by J.C. Fiske
Chapter 1: A Name for Strength
The stories of history must be told,
of the world of Thera, a sight to behold.
A place beyond your wildest dreams;
where endless possibility is not as it seems.
Where people filled with morning light
can turn darker than a moonless night.
For power rests within their souls
and ancient gifts will take their toll
So strong and wise your heart must be
to find what others refuse to see.
Hardships a many and battles long
So in cornered peril just sing this song.
Destiny calls and win or lose,
It is not how you fight but how you choose…
- Vadid the Valiant – Warlord
Gisbo sat at the back corner of the schoolhouse reading the familiar lines of the old poem. He had memorized the poem years ago, but he still loved to read it, especially when he was angry and especially when stuck in school. The two often came hand in hand. Hiding the book inside his boring textbook, he continued to read when . . .
Clang! Clang! Clang! The school bell sounded. A large smile stretched across his face as he shut the book with a slap upon hearing the lovely sound, the sound of freedom!
“Finally I can get away from this hellhole! Smell ya later, butt knockers! WAHOOO!” Gisbo cheered aloud.
“Check it out, dog boy even howls. Funny,” said a tall, handsome boy with slicked hair. A small group of girls giggled and followed the handsome boy outside. Gisbo tightened his fist, ready to follow, until a stern voice halted him.
“Going somewhere, boy?” Mr. Foogal asked with an arrogant, prissy air to his voice. He was a portly man with thick-rimmed glasses and a circular bald spot on the top of his head. Ever since Gisbo had first mentioned his own name, Mr. Foogal had taken an immediate dislike to him and made a point to show it to the rest of the class. In his mind, anyone who would think of naming a child the Flarian term for dog must have come from an uncivilized, brutish bloodline.
Why was he required to teach such worthless potential? It was only wasted effort, effort that could instead be used to impress and train the privileged children, such as Thomson Ricard, which would then give him favor in the eyes of their parents and would hopefully lead to the increase of his social standings. Maybe then he could even have a future career in the castle with all the other politicians and bigwigs. Why, with a position like that, he would easily be able to afford the silken purple robe hanging in Mack’s tailor shop, it would be . . .
His thoughts were broken as Gisbo let loose with a massive sneeze. Mr. Foogal closed his eyes and felt warm spittle wash across his face in a grisly mist.
“Oh, didn’t see you standing there, Foogal,” Gisbo sneered, wiping his nose with his sleeve. Gisbo then looked up at him and smiled. Seeing that smile and feeling Gisbo’s gaze upon him made the bald patch atop Mr. Foogal’s head instantly grow hot. The bald spot, which was dead center atop his head, was a frequent target for Gisbo, who called him “Mr. Scrotum Head” whenever given the chance.
Mr. Foogal gritted his teeth. For ten years, these back and forth insults had occurred. The boy was wild and represented a generation that Warlord Karm had finally put a stop to in his reign of power. Thanks to him, the warrior culture was now dead. The educated now controlled the muscle with political leashes. As was proper. Mr. Foogal couldn’t imagine such brutish types actually making important decisions. IAM forbid! And this boy, this scoundrel, rather than focus on his studies like the rest of the children, seemed to want to bring the times back whether he knew it or not. But that wasn’t the only reason Mr. Foogal despised him. As much as he hated to admit it, there was something in the boy’s eyes that made him shiver. At the same time, that same something filled him with envy. Like a jealous child, he saw something in the boy that he himself as a man did not have.
Tenacity.
As much as he was respected in his fields of expertise among his peers, he always felt less than a man when standing in the presence of one of Karm’s Elekai’ warriors. It wasn’t in the way the fighters carried themselves; no, there was something in the eyes and these eyes belonged to the boy as well. In his own way, he had tried to overcompensate for this feeling of weakness by continually mocking the boy in front of the class. What he didn’t expect however, was that the boy would throw it right back, undeterred, and thus, the ten year war of words had ensued. Gisbo was sixteen now and done with schooling under him. It was about time he let him have it and end things for good.
“I really can’t blame them for picking on you,” Mr. Foogal said. Gisbo’s eyes narrowed and looked straight at him. Again, Mr. Foogal felt the top of his head burning, just waiting for the name calling to begin.
