This was a short story I tweeted over three days for the #TwitterFiction Festival. I'd pitched my story to the Twitter Fiction judges before the festival, and made it to round two (of three)! Last year I didn't even get considered. I didn't make the final round this year, but maybe I will next year! Enjoy :)
CHAPTER ONE
“Bars, pubs, watering wells or whatever
your word for it; always have a motley collection of regulars, kid,”
Lance had the back of the young man’s neck
in a cobra clutch and had leapt over the fence of what usually constituted
private space about five drinks ago.
“You have the piss drunk patrons that you
can always count on to be unconscious, no matter which day and no matter what
hour,” he slurred in Tiny Thulani’s ear.
“You also have the types always looking to
pick up inebriated voluptuous females. The ones you wouldn’t be happy to wake
up next to in the head-pounding morning.”
Tiny Thulani looked around the smoke hazed
room and could identify all the unsavoury characters Lance pointed out. The unconscious
one drooling on his collar but firmly clutching his beer; the borderline
perverted one that was only there for the voluptuous but lacking in the pretty
facial features department--
--“…and then you have the fisticuffs
instigators. The ones that’ll start a fight over any debate, wrong look or
slight brush of the shoulder. I’m the latter,” Lance turned and smiled at Tiny,
“I love a good fight,”
Lance was the resident shit stirrer at The
Fort, a dingy little bathroom corner that attracted all the kind of people he
loved to shove fists down the throats of. He regularly precipitated knuckles on
unsuspecting and most times, undeserving people.
Small, dirty drinking holes deprived of
coats of paint, properly functioning plumbing and award winning customer
service came by the dozen. But what made The Fort special was that it was one
of a handful of establishments that still catered to super powered humans [one
of the reasons why the pub had a ‘no frills’ policy. The Fort’s proprietor
squeezed out just enough of the profits to install reinforced adamantium
counters and doors; special padding and easily reassembling furniture, because
fights were commonplace among supers. The bottles and pitchers however,
remained glass].
“Since I’m out of conventional employment,
I spend most of my days here!” Lance said spilling a little brew on his
listener’s sleeve. He practically lived at The Fort.
Things had not always been so grim. About
ten years ago, Lance was a celebrated superhero and he’d spent his days foiling
super villainy and fighting in the pantheon of champions like Stronghold of the
Power Squad! and the Tenaka Twins in Japan. The world sang their praises and
built statues in their honour. But all that is now just a stain on humanity’s
collective conscious.
CHAPTER TWO
Unlike the pretty picture pop-culture will
sell you, superheroes aren’t always nice people. There were ‘incidents’ people
no longer spoke of; incidents that led to the policing of all supers and
passing of legislation that strictly prohibited the use of powers--supernatural
or otherwise--if it wasn’t in the service of respective governments. All
vigilantes were arrested and sometimes even executed. Heroes for hire and their
unions were disbanded and unfair taxes and fines imposed on them. Those that
hid their tails between their legs and enlisted for national service were the
few that remained ‘heroes’. Not even a whisper of super criminals and villains
passed the lips of people. They were dealt an even harsher blow.
Lance and others like him refused a life of
forced servitude. They vehemently opposed the new legislation and chose to live
away from the newly prescribed society. They formed little communities that
resembled ghettos and were policed regularly by drones and armoured humans.
Places like The Fort were a kind of refuge.
“I still wear this uniform as a sign of
honour, Tiny” Lance said with palpable nostalgia. He held his beer mug as if
searching its contents for a particular memory.
“WE WERE GLADIATORS, KID!” He’d gotten up
with one boot on the bar stool and another on the counter, leaning toward the
bar like a triumphant hunter with a foot on the neck of his trophy. Tiny
Thulani was nervous.
“The people would come out to watch us do
battle with monstrosities cooked up from the darkest labs and lairs!” Lance was
beating his chest and spilling beer all over the counter, “The people braved
flying debris and even harmful radiation to watch us triumph over evil!”
Lance paused, “Until they became the evil…”
“Ah, Ba Lance naimwe! Spare us the sob
stories! We’ve heard it all before,” said Chilu, the hero formerly known as,
Ember.
Lance turned to look at Chilu. He didn’t
like to be interrupted.
“Mind your own business, Ember! I wasn’t
addressing your face!”
“Get over it, you bum!” Chilu replied, “We
all have! Get a real job. Maybe even start a family and sentence someone else
to this punishing story time you inflict on us daily!”
The Fort erupted in laughter.
“So I can grow up to be just like you, huh,
Ember?”
