Joel

Chapter One
Good Morning
Joel fell out of bed, cracked his head off a table and died. He stood up and brushed himself off. Glancing at the massive pile of rubber boots in the middle of the room, as well as his girlfriend, Sofie, still in the bed, he quietly made his way to the bathroom and kicked the door in.
There was nobody in there. He wasn’t sure how he had kicked the door down, as there had never been one before, and now there was no wreckage from the door except one flying green hinge that whispered “REMEMBER ME” as it flew past his head and ascended through the ceiling.
Joel suddenly remembered he was completely naked. He brushed his teeth and climbed into the shower. He thought of the events of the night before as he looked out the smoking hole in the wall which had at one point been the outside wall of his bathroom, but which could no longer defend his neighbours from his nudity. He took his time showering, then climbed out, dried off, and walked back into his bedroom.
The rubber boots had by now been neatly arranged into piles by colour and fragrance. Typical, said the italic words in his head. Joel, glancing back at the bed, noticed Sofie must have gotten up. He pulled on some jeans, a white t-shirt, and a black hoodie, walking into the kitchen to look for Sofie.
He put out some small fires still crackling in the kitchen, which could either have been from the previous night or Sofie’s attempts at cooking. Stepping gingerly over a clump of burnt eggs and some toast which appeared to be torn in have and soaked with tears, he approached the fridge and opened it. Inside there was a boot. The boot didn’t belong to anybody, it was just a boot, so relax, okay?
Joel closed the fridge, his stomach gurgling. He reasoned that Sofie, after destroying the remaining food in her sad attempts to cook, had gone out to the store. Joel put the gun back in his pants.
Joel walked outside, snatching a seagull out of thin air and devouring it as the sounds of children crying seemed to come from everywhere. And yet, there were no children outside. They must all be at school right now, said the italic words in Joel’s brain he wasn’t sure if he was in control of. He wiped the blood from his lips, depositing a seagull wing in his pocket for later.
Looking around, he noticed his pickup truck was gone from the driveway. He scratched his five o’clock shadow and slowly made his way down the driveway to the mailbox. Pushing aside three severed heads, he slid the one lonely letter in the mailbox out and held it up.
“To Sofie”, said the envelope. Joel slapped the envelope. It made a gurgling noise and never spoke again. He noticed that the words on it read “To Sofie”. He had always found it weird that Sofie didn’t have a last name, or maybe her last name was Nolastname. She mumbled sometimes and it was unclear.
Not wanting to return inside to the smell of death and cooking oil, Joel began to walk casually down Bickleberry Street. He had absolutely no idea what city or town he lived in, and had wanted to mail the Mayor about putting a sign within every empty 5-square-foot area stating the name of the city or town. However, this was nearly impossible, as he had no idea what the name of the city or town the Mayor was in charge of was called.
Joel put the gun back in his pants.
Joel waved to his neighbour, old Mr. Crantz. Lewis Crantz was an ornery old man with bad arthritis, known for his eccentric tendencies such as talking to himself, keeping a large garden, and sacrificing children to Tlaloc, the Aztec god of the rain. Mr. Crantz screamed in response, shoving six tennis balls down his throat and passing out on the lawn.
Joel continued on his way. He saw several more of his neighbours were out as well. He waved to Ms. Nancy Plimpington. Ms. Nancy Plimpington dismounted her donkey (an eleven-minute process on a good day) and hobbled over to Joel. She pulled a musket from her blood-soaked tiger skin coat, firing it in roughly Joel’s direction and crying out “vengeance!” before stopping to take a nap in the middle of the road. Ms. Nancy Plimpington’s donkey, Earnest, sighed.
Joel grew bored of Ms. Nancy Plimpington and Earnest and continued on down the road. Mr. Yan was setting fire to his own house again. Dr. Quaddle seemed concerned that someone or something had escaped from his basement. Solomon the Abandoned Bulldozer continued to be an abandoned bulldozer. Sewer grates opened and closed by themselves. A time traveler stumbled out of the bushes wearing a silver suit and crying out for something called Tragonus. Joel put the gun back in his pants. Joel approached the time traveler.
“What’s the matter?” Joel asked the time traveller.
“I need to reconnect with Tragonus, the master computer, or my mission-and I-will be surely terminated.” Replied the man.