“This going somewhere, scrotum head? Or can’t I get you outta my ass for at least one summer?” Gisbo asked. The vein in Mr. Foogal’s forehead pulsed dangerously. He stood in silence and waited for the last student to leave the classroom. No sooner had a girl stepped one foot upon the steps outside than Mr. Foogal slammed the door with tremendous force and rebounded upon Gisbo with ten years of pent up frustration behind him.
“Listen, you foul mouthed little crap! I passed you just so I could get you out of MY ass for a summer! Don’t you forget that. Don’t you ever, EVER forget that! You are the stupidest thing to ever walk through my classroom! You’ll amount to nothing but a ditch digger in this life! You know that?” Mr. Foogal hissed in his ear, the vein in his forehead looking as if it would burst. Gisbo only clenched his fist.
“Oh, what’s this? You wish to hit me? That’s how you solve all your problems, isn’t it, boy? Just punch them away? Well, go ahead! You’re sixteen now, you’ll go to prison, so you better it make it good. I’ll take a hit just to know an animal like you will go right where he belongs, his cage!” Mr. Foogal hissed. It had finally happened. Ten years and it had finally happened. Mr. Foogal lost it. He grabbed Gisbo by both shoulders and pushed him so hard that the boy fell right off his feet. In disbelief of his own actions, Mr. Foogal first looked down at Gisbo, and then at his trembling hands.
“You . . . you like that, you little crap? Come on, get up, right here, give me a good one! Punch your way into prison!” Mr. Foogal challenged, pointing to his chin.
Gisbo coughed once, got up slowly and shook himself off. He than snapped a gaze upward and looked Mr. Foogal square in the eyes.
There it is again, that damned look! What is behind those eyes that makes me feel so, so, Mr. Foogal thought.
Inferior floated to the top of his mind.
It was then Gisbo gritted his teeth and took a bold step forward. Mr. Foogal’s eyes flashed with surprise and he found himself taking a nervous step backward right into a desk. He held up his hands in defense, feeling as if this moment wasn’t real, as if he were dreaming, when suddenly . . .
“GIZZZZZY!!!” a voice bellowed from behind the schoolhouse. Upon hearing the voice, a voice he hated much more than his teacher’s, Gisbo growled and stormed out of the schoolhouse without a glance back. Mr. Foogal let out a huge, shaky sigh of relief and he found the courage to shout out a few last words.
“You’ll get it this time! You’ve bit off more then you can chew now!” Mr. Foogal shrieked, laughing hysterically at his own clever pun. He mentally patted himself on the back, feeling good as he rose up to his full height and took a walk over to his desk and collapsed into a chair.
“You’ll get it this time, boy. The wolves are gonna get ya!” Mr. Foogal said, smiling to himself. “And I’m not telling a soul!”
The sky was heavy and gray. It seemed to swell, looking as if it would burst into rain at the slightest prick. Even so, Gisbo marched on behind the schoolhouse, through the bushes and past the fallen pine tree. His long, dark brown, nearly black, hair fluttered out and behind his tattered bandana. He was mad and when he was mad, his hazel eyes flared open like a bull’s.
I’ll kill ‘em this time, I’ll kill �
�em all . . . Gisbo thought.
He came upon the open field as quickly as every time before. An ominous feeling of déjà vu swept over him as he glanced around, spying familiar faces. These familiar faces, however, he was only used to seeing on their own in a place like this, but now, they were all here, all ten of them, and together their faces morphed into an unholy collage of misplaced superiority and cruelty.
The Black Wolf Pack, as they were properly known, was Oak County’s pride and joy. They were the regional champs at a sport known as “clash,” which was played throughout Thera. Their black handkerchiefs fluttered in the breeze under their stuck up noses and shark smiles.
Gisbo recalled that there was a good reason for him being here, but with so much hot rage smoldering through his mind like a lava flow he couldn’t quite remember the specifics or why he had volunteered to face them all at once in the first place.
“Gizzzy!” the ringleader taunted. Gisbo cringed at the tone in which his name was being said. “What? You don’t like your name, Gizzy? Well, I could call you by your last name, but mummy and daddy didn’t want to share it with you . . . didn’t want anything to do with you! I can understand, what with an idiot like you for a son,” sneered Thomson Ricard, son of Karm’s renowned General Ricard, and leader of the Black Wolf Pack.
