Once Upon A Time

A short time ago there was a man.  He was a good man, who lived by a strong moral code and did all that was possible to protect and provide for the ones he loved.  He spent a career as a soldier and then, rather than retire, he chose to invest another career in teaching.  Despite a somewhat gruff demeanor, all who knew him knew that he was a man with passion for improving the world one battle at a time, one classroom at a time.  Early in his soldiering days he met and married a beautiful girl and shortly thereafter had a son.  His son became his reason for living the very instant he was born, and life was good.

 

While money was never a problem, they lived modestly without any extravagant spending.  As much as he loved his son, and would give the world for him, he made a very strong effort not to spoil him with gifts.  Instead the boy grew up with fewer toys and more time to exercise his imagination, to ponder life and get lost inside his head.  While he was still in the army, they traveled often which meant that the young boy was constantly adapting to new schools and new friends.  This can be tough for many children, but his son got used to it, and they remained a very close family.  On several occasions, trips were explained as missions or adventures in order to keep their son interested and looking at the bright side of things.  In fact, it was not until the father retired from his military career and settled the family in one spot that a certain darkness began to take hold. 

 

It grew slowly, unnoticeably, like moss, on their son, within him.  A certain type of greed took hold and planted seeds in his heart.  When life was no longer a chain of new adventures, he became bored.  Feeling unchallenged, he began to take less interest in being the hero he and his father had daydreamed about together in the previous years.  The boy became more interested in what he could get for himself, in what he could do to entertain his bored mind.  While he never turned to cruelty, a certain bright glimmer was lost from his eye, never to return.  This of course was no fault of the father and mother who thought that providing some stability would be good for their son, and that mild outbursts of attitude were simply a part of growing up.  They still loved their son as much as they ever had and did everything in his best interest. 

 

The boy grew into a rather awkward young man, with few friends, though he kept those friends very close as if he thought of them as his only lifelines to normalcy and goodness.  The boy was a bit melodramatic at times, but this is to be expected of teenagers, especially those of the intelligent and awkward variety.  He was still a good kid, a kind person, though the dark parasite in his heart continued to grow and to strangle his full potential.  

 

Soon he began his floundering attempts at college, where he found himself without direction and without the will to push himself toward anything worthwhile.  He had become gluttonous, slothful, and greedy, and while he would attempt to blame this on his parents, even his diseased heart knew that they had done all they could, all anyone could do, to help him.  His time to spread his wings had come, and he was plummeting toward the ground, headfirst.  The father took several approaches to helping him, from kind understanding, to rather angry disapproval of the boy’s lack of willpower.  He never stayed angry for long though, and many nights there were quiet concerned conversations between him and his wife about what they could do to help their son become the man they knew he could be.  The problem was that this was not something they could solve.  This was something he would have to figure out for himself.

 

Gradually things began to look up.  Though this may be similar to what happens when you are in a dark room for long enough and your eyes begin to adjust.  The room does not actually get any brighter, but your perception changes, allowing you to operate under these conditions more efficiently.  The son floundered through several years of school, almost earning a couple of degrees before deciding to begin again with some other avenue.  Eventually he earned a business degree and got a job in the city.  While this may have been considered by some to be an improvement (for at least now he was a productive member of society), his father knew the young man was capable of so much more.  Life settled into monotonous routine though, and the stagnant demon that had poisoned the son’s heart when he was young now wrapped another vampirous tentacle around his soul.  He spent his days in a cubicle, crunching numbers, staring at a screen, speaking politely to people on the phone, screaming at himself on the inside.  His lunch breaks were spent researching various adventures he had dreamed about since he was a boy.  He thought about becoming a volunteer firefighter, or an Army Reserve soldier, or a deep-sea diver, and occasionally he even researched the tools and information he would need to become a crime fighter (like the comic heroes he had always enjoyed).  These were merely passing fantasies though, a way to spend his lunch hour at an office filled with people that he couldn’t relate to, even though he tried. 

