DEFEAT. 044 – Ain’t No Damn Word for It

[DEFEAT. is a   coming-of-death novella. Brian Galiano lends his artistic talents to each episode. the end is nigh.]

There is no tomorrow.
There is no yesterday.
There is only now.
And forever.

Daryl Millar stood outside of the high school gymnasium, peeking in through an open door. He could see that all members of the student body were taking their seats in the bleachers. All those in attendance, anyway. As is the case with any suburban high school, a fair number of burnouts and weasels and academically-uninterested driftabouts made a habit of not attending classes on Fridays. Especially those Fridays peppered with the self-aggrandizements known as pep rallies.

With that being said, the vast majority were present for Daryl Millar’s final stand. And the burnouts and weasels and academically-uninterested driftabouts? They didn’t get too far before they heard about it.

But before this could happen, before the news could spray over the town with the vigor of a severed artery, Daryl would have to wait. For the perfect moment. Otherwise, all would be for naught. An inability to exercise patience could result in the unraveling of his plan altogether.

Which, as Daryl saw it, would be tantamount to an unraveling of the very realities he was hoping to secure.

He watched. He waited. He resisted the urge to run to his friends when he saw them taking their places. 8-Bit, assisted by Riff, hobbled and crutched his way to a seat in the front row. Daryl couldn’t hear what they were saying, but he understood. He figured that they must have met before first block. He gathered that they’d have exchanged details about their last encounters with the third party of the triumvirate.

“Told me to play guitar.”

“Told me to believe in myself.”

Hell, Daryl mused, maybe Vanessa even met with them. Maybe she took my spot during the morning meeting of the minds. Yeah, that…that would make sense. Continuity would be provided. The three of them — the rocker, the gamer, the lover — together to venture guesses. Where was I? Why wasn’t I at the locker? What would I do today? It wouldn’t matter if they left questions unanswered. As long as they came together, in my absence, to ask questions.

That’s all that matters — asking the questions. The rest will fall into place. I’m sure of it.

He couldn’t have hoped for more; Daryl watched as Vanessa entered the gymnasium. She waved farewell to the classmate with whom she had entered, spotted Riff and 8-Bit, and found a spot next to them.

They’re all here. Now, what about my enemy? The Tyrant — where is he?

The hero unsheathed his weapon. If felt heavy in his hands and squinted as the blade reflected sunbeams into his eyes. But within a moment or two, Daryl’s eyes readjusted. Or, perhaps his eyes didn’t adjust, but the sword somehow absorbed the light, consuming the energy so that it could be used later. The ancient metal would get hot, powering its wielder and enabling him to amplify the effect of his stroke.

It’s possible.

Inside, the participants of the pep rally were taking their places. The Spirit Committee, the perky sycophants still sporting bronzed skin from summer hours at the Country Club pool whose parents most assuredly voted for Reagan and opposed low-income housing, ushered about. Those in the band tuned their instruments and appropriated their sheet music. The captains of the varsity sports teams found their respective metal folding chairs, all within paces of the lectern.

The chair within the fewest to paces of the lectern was reserved for the individual deemed most important to the student body. The athlete whose sport was issued reverence that participants of other games could only dream of. The student afforded goodwill more than any other.

The captain of the football team. A towering hulk of brutality. Physical prowess channeled towards pure destruction. And nothing else.

Brady Moore. The greatest adversary.

Daryl had a direct line of sight to this monster. If he so chose, he could have easily run into the gym and decapitated the beast before anyone even realized what was going on. The adrenaline coursing through his system encouraged him to follow this exact course and he could feel his right hand beginning to raise the sword in agreement. “No,” he whispered to himself. “I’m not a coward.”

All the seats were filled. Principal Clancy approached the podium and spoke into the microphone. “Welcome to the Autumn Classic! Before we begin our pep rally, Dolly Faulkner is going to lead us through the national anthem.”

Dolly Faulkner switched places with the principal. She had an extraordinary voice and was rather homely. Later, when realizing she could never be as famous as Madonna, she would be heartbroken. Dolly would settle for studio work, providing the heart-wrenching vocals to which supermodels would lip-synch.

She died satisfied, loved, and authentic.

Like automatons, students and faculty rose to their feet and covered their hearts with their right hands. 8-Bit used his right leg as a reason for not standing. Riff stood but didn’t feel the need to cover his ticker or recite the hymn. Vanessa followed the standard procedures, but felt silly the entire time.

At the anthem’s conclusion, a couple of the more daring students hollered “Play ball!” and were scolded by teachers. If those educators knew what was approaching, if they had any inkling as to what they were about to see, they’d surely have eased up on the pair of loudmouths.

Principal Clancy waddled back to the lectern. Slapping his fat lips together, he polluted the microphone with spit and prepared to give praise where it wasn’t due.

“Academics are important. What we learn in the classroom will make us better people. With that being said, we mustn’t forget that there are other ways to enrich our lives.” The art kids. The drama kids. The kids in the music program. They all held their heads high. “We can also enrich our lives through sports!” The art kids. The drama kids. The kids in the music program. They all dropped their heads.