Gisbo said nothing. He only tossed aside his school bag and began to crack his knuckles and neck.
“Wow, your big fat mouth got you into this mess and now you got nothing to say?” Thomson asked, stunned.
Gisbo surveyed his competition. He took a moment to relish in the bruises and black eyes that he himself had inflicted upon Thomson’s band of savage wolves when he got them alone, all except for Thomson’s face. It was as clean as a fat man’s dinner plate. There wasn’t even a visible scratch. Today, Gisbo meant to fix that.
“Well . . . that’s a frightening look,” Thomson said, as cool as a winter breeze. “I would almost think you wish to fight. Look around, dumbass! If you fight all of us, you may not walk again for some time and come to think of it . . .” Thomson mocked, cocking his head upward as if remembering something. “ . . . that would make it impossible for you to try out for Elekai’ training tomorrow. What a shame. That’s your big dream, isn’t it? Become an Elekai’ warrior? Cute. Well, let me be the one to burst your bubble there, Gizzy. When it comes to Elekai’, lineage is everything and you, buddy, amount to jack squat. Me, on the other hand, well, my dad’s General Ricard! I practically have it in the bag! So, let me tell you something he always says, something you should remember. Some were made to do great things, like me. Others were made to serve those who do great things, like you. You can’t fight destiny, Gizzy. We are who we were meant to be,” Thomson sneered. On cue, his cronies cackled like a pack of hyenas, impressed by their leader’s dagger-like tongue. Gisbo continued to stand in silence.
“Hmph, what a stupid mutt! He’s so scared he can’t even respond to me, Heff,” continued Thomson. “Heff?”
Thomson turned as Heff continued picking his nose in the deepest of concentration, smiling to himself with greed. Thomson replied with a swift backhand to the side of Heff’s head. Gisbo couldn’t help but laugh despite the seriousness of the situation. Seeing this enraged Thomson all the more.
“You hear something funny, Gizzy? A dog like you wouldn’t last in a pissing contest!” Thomson jibed with an arrogant assurance.
Gisbo took a few threatening steps forward as another voice sounded behind him.
“Hey, Thomson, I’ve got his bag!” yelled Rowley as he began to dump its contents onto the dusty ground. He picked up a large storybook, looked at the cover with a scoff and chucked it deep into the forest.
“Say goodbye to your wittle faiwytales, loser, it’s time you got a dose of reality,” snickered Rowley.
Gisbo let fly an abundance of expletives as he watched one of his most prized possessions fly into the dark abyss of trees. He then turned and stared at Rowley with two crazed eyes. Suddenly realizing he was alone with Gisbo, Rowley retreated back to the safety of the Black Wolf Pack in a nervous sweat.
“So, mutt, we gonna fight or what? If we do, I better tell you my dad’s first rule of combat since you won’t be hearing it tomorrow. Rule number one: Never challenge your superiors when faced with impossible odds,” hissed Tomson. Gisbo snapped his focus back to Tomson and cracked an evil smile.
“That last part . . . yeah . . . not gonna work for me,” Gisbo said.
In an instant, the silence broke at the sound of Gisbo’s battle cry as he charged straight for the son of Ricard. Thomson raised his forearms in defense as Gisbo reared his right fist back to swing. The distance rapidly decreased between the two fighters. Please, what kind of idiot reveals his attack from such a distance? Oh yeah, Gisbo would, Thomson thought, chuckling to himself. He changed his stance once more, readying for Gisbo’s attack.
Gisbo reached attack range. He swung with a fierce right hook, missing his target by half a foot as Thomson reared backward out of the way. Thomson began to lean back up with a smug look on his face when he felt the sharp pain in his gut that took his breath away. Gisbo had faked the punch and instead plunged his shoulder into Thomson’s gut. The general’s son gasped for air as he hit the ground, sending up a cloud of dust. Gisbo sat atop Thomson’s stomach and began decorating Thomson’s face with striking blows before his cohorts could join the struggle.
