Nick Kelly 2013

The Rad Man

 

He drives a car of sparkling red. The motor purrs as he speeds along the suburban roads, speed limits meaning little to a man of his stature.
No man has ever seen his eyes, those deep blues forever hidden by his stylish shades. Even when indoors, he refuses to take them off. The Rad Man makes his own rules.
His hair stands tall and golden, skyscrapers shooting straight up and piercing the heavens in all their majesty. When one first lays eyes on the Rad Man, it is common to be stricken with fear- not because you sense any kind of danger, but because once one has seen someone like him, everything else becomes trivial. One is forced to ask one’s self- “What else is there but the Rad Man?”
Nothing.
His car stops outside the most happening bar in town. The music fades away. Whispers are exchanged. The owner’s palms are sweating.
Through the doors he walks, the bouncers staring at their shoes to avoid any possible offence toward the Rad Man. He pops his collar, completing his wardrobe and adding a sense of magic to the room.
A red Jacket.
Blue Jeans.
Sneakers.
Shades.
Women begin to swoon and men look away as the Rad Man walks toward the bar. The Bartender tries desperately to clean up before he sits down, the squeaking of cloth rubbing glass accompanying the heavy footsteps of The Man.
“Scotch.”
He drinks slowly, savouring the taste. All eyes remain on him as he draws a lighter and a packet of cigarettes form his pocket.
The owner of the Bar watches as the Rad Man smokes. In an act of hatred and blasphemy, he begins to approach the Rad Man.
He looks nervous, gulping and fidgeting with his hands as he gets closer.
“Excuse me, sir?” He says, weakly.
The Rad Man does not give him any response, instead blowing smoke and observing the way it drifts toward the ceiling.
Completely dazzled not only by the scent and sight of the Rad Man but by the sheer horror of the situation, the owner remarkably manages to speak again.
“There’s no smoking in here sir. I’m afraid you’ll have to go outside.”
Glances are exchanged among the patrons of the bar. They cannot believe that a human being could be so reckless and disrespectful.
The Rad Man calmly gets up, showing no emotion; it has been noted that his level headedness is remarkable, even when he is being insulted.
Blowing smoke into the owner’s face, the Rad Man finally speaks, his dulcet tones echoing throughout the room and gracing the ears of all nearby.
“If the Rad Man but shrugged, you would be no more.”
His vague wording and mystifying cadence paralyses the owner. The Rad Man throws a $100 bill on the bar and walks toward the door, stopping just before he leaves.
He speaks once more.
“Remember this night, for soon you will see that it was perhaps the most important moment in all of your pathetic lives.”
The Rad Man bunches up his hand into a fist, placing his cigarette in between his third and fourth fingers. He raises his fist, pointing toward the ceiling.
The smoke from his cigarette drifted slowly upward, directly into a smoke detector. The fire alarms sound and the Rad Man steps on his cigarette and leaves the bar just before the sprinklers turn on. He opens his car’s vertical door and gets in as water coats all those inside.
His engine starts and the Rad Man drives away.
All is right in the world.