Striker Bugbear: A Short Story

I never knew that passionately loathing someone I had never met in my entire existence was a possibility. Yet as I am surrounded by the mountains of Kleenex tissues that are filled with the tornado of fluids that are violently bursting through my poor peasant of a nose, I am quickly starting to believe that this possibility is in fact quite plausible. Well that, and the fact that the blue cough syrup I just generously gulped down has given me some much needed liquid courage.
It all started with a cup.
I believe the day was a Monday. Or a Tuesday. The tiny details are a bit fuzzy at the moment. Anyways, I woke up to the ringing of my phone.
“When you were over, did you drink from the ‘The World’s Greatest’ cup?” My mom asked on the other end
of the line.
The image of a white cup with the “The World’s Greatest” statement printed in what used to be bold-black letters flashed in my mind. The last word on the cup has rapidly faded over the years, leaving the end of the statement unfinished and forgotten.
“Yeah, I think I had a cup of jasmine tea in it last night,” I responded as I rubbed my eyes, trying to adjust to the morning light.
“Oh, sweetie,” my mother said. I could picture her shaking her head on the other side. “Your brother went to the doctor this morning and tested positive for strep and the flu.”
“And?”
“And he had used the same cup earlier.”
Silence reigned on the telephone line as I attempted to process the horror my future fate had in store for me.
My mother went on to tell me that my brother, who is a math tutor for children, was on the job when one of the kids sporadically decided to just cough these intense, open-mouthed coughs inches away from his face. The kid just sneakily got real close, raised his height to my brother’s face, and just coughed.
The deed was done and because of the ignorant actions of this kid, I had to knowingly wait for something I did not want nor deserve. I immediately raided my medicine cabinet. I wanted to do everything in my power to make sure I tried my very best to avoid all the terrifying symptoms that come, but to no avail. Misery was signed, sealed and delivered at my doorstep and I had no choice but to answer the door.
As I gently stroked the red patches of dryness under of the bridge of my nose, my thoughts ceaselessly captivated by this kid. Whenever sleep was gracious enough to visit me, a rare occurrence, images of him coughing on my face while my hands were tied behind my back haunted my nightmares.
I imagined his name would be something along the lines of Striker.
Striker Bugbear. Yes, Striker Bugbear, a name that would beckon the soon to be damage that will plague any unfortunate victim who would ever come across his path. I could see his strawberry blonde hair sashaying in the wind as he walked in slow motion, the surrounding passerby unaware of his destructive powers. He’s probably a scrawny seven-year-old kid, but by no means should anybody underestimate him as a result. If this experience has taught me anything, age nor physical build should ever correlate to the dire impact a person is capable of inflicting on the world, or my case, on a person. Even something so small, so inexperienced and so young can cause colossal damage. He probably has what his aunts and uncles have deemed as cute, pinchable cheeks that when aggressively caressed in a pinching fashion make his mushroom haircut dance side to side.

But where was I? Ah, yes. The slow motion walk. I could see his apple red lips chewing on the remnants of a lollipop that are clinging onto a white stick that is poking out of the right corner of his mouth. Perhaps it was cherry flavored or watermelon. No, not watermelon. Too pink. Either way, if Striker Bugbear were to smile, his teeth would be stained with red and he would look like a vampire child, stalking his next prey in that slow motion walk of his. I think about what creatively-condescending comments I could make about that white
stick.

“Hey kid,” I would say, my right hand sitting on my hip as I dominantly look down into his not so innocent, blue cough syrup colored eyes. “You know only tough guys in Western movies can wear that piece in their mouth. And you,” I’d say as I accusingly point the place where there should be a beating, caring heart. “You ain’t tough.”

Yet his weapon of choice is not to physically suck the life out of innocent souls. That method of destruction could leave evidence that would be too easily traced back to him. Rather, Striker chooses a more hands-off liquids-on approach. First, he will reload his first weapon of choice: his runny nose. Second, he’ll collect all the yellow viscous liquid he could muster in that button nose of his; so much so that you could see a clear trail of it subtly gushing and making its way to his apple-red lips.

The third step can go one of two ways. The first scenario involves waiting for the liquid to get right in the middle of Striker’s apple red lips or the precise location of his lollipop stick. Suddenly irritated, Striker will wipe the liquid with the back of his hand and proceed to slide the back of his hand along the arm of a young passerby, who is utterly oblivious to the natural disaster they have just suffered through. Surely they will know soon. The second scenario is far deadlier. Locked and overly-loaded, Striker will let out a 5.8 Richter scale sneeze, the magnitude of which will shake the lives of both passerby
I would then proceed to take out a fresh toothpick and neatly stick it in between

Now I know you think I am a bad person and if someone told me that punching fantasy, I would think they’re not so great too.
I also know you think that my status of being a bad person is elevated by the fact that I am trying to tell you what you are thinking of me. But I am not. Woah, did you feel that? My head feels like a herd of grape stompers is trying to make red wine out of my brain.
What I’m trying to say is that what really gets to me is that this kid is completely unaware. Plans were canceled, hours of work and school were missed, and time that could have been spent with my family were lost. My monthly paycheck is going to be lower because of him. Does he want to write my teachers emails for missing all those days of school? Tests will have to be made-up at a later date because of him. He needed to know this. He needed to see the damage he had caused in a stranger’s
life.
There were moments I helplessly wrapped my arms around my legs and stayed in fetal position in my bed, feeling like someone had removed the light contents in my skull and replaced them with a brick on a hot plate. In those moments, I thought about making a drive-by past the tutoring center and taking a quick peer through the window to see if I could make the kid out. If I ever met the real Striker, I wonder what I would truly say or do. Maybe as he made his exit we would face each other and time would briefly pause. I would make my way up to him and unexpectedly drop to my knees so we could be at eye level. I would then look into those cough syrup blue eyes, raise my hands the hair and at the top of my lungs just scream, “Why?! Why?!” I would scream and scream and scream until my voice gets hoarse. Or maybe I would walk up to him and just slap him across the face. A clean, hand to cheek slap that makes a sound of justice when it strikes Striker’s cheek. The kind of slap that leaves a red handprint long after time’s brief pause. I would relish every tingling sensation my hand would feel in the aftermath. I should double check with my brother on how old the kid really is.
I went over the other day to visit my family. Of course, I took the regular precautions from antibiotics and carrying a handful of cough drops to dousing my hands with sanitizer every five minutes. My older sister was visiting with my niece. She was standing with her hands resting on the granite kitchen counter talking to my mother who had just made some coffee. As I went to grab I cup, I started listening to their conversation.
“...And now your father and I both have strep and the flu.” My mother said
“Suzie was complaining about a sore throat last night,” my sister was saying. “But she didn’t say anything about it this morning, so I decided to send her to school anyways.”
The last thing I remember is the sound of “The World’s Greatest” cup shattering to pieces on the hardwood floor.