The After-Hero

by Gabriel Archer



  THE AFTER-HERO

  by

  Gabriel Archer & Jack Canaan

  Copyright©2012 MetaFic, Inc.

  All rights reserved.

  The crowd of unwashed peasants from the local village is holding its collective breath, and I am grateful, for truly, their breath is fetid. They're anticipating the grand appearance of the hero. No, not like that. Hero. The Hero. The Mr. Perfect. Mr. Flaxen-Hair-Flexing-Muscles. He had gone into the dragon's lair an hour ago and what followed were the echoing sounds of a majestic battle: angry roars; heroic, selfless proclamations; steel clashing against scales. Then those sounds ceased and it has been quiet for the last ten minutes or so. The villagers expect the best; I hope for the worst.

  The crowd waits anxiously, afraid to believe that the hero might have finally rid them of the evil that has been terrorizing them for decades by systematically devouring their virgins/sheep/breakfast. I stand at the very back of the crowd, scratching my ass and contemplating my existential woes.

  Truly, what is the difference between these heroes and me? Well yeah, they have snow-white chargers that fearlessly dive into battle while I have a ball-kicking donkey that shits himself whenever there's a loud noise nearby. And yeah, they have the supped up BMW's that turn into boats at a press of a button while I have a '77 Ford Pinto that explodes on impact when I back up. And they certainly have the newest spaceships equipped with wormhole generators and impenetrable cloaking devices, while my rocket has no landing gear and for some reason always appears as 'hostile' on any radar, regardless the language or alien species.

  But all these outwardly differences don't really bother me as much as the undeniable fact that these heroes are always center stage while I'm somewhere behind the curtains, that they're the ones stories are written about, while no author dipped their quill into ink for me. What I'm so circuitously trying to say is that what really gets my goat (other than that dragon) is that they're the heroes and I'm only the After-Hero. I sigh. Is me bemoaning my fate not heroic? Is that another difference between me and them? Are my internal monologues unheroic?

  The crowd starts shifting and I can hear relived shouts of joy originating in the first ranks of the throng. A few moments later the villagers rearrange themselves, like parting waves, and the Hero appears in their midst.

  "You're my hero, Hero!" I scream and my donkey shits himself. I've got no idea what the hero's name is. No doubt it's something heroic, evoking: Prince Valiant/Charming/Bob. He's got that 'I'm doing this for peace/justice/you' look in his eyes. He's got bulging muscles and a fabled, glowing sword in his hand named... something ridiculous... I don't know, Penisreaper maybe. He's leaning on his sexually ambiguous squire/princess-in-disguise. There's a wicked slash across his thigh that has absolutely no chance of turning into tetanus/sepsis/gangrene.

  "Thank you, thank you!" I shout above the crowd but the sarcasm is lost in the din. The villagers are very happy/pleasantly surprised/sexually aroused that the dragon is finally defeated. Back in the village there's a feast ready, they killed a huge ox for him (or, alternatively, pre-cooked it for the dragon were she the one to emerge victorious). I haven't eaten in weeks. Afterwards he'll be pleasantly/unpleasantly surprised that his squire is really a maiden - either way he'll bed something. I haven't been with a woman in so long... so long.

  "You've brought us peace!" I scream. "Peace! Peace! Piece of shit," this I say under my breath. The hero wobbles away (all heroes wobble away – it's an axiom, watch any movie, it gives them this 'I've-sacrificed-more-than-you-can-ever-understand' vibe). The crowd surrounds him and envelopes him in praise/love/bad breath. Little children run up to him and say they want to be just like him when they grow up. Adoration, adulation, admiration, allitaration all around. A little dog runs up to me and rubs against my leg. Finally, a little appreciation. The hero is almost out of sight now, he's walking on rose petals. I'm standing in dog-pee.

  Finally, the hero is gone, the villagers are gone, and I'm the only one left by the cave. With well-practiced flair I throw my cloak open. No one's here to see it but it looks really striking.

  In my left hand is a triple-shot crossbow, with poison-tipped Toledo-steel bolts. In my right is a war hammer named 'The Smith Forged It Extra Heavy.' It's barbed and smothered with oil. I ignite the hammer and stand by the cave's mouth for a good moment, jutting my chin forward and letting the wind play with my cloak. Am I posing? Did anyone see me looking all... heroic? I enter the darkness with no battle cries or invocations of justice.

  As I slog through the heaps of dragon dung left behind after all the treasure got carted off for Prince What's-His-Name, I ask myself the questions. These questions separate me from the heroes; they allow me to do my job properly.