 

Nights were lonely for the young man, and his parents could tell when they talked to him over the phone.  He rarely visited them though they lived well within driving distance.  The father suspected that something about home made his son itch, reminded him of all that he had yet to accomplish, and possibly even reminded him of the good times they had shared when he was young, a warmth that had long since left.  This often saddened the heart of the father, but he had taught his son all the lessons he could, time and again, and now it was up to the boy to realize the simple truth behind them.  In the end, only one person is responsible for your happiness, and that is you.  Happiness is not to be found in the bars where the young man spent so many nights, but that did not stop him from trying.  He never found lasting happiness in the short relationships that he tried so desperately to cultivate into something more.  Within a relatively short period this cyclic existence of boredom, greed, and cheap love twisted him into a jaded and cantankerous rogue with little regard for his own welfare, and even less for the feelings of those around him.  Life’s only remaining purpose to him was to revel in the glory of it all burning down.  The funny (or maybe not so funny) part of this is that he had never been visited by true tragedy.  He had never sacrificed anything.  He had yet to actually do anything.  The source of violence in his heart had not come from some horrible scar or the memory of abuse, it had simply been the result of knowing, on an innate level, that his potential was unfulfilled.  He had let this stagnancy go on for too long and now it had suffocated him to the point where he could no longer put up any resistance.  He had forgotten how to fight back, how to live. 

 

When the boy was young he had always enjoyed the stories he and his father would read together.  They were stories of heroes and antiheroes.  The old man had shared many fables, parables, and other tales of moral with him.  Some stories of course were more entertaining to the young boy than others, but all of them found places in his memory where they would remain the many years until they were needed again.  One such tale was that of the ancient phoenix, a bird consumed by flame, which then rises from the ashes anew.  This tale was far from his mind when his downward spiral finally ended.  His thought process to this point had been confused with angst, and had lead him along the destructive path of fighting fire with fire.  When met with shallow friends he had put up a shallow front.  When given the first reason to use it, he exercised his razor wit laced with sarcasm to keep people at a distance.  Being unable to find a way to live, he had found a way to die with reckless abandon.  Rage became his fuel, and he consumed it greedily. 

 

He managed to keep up pretenses on the few occasions when he visited his parents, but only barely.  It’s difficult to keep anything from parents who care, especially when it is something that has consumed you so completely as his addiction to rage had.  Unfortunately the boy, already with such a macabre outlook on life, with no apparent reason, soon would have reason to rage against the machine, challenge the gods, and bear the mark of the unforgiven.

 

It was the middle of summer.  The last time he had visited home had been at New Year.  He received a call from is father which he let go to voicemail.  He loved his parents dearly, but when there is such a weight on your heart it sometimes seems easier not to talk, to ignore.  When he listened to his father’s message though, he knew this could not be ignored.  His father spoke with a broken and quiet voice, and simply asked him to call home, it was important that he call home soon.  He called his father immediately, only to hear the news that he could not accept.  He refused to accept it.

 

For a couple of weeks his mother had been suffering a bit of a fever, and some aches and pains that she dismissed as symptoms of the flu or cold she was getting.  Then, the day before his father called, she fainted in the garden.  The doctors ran their tests.  Cancer had gone unnoticed in her body, until then.  It had metastasized and was devouring her whole. 

 

The son came home the day after talking to his father. 

 

Within a week they laid the woman they loved to rest in a peaceful plot on a gentle hillside. 

 

This was the first time in his entire life that the father felt disappointed in his son.  Through all the troublesome years of school he had still been proud of his son, because he knew that his boy would become great.  No matter how much they had argued, or how heated those arguments had been, he had remained convinced that his son would find the right path and earn his badge of honor.  Now, though, looking through tear filled eyes at his wife’s grave, he had trouble finding a reason to be proud of a son who had caused so much strife.  All she had wanted was to see more of him, her son who could do no wrong in her eyes.  The boy had been selfish and greedy with money, love, and time, and had accomplished little more than self-sustenance to show for it. 

 

The father was still the same kind man he had been, though, which is why he said no word of this to his son, whom he knew was realizing this all for himself.  They stood there quietly, remembering, and trying to find answers in their hearts.  The father put his arm around his son, and the unspoken bond between them was reassured.

 

They drove home together, in silence, and as the son got into his car to drive to his home in the city, the father said something to him that he had never said before and would never say again.  As they hugged in the drive way, the father, in a deep and measured tone, said, “I want you to find my son, and bring him home to me, okay?”

 

The father could feel the young man’s head nod as he held him close.  “Don’t come back here until you do.” 

 

With that he squeezed his son in the hug once more and let him go.  He turned quickly and went into the house.

 

A couple of weeks went by.  The young man talked to himself when he was alone.  He often found himself pacing at night, having conversations with various people in his imagination, trying desperately to prove that his life was justified.  One night he became so wrapped up in his ethereal debate he started arguing with himself, and started picking out the little quirks and qualities about himself that he couldn’t stand anymore.  The worst of these qualities was that he had somehow become afraid.  It was time to stop being afraid and start being the brave man he knew he had once been. 