Gisbo fell into a crazed laughing fit as he began ripping up grass-ridden dirt clods and shoving them into Tomson’s gaping mouth, giving him dirt instead of air. It was then Gisbo realized hands were upon him, big hands, and his new opponent had succeeded in lifting him off Thomson. Out of impulse, Gisbo plowed his grimy fingers into the eyes of his attacker. It was Heff, Thomson’s largest crony. Gisbo had never been fond of him and vice versa. They had had many scrapes and there never was a true winner. Gisbo meant to fix that too.
The big boy screamed in pain, dropped Gisbo and clawed frantically at his throbbing eyes. Gisbo landed on his back, but did not hesitate. Upon landing, he leaned backward and kicked out with both heels into Heff’s gut. Heff let go of his eyes and instead wrapped his arms around his belly before falling backward into two of his rushing comrades.
Gisbo rolled to his feet and ducked, dodging a shot from one of the Wolves who had joined the fray. While ducking, Gisbo eyed a vulnerable area and let loose with a straight right punch. The victim fell, squealing like a pig and holding his groin.
WHAM! A surprise right hook connected to the back of Gisbo’s skull, sending his vision into a white flash and felling him to the ground. Gisbo’s vision was blurry, but his instinct and experience in dirty schoolyard brawls served him well. He managed to get on his back and caught the boy’s foot in his hand, stopping all attempts of it digging into his face, only to have another boy put him into a full nelson. Other boys quickly jumped in, claiming each of Gisbo’s limbs as their own as they held him down to the ground, face up.
Gisbo struggled and thrashed with all the strength that he could muster, but it was useless. It may have taken five boys to hold him down, but regardless, he was now caught. It was then that the one boy Gisbo never wanted standing over him was back on his feet. Thomson stood, breathing hard. Blood, bruises and dirt covered his haughty features. Without saying a word, Thomson reached down and grabbed Gisbo by the throat. Thomson’s mouth quivered and his eyes bulged from his skull. Gisbo glared at him, snorting like a captured animal.
“Look what you did to me! Who the hell do you think you are? I’ll kill you, I’LL KILL YOU! I’ll rip out your freakin’ eyes, I’ll . . . “
Gisbo didn’t let him continue into another haughty diatribe. They may have held down all his limbs, but he still had control of his noggin and he used it by throwing his forehead straight into Thomson’s nose. There was a crunch, followed by a burst of blood. The son of Ricard reeled back, let go of Gisbo and clutched his nose with both hands as blood poured from it. In a fit of rage, he dove forward in the same
manner Gisbo had done earlier to him. He sat upon Gisbo’s stomach and pummeled him with blow after blow, letting his own nose bleed freely over Gisbo like a runny faucet.
“Come on, trash! Let’s hear your smart talk now! I CAN’T HEAR YOU!” Thomson yelled, continuing his onslaught on Gisbo’s face. The rest of the group added their fair share as well as they kicked and punched at his body, chuckling with every strike. This continued for several long minutes until the boys seemed to have had their fill and Gisbo had stopped moving. Heff stood, out of breath, with a worried expression across his face.
“Man, we went too far, Thomson! What will we do if someone finds out? We could get kicked off the clash team for all of us teaming up on one kid!” Heff exclaimed. Thomson threw him a withering look.
“Please, this isn’t just any kid. Everyone hates him! Hell, my dog gets better treatment then he ever will. All we have to say is that we were on our daily run through the woods and this lowlife demanded my wallet and proceeded to attack me; nobody would believe his word over mine. Especially if he’s dead.” Thomson replied with an assured smile. “Come on, let’s get out of here, it stinks.”
Thomson and the wolf pack turned to walk away. When they neared the clearing, one of the boys turned around for one last look and froze in place. Noticing this, Thomson turned as well and didn’t believe what he saw.
Gisbo stood, hunched over, breathing hard. His knees wobbled like a drunk, but standing he was, with his fists still clenched. Thomson was stupefied. How could someone still be afoot after receiving such a beating?
“HEY . . . ya . . . you . . . call that a beating, ah . . . ASSFACE!?” Gisbo yelled through choked breaths. “I’m not through yet! I came here for one bastard and I got ten! I’m . . . I’m calling you out, Thomson!” Gisbo screamed, pointing a shaky finger at Thomson. For a moment, the finger scared him, but then he realized his wolf pack was with him. This brought his courage roaring back.
