Those Were The Days

Author’s Note: Today’s story is based on this prompt from WriteAnything:  “What is your character’s very mild super power.”


Carl drained the shot glass of its cheap tequila and slammed it on the bar.  “Someone should kill those Jersey Shore douche bags.”

“Come on Carl, they ain’t so bad,” said Willie Thomas.

“Ain’t so bad?  That one dude calls himself ‘The Situation’.  Friggin douche.”  He slid the glass forward and motioned to the bar tender for a refill.

“So what? You used to call your self, ‘Carl, The Lion, Montique, and your last name is Smith.  They’re just kids like we used to be.  Remember all the shit we got into?”

Carl looked at Willie with eyes full of hate.  “I called my self ‘The Lion” because I had the most luxurious mane of chest hair in the world.  Now douche bags like The Situation, run around with shaved chests.  Shaved!  Can you fricken believe it.  What kind of man shaves his chest hair?”

“That’s just what’s in now, man.”

The bar tender refilled Carl’s glass and set down a beer chaser.  Carl drank the shot and nursed the beer.  “You just don’t get it man.  You just don’t get it.”

“What’s to get?”

“Never mind, Willie.”

“No, what don’t I get?  Because from where I sit, it’s you who doesn’t get it.  Sitting there feeling sorry for yourself because some piss-ant kid shaves the hair off his chest?  You’re insane.”

Carl shot to his feet and tore open his shirt.  His chest was a mass of pimply razor burn.

“Look at me!” he shouted.  “I’m pathetic.  I have to shave everyday because…”

Willie looked at his friend.  His eyes flicked to the rest of the bar.   No one seemed to notice the large man holding open his shirt.

“…Because of this.”  Carl closed his eyes tight.  His entire body shook, his face turned red with strain.  Then after a long moment of pushing at an unknown force, Carl farted, loudly.  The room grew silent as everyone turned to see who had passed gas loud enough to carry over the conversations of the entire bar.  Carl didn’t stop.  He kept straining as hard as he could passing long, loud bursts of gas.

“Jezz, Carl, sit down,” said Willie through gritted teeth.  He covered his face with his hand and turned away from the crowd.  “Alright, already, Carl.  Knock it off.”

But Carl didn’t knock it off.  He kept straining.  The gastronomical symphony finally ended, yet Carl continued to strain until…  Willie noticed that the hair on Carl’s chest was beginning to grow.  The more Carl pushed, the longer and more luxurious his chest hair became.  Carl, who now sported a deep thick lion’s mane of chest hair, finally took a breath and collapsed back into his seat.  The sound level in the bar slowly returned to normal as patrons returned to their drinks and conversations.

Carl picked up his beer.  “I was a god on the Jersey beaches back in the day.”

Willie nodded.  “Yeah, those were good days.”  He said lifting his beer to his friend.

“Yeah,” said Carl.  “Good days, Willie.  Teeny Willie.  That’s what they called you.  Teeny Willie.”

Willie sat motionless.

“Don’t suppose you’d tell me how you got your nick name?”

“Ahh, it’s just a nickname, Carl.  Truth is my name’s not even “Willie Thomas”; it’s John.”