“So what are you looking for?” asked Joel, chewing on part of the seagull wing from earlier. The time traveller ignored him, pointing what looked like a calculator taped to a Furby into the woods. The device emitted a bloodcurdling screech for what seemed like hours, chasing the forest’s healthy population of sentient deer wearing clothes, scurrying. Joel shrugged, having become bored of this conversation before it had even started.
Joel saw that the bus was boarding two blocks away. He walked at a slow pace towards the bus stop. When the bus left without him, he sat down, visibly miffed. Joel decided to wait for the next bus. Nearby, a pizza rolled down the street like a tumbleweed. Joel remained sat on the bench. A dishevelled homeless man stumbled across the street. A car sped past, honking its horn. He gave the car the finger, scratching his beard. He sat down heavily in the bus, spitting on the glass of the bus stop.
Joel glanced over at him. The man rubbed his face, searching around on the ground for something and mumbling. He turned to John.
“What is existence?” he asked, in a surprisingly refined voice. John simply looked at him, puzzled.
“Is it simply a mirage, a holographic universe pulled over our eyes to distract us from an infinitely more complex world with visions our frail mortal minds, as demonstrated in Aristotle’s allegory of the Cave? Is it a metaphysical miracle, stretching for hundreds of thousands, even billions of galaxies with planets much like our own, incalculably large and still expanding? Is it just a simple ball of dirt, home to the only intelligent life in the universe? And if so, who created it? Was it an accident of nature, an incredibly unlikely miracle, if that is the correct term in this context, of science and the unique elements making up the world we understand as true? Or was it created by a divine being? And if the being is divine, why were we created? As entertainment? Companionship? And what if the answer is none of these things?” The homeless man inspected a booger he had found in his nose shaped like popular TV detective Matlock.
Joel hadn’t really been paying attention for the majority of the spiel. Instead, he had found the time to braid the homeless man’s hair. He looked at the homeless man, waiting for a continuation, an explanation for this sudden philosophical outburst. The man sneezed into his hands, looked at it for a moment, used it to style his eyebrows, and continued.
“These questions will challenge you as your quest begins, young Joel,” said the man, holding two old fries he had found on the ground up like walrus tusks. This momentarily distracted him before he sniffed them, shrugged, ate them, and continued. “The road will be long and perilous, and you will likely fail, but I believe in you. Simply remember that all is not always what it seems.” He stood up to walk away.
“Wait!” Joel cried out. The man hesitated, not turning around, but not walking out of the phone booth.
“Who are you?” asked Joel. The man looked at him out of the corner of his weathered old eyes. He smiled sadly, not making eye contact with Joel. Joel thought he looked very wise, like a wizard or a scholar.
“A friend,” he replied after a pause. He smashed into the glass blocking his half of the phone booth entrance, dropping to the ground and swearing under his breath. Joel could see blood on the glass. The man had clearly been convinced he was exiting the right way.
“Are you all right?” asked Joel.
“Yes, I’m fine…dammit-just-just don’t touch me, I can-this is ridiculous-consarn it...” The man continued to mumble as he turned a corner towards the industrial district of town just as the bus arrived.
Joel stepped onto the bus, depositing some buttons and chocolate donut crumbs from his pocket into the change box. The driver, who was older and clearly had trouble seeing him, thanked him for having exact change and closed the bus door. The bus was fairly busy, and Joel looked for an empty seat. Unable to find a place, he sat down next to an attractive woman, likely in her late 30’s or early 40’s, near the back of the bus.
The woman was eating out what appeared to be a garbage bag from a fast food establishment, Cap’n Food’s Ultra Pirate Refreshement if he wasn’t mistaken. She shoved a burger wrapper and a commemorative “Space Fight Heroes 2” milkshake cup into her mouth, chewing them with frightening speed. The bus veered violently across the five-lane highway 40 feet above the ground, smashing through the dividing median, jumping the gap and landing headlong in the opposite lane of traffic. The bus driver hummed to himself quietly, his poor vision leading him to believe he was doing a fine job. Most people on the bus didn’t really notice, so Joel didn’t pay it much attention.
He returned his attention to the woman. She was upside down in the bag, up to her waist. Small pieces of packing foam, cheap plastic, stale food, and other assorted debris flew out of the bag as she feasted. Joel slid over in the seat slightly to avoid the blood that appeared to be coming from the woman’s left foot.
The woman climbed out of the bag, finishing off a straw somewhat slowly, as if lost in thought. She straightened her hair, still panting from the exertion. She turned to Joel, her face still a bit red.
