Abdullah the Butcher in Gotham
By Mark A. Nobles
“Dibs on Superman,” said Teeter.
“You’re always Superman,” Monk protested.
“Yep,” said Teeter. “Because I am Superman.
“Fine, I’m the Flash,” said Monk.
“I wanna be Aquaman,” piped in Rayburn.
“Aquaman is in the ocean,” said Rod with exaggerated exasperation. “There ain’t an
ocean in a hundred miles of here.”
Rayburn countered, “Aquaman can be outta the ocean, Rod.”
“Cannot,” said Monk.
“Can to,” said Rod
“Just pick someone different,” pleaded Monk.
“If Teeter always gets to be Superman, I oughta be able to be Aquaman,” said Rayburn.
“Just how is Aquaman supposed to get from the ocean all the way up here?” said Teeter. “Like Rod said, it’s got to be a hundred miles, at least.”
“We ain’t in Alvarado, Teeter, we’re in Gotham,” said Rayburn.
“Metropolis,” corrected Teeter.
“Dang it, Teeter, we’re always in Metropolis, you know I’m gonna be Batman, and I want to be in Gotham.” Rayburn
“Fine, but just this once. Never again,” said Teeter.
“Not just this once, we can be in Gotham sometimes.”
“Just this once or never.”
“That’s not fair, Teeter,” said Rayburn.
Teeter shrugs.
“Just say okay,” said Monk. “He won’t stick to it.”
“Okay,” begrudged Rayburn.
All eyes turn to Chick. There was tension. Definite tension. Everyone knew what was coming but fervently hoped it would not.
“Abdullah the Butcher,” Chick said defiantly.
All together: “Dang.” “Not again, Chick.” “Every stinking time.” “Man.”
“How many times do we have to explain that Abdullah the Butcher is not a superhero, Chick,” said Monk.
“Is too,” protested Chick. “Well,” Chick changed his mind, “he’s not a superhero, he’s a supervillain, and that’s better.” Chick took a few steps out of the circle of boys and dropped into a crouch position, arms extended, ready to wrestle anyone or even all of the good guys.
“Jeeze,” Rod exclaimed.
Monk elbowed Rod in the ribs, “Don’t say that or I can’t hang out with you.” Monk was Preacher Bonds youngest child. Never mind that his two oldest brothers were the biggest pot dealers in Johnson County. They weren’t allowed to hang out with folks who took the Lord’s name in vain either. Even Monk’s older brothers insisted on clean language from their friends and customers, who were pretty much one and the same. In a small town, it was hard to hide who was doing what with who. The teachers at the high school joked that you could tell the potheads from the binge drinkers by their language. The cleaner the language, the bigger the pothead.
“Why we got to do this every time, Chick?” Rayburn asked.
“Cause ya’ll are stubborn and won’t let me be a wrestling supervillain,” Chick stated rather matter of factly. He began to ominously stomp around the circle of boys, who were all now facing outward. “I’ve come for you, Superman,” Chick said in an unknown accent that he believed sounded Sudanese, which was the backstory for Abdullah. It really sounded like what a boy who had barely ever been outside Johnson County imagined sounded middle eastern.
“What the hell are you doing, Chick?” said Teeter.
“I am Abdullah the Butcher!” Chick screamed. “The Madman from the Sudan and I’m going to use my superpower of the Running Elbow Drop to crush you, Superman.”
“That’s not a superpower, Abdullah,” Teeter said, heavy sarcasm on Abdullah.
“Then counter with your super strength, or fly away in shame for my superpowers are greater than yours!” and with that, Chick lunged at Teeter, threw him to the dirt, stepped back and executed a perfect Running Elbow Drop to Teeter’s chest. The air whisked from Teeter’s lungs with a mighty blast.
“Ohhh!” Monk, Rod, and Rayburn screamed. “Damn,” added Rod.
“That’s it,” said Monk, “I gotta go home, I can’t play with ya’ll, Rod ruined it,” and with that, he double-timed it towards home.