 

He was still consumed with anger, even though he didn’t really know what he was angry about.  He was still a burning mass of rage, for the sole reason that he didn’t understand anything, and he knew that he had none of the answers.  He had spent the first quarter of this life chasing the wrong goals and believing in the wrong gods.  Then, one day, he ran out of anger.  You can’t stay mad at something forever, and it is even more difficult to stay mad at nothing in particular.  As simply, and rather inexplicably, as this dark chapter of his life had begun, so had it ended.  There was plenty to make up for, but at least now, with a clear mind, he could set himself to task, and start stitching together the life he had torn asunder. 

 

He found a box of old books in his closet, the stories his father had loaned him, and he began to read them again.  He started going for long walks after work.  He wrote to several of his old friends, but many of those bridges had already been burned beyond repair.  When he finally realized that he could look himself in the mirror and see hope in his reflection, he knew what he needed to do next.

 

It was now the middle of fall, and while the weather was still warm, the wind carried the earthy smell of fallen leaves.  He parked his car on the curb and carried two bags of groceries to the front door.  Setting them down, he rang the doorbell.  When there was no answer, he rang again.  After another minute of waiting, he wandered around the house.  He found his father on his knees in the garden, tending to the flowers his mother had kept. 

 

“I brought dinner, dad.”

 

His father looked up, pleasantly surprised.  “Oh yeah?”

 

He helped his father to his feet and gave him a strong hug.  While holding his father close the young man started to say “I found a – a boy.  I found part of myself-”

 

The old man stopped him though.  “You’re home.  You are home.  Now, what’s for dinner?”

 

Conversation came in short awkward bursts at first, while they worked together to prepare dinner.  By the time the table was set though, it was almost like it had been when he was young.  Recounting stories of the inane things people do, and debating politics, religion, and life-philosophies.

 

The old man had always felt that the best way to correct the wrongs in the world was through the force of a well-led and morally righteous army.  If people know that there is a powerful force protecting innocence and waiting eagerly to quash the efforts of evil, they have confidence to do the right thing and they think twice before plotting any wrong doing. 

 

The problems the son had always seen with this were the choice of leadership, the commitment to a virtuous cause without fanaticism, and the defined sovereignty of such a military.  The father’s solution, of course, was the path he had chosen.  Join the army, make your way up the ranks via hard work and good decisions, and become the leader that the people need.

 

While obviously an honorable and ambitious course, this was not something the son could find himself doing at this point of his life.  Of all the reasons, the simple fact was that it just didn’t fit.  This was a conversation that they would have many times again though, along with all the other discussions that they would share over lunches, dinners, and long walks in the year to come. 

 

The year to come would be a golden twilight for one of them and the dawn of dutiful life for the other.  The year to come would begin with the stoking of old embers, be marked by the passing of a torch, and end with a trial by fire.  Of the many metaphors to describe the year to come, it was most succinctly the calm before the storm.

It's Friday Night, And The Mood Is Right

While no single faction or proponent of evil may be blamed for the entirety of darkness in our world, they each contribute their parts.  While the Devil is fictitious and there is no single entity that supplies the world with hate and pain, we as humans do our part through neglect, prejudice, fear, perversion, and all the other traits we choose to deny and conceal.  Some do more than others.  These people, overly hateful in their own ways, form the web that restrains humanity from evolving on any type of a spiritual or intellectual level.  They are the diseases that keep us too weak to help ourselves. 

 

There are others who, like white blood cells, do what they can to counteract this infection.  There are good people in our world who spend everyday trying to help others and to thwart evil through good deeds.  They help those in need.  They protect the innocent from the violent.  They heal the sick and injured.  They lay down their lives for good causes.  Unfortunately, sometimes, good deeds are not enough to incite change.  Sometimes, for the world to accept change, a declaration must be scrawled in blood.  Too often we don’t notice the need for change until it is the blood of the innocent painted on the walls.  Society slumbers until too many have been slaughtered, and then wakes only to fight back in an unorganized and hasty fashion, often still with one eye closed.  This must change.

