Page 2 of Fighting Spirit

“Fuck you, you maniac!” I struggle some more and almost roll off the seat before someone shoves me back into place.

I try to keep my breathing under control as we drive, the movements of the vehicle jostling me as we traverse potholes and round corners. It feels erratic, but at least the costume might provide some kind of protection in case we end up off the road. Like a really cheerful crash helmet. God damn, I must be hysterical if I’m considering the protective qualities of a sponge head.

The chatter does nothing to reassure me and the occasional bursts of laughter are a shock every time. By the time we pull to a stop, I’ve lost track of how long we’ve been driving. The door nearest to me slides open and there’s movement around my legs.

No, no, absolutely not. I am not about to get dragged out into whatever they’ve brought me to, not tonight.

Suddenly, all I want is to stay here on this backseat. A hand touches my ankle and I kick out, relishing the shout of pain as I make contact, even if the webbed feet prevent me from doing any real damage.

“Hey! That hurt!” someone yells.

“Good!” I yell back, trying to hang on to my anger so I don’t start crying again.

“Can you get outta the car?” the voice whines. “We’re not gonna do anything bad, you just need to come inside.”

Before I can reply that I’m not going anywhere, the world starts spinning. I feel like I’ve been flipped over and then I’m moving, something solid digging into my stomach that’s awfully like a shoulder. My legs dangle helplessly as we walk. I can hear gravel crunching and faint voices.

Oh god, this is it, isn’t it? Maybe itisa cult thing? Maybe I’m about to get sacrificed like the Wicker Man?

My breaths come fast and shallow, making me lightheaded as a door shuts, cutting off the sounds of the street. Every time I think the knot in my gut can’t wind any tighter, another errant thought has it ratcheting up. I don’t think I’ve ever felt fear like this. It’s almost paralyzing, the utter dread that fills my veins. It’s all I can do to hold onto my anger in a vain attempt to keep my shit together.

If I just stay angry enough, maybe the fear won’t eat me alive.

The couch I’m unceremoniously deposited on is so spongy that I might fall through it, like some kind of Venus-Fly-Couch. Now that I have my hands back, I readjust the toad head so that light starts to filter back in.

I almost go to pull it off, but I wonder if maybe I’m better off keeping this barrier, preserving my anonymity like a safety net. Even the fuzziness of everything I can see and hear lendscredibility to my argument that maybe this is some kind of fever dream. Instead of taking it off, I shove it down further, keeping the strap securely under my chin and relishing the slight feeling of compression around my face.

Maybe denial isn’t healthy, but it’s about all I’ve got. I am not fucking dealing with this shit.

There are more voices in the room now, but I can barely hear them over the pounding of my heart in my ears. I can make out frantic tones and someone starting to yell, but there are so many of them now that I can’t pick out any specific words. One of the voices gets louder and I shrink back into the couch as I feel them get closer.

“Hey, everything’s fine, alright?” they say in a low tone, like I’m supposed to just take their word for it. “I’m taking this off now.”

They don’t give me any time to react before a surprisingly gentle hand reaches under the head and, after a little fumbling, unclips the chinstrap. I try to bat them away, but without any peripheral vision, I’m like a cat chasing a laser pointer, and they’re able to brush my hands aside with ease. It takes a few tugs to get the head off, but then there’s light streaming into my eyes. I cringe away, blinking rapidly as the room comes into focus.

I’m sat in the middle of a long sectional with a group of men around me in various states of dishevelment. One is practically holding up his friend as they both stare at me. I fist my hands to stop them from shaking. I am not about to freak out, not here, not in front of them.

The room is dim, lit by two large standing lamps in each corner. A faint halo of blueish light highlights the man standing directly in front of me. The light flickers a little and peering around him I see a large television on mute, showing the menuscreen of some video game. The animated figure feels like he’s taunting me with his three pre-programmed dance moves.

Sprinkler, Dougie, Floss. Sprinkler, Dougie, Floss.

The room smells faintly of beer and takeout. I go to rub my eyes, almost hitting myself in the face as I forget that I have the green mascot hands on.

“Fuck,” one of the guys says, drawing out the word into at least four syllables.

“Dude, shut the fuck up,” another hisses.

“What the fuck is wrong with you? You were meant to bring back Gunther!”

“I did!”

“Not the person, you ass!”

Gunther? Why the hell are they talking about-

Oh shit.

Realization starts to dawn on me as they continue discussing Gunther, the African Giant Toad that lives in the administrative building. He -or rather, a line of various Gunthers- has been the Allbreck mascot since the school’s founding, and if these guys were trying to steal the toad, then I have a pretty good idea what’s going on.

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