“Wait, Monk,” Rod pleaded. He left the circle and took a few steps towards Monk. “I’m sorry, but,” he looked back to Teeter and Chick laying on the ground, “Did you see that? Even your dad would have cursed a little.”
Chick was feeling his oats, “Where you going in such a hurry, Flash? Come back and climb in the ring with Abdullah the Butcher.”
“I’m not allowed to play with sinners or foreigners,” shouted Monk.
“We’re all sinners, Flash,” said Chick, “your daddy says so every Sunday!” Chick was feeling his oats and on a roll. “Besides, Superman in the dirt over here is from Krypton, Aquaman is from the ocean…”
“Atlantis,” corrected Rayburn.
Chick turned to Rayburn, “What?”
“Aquaman is from Atlantis,” said Rayburn, “it’s in the ocean but a pacific place in the ocean, Atlantis.” Rayburn had a problem saying specific.
“Whatever,” Chick waived Rayburn off and turned back to Monk, “Atlantis is not in America, let alone Texas, and you can play with them. Why can’t you play with Abdullah the Butcher, the mad man from the Sudan!”
“You leave my daddy out of this, Chick. At least I have a daddy, you’re crazy, that’s why your daddy left. I’m not supposed to even play with you because my daddy says divorce is a sin and your momma is either a fornicator or didn’t put her husband at the head of the household. Either way, we only play with you because you won’t leave us alone and Teeter says it would be rude to tell you to leave.” After issuing that mouthful Monk was a little winded.
Chick stood frozen in the moment. Slowly his fists clenched and he let out a yell that can best be described as a war cry and began to run straight at Monk.
“Shit is on now,” said Rod. Both Rod and Rayburn lit out after Chick.
Poor Teeter was only now catching his breath and climbing to his feet.
Monk stood frozen like a spotlit deer as Chick screamed towards him. Rod and Rayburn had no chance of intercepting Chick and thwarting the waylay. When Chick was about five feet from Monk he went airborne and executed a clean leaping clothesline. The force of the blow from Chick’s forearm to Monk’s throat and chest knocked the air and consciousness clean out of him. Monk was out before his legs buckled.
Chick blew right past Monk, landed on the dirt in a clean tuck and roll, then bounded to his feet. He was both kinds of mad, bull and hatter. Chick turned and faced the boys, red-faced and breathing deep. He resumed his wrestling crouch.
“Take it easy, Chick,” said Rod. “We were only playing.”
“Then why can’t I play the way I want to play,” Chick seethed. “What does it matter to ya’ll if I want to be Abdullah?”
Teeter had regained his feet and most of his senses. “Those are just the rules, Chick.”
“I want to know who made these rules. Bring them to me!” shouted Chick.
Everyone just stood and stared, except for Monk. He was still out like a light.
“Maybe my momma can’t buy me every comic every time a new one comes out but I can watch wrestling on channel 11 with my gramps. It’s the same kinda stories, you morons! Good versus evil. Right versus wrong. Truth, justice and the American way. Don’t ya’ll get it?”
They didn’t get it but Chick went on anyway, “Kennedy said, not just three months ago, ‘we shall pay any price, bear any burden, meet any hardship, support any friend, oppose any foe to assure the survival and success of liberty.’” He paused, waiting to see if a light would go off in any of them. Any one of them. “Good needs evil or there are no stories. I may be different, but I am real, and ya’ll need me.”
Monk made a noise and attempted to roll over. He was slowly regaining consciousness. Rod, Rayburn, and Teeter went to attend to him.
Chick turned and walked home.
Mark A. Nobles is a sixth generation Texan born on Fort Worth’s infamous Jacksboro Highway and proudly claims blood and kinship with Thunder Road’s gamblers, outlaws, and wastrels. His work has appeared in Sleeping Panther Review, Crimson Streets, Cleaver Magazine, Curating Alexandria, and other publications. He has produced and/or directed three feature documentaries and several short, experimental films. Mark lives in Fort Worth but hopes to die in the desert. He loves his two dogs, two daughters, and Texas, but not necessarily in that order. He can be found and followed on Facebook @ Flyin Shoes Films.