 

Murder is murder.  There is no escaping this. Violence is meaningless without an intellect behind it.  Once you have spilled blood, whether a righteous kill or self defense or accidentally in a moment of blinding rage, the blood is on your hands, and will be forever.  This is the burden.  This is the trick, the catch, the game, the fact, the shame that comes with being awake.  Movies make it look so cool and easy.  Soldiers will tell you a different story.  Even soldiers have war and orders and adrenaline to shield them from some of the moral and emotional kickback of killing, and we should be grateful for the burdens they bear for our freedoms.  Vigilantes are of a wholly different nature though.  They are either singular, and most likely sociopaths, or part of a mob mentality lead by hate and revenge.  The term vigilante comes from the word vigilant, which means watchful and protective.  Very few are capable and committed enough to act as true vigilantes, fighting alone against the evil and corrupt.  He is one of them.  He perseveres against the thousands of arms holding him back from the fight, holding him down in his place amongst the blind mob.  He is not blind.  The struggle, the visions of reality, and the pressure to do what must be done are all taking their toll though, and slowly changing him, splintering him into the sharp pieces he uses to fight back.

 

 

Tonight he wears dark cargo pants, black boots, and a long sleeve black shirt with a couple buttons near the neck.  In a cool way he almost looks military.  He blends in perfectly in the dark basement atmosphere that houses the biggest night-scene in the city.  As he purveys the room he makes sure that the usual suspects are present.  The strung-out bartenders are pouring drinks as fast as their shaking hands can, spilling half as much as what makes it into the glass.  Most of them got started here thinking they might make a couple extra bucks at night, but soon succumbed to the lack of sleep, the pressure to perform both here and at their day jobs, and the easy access to drugs that comes with tending bar.  They are among the lost souls who can no longer fight the flow and simply drift with currents of darkness and despair.

 

The business men, in town for this meeting or that convention or just passing through on their way to a satellite office, sit in the darker corners with girls on their laps, drinks in their hands, and Cheshire grins on their faces.  Tonight’s company will only cost them a pittance, and it is worth a little cash to have this kind of fun and not worry about their wives finding out.  The young girls catering to these gentlemen are merely more of the “lost”.  Whatever their varied sad stories may be, they all have the same climax and the same conclusion.  The apex of their lives is here giving sweet passion to the undeserving men, whom they pray will see something worthwhile in them, or will at least leave them enough cash to get that next fix, to keep the heat turned on, or to buy the necessities for their babies. 

 

The owner sits at low table surrounded by low overstuffed chairs and loveseats.  He has done more than turn a blind eye to the parasites harbored here in his establishment.  He actually caters to the stronger predators that frequent his bar, in the hopes that they will protect him, treat him as one of their own, maybe even like him.  The truth he refuses to see is that they will only hold back from destroying him as long as they still have use for him.  Still, he sits and shmoozes, giving them rounds on the house, and making sure his prettiest cocktail waitresses give them plenty of service.  The predators find a sick humor in this, as they themselves own half the ass on the street outside.  They themselves are ultimately responsible for the drugs that keep these lost souls down here, scrounging for more, and drinking away the sorrows that come with losing your job, your way, your kids, your life, all for the hot kiss of a good high. 

 

With the few exceptions of couples and friends who wander into this bar for music and dancing, everyone here is already dead, their bodies just haven’t stopped moving yet. 

 

He walks a circuit around the barroom, and orders a club soda with extra limejuice.  When the bartender looks at him with a raised eyebrow he says “I’m the D D tonight”.

 

She shrugs.  Not only does she drive home drunk and high every night, she couldn’t really care less about this guy.

 

He takes his drink and does another lap around the room.  This time he counts his steps from the entrance to the table where the owner sits with his fiendish company.  He walks past nonchalantly and counts his steps to the men’s room.  Inside the restroom he enters the last stall, latches the door, and pulls some toys from his cargo pockets.  These toys are quite simple, and homemade.  One is made from a condom, tampon, some quick setting concrete, and string.  A couple inches up the string is another tiny ball, then several more feet of string.  He flushes this down the toilette and feeds out the string until it comes to a knot he tied before to mark a certain distance.  He ties the string around the toilet seat and flips the lid shut.  The second toy looks a lot like an air freshener that you would plug into a wall outlet.  It is in fact a handy device for turning on lamps and other appliances with a tiny one button remote.  He bought it at a home improvement store for about ten dollars, and it was easy enough to modify for his needs.  He plugs it into the outlet on the wall.

