Our Hero (Fiction)
2006-05-24, 16:28

Summer, 1996. Our hero traveled with friends southward in his cushy Plymouth, toward the city of Columbus, to see friends and attend a soir�e at a friend of said friend's place. Two friends of friend, actually - one was a pudgy, arrogant gaming buddy, the other a mild-mannered pharmacist, who carried with him a satchel of 'goodies' from his trade, with which he, for all intents and purposes, endeavored to, medicinally, continually control his mood. The two twentysomethings shared a condo; you can imagine the bachelor pad state it was in.

Passing on a gift of cheap alcohol to the hosts, our hero, along with his companions, entered the estate. He wore earthy colors, preferring inconspicuousness by nature, and a cigarette rested between his lips, feeding a habit he'd picked up only a few years previous. Various people milled about, drinking, conversing, one-upping, laughing. More people stood outside in a fenced-in rear patio. Music thrummed up from the basement. Our hero followed the thrum, curious as to the state of the basement in comparison to the rest of the pad.

The basement turned out to be fairly well cared for, or at least was cleaned up in order to emulate care. Black lights lit up a couple of posters, and a stereo system was propped up on the typical boards-and-milk-crates setup one might expect from such a living space. As the first inklings of inebriation washed over our hero, a beer following the two jell-o shots he'd procured upstairs, some small number people danced to a stamp-press, forgettable rock ballad. Among them was the pudgy, arrogant one, dancing with a moderately drunken sway. He danced with--

It was then that our hero's world came into focus around a face. She was about 5' 5", with curly dark hair, and slender without being skinny. Somewhere between cute and pretty, her green eyes laughed continuously. Our hero seemed to lock onto this girl, and he experienced a longing, verging on animalistic. Nothing mattered anymore but to get close to this girl, somehow, though she was obviously at least in some way 'with' Pudgy-Arrogant. Her creamy skin glowed beneath the party lights. Her smile glimmered like a summer star. He knew, seeing her eyes never turning away from him as she danced, that she had some similar immediate sensation. Their sudden desire became an almost tangible energy between them that warped the rest of the room around it. Need vibrated through his body.

But so did caution: he could tell that Pudgy-Arrogant was just drunk enough to become physical over an intrusion to his perceived intimacy. Our hero was cautious by nature. Or was it timid? Time would tell.

The electric moment passed into a more sensible attraction, though that connection lingered, even while the two headed upstairs to quench. Our hero followed shortly thereafter, desiring a smoke.

Out on the patio, cigarette in hand, our hero mingled with the outside guests, jibing merrily. Moments later, a dark curly-haired girl who introduced herself as Melanie stood before him. She had an air of mischief, and that desire lingered. She asked him for a cigarette, and he lit it for her, doing that trick where he struck the match without tearing it from the pack. She didn't seem like someone who had been smoking for very long, and while she truly smoked it, held the thing more like an accessory, rather than coveting it like an addict. Our hero looked into his pack and, seeing only three left, regretted not picking up more at the gas station on the way. It was a thing that would be sure to keep her close to him, and it was almost gone. They shared casual talk that bore undertones of desire with every word, until social courtesy drew her back inside and toward Pudgy-Arrogant. She continued to look at our hero until she disappeared inside, smiling in an almost expectant way. By the look on P-A's face, he knew that something was transpiring between our hero and the girl, and he liked it not.

Our hero realized then that a challenge was at hand. It was but a matter of when to strike. That moment presented itself a short while later.

Continuing his presence on the patio, enjoying the night air and the company, a call came from above. Two floors up, the head and shoulders of the curly-haired girl arced out of a window. She spoke some greeting and waved. Behind her emerged P-A, looking like a cat who'd just found the canary he was after and was preparing to eat it. Clearly, he was handling - and mishandling - the girl, and she seemed to beckon to me.

It was then that the scene changed. Above her, the roof of the condo became crenellated; the aluminum siding turned to stone; ancient ivy grew up the side of the wall. The girl was dressed in flowing white, and P-A took on the distinct look of a troll. Together, they disappeared back into the house/castle.

Our hero knew what to do. He would have drawn his sword then, if he'd had one.

Standing up upon his chair, he called out to his countrymen on the patio. "Dear comrades," he called, causing a silence among the people around him, "there is a grave injustice happening there, in yonder tower." He pointed skyward, toward the window. All eyes followed. "There resides a gruesome troll, whom in his clutches holds a maiden fair, a maiden of pure heart and beauty unsurpassed."

Our hero's fists went to his hips. "This beast has the intention to befoul the maiden fair, and it is up to us to put a stop to him." After a pause, scanning the attentive crowd, he asked, "Will you join me in freeing her?"

He was met with a scattered chorus of "Yes!"

Smiling gratefully and pointing his sword toward the sliding-glass-door entrance of the condo/castle, he shouted, "To the tower, and victory!" The crowd on the patio rose to their feet and charged into the castle, and our hero, organizing the attack, followed after.

Up the stairs he went, following the clamor. He entered the tower's chamber, to see most of the mob sitting on, laying on, or otherwise holding down the troll, allowing the maiden to escape unharmed from his grasp. Together the maiden and our hero descended the tower, out to the patio and to freedom. The mob soon returned, thirsty from battle.

Our hero, valorous man that he was, did not even ask of the fair maiden for a kiss in return for saving her.

He received no kiss that night, nor else.

A blessing in disguise, perhaps: our hero discovered later that she was only seven and ten years old; he, five and twenty.

Sigh.

-- End Transmission --