Our classic champion has found himself encircled by danger. Set upon by madness, robbed of his abilities, a hero becomes a mortal with no one to help him but a girl abandoned. We play a little around in the aftermath of 7 here with me taking liberties with various parts to make the future of my story more fun. I'll likely jump from character to character via different chapters as I begin to tie it all together. These two concepts are going to intersect along the way when we begin to converge their paths.
It was a fun chapter to write. Stripping a trumped up god of his abilities and making him a man again was quite a challenge. I ask only that we give it a chance to unfold. Those who have read my previous fics, know I generally allow the story to unfold as it goes, rarely do I know what path it will take until I'm slapping the keys.
On that note, let's continue…
…
I. Not a Hero
DULVEY, LOUISIANA, 2017
Something was buzzing in his left ear. He shifted, twitching his nose to see if it would make the itching in it go away. It didn't. What was that buzzing?
His eyes opened and he tried to lift a hand to scratch the itch on his nose but he couldn't. There was no scratching the itch, not right that minute. It was hard to scratch an itch with your hands immobilized.
The room started to come into focus after the blurry edges of his vision came together. His head was pounding like the drum line of a marching band at the big game. The pain was awful. He blamed his focus on the headache for his inability to absorb exactly what was happening to him.
His left arm was bound to something in front of his body and his right was anchored to his side. He was in a room that smelled like something had died, vomited, rotted, reanimated, and died again. The room was one hundred and ten degrees, sweltering, and the one filthy window he could make out in the dim light was boarded up. Sweat rolled down his forehead and dripped off the end of his nose, telling him exactly what had been itching.
He rolled his head on his neck, trying to see more of what was around him. The room was dank, dark, but the dark felt artificial and forced. The chair he was bound to sat at the edge of a table. It was hard to tell in the darkness. He could make out shapes? He wasn't sure. But it was something vaguely human shaped in front of him.
Where was he?
It was interesting that this was the question that came to mind first. Interesting that he didn't address the bigger issue of why he was bound. Or how he had gotten to where he was. He tried to latch on to his last cognitive memory. It was like trying to pick up and hold a slippery eel, he could just about do it, and it would slip away.
There'd been trauma to him, that much was clear. He was wounded; he could feel the throbbing on the back of his head that said he'd been struck. The left side of his face was throbbing in time, telling him he'd taken a blow to the face. But when? Why? And then the worst part of the truth invaded.
He had no clue who he was.
What was his name?
Where was he from?
Why was he here?
So he knew nothing and with that knowledge, the fear finally set in. He was wounded, bound, in a dark hot room with no hope of escape, and he had amnesia. He was, effectively, fucked. How in the hell was he going to get out of this alive?
As if in answer to the question he'd yet to ask, a light flickered, sparked, and shown down upon him. It was an ugly spot light, bright, blinding and burning hot. It caused his eyes to squint, hurting the clearly swollen side of his face.
A voice sounded from somewhere close but seemingly far away, "Whooopsie!" Male with a braying laugh like a jackass, "Too bright? Let's turn that down a bit shall we?"
The spot light angled away toward the far wall and a row of shambling, duct taped, and hastily rigged together televisions began to pop on. The images were all the same: a rather ugly looking man in a faded hoodie with hollow, vacant cheeks and crazy eyes. The man waved.
"Can ya see me?"
He said nothing, too afraid of what was happening. He appeared to be sitting at a table and there was a person across from him bound in a mirroring fashion. Their face was covered by a mask that resembled a clown. Their left hand was anchored in some kind of contraption atop the table, the fingers spread obscenely open.
The man on the screen whistled, rather like you would to a dog to gain its attention. And then the shock happened.
It stole his breath, the electricity, as it shot through the seat of the chair and up his spine. Just a taste of what would happen, most likely, should he fail to play whatever game he was being thrust into. The pain was brief and awful, snapping his teeth together.
"Now…let's try this again, shall we? Can ya see me?"
His voice was hoarse and deep when he answered, "Yeah…I can see you."
No accent. So that wouldn't help him remember who he was. The hand that was bound to the contraption was attached to a nicely muscled arm, showing him to be in strong physical shape. There was a tattoo on the underside of that arm on the forearm that looked like a shield of some kind. Law enforcement?
"Oh goody!" The maniacal man giggled girlishly, "Now that we're all together, what do say we all begin to play a game?"
As if there was really any choice.
"It's really a classic game. We all know it and love it! It's…." And the spot light turned to the center of the table accompanied by the musical aspect of a drum roll, "Russian Roulette!"