 

The simple fact is that it is very, very simple to cause panic and mayhem.  Turn off the lights, fling a little poo, and all hell breaks loose.  The blueprints to any bar, restaurant, or store are attainable, if you know how to go about it.  While unclogging a troublesome bit of plumbing can be quite a difficult task, plugging a pipe is amazingly easy.  Electricity holds a level of magic in the average mind, but any electrician knows how easy it can be to blow a fuse box, or other wise cripple a power source.  These are the just the details of how he is going to play his game tonight.  The why is hopefully already obvious.  He has been planning this for weeks and now it is time to take action.

 

He pulls a mouth guard from his pocket and puts it in his teeth, wiggling his lips and baring his new plastic grin to get it set properly.  Then he pulls the last two items from his pockets.  They are heavy for their size.  Two black leather gloves with padded knuckles and beanbags sewn to the palms.  He stitched them together himself, filling the palms with lead shot.  The added weight will increase his need for accuracy, but will also add to the impact hopefully meaning he will have to throw fewer punches.  He is ready now, as straightens his shirt and picks up the tiny remote with his left hand, and his lime soda with the other.  He walks out of the bathroom and sways a little, pretending to be drunk.  He takes fumbling steps toward the VIP section where his targets await. 

 

The couches are arranged in something of a horseshoe, with the Alpha dog sitting in the chair that is the bend.  He is one of the meanest and most venomous of the lecherous committee, which is why they treat him as their leader until another takes the opportunity to stab him in the back.  At his right the owner sits with a nervous smile, sharing a couch with a large well dressed thug (one of the cities better known pimps).  On the ringleader’s left hand there is his bookie, responsible for taking not only bets, but “security” taxes, and cuts from all the other schemes and hustles.  Next to the bookie is a younger man, lean, possibly protection or possibly the latest “horse” they plan on gambling with in some underground matches.

 

Our hero stumbles toward the table innocently until he bumps it with his leg, shaking the drinks resting on top and soliciting barks and groans from the men sitting there.  He looks surprised and apologetic as he raises his hands, keeping up the guise of drunken innocence.  Just as the men check their tempers, he smiles.  They don’t immediately realize what is happening, because his mouth guard is white and black and made to look like a grin missing a couple teeth.  At first they smile and almost begin to laugh, but he doesn’t give them time.  He splashes his limejuice in the young fighter’s face, and throws his empty tumbler at the owner’s face.  Just as the large pimp shoots up from the low couch he puts him back down in it with one heavy blow directly to the nose.  He hears scuffling behind him, and as he had expected, the table at his back was full of young thugs who were also in league with these devils.  This was what he had the remote for.  Only, when he clicked it, nothing happened. 

 

“Shit.”

 

In an instant, he hops onto the table, barely dodging a chair that swung crashing into the floor where he had been standing.  He takes the two steps to the back end of the table and, in true footballer fashion, kicks the Big Dog’s teeth into the back of his throat.  He clicks the remote furiously.  Nothing.  Swinging his leg around backward he catches the accountant’s chin with his heal and spins his head to the side with a sickly crunch.  More clicking.  More nothing.  Only an instant has passed since he hit the owner with the glass, and the man is holding his forehead dazed with pain.  A swift kick to his dome puts him out of his pain, at least until he wakes up. 

 

Facing the startled room and cluster of goons scrambling toward his table, he smacks the remote into the palm of his other hand, and clicks it again.  The lights flicker and go out, and the music dies.  The room is nearly pitch black and filled with protests and yells and the rumbling sound as angry men start to flip the table he is standing on.  He lunges at them and takes two down in his fall.  Quickly he punches one in the face and wonders if the impact between his weighted fist and the concrete floor has killed the bastard.  The other manages to land a solid punch to the side of his jaw, but our vigilante has the high ground so the punch is not as devastating as it could have been.  He puts that kid to sleep with two fists, one to either eye.  By now the other goons are doing the math and figuring out where he is on the floor amidst their comrades.  He brings one down to his level with a swift punch to delicates.  While the poor shmuck wheezes and tries to find the breath to cry, our gladiator uses his shoulders as leverage to stand and then knees him square in the face.  Confusion is setting in and people who would not otherwise get involved are stumbling into the battleground.  It is time to exit.  He quickly finds the table and orients himself in the dark.  He begins quickly walking toward the bathroom, counting the steps in his head.  Just as he starts though, he hears the fighter behind him.  No longer debilitated by the limejuice, he is groping in the dark searching for vengeance.  The room takes on an eerie blue-white glow as people start using their cell phones as flashlights.  Why is it that people who can barely afford a roof, utilities, and food, always have the latest and greatest cell phones?