  What did he hero forget to do? What did he assume?

  The hero assumed that the dragon is sterile, or so unattractive that no other dragons would want to mate with her. What about the darkest corner of the cave? Yup, half a dozen eggs, hatching. He didn't check. Perhaps their mother would have raised them up to be more sensitive, to their human neighbors, or at least apathetic. But mommy's dead, and all they'll want when they grow up is revenge.

  So... while the knight discovers that his oath of celibacy does not extend to true love, there's me, leather gauntlets to my elbows, smashing away. The key is never hesitate. Hesitation - that's for the heroes.

  The little black and red buggers are squirming. They want to live. Still covered in natal fluids, they dart around the room. They bite and spit acid. One nearly takes my ear off. Would a knight look dignified doing this? No. Do I? I have no dignity; I'm the After-Hero. In the end, when the baby dragons look like road kill, I burn them, just to make sure. And just in case, I collapse the cave.

  My life is one eternal question. It repeats itself in my mind. What did a hero forget to do? What did hero forget to do? Ad nauseam. And speaking of, I retch a little from the smell of squashed baby dragons on my fingers.

  Another night, another hero.

  He's battling the evil CEO, whose chemical/pharmaceutical/bio-tech company threatens to destroy the environment/endanger cute little seals/create an evil super army of mutated... whatever. It's the final showdown! For some reason Eurpoa's It's the Final Countdown plays in my mind.

  They're facing off up on the catwalk over the cisterns filled with toxic, evil waste. The hero wants to spare him, does spare him, but the CEO lunges for his back and the high-kicking protagonist accidentally pushes him over the edge into bubbling cesspool. "Here's a taste of your own medicine," the hero says righteously and wobbles out. Clap... clap... clap, clap, clap. I start the slow clap when he's out of earshot. Brilliant!

  So... I stand by the cistern, watching the yellow/red/intoxicating goo bubble up and the villain - naturally - climb out. I'm there with my Mossberg 590A1 pump-action shotgun with a fourteen inch barrel and cruise grip. I can't help it, I have to do it, and I do. I say, "Cure this." This gets me thinking. Do I have a secret fetish? Was I born an After-Hero but deep inside... am I a hero? Do I need surgery for this change? Is there any After-After-Hero that will slow clap me out of the building? Freaking meta, man.

  Anyway, the rifled slug rips open the back of the villain's head. It splatters like a rotten watermelon. There's no way he'll survive that. Then again, he's been floating in acid. What if he can regenerate now? I go out, get my SUV and crash through the factory's wall. I run him over and back up and run him over and back up about seven times, just to make sure. And just in case, the SUV is filled with C4 and as I walk away (not wobbling, mind you) I dial the cell-phone number that is the detonator.

  I wish the cameras were here now. The hem of my black trench coat flaps in the wind. The sunglasses make me look really cool (besides
hiding the nervous twitch). The cigarette in my mouth looks particularly bright in the dark of night. I walk in slow motion. The factory mushrooms behind my right shoulder. I don't even flinch. I don't even turn around to look. Like this, I look exactly like a bad-ass hero... Then I smell it. Something sizzles. It's my ass. My bad-ass is on fire. I start rolling in the gravel trying to put it out, and I'm thanking all the gods, even the dark ones that I killed, that there are no cameras around. When the flames are extinguished and all that is left from that little incident are second-degree burns and third-degree shame, I wobble home.

  Today home is a little squalid shack on Someone-Stole-The-Street-Sign Street. When the light from the adjacent crack-house vanishes and the moon is romantically high in the sky, I dress up in front of the mirror. It's a ritual I have. I'm wearing shinny, antique armor. I have a sword, too. I used to call it "Sharp Thing On Which I Rip My Pants"... but today, I decide it deserves something better. Today, I call it... Justice. My, how it glistens in the 70 Watt light of the naked lightbulb.

  I strut. My stereo is blasting Bonnie Tyler's Holding Out For A Hero. My inflatable princess is sitting in a chair, held there by a villain's ropes. Her mouth is in a huge 'O,' probably from the surprise of seeing me swoop in for the save at the last possible moment.

  "I have you, miss," I whisper into her latex ear, even as I liberate her from the ropes.

  I glide my fingertips down the cool breastplate. I close my eyes and imagine confetti falling down on me, people cheering, and princesses blushing my way. And standing there, at two A.M. in front of a cracked mirror, dressed like an idiot, with an inflatable doll under my arm, I realize that I may have a problem...