He stared at the pistol that lay there, taunting and terrible. It was between him and the person across from him. With little to no warning, the binding on his right hand popped open. The other person lifted their now free hand as well. They stared at each other, prisoner to prisoner.
"So here is how the game works: You pick up the gun, you put it to your temple, you pull the trigger! Easy peasy right!? But what happens when you don't take your turn?! That's right folks, you lose a finger!"
The bound hand, the spread fingers, it all suddenly made terrible sense. Tiny rusty guillotines popped up over all five fingers, some still crusted with the old, dried blood of some pour soul who had come before. The other person whimpered, low in their throat.
The other person appeared to be male as well. They wore a dirty red shirt beneath the ugly, filthy mask covering their face. But he could see the panic in the eyes behind the eye holes. He was sure the same look was echoed in his own.
The maniac on the screen laughed again, braying, giggling, braying, snorting. It was quickly becoming the worst sound in the world. And the spotlight shifted to a form collapsed in the corner of the room.
He suddenly knew why he'd heard all the buzzing. Flies had a tendency to multiply around the dead. The body was slumped to one side, the side of its face blown cleanly away to a ragged, horrid, putrifying mess of exposed bone, rotting brain, and bits and pieces of skin and muscle. A lonely eye rolled uselessly from a busted socket beneath the macabre shit show that had once been a human face.
The other person gagged, gagged harder.
He watched them; dealing with his own nausea, but his voice was firm, hard, "Don't. God damnit. Don't you dare."
If they threw up, he'd throw up. And he'd be damned if he'd give that psycho the pleasure of it.
"Listen to YOU!" Exclaimed the maniac in question, "You are soooooo brave! That's why you're here after all! Because you came to save the day! Remember?"
He watched the maniac reach for a button on the screen and answered quickly, before he could receive another blast of electricity. "No! No I don't remember."
"Well of course not, silly! I done shot you full of juice to make sure of that," The maniac turned the spot light back to the gun before them, "Now that was Jeff. Jeff…lost. But BEFORE he lost, he tried to say no. He tried to resist. And he lost three fingers!"
The spotlight shifted back and forth between the two bound men. "Ya'll don't want to be losin fingers now, do ya? Course not! The game is simple: pick up gun, put to temple, pull trigger….OR….OR OR OR…" And he was dancing in his seat now on the televisions, "You can choose to shoot EACH OTHER! Isn't that fun? Isn't that EXCITING?! And whoever lives…wins!"
He felt the bile, thick and sickening, it rose in his throat. He thought he might pass out from fear, anger, helplessness and hope. Hope. It was a six shot revolver. There were two of them. It wasn't bad odds to survive. And dying…well it beat the hell out of whatever was likely to come next.
"I'm in."
The other man jerked, shocked. "Wait…wait…what?"
"I'm in. What choice do we have? You want to lose all your fingers? I have a feeling we die anyway. Might as well die trying."
"THERE YA GO!" Bellowed the maniac, "What a spirit! I LOVE IT! You've impressed me so much I'm going to give you your names. Hero and Bozo the Clown."
He heard himself speak without realizing he was going to do it, "That's easy enough to remember."
The maniac laughed again, delighted, "Oh I am gonna LOVE breaking you, Hero. The toughest always break the easiest! Enough talk, game on in three…two….one….GO!"
He snatched the gun from the table a moment before his opponent. Apparently he had quick reflexes. And his aim was steady as he pointed it at the other man.
Bozo started to hyperventilate, taking fast, shallow, choppy little breaths. "Oh no…oh no no no. Please. Just…don't. Ok? Please."
He took a deep breath, aimed the gun at the other man, and turned it. With his eyes closed, his breath held, on a silent prayer, he put the gun to his right temple and pulled the trigger.
Click.
A dry fire.
He was afraid he might piss himself in relief. The silence was deafening after that click sounded.
"Jesus…" He laid the gun back on the table and stared at his trembling hand.
"WHOOO!" Squealed the maniac, "That shit was FUUUUUN! We are on a roll now! Keep it comin! Bozo, your turn! GO!"
Bozo whimpered and picked up the gun. He aimed it shakily at the man in front of him. Hero. He looked like the type to be a Hero. Big, almost obscenely buff, and dressed in a white t-shirt and jeans. The white shirt was stained with dried blood and the jeans were dirty over brown boots. He was wearing an ugly wolf mask that obscured his face but the hair that Bozo glimpsed was dark. The wrist bound to the finger guillotine had a fancy GPS watch on it.
"I can't die here." Bozo whined, softly, "I'm sorry. I can't die here."