 

The fighter sees him and pursues him through the crowd to the bathroom.  Both smash unapologetically through the throngs of drunks who are using the blackout as an excuse to grope each other.  He makes it to the bathroom first, with just enough time to crash into the stall, stand on the closed toilet lid, and yank the string.  The plug has set by now, and while it is not solid, it is good enough.  Pulling the string sets off a small charge in the other ball, creating back blast and blowing septic water out of every toilet and sink in the bar.  Immediately he hears screams of disgust from the ladies room and the two men standing at the urinals.  The blast from his toilet is deflected by the lid he is standing on.  Just as he smirks at the thought of what he has done, the fighter steps in front of his stall, illuminated only by the green light of the emergency exit sign.  He hadn’t expected this.  Fair fights are not really as cool as everyone thinks. 

 

He tries to swing the stall door shut but the fighter kicks it in against him, throwing him off balance for a second.  Putting one foot on the wall behind him, he lunges from the top of the toilet to tackle his opponent.  The fighter dodges, but not by enough, as they both crash to the wet tile floor side by side.  They both scramble to their feet, our hero hurrying to get into any kind of position to throw one of his devastating punches.  He tries too soon and lands a fist on the fighter’s ribs.  It is a glancing blow that hardly slows the professional.  On their feet, the boxer lands a solid blow to his side and follows it quickly with a fist to the ear.  That punch to the ear never lands though, as our underdog puts his arms up in protection and the fighter finds out why he is wearing long sleeves.  The long sleeves of his black shirt conceal stiff bracers fashioned from Kevlar and metal strips.  Our friend fells the boxer with a combination to the gut and a hook under his chin.  As the boxer slumps against the wall and slides to the wet floor, our hero pulls a long narrow spike from his bracer and slides it through the fighter’s hand, pinning it to his chest.  It isn’t deep enough to puncture a lung or otherwise kill the mercenary, only to cause excruciating pain. 

 

He leaves him there, unconscious, with his hand over his heart, pledging in his coma to be a better person.  Or maybe not.  Either way, a ribbon hangs from the spike with a message.  “Villains… Leave while you can”.  When he wrote that, he thought it might be a bit dramatic, but so was everything else he had done tonight.  If the scum of this town believed he was insane, that should only give them more reason to fear and flee.

 

He blends into the waves of people flowing toward the exit, and once he is out in the night he escapes unnoticed, hailing a cab, and riding off into the night.  His work for now has been done, and when he wakes in the morning it will be an entirely different part of him that dresses up for a day a of shopping, people watching, and quiet, peaceful vigilance.

Let Us Begin With The Fat Man

The Fat Man

 These are the tales of a man attempting to save the world.  These are the stories of a man who sees the darkness and has chosen to fight rather than stand idly by.  He is a bastion against entropy, evil, and the apocalypse that they threaten to incur.  He is not a superhero.  He is a simple man, who believes above all else that he can shoulder the burdens of the destitute, that he is obligated by birth to rescue the innocent and defenseless.  These burdens will break him in the end, but not before he makes a difference.

 

 

 

The Fat Man

 

Every Saturday he dresses up for a day in the city.  Today he grunts a bit and sweats a little as he bends to put on his pants.  His shirt has been specially tailored to fully cover his belly.  His belly freely hangs to his knees.  The shirt has been made to conceal his unsightly obesity and tucks into his pants, which require no belt, as they are held up by the friction between the underside of his gut and what would be his lap.  He is careful not to tear the seams as he slides on his sport coat.  He has a little gel in his hair, and as he gives himself a light spray of expensive cologne (bought in France from a parfumerie that crafted its spicy floral balance just for him) he checks himself in the mirror.  If he were 200 lbs lighter, he would be the kind of guy most women ask for.  Well groomed, well dressed, his teeth are straight and clean, his eyes are green and lucid, chivalry and manners are integral factors of his nature, and he speaks with passion, and thought, and honesty, for the most part.

