chutzpah

There are two men on a roof of one of the many buildings in a sea of concrete lit up by shimmering lights. One is old, one is young. One speaks, the other listens.

“Places like that got stories, usually. So here’s story a’ the bridge:

See, back then there was All Might. The head honcho. Mr. Superhero himself. Everyone loved this guy, and they had plenty a’ reason to. Beautiful blonde hair, rippling muscles that were almost gross to look at, not to mention that freakin’ smile that made kids’ heads explode. The man was the real thing. The genuine article.

Though, here‘s the thing about a real big hero. Real big heroes need real big villains. That’s a big part of it all, the never ending battle. There’s good an’ there’s evil, black an’ white. That’s how you market it, at least. Sounds bleak but that shit’s been going on since before our grandpa’s could shit lasers and vomit lava. There’s always gonna be a good guy. There’s always gonna be a bad guy.

Thing is, the bad guy really gives much of a shit about what’s in their way. And this villain packed enough of a punch to tear this whole city in half by himself. So that big lake in the center? That shit’s what happens when you get the big bad hero and the big bad villain together in one place. It was… shit. It was rough. All Might was on his last legs but right then and there, he mustered up the strength in his one big muscly arm to give the bad dude one last slug in the throat. Killed him, All Might I mean. ‘course, the whole fight killed lotsa other people too.

But the shit that really makes this story crazy? The badlived. Lived choking’ on his own blood and probably about to keel over but the fucker still stood up and laughed. Laughed at All Might. Laughed at all the people watching him because that sick fucker knew that it was like they had all died and wound up in Hell and he was the devil. Froze everyone up.

Well, except Endeavor. Second big hero. Burned the evil bastard good. Still lived, though. People say he’s still locked up somewhere, still laughing at the world.

Well, a few weeks later the city planners decide to do something with the big fuckin’ crater in the middle of town. People have ideas. Monuments, parks, rebuild all the homes lost. But nah. They fill that bitch up with water and call it a new lake. Not everyone’s happy with it till they build that big bird shit covered statue of All Might in the center of it, on that little island you gotta pay way too much to go to. Then people start eating it up.

They make a big bridge that moves around it, like a circle. See it from the top it almost looks like a squid, eatin’ All Might whole. Buncha’ smaller statues of other heroes too, at the exits. They called it ‘The Lernaean Bridge’, like the big snake from those old Greek stories. They wanted to make a point with it. That being, ‘you cut off the big head, more will grow back.’ All Might was the head, and all the heroes who came in his stead are the new ones. All symbolic and shit.”

“Well here’s my question.”

“Shoot kiddo.”

“You’ve told me this shit like a hundred times, but I already told you I saw it all too. But you keep telling it like it’s some new thing every other week.”

The old man smirks at the young man, leaning on the construction equipment they’d just prepared for transport. Smoke billows from the rooftop chimneys around them, the once brilliant lights of the city around them are shut off for the night as it citizens travel into the realm of sleep, and the silver light of the moon gives everything an ethereal glow. With a knowing voice the old man says:

“That ain’t a question. That’s an observation.”

The young man quirks an eyebrow, befuddled by the chutzpah of his superior.

“You’re a piece of shit you know that? A real piece of shit.” The young man says, snatching the cap off of his supervisor’s head in a sign of playful disrespect. The old man only cackles, letting it devolve into a cough from years of smoking and breathing in metropolitan fumes.

“You get on packin’ up all that rebar, will you son? I’ll take a smoke break, get a good look at the view. Last time I think I’ll be seein’ it.”

“You just took a smoke break. Why don’t I get to take a fucking smoke break?”

The young man walks to the old man’s side. Both stare at the distant center of the city, at the bridge meant to send a message, at the statue meant to represent it, and both fall into the same maudlin ambience that plagues any who look at that it for too long.

They both stand too close to the edge of the roof, but neither dares look at the vertiginous view of the streets below. For both men fear that they may be compelled to take the leap.

IN HINDSIGHT: PART 1

There’s a dark figure of a man on a roof, and he is bleeding. There are three men other men on the roof, and they are bleeding too, though not as much. Superficial wounds and soon-to-be bruises did not quite compare to being near impaled by a thug who could generate spikes from his wrists. Though that man in particular would likely have to be tube fed for the next several weeks, but it served him right.

The first man stops on the next roof, allowing for the three other men to catch up with him, and for a moment they can see him clearly. That familiar dark green suit, fitted with knee and elbow pads that told he was fragile and couldn’t take a hit. The mask that told them he was afraid and the pointy-eared hood that cemented that belief. The wound that told them he was vulnerable. But he was none of these things. Not anymore.

They stop too, and there is a mutual agreement through shared looks that this was it. The end of the road was here, and there was no more running to be done. Only violence would follow.

Inhale.

“Gonna kill this—!”

“What did we ever do to you?!”

“Finishing this one off myself!”

Exhale.

One of the three other men charge in ahead of the others (mistake), psionically empowered fist (danger) aimed squarely at his target’s jaw. It’s ducked under, the masked man moving as easily as water flowed down a calm stream.

Then, a fast and powerful kick to the sternum, the first man putting his hands on the ground beneath him to retain his balance. Like the sudden deluge from a burst dam. The subtle cracking noise when the study combat boot connects is sickening, but it keeps his thoughts steady and focused. It reminds him of what he’s doing.

The thug hits the ground two feet away, and the sound of his heavy breathing and wet coughs assure everyone he won’t be getting back up soon.

The other two move at him together (danger), one with no other mode of attack besides his human fists and the other with barbed claws (danger). They are both afraid (tool).

He smiles, but they can’t see that. Not under the facsimile of a hero’s smile shown on his mask.