"Hmph . . . you had your chance and you failed. You have no fighting style and you’re not worthy of any more of my time. Besides . . . I have a family to return to," Thomson said and with that, he turned and walked away in silent victory. The pack followed.
Gisbo had had insults aimed at him his whole life and brushed off most of them. He had outgrown the nights of crying himself to sleep, but there were times when these poisonous arrows were unavoidable. That last remark hurt and it hurt badly. Thomson managed to land the final knockout blow after all. All strength and spirit left Gisbo and he felt himself slump to the ground with his head between his knees. His rage quickly turned to deep sorrow as he sat in silence, watching his enemy walk away with his head held high. At this moment, the swollen clouds finally burst. It began to rain. Gisbo cursed to himself and, after a few ill attempts, managed to rise to his feet to begin the long walk home. With every step, the clouds seemed to grow blacker and the rain became an outright downpour.
Even nature has it out for me, Gisbo thought.
Worst of all, the rain was cold and it stung at his injured body. As Gisbo walked the cobble-stoned road down the main street of Oak County, he couldn't help but stare into the warm, lit windows of the homes he walked past. They seemed so cozy and glowed a comforting orange color, like a fruit. He couldn’t help himself. Gisbo walked up to the nearest house and peered through the glass window. It was then he saw it, the very thing he had always longed for, but could never have. If only it was just a glass window that truly separated him from it, but it was much more complicated than that.
Gisbo saw a father and son wrestling across a carpeted floor, laughing, while a mother made a dinner that smelled so good it made Gisbo’s mouth water. However, the corner of the mother’s eye spotted Gisbo’s head in the window. In a quickened shuffle, she made her way to the doorway and thrust it open. Gisbo tried to open his mouth to say something, but it was of no help. With a speed that didn’t fit her age, she took off her shoe and threw it at Gisbo, hitting him in the side of the head.
“Get out of here, you little degenerate! Shoo before I call the guards!” the woman said before slamming the door.
“Gah! What the hell, lady? Screw you!” Gisbo yelled, rubbing his poor aching head. It felt like a pressure cooker and that lady had just rattled it with a spoon. With a huff, Gisbo shoved his hands into his pockets and stared downward the rest of the way home.
Exhausted, Gisbo finally made it through the town’s gates before they closed and arrived at his small hut, tucked away in the trees right before the forest thickened. Feeling dizzy, he reached into his pocket for his key only to find it missing. Gisbo slammed his fist against the door in anguish and cursed loudly and made his way out behind the shack. As he walked past the side of it, he noticed newly written graffiti sprayed across the sides of his home in every color but red; loving words of encouragement from his classmates no doubt. Gisbo stopped and stared at it for a moment, just shaking his head at the nerve of some people. He often wondered if adults had pitched in too, for most of it was written quite neatly and there were some curse words even he wouldn’t say aloud. He did his best not to dwell on the words as he continued to the back of his shack where the only window was installed.
Gisbo reached upward and put his hands on the window sill, grunting in pain as he tried to pull his injured body upward. He only managed to get one foot on the sill before he fell into a deep mud puddle building at the base of his hut. Gisbo cursed again, but made no attempt to stand up. The raindrops really came down on him now, firing on his injured face like a barrage of cold needles. But still Gisbo couldn’t find the strength to move or find the strength to stop the tears now running down his face, merging with the raindrops. It was then a shadow fell over him and he snapped back into focus.
Through his blurred and watery vision, the man’s face was indefinable, but the outstretched hand was not. Gisbo smacked the hand away and clumsily rolled to his side and, with much effort, managed to stand, but not so much ready to fight. Thankfully, upon closer inspection, Gisbo realized it was not one of his classmates. He quickly dropped his fighting stance and rubbed at the back of his head, embarrassed.
"Sorry, I thought you were somebody else," Gisbo said.
"I would be some enemy to help you back on your feet, wouldn't I, friend?" replied the man in a deep, yet upbeat tone.