“Gloria”, she said, extending her hand for a handshake. Joel shook it, feeling a somewhat unsettling mix of grease and other unidentified materials on the hand. “I’m sorry you had to see that,” she added, breathlessly.
The bus careened off the highway, landing on the roof of the local fire station and reversing in wild circles, coming dangerously close to the edge of the roof each time. Gloria glanced out the window, not reacting in any meaningful way to the immediate danger outside. She pulled some wilted lettuce out of the breast pocket of her pantsuit, chewing it slowly. She turned back to Joel, clearly uninterested in the spectacle outside, along with most other people on the bus.
“So where are you headed?” she asked.
“Well, originally, I was going to give my girlfriend a package that came for her. But now, I don’t-“ The bus flew off the roof, the bus driver whistling, only one or two passengers screaming.
“My name is Gus,” said Gus the bus driver as the bus smashed into the ground, breaking the rear axle. The bus dragged itself forward pitifully through a blood donor’s clinic before screeching to a halt in the middle of a busy intersection. Horn honks and the screeches of tires surrounded the bus.
With some difficulty, Gus opened the bus door, turned to everyone, squinting to try to see them, and said, “All ashore that’s goin’ ashore.” He tried to smile, feeling his face to see if he was. He seemed pleased at his success.
Joel, Gloria, and the other passengers of the bus shuffled out into the mild October morning. Everyone walked slowly through one of the busiest intersections in town, 4th Avenue and Old Man Serial Killer Road. A few people stretched. Several were hit by cars, but virtually no one sped up or even jogged. Drivers leaned on their horns, swerving erratically around the jaywalkers. Gus, still aboard his destroyed bus, tried to remember what his job was.
Joel had realized talking to Gloria on the bus that without a job of his own, nothing of any consequence to do at home, and, suddenly, no real desire to see his friends, he had an opportunity today to have a day to himself. He turned off of 4th onto 5th, left onto 6th, right onto 7th, and another left onto Horrible Worm Monster Drive.
Further down the road, he could see the Companytech Corp. Mall, shiny, impersonal, and overall, probably a detriment to society. Excited that his wallet had not yet been stolen, he began the miles-long trek across the parking lot. Joel put the gun back in his pants.
Chapter Two
Quest for Consumerism
Joel stopped to drink from a canteen of water he didn’t remember ever having. It wasn’t there. That explained why he didn’t remember ever owning a canteen.
The pavement rippled with heat, which was strange, because just four meters away, on the street where he had began his journey a half hour ago, it was actually a little bit nippy. In the CTC Mall parking lot, it had to be at least 90 degrees. Whether it was 90 degrees Celsius or Fahrenheit, Joel couldn’t tell.
Joel pulled off his hoodie, tying it around his waist, and rolled up the pantlegs of his jeans. He began the long trek across the parking lot. He held a walking stick in his hand. He remembered he didn’t have a walking stick, suddenly realizing he was no longer holding one. He lost his balance, hitting the pavement hard. The italic letters in his head asked was I ever even holding a walking stick? He began to sprint, hoping against hope he could outrun the italic letters which constantly dwelled in his head and commented on situations when it would be silly for him to say things out loud.
He got to his feet, suddenly aware of his own exhaustion. The rows of cars went on seemingly forever. He knew he would never make it without help. He rifled through his pockets for his phone, finding it and turning it on. It made a satisfying little chirp that made Joel smile. He turned it on and off to hear the little chirp over and over again before eventually opening his contact list.
He scrolled through the fairly long list of people he had been pretty proud of flipping to randomly in the phonebook and adding to his contacts. He found one he had actually met, his former co-worker Randy Timmin. He called him, disappointed at the lack of a nice little chirp noise. He made a mental note to reassign that sound to every function on the phone.
“Hello?” came a voice. Joel dropped the phone in horror, looking around frantically for the source of the voice. The italic letters had never frightened him so.
“Hello?” said the phone. Joel looked at it, figuring out that the phone must be talking to him. He picked it up slowly and hesitantly, having never realized it was sentient.
“Joel, is this you?” said the phone.
“Yes, phone, it is I, your user. Can you not see me through your camera eye?” He wasn’t sure if he should kneel in its presence, with hope of receiving favour in the inevitable robot takeover coming now that phones could speak fluent English. He tried to sort of half kneel by having his ankles be the only part of his body touching the ground, but he somehow ended up falling onto his backside and grunting.
