Happily Ever After
"What the—hey! Let go, kid! Can't you see your father's trying to relax?"
A pair of defiant dark eyes looked up into his own. "You promised you'd tell me a bedtime story."
"I'll do it tomorrow," Hwoarang offered.
The little boy folded his arms. "That's what you said yesterday—"
"I was busy! I had to find the television remote."
"—and the day before that—"
"Once again, busy. I had to—fix the roof."
"—and the day before that."
"That was the time I had to walk the dog."
"We don't have a dog, Dad."
"We don't?" Hwoarang echoed, grinning hopefully, "How about I buy you one?"
"Bedtime story," his son insisted.
"You drive a hard bargain," Hwoarang sighed.
He clicked off the television and in one swift movement apprehended the boy, twisting him around and suspending him above the floor by the ankles.
"What're you doing?" the boy shouted, his tone ribbed with laughter.
"I'm sorry, what?" Hwoarang teased him, starting to walk toward his son's room, "I can't hear you from all the way up here."
The boy's bedroom left no room for argument over his father's identity, from the pictures of motorcycles on the walls right down to the vibrant cans of spray-paint sloppily hidden behind the bureau in the corner of the room.
"Where'd you get them?" Hwoarang asked, eyeing the cans nearly spilling out of a plastic bag.
His son looked at him meaningfully. "Found 'em."
Hwoarang dropped the boy onto the bed. "Just don't let your mother see them, or she'll castrate me for sure."
"I think she's already done that."
"You little twerp," Hwoarang chuckled, "How do you even know what that is? You're only like, what, five?"
"I learn from the best," his son replied proudly, "And I'm eight and a half."
He knew it was the truth, but somehow he didn't think it could be possible. Eight and a half years couldn't have passed since the conclusion of the fifth Iron Fist. There was no way. He remembered it all so vividly, it very well could have happened the day before.
"Eight and a half, huh?" he mused, "Aren't you a little too old for bedtime stories?"
"Yeah, probably," the boy answered wistfully, "But I like them. You make me laugh."
He paused. "So, what're you gonna tell me about tonight? Witches, warlocks? Hairy monsters that hide in basements?"
"I don't know," Hwoarang admitted, "I didn't exactly come prepared."
Seeing a flicker of disappointment cross his son's face, he quickly went on to say, "But I'm sure I can think of something."
His son scuttled back and slid beneath his blanket, pulling the soft blue cloth up to his chin.
"All right," Hwoarang said thoughtfully, "Once upon a time, as all great stories begin, there was a prince—a very attractive prince," he added with a boastful grin.
The boy laughed.
"The prince was under the watch of a cranky old hermit, who kept the prince locked away in a dungeon for his own good, or so he said. He feared the jealousy the prince's good looks would bestow upon the magical kingdom should he be seen by the general public. But the prince wanted adventure. When he was little, he'd heard stories of the wonders of the outside world, including one little phenomena he simply had to see for himself—women."
"The prince had never even seen his own mother?" his son asked, interested.
"Unfortunately," Hwoarang answered, "But it was probably better that way. Word in the castle was she was a real b—asket case."
"I'd be sad if I didn't have Mom, even if she was crazy," his son remarked.
"She is crazy," Hwoarang corrected, "Moving on.
The prince, fueled by the possibility of wild excitement outside the dungeon walls, decided to make an escape. Late one night, he fashioned a long rope from the sheets on his bed and descended from the window, narrowly evading the old hermit's clutches."
"But if he was being kept in the dungeon," the little boy interrupted, "Wouldn't he have been underground? And so there wouldn't be a window for him to climb out of."
"If you wanna get technical," Hwoarang said slowly, "But actually, the hermit was so senile in his old age, he structured his castle backwards, so that the attic was underground and the dungeon was the highest level."
"But then there's no way he would've had enough sheets to make a rope that could take him safely to the ground," his son argued.
"Hey," Hwoarang snapped, "You want a damn story or not, kid?"
The boy fell silent.
"Anyway," Hwoarang said, pleased, "Once he'd reached the ground, the prince ran as fast as he could beyond the castle boundaries—and right into someone."
"Who was it?" his son asked animatedly.
"A hot girl from a nearby kingdom," he replied, "The prince apologized for bumping into her and made polite conversation. He eventually learned that the fair maiden was the other kingdom's princess. After sticking around to exchange more small talk with her, the girl won him over, and the prince decided to ask for her hand."
"She's a zombie princess?" the boy interrupted with excitement.
Hwoarang chuckled.
"Ask for her hand in marriage," he expounded, "The princess freaked out because she was afraid of what her father would say if she accepted the proposal. The prince just laughed it off and told her that he could handle anything, even the roughest, toughest old geezer around. So the princess agreed to marry him as long as he spoke with her father first. She led the way to her home, the kingdom's castle, where the prince became mesmerized by her knockers—door knockers, that is."
His son shrewdly rolled his eyes.
"Suddenly," the fighter said, lowering his voice for dramatic effect, "A beast appeared in their path, blocking the entrance. He stood about fifteen feet high, his skin a sickly green. The ugly brute had a serious spit problem, and when he opened his mouth to reveal his many rows of yellow fangs, it was more disgusting than intimidating."
"Did the prince get slobbered on?"
"Pretty badly," Hwoarang answered, "The monster's saliva was so sour, it stung like acid. Good thing the prince had put on his enchanted chain mail armor that morning."
"How convenient," the boy joked.
"The princess then greeted the fiend and reluctantly introduced the prince to her cousin."
"That nasty thing was related to her?" his son asked in surprise.
Hwoarang nodded solemnly. "The prince reacted in a similar way—except his choice of wording was a little more colorful. The princess, fearful that he would leave her, vowed that the monster was harmless. But then—" He brought one hand down upon the other. "Her cousin let out an angry growl and tried to crush the prince beneath the bumpy mass he called his foot."
The little boy appeared concerned.
"Not to worry," Hwoarang went on, grinning, "The beast didn't know who he was messing with. The prince, aside from being devastatingly handsome, was one of the best fighters around. Because her cousin was so tall and fat, he was very slow—too slow to land a successful hit. The prince was able to get out of the way with tons of time to spare."
"That's good," his son said, "Did he take the big guy down?"
"Of course," the fighter responded, "Such a hideous creature was no match for our strong hero. The fight most certainly did not end in a draw, causing the poor prince serious psychological damage and forcing him to go on a long and annoying quest for revenge."
He cleared his throat. "The princess took the prince's arm with a smile. Due to filial duty, she couldn't say it outright, but deep down she disliked her cousin just as much. It turned out the king had seen the entire episode. He was impressed by the prince's display of courage, and concluded that someone with so much potential and skill would surely be able to protect his daughter."
Hwoarang paused briefly. "And there you have it, kid. You got your damn bedtime story."
The little boy frowned. "That ending sucks! What happened to the prince and princess?"
Just then, a female voice drifted into the room, its tone dripping with rancor.
"Hwoarang, get your lazy ass in here now!" shouted Asuka.
He met his son's inquisitive gaze with a nonchalant smirk, leaning forward to ruffle the boy's already unkempt copper hair.
"Well, Baek, they lived happily ever after."