The man standing before him was tall and wrapped in a strange white hooded cloak. Most people in such days wore cloaks to remain hidden and mysterious; a white cloak just defeated the purpose. He could discern the man was in his forties. His face was hard and weathered, looking like tan leather. He had stubble all about his cheeks, chin and neck and brandished a thick, dark mustache that held droplets of water in it from the pouring rain. Gisbo would have thought this man to be fierce looking if he didn’t look at his eyes. They were a light sky blue and seemed to twinkle. Laugh lines ran down the corners of them, looking as if they were carved into his skin purposely.
"Well, champ, I would first like to apologize for any discomfort I caused you. It certainly wasn't my intention. You can call me Falcon. I'm the new janitor in these parts. The last one contracted some sort of terrible flesh eating disease from cleaning the waste shoots of the castle . . . horrible stuff really . . . we won’t go there. Anyhow," he paused and gave a small bow to Gisbo. A bow was a rarity in those times, reserved only for the presence of a Warlord. "And what would your name be, my young friend?" continued Falcon as he rose back up to his full height and extended a hand toward Gisbo, who gladly accepted this time.
"My name's . . . Gisbo," he stated with reluctance. His blood boiled at the sound of his own name as he prepared himself for a laugh or two. As expected, Falcon did laugh, but not as he thought. It was a goodhearted laugh, natural, and it almost made his name feel normal . . . almost anyway.
"Well, Gisbo, that is certainly a name to be remembered. So refreshing to the ears! Normally I’d be looking down and petting one’s head when saying such!” Falcon exclaimed. Gisbo couldn't help but smile as well.
What a crazy guy, he thought to himself.
"So, Gisbo, tell me, why would a lad such as yourself be down in the mud sobbing on such a fine day as today?" Falcon asked, as if the sun were shining brightly.
"You think I need to share my life's troubles with the local janitor? What are you doing here anyhow? And . . . HOLY HELL!? What is that smell?" Gisbo asked, while clambering to hold his nose. He then noticed the stains covering Falcon’s cloak and he dared not wonder what they might be. Waste shoots, was all Gisbo thought.
"Well, I noticed some horrible four letter words written all over your shack and, well, I can't imagine why someone would like to have such decorations, so if you would look here you would notice that I began scrubbing them away for you, free of charge. I was also ordered to bring you your weekly food shipment. The door's unlocked by the way, but, hey, if you prefer crawling into windows, then be my guest! If not, try turning the knob first; it’s always a solid move. Here, you can have my key. I got plenty of spares back at the castle," Falcon replied, tossing Gisbo his spare. Gisbo caught it and stared at him in silent disbelief of his kindness. It was foreign to him.
"You know, I'm sorry for the rudeness. It was uncalled for. I haven't had such a banner day if you know what I mean," Gisbo answered, followed by a sigh as he collapsed on his small steps.
"Understandable. You look as if you just woke a hibernating bear. I’m sure that wouldn’t be a banner day at all. What happened? If you don't mind my asking and you replying," Falcon asked with utmost sincerity.
"Bear, huh? Might have been easier than a pack of wolves . . . I just, I don’t know. Have you ever felt like you don’t belong?” Gisbo asked. Falcon spread out his stain ridden cloak.
“To answer your question, I’m pretty sure I got poo on me. What do you think, Gizzy?” Falcon asked. Gisbo burst into laughter over this. It felt good. He couldn’t remember the last time somebody had made him laugh. It made him feel even more comfortable, so he continued.
“Well, other than the obvious, I mean. Do you ever feel like something inside keeps telling you that you are meant for something, something big, but nobody else seems to hear it? I know it sounds crazy,” Gisbo said, looking through the falling rain.
“No, no, keep going,” Falcon encouraged. “I don’t mind listening, I’m getting a free shower out here.”
“I mean, I just look around and see no point in what people do around here. Hell, they don’t even notice it themselves. There’s no adventure or purpose. No passions or dreams anywhere. They remind me of ants or something. All they care about is money this, money that, who’s dating who, who broke up with who, what was the clash score last night? Clash players are a buncha sissies if you ask me. None of them fight for real, it’s all fake, but,” Gisbo stopped and pulled a book out of his bag. On the cover was an artist’s rendition of a warrior wielding a flashing sword. “But when I read stuff like this, back in the day, why, it just . . . it just makes me wish I was born in a different time! Like I’m not where I’m supposed to be!” Gisbo said with a sigh.