“Um, okay,” replied the phone, “why are you calling me, Joel?”
“But phone,” said Joel, awestruck, “surely, it was you who summoned me. Tell me, why have you chosen this time to bestow upon me knowledge of the evolution of the robot, and why must you dominate those who created you?”
“What do you want?” said the phone grumpily. “Are you high, Joel? I thought you stopped huffing paint when you were 23.”
“How do you know so much about me?” asked Joel. Suddenly his eyes lit up. “I know. You’ve been reprogrammed by the rebels and sent from the future to protect me from a machine time traveller who will return to kill me so that I never give birth to the leader of the rebels!”
“Joel, that’s the plot of Terminator 2.”
“Fine.” The phone responded with stunned silence. Joel shook it to try to make it work. “Phone, I request only that I be able to speak to Randy before we destroy Skynet.”
“Dude, this is Randy.”
“Hi Randy.”
“Hi; what do you want exactly?”
“I’m walking in the CTC Mall parking lot.” He heard Randy gasp.
“You’ll never make it. I’m coming to help.” Randy hung up the phone. Joel was disappointed that it didn’t make a Nice Chirp.
In the distance, Joel heard the distant sounds of a helicopter distantly. They sounded as if the chopper was distant or far away maybe.
The chopper floated down to three feet above the parking lot, unable to land because of all the cars parked in the area. Inside, Randy was wearing pilot’s goggles, his buzzed hair shining in the bizarrely powerful parking lot sun. A rope ladder deployed from the side of the chopper so violently that sixteen miles down the road a man named Robert, who had been employed by a shadow organization to kill the American president, died.
Joel, thankful for the breeze from the chopper blades, climbed the three feet into the chopper and retracted the over 100 foot long ladder. He sat down in the co-pilot’s seat. The helicopter flew up, high above the parking lot, and began the long flight towards the mall.
Joel studied a beetle that had just laid some eggs inside his thigh. It winked at him. He felt some slight discomfort.
Joel turned back to Randy, who was asleep at the wheel. He shook him lightly to tell him they were close to the mall. He slept on. Joel shook him harder. Randy kept snoring. Joel slapped him lightly. Randy mumbled in his sleep, cuddling with a rifle he had found on the floor. Joel picked an axe, bludgeoning Randy over the head repeatedly with the handle, careful to avoid the blade swinging within an inch of his own face.
Randy awoke slowly, yawning and smacking his lips. Blood poured from his forehead, and Joel could see at least one black eye developing already. Randy sat up sleepily, grasping the wheel just in time for the helicopter to plough into the side of the building at top speed. Joel flew through the window, having never buckled his seatbelt. He tumbled violently across the nice tile floor of the mall, flipping end over end like a ragdoll before finally hitting the side of a Papa Pop’s Poppin’ Popcorn and laying there in a heap.
Papa Pop was a hulk of a man, towering over everyone around the stand in both height and girth. He leaned over the side of the busy popcorn stand to where Joel’s body had come to rest. He was smoking a thick cigar, and sweat ran from under his paper hat. He grunted at Joel to get his attention.
“Girl troubles?” he asked in a voice that sounded decidedly like a wild boar would probably speak English.
“I guess you could put it that way,” said Joel, struggling to his feet. He suddenly became aware of the lovely air-conditioning in the mall. He put his hoodie back on and rolled his pant legs down.
“Nothin’ a little popcorn won’t fix, sonny,” said Papa Pop. He grabbed some with his hairy, bare hands, depositing in a bag. He haphazardly squirted some butter on it, giving the bag – and the floor nearby – some unappetizing grease stains.
Joel ate it hungry, not having realized just how long he had been in the parking lot.
“Good?” asked Papa Pop in a fatherly voice. Joel nodded. “Good. That’ll be six bucks, kid.”
Joel rooted around for his wallet, depositing five dollars and ninety-six cents in Papa Pop’s hand. Papa Pop pulled a huge revolver from his pocket, cocking it and placing it point-blank against Joel’s forehead.
“I said six bucks,” he growled ferociously. In his eyes Joel could see an untamed beast of a man ready to snap at the slightest of provocations. He deposited the remaining four pennies in Pop’s hand, who snatched it away greedily. A huge grin spread across Pop’s face. He stripped off the apron and white fast-food worker’s clothing he had been wearing, standing in his popcorn booth in literally just rubber boots and his paper hat. He pushed his fat, sweaty body with some difficulty into a tiny cupboard that made no sense for him to fit in, squirming his way in and shutting the door.