“I don’t go by that anymore,”
“BECAUSE YOU LIVE A FAĆADE!” shouted Lance.
“At least I stay true to myself! You all just took on different masks! You
became a bloody accountant for goodness sake, Ember!”
The Fort was silent.
“You all cowered and pretended we never
fought for any ideals. Like we didn’t symbolize anything. Like we were all just
merry men in tights prancing around for the cameras! Dammit, we inspired the very sheep that turned into
wolves on us and forced us into this dirty little corner! Why should we live
like we never mattered?”
“So what do you suggest we do, Lance?” said
Chilu, “Start a revolution? Isn't this the same guy that takes
part in that barbaric Friday night fight club? Tearing at each other for
peanuts and the entertainment of brain-dead individuals!”
“I do what I need to, to keep food on my
table and keep the ZESCO on,”
“What you need to do is go home, you bum. You’re drunk and pissing allover
our solace,” Chilu said.
Lance got down from his stool and walked
over to Chilu’s table. His drunken act seemed to have subsided and it looked
like his anger had burnt all the alcohol in his blood. Chilu stood up and
towered over Lance. The two stood toe to toe and stared each other down.
CHAPTER THREE
“Or do you not have a home?”
The patrons of The Fort correctly predict
it, but they didn’t actually see Lance’s fist connect with Chilu’s jaw. It
happened so fast it would make a bolt of lightning cower in shame.
Chilu was knocked across the room, crashing
through tables and breaking beer bottles in his path. Lance then lunged at him
and received a concentrated heat blast from Chilu’s palms; his hands glowing in
a fierce red and giving a visual anecdote of how he’d earned the name, Ember.
Lance didn’t notice the flames on his beloved uniform jacket. All he could see
in his mind were his fists making contact with Chilu’s face and landscaping his
facial features. The flames did little to harm Lance’s skin; his power was near
invulnerability. The heat blast intensified and flung a toasty Lance towards
Tiny Thulani. Tiny shrunk to the size of a shot glass and dodged his frying friend.
Lance picked up the shrunken Tiny and leapt
at Chilu again, dodging flares as he charged on. He grabbed Chilu by his throat
and forcefully shoved his miniature friend down Chilu’s oesophagus.
“GROW!” Lance commanded Tiny.
What sounded like a muffled protest could
be heard from the shrinking-man inside Chilu’s neck.
“I’ll do worse than that if you don’t! Now
GROW dammit!”
A lump began to grow from the flame
thrower’s throat, choking him in the process. He clutched his neck and streamed
saliva from the sides of his mouth. Lance and the rest of The Fort watched,
both in disgust and crude amusement. Chilu placed his palm on the growing lump
and sent a pint-size heat wave through his neck. Tiny Thulani jumped out of the
mouth he’d been forced down wailing in pain and growing back to full size by
the time he hit the ground. His clothes were sizzling and patches of his skin
had scalded.
Chilu coughed and spewed out his last beer,
tasting the trail of Tiny’s travels that day since his boots had been on his
tongue. He placed his hand on the adamantium counter top and sent his rage
through his palms. Lance had not noticed this and blindly went in for a
head-butt. Chilu side-stepped to dodge the blow and palmed the back of Lance’s
head. He then bashed the head in his palm onto the sweltering hot counter top
and sent a fiery fury down Lance’s ear.
“You tried to kill me, you asshole!” raged
Chilu.
Lance’s face began to smoke and even his
near invulnerability would soon not be able to take the solar flare of Chilu’s
hands.
Before Lance could retaliate, the two
former heroes received crippling shocks of electricity from two very large
bouncers. “No fighting,” they said simultaneously.
The
fighters both got up on one knee and looked at each other. “You bastard, you
ruined my jacket!” said Lance, “You ruined my friggin’ jacket!”
Chilu said nothing and wiped the blood from
his swollen lip. He lit his index finger and lightly burned the cut in his lip
closed.
Superheroes and their abilities vary. Some
may be invulnerable or are able to take immense amounts of pain; but even they
got their feelings hurt. Their words had cut through the cigarette smoke and
smell of hard liquor. Lance and Chilu; both tired from the fighting and the
current state of their world dusted themselves off. Each man had spoken the
truth, neither more truthful than the other. Each man cut deep. Their physical
wounds would heal at an accelerated rate, but both were yet to heal from the wounds
humanity had inflicted on them so long ago.
The music continued to play and in a few
minutes, the pub was buzzing like nothing had happened. It was just another
Thursday evening at, The Fort.