bars. For the police, the memory of Lisa and Dylan will last for about as long as it takes the chalk to fade. Just another statistic for the winner of the most violent city per capita in the country.
Welcome to Williamstown.
High up in the tree I readjust for better grip and my rib lets me know it’s still broken. The police are starting to disperse but I have to be careful. The foot patrol could still be snooping around waiting for me to come out of hiding. Either way I can’t hold onto this tree much longer.
“Well, isn’t this a pickle,” my mother says. Sitting on a branch up on the tree beside me she says, “Stick with being a social worker kid. Fifteen hour days doesn’t look so bad anymore, huh?”
I say, “I can’t do it anymore. The addicted, the walking dead roam these streets looking for fresh meat. They don’t need my help. Not anymore. The good people of this town do. To me, all I see are criminals. Threats. There’s no one here to help. The system is broken. Corrupted.”
Smoking a cigarette she says, “I think you’ve finally decided, kid.”
I say, “Decided what?”
My mother says, “Whether you’re starting a war or a revolution? To kill a bunch of people or bring the system down.”
Looking down at the chalk outlines I say, “Those bastards got away.”
Taking a drag from her cigarette, my mom says, “For now. But I have a feeling you’re going to bump into them again. And next time you won’t have to be so nice.”
The cigarette smoke fades along with the memory of my Mom, and I’m left up in the tree alone. This isn’t going to be easy, but like my mother, I always did like a bit of violence.
The newspaper calls me the Unknown Vigilante, and instead of arresting murderers and rapist and drug dealers the police have all available resources hunting me. And for The Street Fighting Emoticon. The newspaper pleas for my return saying, “Please come back. We all miss you.”