Joel looked around. While a few new customers looked mildly confused about this display, the regulars had seen the revolver and the nudity many times before, and hardly a day went by some weeks when Pop didn’t climb into some sort of container he physically should not have been able to get into, like a milk carton or an orange crate. The milk carton, incidentally, had won him three prizes at the Country Fair, including one for Most Attractive Sheep.
Joel finished off his popcorn slowly, looking at Pop’s daughter, who was currently minding the shop while Pop hid in the small cupboard, quietly giggling. Her name was Priscilla Pop from the Popcorn Shop, but everyone thought that was stupid and just called her Priscilla. Joel had never noticed how attractive she was before. Sure, she was currently soaked almost from head to toe in butter, and popcorn every colour of the rainbow (Joel questioned their choice to sell blueberry popcorn) was in her hair, but he saw something in her he had never seen in Sofie. She turned and noticed him staring, smiling shyly before returning to her customers.
Finally, after several hours of deliberation, staring, and expensive popcorn refills, he worked up the courage.
“Hi when is food” he blurted. She giggled.
“You’re funny,” she replied. Joel blushed a little.
“To eat the food together us later to do” he mumbled. He had never felt this nervous around a girl.
“What?” she asked, giggling more.
“Us you and me go and food dine” he yelled, louder than he had planned. A few people shot him ugly looks, but that was because they were ugly all the time. They really weren’t all that upset.
“Are you asking me out for dinner?” asked Priscilla. Joel, unable to speak, simply nodded. She smiled. “I’d love to. I get off work at 7. Pick me up from here then?”
“Yes get you come here seven nghhhhhhh,” said Joel, trying to sound confident but peeing a bit. He sprinted away, confused. He had never felt that way around Sofie. He wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not.
He glanced at his watch, seeing it was broken. He had his doubts that it was two o’clock in the morning.
“Excuse me,” he asked a passing man. The man looked up, surprised. He had eleven monocles on one eye, and Joel’s first thought was to question whether it could fire lasers. “Do you have the time?” asked Joel.
“Does anybody really have anything anymore?” the man asked cryptically. He was rather old and frail looking, and Joel considered how easy it would be to break the man’s ribs, perhaps with something soft like a waffle or a pink sponge. Joel watched as the man turned to dust, screaming, leaving only his large pile of monocles and his watch. Joel saw on the watch that was 3:14. Satisfied, he continued on his way.
Joel wandered into J R Palken’s Fine Garments to look for something to wear on his date. Soft annoying indie music played.
“None of these lines rhyme, this song is in a made up time signature, we have trumpets, I do a lot of meth, my hair is dyed turquoise, we are so artistic” droned the female lead singer as a man mumbled in the background. They sounded like they had about twenty-six different instruments, none of which were being played by a sane human being. Joel tried to drown out the music.
“Can I help you?” asked a man whose nametag said he was called Shine. He looked like he weighed less than eighty pounds, accentuated by extremely tight white jeans, a cashmere sweater that looked like it might break his ribs, and a blue and white striped ascot. His hair was dyed blue and spiked as if to look like it was just messy, but it was obvious he had spent hours on it.
“No, I’m just looking,” replied Joel. He continued to stair at the man’s tiny waistline. He had never seen anything like it.
“Admiring it, huh?” asked the man. “I had my ribs removed years ago. It’s the only way to fit into an XXXXS.” Joel was horrified. What is this terrible place?, said the italic letters. Joel couldn’t help but agree with them.
Continuing into the store, he noticed that only less than an eighth of the store was devoted to men’s clothing, and even this small amount was scattered into twenty-seven different places in the store. He would be going through sweaters one by one and suddenly find himself in the frilly lingerie section, sprinting away so as not to appear a pervert to the trendy youth throughout the store.
Across the store, a girl who looked about thirty pounds underweight stood in front of a mirror, indiscriminately lopping off chunks off her own flesh, holding a piece of clothing that looked like it was designed for an emaciated baby and muttering something about size negative three fit her last season.
Shine approached Joel, grabbing pieces of clothing at random and saying “try these on”. It was clear Shine hadn’t been looking at what he had been grabbing, as Joel was now holding six pairs of socks for babies, two identical frilly bras in different sizes, and Shine’s wallet. He carefully handed the wallet back to Shine, who did not thank him.