Daryl saw this. More fuel for his fire.

Coffee-flavored phlegm slabbering out with every syllable, corpulent Clancy continued. “It is the athletes of our small community that provide the purest inspiration. They are the role models to whom we should all look up. On the field, as evidenced by the season records thus far, they are nearly perfect. But it is their perfection off of the field that should receive the highest praise.”

Brady Moore beamed. His letterman jacket was stretched to its limits as the quarterback took in a hearty breath of self-satisfaction. He looked over the crowd, feeling like a king looking over his dominion, peering out at the loyal serfs.

“Double-sessions in the summer. Studying the playbooks and reviewing the videos. Countless hours in the gym. Surely, these are foundations of athletic supremacy. But more importantly, however, are the ways in which dedication translates into personal excellence.” A pause was allowed for a deep inhalation, a necessity in total opposition to the thesis at hand. “Our athletes, by virtue of enduring the rigors of their respective sports, have become well-disciplined human beings. Well-disciplined individuals, in reality, are the most well-rounded. And it stands to reason that those who are well-rounded have the best chance of becoming self-actualized.

“So without further delay, allow me to introduce our first speaker. He is a fine young, someone that all of you — especially the freshmen — can look to for guidance. He has led the football team to their perfect six-and-oh season, and I’m sure that tonight he will improve that to seven-and-oh. The quarterback and captain of your varsity football team — BRADY MOORE!”

The crowd, students and teachers alike, erupted. They jumped to their feet, clapping and cheering as Brady Moore walked to the podium. Some of them, toting only a partial understanding of his character, genuinely liked the villain. Others celebrated to quell their anxieties, to ensure that they would not be castigated for lack of participation.

And most sang praises simply because it was the thing to do.

The stage was set. Goliath in front of a microphone, enabled. The pulsating, throbbing mass of youth willing to eat up every word he would offer. The perpetuation of the lie. The proliferation of dishonor. It would happen in almost every reality.

But not this one.

Brady Moore got no further than “How’s everyone doing?” when the door swung open. With the sunlight pouring in, no one could quite make out the figure in threshold. But a silhouette walked through that doorway, revealing itself to be none other than Daryl Millar. And he was holding a goddamn samurai sword.

To Daryl, the world went silent. It seemed as though he was moving along to a soundtrack no one else could hear. Something by Morricone. His singular focus allowed him to keep walking when a couple of administrators attempted an interception. Well, his focus and his Japanese steel, now raised over his head with both hands. Primed for decapitating, if necessary.

The hero marched right up to Brady Moore. The quarterback, fearful for one of the first times in his life, began to shake. With the rest of the gymnasium still on mute, Daryl allowed himself to listen to the inquiry of his adversary. “Hey — what are you doing?”

In a hush, “Delivering justice and redemption. Renewing the opportunities you’ve endangered.”

“What are you talking about?”

Daryl employed the sword, positioning it just under the chin of his rival. “On your knees.” Brady obliged, kneeling slowly so that Daryl could move his weapon without accidently giving a mortal shave. He kept the tip of his sword at his enemy’s throat, threatening to pierce at any moment. He then leaned towards the microphone to speak but paused.

Eyes still affixed to his sword’s point, Daryl could finally hear the murmurings of the crowd. The tone was a perfectly blended puree of astonishment and terror. The voices, hushed though they were, could be heard taking stabs at what he was going to do. Who’s he going to kill with that sword? Has Daryl gone mental? What the hell is going on? Taking stabs at what would be stabbed. He spoke.

“Many of you think that Brady Moore’s great person. You assume that because he can throw a football farther than anyone else, he must be a worthwhile individual. You’ve made him a star and allowed him to do as he pleases.

“Unfortunately, Brady has abused the privileges he’s been granted. Rather than using his gifts to help others, he’s reveled in personal gain. He’s concerned himself only with doing things that would make him feel better about himself. He’s positioned himself as being better than everyone else and in the process he’s terrorized a lot of people.

“None of you should be surprised by what I’m saying. We all know about the terrible shit Brady Moore has gotten away with. How many underclassmen have been beaten up? How many girls has he coerced — or forced — into going further than they wanted? How many kids have been spat upon — literally? It is the elephant in the living room, the plain truth, that Brady Moore is not a good person. But for the sake of convenience or school spirit or some other insanity, no one has spoiled the illusion.”

Daryl looked out into the crowd. He saw a lot of faces. Many of them friendly. Some of them not. Most of them terrified. All of them curious.

“I want every single one of you to remember this moment. I want you think about what could drive me to do this – what could push me so far over the edge. If you need someone to blame, I suggest you look to Brady Moore.”

8-Bit. Riff. Vanessa. Ms. Lang. The art kids, drama kids, and music program kids. Hell, even Dolly fucking Faulkner. This was for them.

“I’m here to spoil the illusion.”

He thrust the sword into his heart.

There was a spurt.
And then a spray.
And then gasps that wouldn’t ever be forgotten.

Daryl Millar became a goddamn legend.