DEFEAT. 036 – Spiritual Precipice

[DEFEAT. is Rendar Frankenstein’s newest fucking story.   Presented in weekly episodes, the novella tells the tale of Daryl Millar – a hero who is guaranteed to die. For fans of pop culture, sci-fi, war epic, fantasy, and sick original art]

Daryl got out of the car, thanked his grandfather for the ride, and assured him that he wouldn’t need any further transportation. “Thanks Gramps, but after I see Riff, I think I’ll just walk to 8-Bit’s house. It’s nice out and I could use some fresh air.”

“No problem, kid.” Gramps gave the Buckley residence a once over, stifling his concerns about its dilapidated state and the as-of-yet-to-be-fixed window. Then he remembered the previous evening’s confrontation with Lieutenant Buckley. “You sure Riff’s dad is at work?”

“Yeah, Riff always has to walk to school on Thursdays because his dad has the earlier shift.”

“All right. But if he shows up, I want you to excuse yourself and head home. No need to stir the hornet’s nest.”

Daryl made his way to the front door and would’ve rung the bell if the door had been closed. But it was left ajar, no doubt the direct result of Larry Buckley drunkenly stumbling to his cruiser in the hopes of getting to work on time. As such, the hero walked into the house and called out to his friend.

“I’m in my room,” Riff groaned slumberously.

After climbing the stairs to the second floor, Daryl let himself into Riff’s room. The headbanger was in bed, doing his best to recover from his recent trauma.

His eyes were blackened.
His nose reset.
His spirit broken.

For a moment it seemed as though his recovery would be expedited, as he perked up upon seeing his friend. But this elevation was fleeting.

“Hey dude, what’s going on? You feeling any better since last night?”

“Eh, I don’t know. Maybe a little bit.”

“Yeah man, you really took one on the chin,” Daryl was desperately trying to raise his friend’s spirits. “Lesser men would’ve been beaten into retardation.”

Riff kept his eyes diverted and resisted smirking. “Sure.”

Having never seen his friend so devastated, Daryl frantically racked his brain for something to say. He looked around the bedroom, eying posters and albums and anything else that might serve as a worthy topic of discussion. He spotted his friend’s guitar and decided to go for it, “Hey, let me see you shred! You work out Looking Down the Cross yet?”

“Yeah, I did. But it’s gonna be a little tricky to play it for you considering that I don’t have a single fucking string on my guitar.”

Daryl didn’t have to ask. He knew. Larry Buckley was responsible for the broken strings. An even stronger optimism was summoned, “Well, why don’t you restring it? I want to see metal magic before my very eyes!”

“What’s the point, man? Don’t matter how damn good I get at guitar, there’s always going to be fuckers who’ve got a leg up on a life. Ain’t no justice in the world.”

“What do you mean?”

“What I’m saying is that I practice guitar for six hours a day. Every day. And what do I get out of it? Nothing.”

Daryl was taken aback, shocked to see such pessimism. “Oh, come on, nothing? What about personal satisfaction?”

“Personal satisfaction only goes so far when the rest of my life is shit! Girls laugh at how I look. My dad beats me up. Brady Moore puts me in the hospital. Yet somehow I’m to blame for all of this!?

“Like I said, some fuckers’ve got it made.” Tears were being held back. “Brady Moore has never had to work for anything in his life. Since he’s some sort of genetic masterpiece, he’s the high school equivalent of Joe Montana. And for that he can do whatever he pleases, free of consequence.

“There’s no point of strumming that guitar, hoping to earn some respect when I know the Brady Moores of the world are going to get it for free.”

Daryl took a minute to soak in the sentiment. He looked at hopelessness in the eyes of the friend before him. What he saw at that moment was a spirit dancing on a precipice, threatening to plunge at any moment. He then thought of his visions, his resolution, and the good that it could do.

Cautiously, as to not further upset or derail his companion, he spoke. “What if…what if I could prove that there is justice in the world? What if I could show you that people get what’s coming to them? What if I demonstrated that, with tremendous dedication and sacrifice, cosmic alignment can be achieved?”

“Well…” Riff perceived the earnestness emanating from his friend. It was highly contagious. “Well, then I’d restring that motherfucking axe. And then I wouldn’t put it down until I could sweep with the best of them.”

“Excellent. I’ll see you at the pep rally tomorrow.”