 

Today though, he is going to learn the same lesson that he learns every Saturday, when he leaves the safety of his home and drives into the city.  He will deny it, ignore it, set his mind against it with all his might, but at the end of the day the lesson will win, and the dark truth will beat him down.  The truth is that nobody will notice how well dressed he is.  Nobody will notice his expensive watch.  Few will come close enough to smell his delightful perfume.  No one will notice his bright-eyed smile.  Of the few who will have conversations with him, none will last more than a couple sentences, mostly obligatory pleasantries.  He won’t admit it yet, but at the end of the day, as he drives home, he will be broken.  Not from arguing with the throngs of misguided fools, but from walking amongst hundreds of people and not being able to connect with even one, for even the briefest moment.

 

As he enters the city the sun is climbing in the sky and he has his window down to let the cool autumn air rush over his arm.  Like a child, he occasionally plays with his hand in the wind stream, moving it in a serpentine motion with the resistance of the wind.  It is a beautiful day.  He pulls off of the highway, and at the stoplight he notices the people in the car next to him staring.  He is wearing sunglasses so they do not realize that he sees them staring.  They are young people, probably in college or just graduated.  They do not make any lewd gestures, but by their expressions he guesses that they are discussing what a tragedy it must be to weigh as much as he does.  They might be wondering how he fits in his car.  His seat is as far back as it will go, he has a special extension for his seatbelt, and his belly rubs both the steering wheel and the floor between the seat and the pedals.  They are likely talking about how it must hurt, how life must suck.  The light turns green and he pulls away.

 

He parks his car on the 6^th floor of a parking structure, and walks over to the elevator.  The elevator doors open and the car is empty.  He pushes the ground floor button, but then, as the doors begin to close, he hears hurried footsteps approaching.  He holds the door open with his arm as a couple with a young girl approach.  The man stops abruptly, a slightly surprised look on his face.

 

“There’s still room folks!” He says with a jolly smile.

 

“We… uh” the husband starts.  His wife clutches his arm and whispers something about walking.

 

“We were going to take the stairs, But thanks anyways.”  The wife says with a fake smile stretched so wide it makes her eyes squint.

 

They grab their little girl by her hood as she waves at him.  She is maybe six years old, and doesn’t realize yet what an abomination he is.  They turn around and start to walk back the way they came, back toward the stairs. 

 

He strolls down the sidewalks for a couple blocks until he reaches the market.  Perusing through the stands of handmade crafts and homegrown produce, he stops occasionally to buy some organic fruit, and fresh herbs, and small package of spice which the merchant insists will improve any meat dish.  None of the merchants talk to him more than asking for their prices, and thanking him for his business as they hand him his change.  When he asks simple questions about products he gets only short answers and it would seem that they suddenly have more important business than convincing this customer to buy their goods.  He wanders on.

 

He is met with the same service as he stops in at various shops and stores in the shopping district.  In a very reputable women’s clothing store he finds a jacket that he knows his assistant has been eyeing for over a month.  Her birthday is next week.  When he is finally able to get a sales associate to help him, he requests the jacket in a small size and waits patiently while it is retrieved.  He hears the whispers in the back of the store, as the girls who work there are deeply confused at whom he could possibly be buying this for.  While signing his credit card bill, he says with a warm smile,

 

“Thank you so much for your help ladies. I know she is going to love this.” 

 

They smile their most professional smiles, and hand him his bag, with the jacket neatly folded inside.  He walks out the door and into the cool evening air.

 

It is already late afternoon and the sun is hanging low in the sky.  Having skipped lunch he decides to have one of his organic Asian pears as he walks back towards the parking structure.  He has several blocks to go, but the stroll is pleasant as he waddles with shopping bags in one hand, and the pear in his other.  The pear is sweet and crisp, and the grainy texture compliments it’s juiciness perfectly.  Pears are a simple pleasure, that he simply loves. 

 

For a few blocks he is the only person within eyesight, and this is when it happens.  He comes to the corner of an alleyway and hears a scuffle in the shadows behind a dumpster.  As he turns to look closer he sees the little girl from the elevator as she starts running toward him with wide frightened eyes.  A hand reaches out and grabs her by the hood and pulls her back off of her feet.  She lies on the dirty ground choking and crying.  He now hears the father’s voice in a meek and negotiating tone, while his wife sobs in panic.  He drops his bags and pear and walks into the dark alley with a powerful gait. 

 

“What’s going on here?”

 

Two young punks have the parents cornered between the wall and the dumpster, both are wielding switchblades.  One turns nervously to look at him.

 

They laugh nervously at him, and amidst a wave of profanity, they tell him to get out his wallet as well.