“Keep goin’,” Falcon interrupted with a laugh. “I can tell you’ve been holding onto this nugget for quite some time. It’s good to let it out.”
“Look, I’m not some whiney little sissy, ok, but you are the only guy around to talk to so you’re gonna listen, ok?” Gisbo asked.
“I already told you I would,” Falcon said. “Fire away.”
“And it’s just so unfair! Some people are just handed everything! Everything they need to shape them into what they want and they don’t even appreciate it! Where the rest of us get crap,” Gisbo said.
“Yup, preach it, boy, preach it!” Falcon encouraged.
“Heh, I don’t know. For once in my life, I guess I’ve had enough. I’m starting to feel just as insignificant as a, well, what the hell? A dog. Some people were meant for something great and others just, well, weren’t meant to be at all, I guess . . . " Gisbo trailed off with his head hung low. It wasn’t low for long however. Falcon knocked his knuckles against Gisbo’s skull hard with a CLUNK sound. Gisbo jumped up, surprised, and began pointing and shouting curses.
"What on Thera did you do that for? Is there something wrong with your head? Gahhh!" Gisbo screamed in pain, rubbing the new injury to his noggin.
"Hm, possibly, but I should ask you that same question, pal. Now I don't want to see that head lowered in shame again, ya hear? It is too nice a day outside to be wallowing in shame," Falcon replied.
"But it is freaking raining out!" Gisbo argued.
"That’s not the point! I listened to you, now let me ask you something,” Falcon interrupted. "I’m a bit of a history buff and was wondering something as soon as I saw ya. Do you wear that bandana on your forehead as a fashion statement or for another reason?” Falcon asked. Gisbo reached up and felt his blue headband.
“Oh this? It’s just from an old bed sheet,” Gisbo said, a little embarrassed by his tribute to the Renegades of old.
“So you were just quite fond of that bed sheet, eh?” Falcon questioned. He then chuckled. “Sissy.”
“Hey! Well, ok, you got me. It’s in remembrance of the Renegades. I like them, ok? Most of all because they did things their own way and didn’t care what anyone else thought of ‘em! Just like me! They took one look at society and said, ‘Screw you guys!’ And because of it, they became the greatest warriors in history! I want to be an Elekai’ warrior so badly! Then, then I can do anything I want! I can have adventure and excitement and fight evil stuff. Wham, bam! Take that, you Flarians!” Gisbo said, finding new energy as he bounced around punching at the falling raindrops. Once he had his full, and gave one unfortunate raindrop an uppercut, he turned back to Falcon.
“I can’t see myself as anything else. There’s nothing I want more! Just the thought of it . . .” Gisbo said with a dreamy look in his eyes.
“An Elekai’ warrior, eh? So that’s what all this is about. I hate to break it to you, kid, but you do realize it’s something that’s gotta be in you. Not everyone can be an Elekai’ warrior just because they want too,” Falcon said.
“I know that, but I don’t care. I’ll find a way!” Gisbo said. Falcon smiled at Gisbo’s enthusiasm.
“I like your attitude, kid. That stubbornness might just get you somewhere. You wanna know what I think?”
“No, but you’re going to tell me anyway,” Gisbo said. Falcon ignored Gisbo’s comment.
“Those Renegade guys, I remember them, you know. They used to walk right down that main road there all the time. Each of them were great men and woman. They fought for their dreams and fought for a purpose and that is why the people loved them so much, but it was also what brought them their power. You lose your dreams, you lose your heart, and when that happens, woo boy, you don’t wanna know,” Falcon said. At this Gisbo was interested.
“What? Huh? Tell me!” Gisbo asked.
“Well, since you asked so nicely. You want to know what happens when someone loses heart? Well, you become nothing more than a hollow being . . . a shell that slaves his life away with no purpose, kinda like these people you speak so fondly of around here. That’s not what you want, now is it?” Falcon asked. Gisbo shook his head. Falcon rubbed at his hair and continued.
