“No listen, listen, listen,” Chuckie told his mother. She smiled and shook her head: “My Son, my Chuckie, with the big imagination! Think about nice things and that is what you will dream.”
And off went the light. And click-shut went the door.
Chuckie turned to his left where Poltron had planted himself on the dresser.
“She’s kind of bitch when you think about it,” Poltron said. His hairless form was a hybrid of gargoyle and humanoid that brought with it the stench of something about to burst into fountains of mildew and spores.
Poltron carries the potential of conscious virus. He appears now in time to find himself and if he succeeds, then, well, the outcome is difficult to predict or quantify.
“I mean, really Chucko, someday you are goanna look back and want to know why she didn’t at least, at the very least, leave a little night-light on. Something. Seriously. Just a little light. A lot of moms do that. But not Chucko’s! Not your mom, kid. Ha! So! Whatzup? Look who it is!”
“Are you going to infect all of us?” Chuckie asked.
“I don’t know yet,” Poltron shot a stinky little kinetic ball from his slingshot and Chuckie rolled out of bed to avoid its sting.
“I ask myself,” Poltron pondered. “Is that how I want to use a body like this?” Poltron said, hopping to the floor where he ducked his head under the bedframe, “What’s a matter Chuckie? I thought we were talking about destiny.”
“Don’t call my mom a bitch,” Chuckie said.
“Kind of! I said she’s kind of a bitch. Don’t misquote me, Chucko. Seriously. Does she even bother to run a broom under your bed? Mmmm? Seriously. Look it this,” Poltron swiped his tongue through the dust and lashed it out striking Chuckie across the eyeballs and throwing him into the mahogany floor molding.
“See. Dangerous that dirt.”
“Owwww, ow, ow, ow. I hate this! What do you even want?”
“Ow. Ow. Ow. Who is in pain here? You ask me this question Chuckie! What do I want? What do I want? You wound me. You hurt me with this, this, this jab into my existential agony. You are a terrible little friend, Chuckie. The worst friend there has ever been.”
Chuckie blinked his eyes clear of debris and climbed back onto his bed. Poltron splayed himself across the foot of it, flat on his back and he crooned: “What eva will I do? Chuckie, Chucko, what eva will I do?”
“Don’t come here anymore.”
“You’re smarter than the others.”
“I don’t care,” Chuckie said. “You are some potential future that is nothing but disease and the unkindness that you show. It is this way that you just make up stories and throw them around, like you expect me to wear some coat of your words,” Chuckie said as the skin around his eyes began to swell because Poltron spreads scratch fevers with salvia.
“What eva will I do?” Poltron asked in an arch of exaggerated coy, “What eva will I do?”
“Get back into the sky. Go back,” Chuckie said.
“No.” Poltron said simply, shaking his head.
Chuckie is doomed and knowing it doesn’t mean he can stop it.
A certain understanding can exist in the blood and when Chuckie looks into Poltron’s eyes gleaming under the moonlight in a dark, dark bedroom clicked-shut from the world at large, when Chuckie looks into Poltron he knows he is bound to something.
If Poltron never learns his choice, he never erupts upon the body of the Earth, raining the seeds of his species into the soil. Chuckie is bound to prevent this event. By contracts made a priori, Chuckie is bound to prevent the full self-discovery of Poltron.
To do this effectively Chuckie must misunderstand his own choice. Chuckie will be in a state of confusion himself per the order to keep Poltron confused. This is so because the mirror is an absolute law in a world of this density. And there is nothing more to it than that.
The real hero of the story is the one who delays the enemy until the other hero can think up a plan. The hero of the story is the one who did the least rewarding of all acts and who also is never spoke of again. The hero of the story is the one unnamed.
We name Chuckie here so he may be known as you. Our hero now takes center stage, bringing the edges ever closer to this horizon, bringing the edges, where smoke and mirrors keep demons and gods at bay by equal measure, closer and closer come these edges, these vapors; these reflections.
Chuckie sighs. Poltron grins. And the world owes its life to the moment of it.