 

“I think these folks would appreciate it if you didn’t use such foul language around the little girl” 

 

He moves closer to the girl who has gotten to her knees and is crying into her hands.  He reaches down and touches the back of her head and she instinctively wraps her arms around his leg.  The mother is only more scared and confused by this, and the father is so blinded by both his fear and his frustration that he obviously can’t think straight and is likely to make a very bad mistake very soon.

 

He takes his wallet from his jacket pocket.  He pulls his keys from his pocket with his other hand and twirls them around his finger.

 

“You can have my wallet and my car if you leave these folks alone and refrain from swearing around the girl.”

 

They think this is funny and turn all of their attention toward him.  They let him know that they can take the money and the car and still talk however they like, because they are in control.  They punctuate this statement with even more profanity.  They do not realize it yet, but they are starting to lose control.  He gently pushes the girl off of his leg and looks down at her, smiles and tells her it will be all right.

 

He tosses the wallet over his shoulder away from the thugs and says “I asked you not to swear around the girl, can’t you see you are scaring her?”

 

They snigger at him with incredulous looks on their faces, and let him know, with more profanity that he has just made a costly mistake.  He steps farther away from the girl so that the thugs’ rage is aimed well away from her.  He now has his back almost to the opposite wall of the alley.  One punk takes two quick steps and lunges toward him with his knife held out in front of him.  He is much faster and more nimble than one might expect and he easily dodges the blade, taking the miscreant’s arm, and with one fluid motion he twists and thrusts.  The foul-mouthed attacker’s head smashes against the wall at the same instant that his wrist snaps and the tendons in his shoulder begin to tear.  The villain is out cold.

 

The second hooligan is surprised but not completely deterred at the sight of this.  The mugger sidesteps in a very lupine fashion, looking for an opening, feeling for his chance. 

 

He grasps the keys still in his hand, and stands up straight apologizing for hurting the first mugger.  He begins to explain, but is cut short when the villain springs at him and stabs him just under the ribs.

 

They both tumble to the ground.  The wind is knocked out of him as he stares up into the wild eyes of the attacker.  In those eyes he sees little more than fear and anger, but mostly fear.  The vile wretch straddles his gargantuan belly and slides the knife in to the hilt once more.  He smiles and when his breath returns he whispers,

 

“I asked you not to swear around the little girl.”

 

His fist explodes into the underside of scoundrel’s jaw.  The keys between his fingers pop through the skin and impale the vile tongue from through the mandible.  Quickly he pushes the mugger off of him, before he can gurgle and spew blood on his nice shirt and jacket.  It doesn’t matter though, his fine outfit has been ruined in the scuffle. 

 

Slowly climbing to his knees and grunting to stand, he looks over at the family huddled behind the dumpster they are too busy sobbing, and grabbing, and hugging, and inspecting their daughter to stop him as he hobbles back to the corner, picks up his shopping bags and leaves. 

 

In something of a trance, he walks to his car and then drives home.  It is dark when he gets home, and as he walks inside he sets his parcels on the counter and goes straight to the bedroom.  He pulls off his jacket and unbuttons his shirt.  Inspecting his wounds, he lets out a disappointed grunt.  After taking off his trousers and draping them over a chair at the foot of his bed, he unzips his back.

 

The padded suit falls off in a heavy thump, and lies like a big misshapen donut on the floor. 

 

He never wears makeup or other prosthetics.  The simply fact is that when people see his silhouette they don’t care enough to give him close inspection.  Even if they think his face or hands are disproportionate to his body, it never warrants any ideas that he may not be anything other than what he seems to be.  Certainly he is nothing more than a fat, gluttonous, disgusting slob.

 

Today was different though.  Today something happened.  Maybe the little girl will be different, maybe not.  The parents may be confused, but that will pass and they will soon return to their habitual practices and beliefs.  What was different today, the thing that was new, was that he felt the knife sliding in.  The body he has pretended was his for so long, was his for an instant.  He was the fat man. 

 

He takes a long hot shower before going to bed.  He will wake in the morning and go about things as he often does, without the suit.  People who know him in his regular body will wonder why he seems so tired and dysphoric.  They will rumor that he might be using, boozing, or wasting his nights with “professional company”.  None of them will guess that he is burdened with the heavy truths of the world.  None of them ever recognize him when he bumps into them on Saturdays.  None of them know that his personality is tearing itself asunder.  While his mind schisms, part of him stays grounded, while the other parts form plans for becoming a hero, for doing something good enough to justify his comfortable “normal” life.