“Buy something!” demanded Shine. Joel dropped everything in horror. He looked around as other salesmen, saleswoman, and other creatures whose gender was unclear diverged on him, all holding tiny, trendy pieces of clothing. Joel realized with a sick feeling that these were commission salesman. Their voices chanted, over and over, mechanical, unending, “Buy something. What size are you? Buy something. What size are you?”
Joel knew he had to do something, and fast. “I’m an XL!” he cried. Instantly, several sales individuals vomited blood and dropped to the ground. Joel realized they had probably not even known such a size existed. “My pants are a 34!” Several more salescreatures hit the floor. Joel climbed onto a rack of paisley vests, humming some music he had heard in the Matrix. Shine, clearly one of the leader salescreatures, pointed at him and emitted a bloodcurdling scream, beginning to scale the rack. Several other creatures were inbound towards the rack. He kicked Shine away from his feet just as he noticed an mp3 player plugged into an audio jack across the room.
“Brainwave!” yelled Joel, out loud for some reason. He jumped down from the rack, pulling a clothes hanger off and planting it in a salescreature’s brain. She snarled, fixing her makeup on her way to the ground. He sprinted across the store, the sales zombies in a slow but steady pursuit. Jumping the counter, he opened the mp3 player’s Internet browser and began to play a metal song. The sales zombies screamed in pain as he turned up the volume. Suddenly, the screaming stopped and the zombies all simultaneously dropped to their knees, bleeding from the ears. Joel smashed the mp3 player and stood up on the counter, humming the Matrix song from earlier. He jumped down, walking casually out into the mall.
He glanced at a nearby clock. 3:32. He still had a lot of time to kill.
Chapter Three
Long Haul at the Big Mall
Joel continued through the mall. An old woman sat atop a donkey, which in turn was atop a statue in the centre of the mall of the Companytech Corp.’s founder, John Businessman. She fired an old musket indiscriminately into the crowd, hitting no one. Clearly Ms. Nancy Plimpington and Earnest must have been regulars at the mall, he figured, as no one seemed to be hiding from the steady fire of the musket, as well as a flowerpot and some teeth she had thrown, apparently.
“Hello, Ms. Nancy Plimpington,” he said politely.
“Vandal!” she cried, firing and missing. He continued on his way.
As he stepped around a corner, looking for a map, he stopped suddenly. A man in a bright red suit was the only person in this part of the mall. He wore dark sunglasses, his black hair carefully slicked back, his moustache pulled into tight pencil curls. He smiled at the sight of Joel, snapping once. A large steel gate slid shut behind Joel, and another behind the man, creating a cage containing only them.
The man took off his sunglasses, and Joel suddenly recognized him.
“Petey?” asked Joel.
“That’s right,” replied Petey.
“But you’re-“
“Dead? Hardly.” Petey laughed. “But you’re going to be. Dead, that is. When I kill you…after I kill you then, you’ll be dead. But I won’t. You…” He counted to six on his fingers. “You will.”
Joel just looked at him. “Shut up,” concluded Petey.
Two swords dropped from the ceiling into their hands. They began to circle around each other.
“I saw your flying submarine hit the Andes,” said Joel. “There’s no way you could have survived that”
“One word, Joel,” Petey replied with a smile, “Secret hidden parachutes.” He coughed a bit, continuing to circle.
“Pastrami!” cried a voice that was neither Joel’s nor Petey’s, and both sprinted towards the centre of their improvised cage match, swords locked in battle.
Both men were evenly matched, sweat pouring from their pores as their swords clashed again and again. Somewhere in Virginia, an elderly man’s bagel burst into flames from the sheer power of their anger.
Joel leapt into the air, kicking Petey’s sword from his hands and dropping in front of him, kind of tripping a bit but overall looking pretty cool. He made a mental note to pat himself on the back later, because right now he was winning the fight.
“I will never forgive you for what you did,” said Petey, his glasses now broken from fear. Joel could see the look of terror in his eyes. “No matter how far you run, whether you kill me today or not, you can never change that. You can never-“ Joel ran his sword through Petey’s heart, cutting off a speech that was actually pretty good for Petey.
Joel leaned in close to deliver the last words Petey would ever hear. “Nuh-uh,” he whispered angrily. Petey managed a bit of a chuckle before dropping to the ground in a pool of his own blood.
Joel wanted a pretzel.