“My boy, you are at a pinnacle point in your life right now, where your dreams are called into question. Unfortunately, the average person gives up when the going gets tough and instead accepts a mediocre existence. Life, as we get older, has a nice way of snuffing out who we really are. It’s only the strong that doesn’t let it hinder them. Nothing worthwhile ever comes easy. In fact, it requires all that you are,” Falcon said. He reached for a short cigar in his pocket, lit it and puffed away.
“Hm,” Gisbo said.
“Yeah, ‘hm’ is right. Now, let me tell you a little something about these buggers you talk about, the guys that have it easy. There’s another word for ‘em: prodigies. Prodigies are never happy, you know. Be thankful you aren’t one,” F
alcon said, blowing out a thick plume of smoke.
“Yeah, I beg to differ,” Gisbo said.
“Oh, they may look happy, but such people have nothing to strive for or achieve anymore. The only thing they care about is keeping their titles; but you, you’re something different, the opposite of a prodigy,” Falcon said.
“Really? What’s that?” Gisbo asked.
“Well, to put it nicely, pal, you’re a failure,” Falcon said. Gisbo was stunned.
“Hey!” Gisbo said.
“Now, now, let me finish. Being a failure is a good thing,” Falcon said.
“No, it’s not!” Gisbo argued.
“Yes, it is because you already know more than those who got it all right the first time. You know of every way to get it wrong. See? And when you get it right, you’ll already know more than the prodigies. Those who are dubbed failures or outcasts, those who work hard, come from nothing and fight on with a fiery desire, they, my boy, have nothing to lose and everything to gain and what do they gain? How about an unrivaled satisfaction you can die happy with. If you ask me, that sounds pretty good,” Falcon said. He paused for another puff. “The very moment you can die without regret, kid, is the very moment you start to live. This is where a self-made man comes from. As long as you don’t give up, you’ll never truly fail,” Falcon said with glimmer in his eye. He blew a smoke ring in the air.
Gisbo sat on his front steps deep in thought, not uttering a word. Falcon sat beside him and placed a hand on his shoulder.
"Oh, I know what this town thinks of you, Gisbo, I know. I say, don't let a name like yours become a hindrance. Instead, turn it into a strength. Consider your name a lucky one. Not every boy gets fighting experience every day by boys wanting to pound him. Either way, far as I'm concerned, you’ve been given quite a rare gift. Use it to help you in your quest to become a great warrior,” Falcon said. He rose and stretched with an obnoxious grunt. He then began to pat his pockets.
“Well, seems I’ve run out of speeches for the day. Got to go, kid. But hey, do me a favor, would ya? Never, ever lose those dreams of yours. Chin up,” Falcon said.
"Don’t you think your opinion is a little biased? What, being a fellow failure like me? You’re a janitor, man! And you clean up crap shoots all day long! A lot of heart and desire there I bet. Big dreams in an occupation like that. You must have found a hell of a lot of fortune cookies in the trash or something because . . ." But before Gisbo could finish his sentence, there was another loud CLUNK that echoed off his skull.
"AH! Where do you get off? Gahhh!" Gisbo said rubbing his head. Falcon smiled at him.
"Hmph, at least my words didn't fall on deaf ears; use 'em or flush 'em. Good luck with the tryouts, kid. Speaking of waste shoots, ugh, I gotta go clean out Karm’s waste shoot tonight. Yuck, all the guy eats is veggies. He’s all about the whole meat is murder deal. Hey, sure, meat is murder! But you know what else it is? It’s also delicious!” Falcon said as he began walking away, first talking to Gisbo and then to himself and before long he had disappeared into the mists of the rain.
Gisbo stared out after him, watching him until he could see him no more. Never had anyone taken time out of their day to talk to him about, well, remotely anything, and here was a guy who not only took the time to stop for a friendly hello, he had also stopped to tell him that he was worth something. No one had ever told Gisbo he could achieve his dreams. No one had ever cared enough. No one.
And all I could do was insult the guy? Gisbo thought. He immediately felt bad. Well, he may be crazy, but he’s also right. Pity party’s over, Gisbo, it’s time to man up! I’m better than this!
“Ugh,” Gisbo winced as he clutched his mid-section. “But first some sleep and possibly a body cast.” Gisbo entered his tiny home, each step a painful struggle, but with every step he grew more determined and the dream in his heart made it all worth the while.