By Mark A. Nobles
“Dibs on Superman,” said Teeter.
“You’re always Superman,” Monk protested.
“Yep,” said Teeter. “Because I am Superman.
“Fine, I’m the Flash,” said Monk.
“I wanna be Aquaman,” piped in Rayburn.
“Aquaman is in the ocean,” said Rod with exaggerated exasperation. “There ain’t an
ocean in a hundred miles of here.”
Rayburn countered, “Aquaman can be outta the ocean, Rod.”
“Cannot,” said Monk.
“Can to,” said Rod
“Just pick someone different,” pleaded Monk.
“If Teeter always gets to be Superman, I oughta be able to be Aquaman,” said Rayburn.
“Just how is Aquaman supposed to get from the ocean all the way up here?” said Teeter. “Like Rod said, it’s got to be a hundred miles, at least.”
“We ain’t in Alvarado, Teeter, we’re in Gotham,” said Rayburn.
“Metropolis,” corrected Teeter.
“Dang it, Teeter, we’re always in Metropolis, you know I’m gonna be Batman, and I want to be in Gotham.” Rayburn
“Fine, but just this once. Never again,” said Teeter.
“Not just this once, we can be in Gotham sometimes.”
“Just this once or never.”
“That’s not fair, Teeter,” said Rayburn.
Teeter shrugs.
“Just say okay,” said Monk. “He won’t stick to it.”
“Okay,” begrudged Rayburn.
All eyes turn to Chick. There was tension. Definite tension. Everyone knew what was coming but fervently hoped it would not.
“Abdullah the Butcher,” Chick said defiantly.
All together: “Dang.” “Not again, Chick.” “Every stinking time.” “Man.”
“How many times do we have to explain that Abdullah the Butcher is not a superhero, Chick,” said Monk.
“Is too,” protested Chick. “Well,” Chick changed his mind, “he’s not a superhero, he’s a supervillain, and that’s better.” Chick took a few steps out of the circle of boys and dropped into a crouch position, arms extended, ready to wrestle anyone or even all of the good guys.
“Jeeze,” Rod exclaimed.
Monk elbowed Rod in the ribs, “Don’t say that or I can’t hang out with you.” Monk was Preacher Bonds youngest child. Never mind that his two oldest brothers were the biggest pot dealers in Johnson County. They weren’t allowed to hang out with folks who took the Lord’s name in vain either. Even Monk’s older brothers insisted on clean language from their friends and customers, who were pretty much one and the same. In a small town, it was hard to hide who was doing what with who. The teachers at the high school joked that you could tell the potheads from the binge drinkers by their language. The cleaner the language, the bigger the pothead.
“Why we got to do this every time, Chick?” Rayburn asked.
“Cause ya’ll are stubborn and won’t let me be a wrestling supervillain,” Chick stated rather matter of factly. He began to ominously stomp around the circle of boys, who were all now facing outward. “I’ve come for you, Superman,” Chick said in an unknown accent that he believed sounded Sudanese, which was the backstory for Abdullah. It really sounded like what a boy who had barely ever been outside Johnson County imagined sounded middle eastern.
“What the hell are you doing, Chick?” said Teeter.
“I am Abdullah the Butcher!” Chick screamed. “The Madman from the Sudan and I’m going to use my superpower of the Running Elbow Drop to crush you, Superman.”
“That’s not a superpower, Abdullah,” Teeter said, heavy sarcasm on Abdullah.
“Then counter with your super strength, or fly away in shame for my superpowers are greater than yours!” and with that, Chick lunged at Teeter, threw him to the dirt, stepped back and executed a perfect Running Elbow Drop to Teeter’s chest. The air whisked from Teeter’s lungs with a mighty blast.
“Ohhh!” Monk, Rod, and Rayburn screamed. “Damn,” added Rod.
“That’s it,” said Monk, “I gotta go home, I can’t play with ya’ll, Rod ruined it,” and with that, he double-timed it towards home.
