“And that concludes tonight’s lecture on the colonial marginalization of intersectional transgender voices within Twilight and Fifty Shades of Grey. Thanks everyone and enjoy the break! Remember, Advanced Literature Studies will be back on the 11th next month, not the 9th like the timetable states.”
He shuffled some papers before adding as an afterthought:
"Oh, and we've had some strange weather reports of a heavy fog approaching later tonight, so everyone take care getting home."
The professor, a tatted up green haired goblin of a man, dismissed the class.
Vern Blade finally put down his pen, He was 27 years old and doing his first year of community college.
Damn that was a good class, he’d filled the A4 notebook – standard-lined Walmart issue – with copious notes.
‘Whew,’ he exhaled and shook his rather cramped hand.
Maybe he should get in the habit of bringing a sports drink to classes this fire, he chuckled to himself… he hadn’t used that hand so much since last night – but he hadn’t been holding a pen.
He was just joking though.
As an ex-special forces soldier he was used to a little discomfort. Besides, he was following @Bland_Bunny’s all-natural cavegirl diet – so he’d never drink a sports drink.
They caused cancer.
Or did they cure cancer?? Vern couldn’t remember, Bunny was always coming up with the best advice. She was like a sexy scientist, pretty annnnd smart.
Although, most of her pics were of her squatting in colourful booty shorts: Vern didn’t like this. As an ex-special forces soldier, he knew it was important to exercise the chest, back, and legs, as well as regular cardio.
He’d messaged her about this regularly but stopped when she threatened to block him if he: ‘messaged one more time about doing a mountain hike with a backpack filled with rocks’.
This was a pretty harsh blow for Vern’s self-esteem, but he accepted not everybody had a special forces soldier’s dedication to excellence. Oh well, he still loved Bunny.
He was worried about their relationship for a while too. But after he made a donation on her Fund’a’slob page they were back to being friends.
‘That’s life, relationships have their ups and downs,’ Vern mused sagely.
“Vernon…”
He jerked his head up and looked around.
Shit. The other five students in the class had already left, and the lecturer was about to switch off the lights with an annoyed expression on his hideous face.
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This didn’t phase Vern, he was trained to fight blindfolded and he’d killed far uglier bastards than that goblin.
The dark held no terrors for him and he rarely wet the bed anymore, certainly not out of fear. Maybe after crying and smashing back a couple of Jimmy Beamers. But that happened to everyone, and he never had to worry about wetting someone else: The Blade always slept alone.
‘Ouch… why did my chest hurt when I thought that?’ he wondered.
“Sorry Prof!” He called out.
Although Vern respected his professor’s valuable literary insights, he would never call him sir. That was reserved for white beards and his Sergeant, a man forged of the toughest Damascus steel.
Vern stowed his notebook and pens – easy glide ball-point: Blue – picked up his bag and stood to his full 6-foot-2 height.
Vern always took a backrow aisle seat for tactical observation, and near to the fire escape for quick exfiltration: ‘Never enter a room without knowing where the exits are, maggots!’
“Yes, Sir!”
“Did you say something Vernon?” asked the professor.
“No.”
Striding like a panther, or a particularly graceful great ape, he made quick work down the auditorium steps and stood before his prof.
“Guess I space out a lot these days prof.”
“That’s alright Vernon”
“Just call me Blade.”
“Have a good holiday,” sighed the professor.
“It wasn’t just all that killing in Helmand or on the Syrian flatlands that screwed me over,” Vern began, “Sure, some of the guys got into that shit. Got off on it. But not me, not the Blade.”
The Prof began to fidget, “You’ve told me a few times already.”
“But then there was that incident,” Vern continued, “Hell, how was I supposed to know who they were? Just wrong place wrong time prof. Even the best operator has to trust his gut and take a shot sometimes. Something in me just snapped when I saw what they were doing in that village…”
“Yeah, you wrote about it in your admissions letter actually.” Said the Professor with an awkward glance. “Quite something. We thought it was a sample of your fiction.”
“Americans, Russians, people from everywhere, it was like an international food day in a school cafeteria but for scumbags with a lust for blood and a hardon for torture.” Vern went on.
“The sons and daughters of big-shot billionaires wanting to play at commando. Play some live-round paintball with locals that no one would miss, the only colour, of paint, being blood-red. Actual blood.”
Vern scratched his mop of thick brown hair.
“I didn’t ask questions… just made a lot of enemies that day. Of course, it was hushed up as best it could be. And that’s why I came to this town prof, I needed to lay low for a while.”
Vern shrugged his bag strap further up his shoulder and looked haunted for a moment, but it passed from his face as quickly as it appeared.
“Anyway, prof, Just wanted to let you know how it was. We might not have much longer together and I just wanted to say: I really appreciate your lessons.”
“Thanks, Vern.”
“Blade.”
“Blade.” Said the exasperated professor.
“I knew you were one of the good ones. I hope you win that Pulitzer you’re going for.”
“It’s just a state competition.” His prof looked abashed and a hint of red bloomed across his cheeks. ‘Not even a prize…” he murmured so quietly Vern almost didn’t hear, especially with the damage to his ears from the constant explosives training.
But he did hear.
And he heard it even louder somewhere else, somewhere deep, somewhere that hummed in response to hearing the dreams of another being; a human; a man like him though uglier. And that place hoped one day his own dreams could be heard and validated as well.
“No, prof… I know. I mean the Pulitzer – one day.”
Vern caught the professor’s eye, a hint of a tear in their depths. He smiled and patted the ugly man’s shoulder.
The Professor stared up at Vern and then playfully punched his chest. But It didn’t even tickle Vern’s chiselled musculature.
‘Get out of here you big son-of-a-bitch before I start crying. I’ll see you next month!’
Without waiting for the professor to regret saying the B word Vern Blade passed through the door. Behind him the room went dark, ahead of him was a corridor of fluorescent light. His boots squeaked on the linoleum as he strode into the bright future.