Introduction.
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It's always like this; believe it or not.
"Why aren't you running around? Or playing with that fucking horse?" whine, whine, whine. "Huh?" nag. "Don't you have a princess to save? What about badguys to kill, or items to obtain and hoard?"
"Shut up," you cannot imagine the hatred I feel on a daily basis. "Your voice constantly stops my train - grind it to a massive halt of death, then you hijack it for your own greedy needs and desires."
It's a faery, you see, a tiny, tiny faery. The kind that buzzes around like a fly. Never good for anything, and never once interesting or even remotely inspiring.
Gender? I don't know.
Age? I don't know.
Looks? I don't know.
Any details worth mentioning? I don't know.
Why? How the hell should I know?
So I suck on a straw of grass, back against more of it, eyes locked on the ever-blue sky above. Well, that's not entirely true, since it changes to black or gray whenever I'm supposed to do something dramatic and overused.
Like saving the princess, or killing the badguy.
Okay, so that was another lie - two.
It's not saving; it's routine. And it's not so much killing as it is defeating. Boring, boring, boring.
Silence.
"Yeah, so," pass a gloved hand across my not-so-masculine chin, "when was the last time I scored?"
Then it flies right into my face, the shine blinding and numbing, like an acid-trip, or the bling of a thousand niggers, and I know what it's going to bitch about.
"Oh, like, never?" so very, very sad. Thing sprinkles a ton of glittering shit all over my face. "Remember that you're doing this to be nice. It's like charity, only it somehow pays less."
I can't say a single thing. Nothing. Absolutely nothing.
Pain and discomfort, not to mention displeasure, and the feeling that I'm even less than the man I supposedly dress up as each day.
So time passes.
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Adjust stuff, for the hell of it. Green tunic, white tights. Like He-man, only slightly different, and more gay.
"Well, shit," getting frustrated. "How the hell did I end up being the hero?"
It finally settles on my nose, and just sits there. Or stand. Or lies.
Or whatever.
"It's part of being you," it frowns, "and you're the best of them all at being you."
"So just what am I?" I deserve an explanation.
"You're the hero of the show," it's definitely lying on its side. "You've got a sword, a shield, a bow, magical arrows, a female voice, feminine traits, a gender-confused nature, a giant horse to compensate for your lack of proper gear," it never stops, "a knot-equipped alter-ego, flails, hookshots, boomerangs," why can't this nightmare end? "pointed ears, toned and fit muscles, sticks, lamps, candles, hammers, masks," why me? "hearts, party-powder, absinthe, virgin blood, fish, blood of kings, mancum, scales, birds, obscene letters from fans, long poles, something to," snap, "practice your lips o-"
Right hand goes out like a lightning bolt, and strikes just like one. Just a flick, a sweep - something that it should have avoided, but it didn't.
The tiny thing's sent flying straight away from me, trailing glitter and muffled curses as it carves through the air like the fly it truly is.
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VT2 - 2007