Hero was breathing slowly, watching him. "I know. No judgement here dude. Go for it."
The revolver bobbled in his hand, terribly unsteady. He shook his head, over and over, "Oh god. I can't. I can't! I can't!"
He laid the gun back on the table, shaking so badly he thought he might throw up. And then the maniac said, "Bozo! You dumb ass! Now you know what happens!" And he said it in a sing song voice, laughing.
Hero watched helplessly as the guillotine dropped…and Bozo's pinkie finger was severed, plunking onto the table between them in a rush and gush of blood and snapping bone. Bozo screamed, jerking against his restraints, flopping uselessly in his seat like a landed fish. His scream was high pitched and awful, tortured, the wail of the damned.
"No time for theatrics, Bozo! Game on! Hero, GO!"
Bozo was still blubbering, whimpering, twitching now repeatedly like a nervous tic. Hero picked up the gun and put it to his temple. Again he breathed, again he prayed, again he braced…and pulled the trigger.
Click.
Dry fire.
Again he nearly vomited.
He set the gun down on the table.
"That's TWOOOO! BOZO! GO!"
Bozo picked up the gun, whimpering like a kicked dog. He aimed the gun at Hero, shuddering. "I'm so sorry. I'm so so so sorry." He hesitated, shaking, shaking, shaking. He didn't want to die here, didn't want to die at all. Hero…that guy looked ready to die. He looked like a guy who ate pieces of shit like the dude on the televisions for breakfast.
Bozo was so desperately afraid.
"BOZO! You better do something!" The maniac taunted, laughing, "Or maybe you want to try life with eight fingers instead?"
Bozo was sobbing now, hiccupping and sobbing, "I can't! I can't! I c-" The guillotine dropped and his ring finger was severed clean, rolling down the chute and flopping onto the table beside the pinkie. Bozo was squealing, jerking, screaming. He began to pull so hard that Hero was afraid he was going to break his own arm in that contraption. "NO NONO NONONO! LET ME GOOOO! LET ME GOO!"
The gun was waving dangerously around in his spare hand. Hero wanted to duck and cover but sat there, uselessly, while the other man panicked and succumbed to the pain of it all. The smell of piss filled the air and mixed with the stench of blood and bone, blood and death, blood and fear. Bozo had pissed himself.
Bozo aimed the gun again at him and his clown mask had come loose on his face and tipped to one side. Hero could see the spittle on his chin and mouth, the maddened drooling of a man no longer in control of himself. There was nothing left that was in human in the pathetic mess in front of him.
He pulled the trigger.
Click.
"No…" Bozo whispered it, "No…"
"Oh so sad. Maybe next time Bozo! Put down the gun!" Taunted the maniac, dancing on the television screens.
"No," Whispered Bozo, "No more. I can't. I can't do it again. I'm sorry."
Hero met his manic gaze. "I know you are."
Bozo held eyes with the other man. "I hope you win."
Hero felt his stomach jerk, hard. "Wait…don't-"
"It's not your turn Boz-"
The gun went off, loud, echoing, and cacophonous. The smell of gunpowder joined the scent of freshly spilling blood, piss, and shit. Hero watched, horrified, as the top of Bozo's head was blown away by the powerful .357 round. The full metal jacket round turned that head into a canoe. The body was still twitching as the lifeless hand dropped the revolver to the floor with a thunk.
"Well gee whiz! What a baby! He took TWO turns!" The guillotine came crashing down on the rest of Bozo's still twitching fingers, severing them. "You're lucky you're dead, you dumb bastard! You RUINED MY GAME!"
Hero felt the tightness in his chest become nearly too painful. He couldn't breathe. He was starting to panic. Staring at the freshly exposed brains and bone, he knew he was going to vomit. He gagged, tried to breathe too deeply to calm himself, and gagged harder. The jolt of electricity through him was the only thing that saved him from throwing up.
His body jerked and flopped, forced into a skin prickling dance as the power of it rocked his system and stole his breath.
"Well I promised I'd set you free if you won…" The maniac laughed harder, "But I kinda lied…I don't want to. Annnnnd I'M THE BOSS!"
More electricity poured through him now. And more still. Bolt upon bolt was put through his body by that evil hand. If he could have gathered a mouthful of air to speak, he'd have cursed that crazy bastard and told him to rot in hell.
So this would be how he died, slowly shocked to death until his brain and body just shit itself, shut down, and short circuited. The panic snapped his teeth together, repeatedly, his head tossed back, fell forward. He thought, this is how the world ends, and then it stopped.
Like the lights had all just gone out.
And he was still alive.