“Wait, Monk,” Rod pleaded. He left the circle and took a few steps towards Monk. “I’m sorry, but,” he looked back to Teeter and Chick laying on the ground, “Did you see that? Even your dad would have cursed a little.”
Chick was feeling his oats, “Where you going in such a hurry, Flash? Come back and climb in the ring with Abdullah the Butcher.”
“I’m not allowed to play with sinners or foreigners,” shouted Monk.
“We’re all sinners, Flash,” said Chick, “your daddy says so every Sunday!” Chick was feeling his oats and on a roll. “Besides, Superman in the dirt over here is from Krypton, Aquaman is from the ocean…”
“Atlantis,” corrected Rayburn.
Chick turned to Rayburn, “What?”
“Aquaman is from Atlantis,” said Rayburn, “it’s in the ocean but a pacific place in the ocean, Atlantis.” Rayburn had a problem saying specific.
“Whatever,” Chick waived Rayburn off and turned back to Monk, “Atlantis is not in America, let alone Texas, and you can play with them. Why can’t you play with Abdullah the Butcher, the mad man from the Sudan!”
“You leave my daddy out of this, Chick. At least I have a daddy, you’re crazy, that’s why your daddy left. I’m not supposed to even play with you because my daddy says divorce is a sin and your momma is either a fornicator or didn’t put her husband at the head of the household. Either way, we only play with you because you won’t leave us alone and Teeter says it would be rude to tell you to leave.” After issuing that mouthful Monk was a little winded.
Chick stood frozen in the moment. Slowly his fists clenched and he let out a yell that can best be described as a war cry and began to run straight at Monk.
“Shit is on now,” said Rod. Both Rod and Rayburn lit out after Chick.
Poor Teeter was only now catching his breath and climbing to his feet.
Monk stood frozen like a spotlit deer as Chick screamed towards him. Rod and Rayburn had no chance of intercepting Chick and thwarting the waylay. When Chick was about five feet from Monk he went airborne and executed a clean leaping clothesline. The force of the blow from Chick’s forearm to Monk’s throat and chest knocked the air and consciousness clean out of him. Monk was out before his legs buckled.
Chick blew right past Monk, landed on the dirt in a clean tuck and roll, then bounded to his feet. He was both kinds of mad, bull and hatter. Chick turned and faced the boys, red-faced and breathing deep. He resumed his wrestling crouch.
“Take it easy, Chick,” said Rod. “We were only playing.”
“Then why can’t I play the way I want to play,” Chick seethed. “What does it matter to ya’ll if I want to be Abdullah?”
Teeter had regained his feet and most of his senses. “Those are just the rules, Chick.”
“I want to know who made these rules. Bring them to me!” shouted Chick.
Everyone just stood and stared, except for Monk. He was still out like a light.
“Maybe my momma can’t buy me every comic every time a new one comes out but I can watch wrestling on channel 11 with my gramps. It’s the same kinda stories, you morons! Good versus evil. Right versus wrong. Truth, justice and the American way. Don’t ya’ll get it?”
They didn’t get it but Chick went on anyway, “Kennedy said, not just three months ago, ‘we shall pay any price, bear any burden, meet any hardship, support any friend, oppose any foe to assure the survival and success of liberty.’” He paused, waiting to see if a light would go off in any of them. Any one of them. “Good needs evil or there are no stories. I may be different, but I am real, and ya’ll need me.”
Monk made a noise and attempted to roll over. He was slowly regaining consciousness. Rod, Rayburn, and Teeter went to attend to him.
Chick turned and walked home.
Mark A. Nobles is a sixth generation Texan born on Fort Worth’s infamous Jacksboro Highway and proudly claims blood and kinship with Thunder Road’s gamblers, outlaws, and wastrels. His work has appeared in Sleeping Panther Review, Crimson Streets, Cleaver Magazine, Curating Alexandria, and other publications. He has produced and/or directed three feature documentaries and several short, experimental films. Mark lives in Fort Worth but hopes to die in the desert. He loves his two dogs, two daughters, and Texas, but not necessarily in that order. He can be found and followed on Facebook @ Flyin Shoes Films.