EXCERPT - Hero is a Four Letter Word

Bonus Story: On His Birthday, Reginald Got

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On his 17th birthday, Reginald got a new ledger book from his father ("Practical, son. Take good care of that ledger and it will take good care of you.") and a two-mark whore from his older brother ("Sorry she's a bit dishevelled, mate. Had to try it out, first. I found me a better one.") and a pudding-bowl hair cut delivered by his mother.

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The floor was cold. Reginald turned his head over so the throbbing part was pressed against the ostentatious industrial marble instead, and that felt marginally better, if not completely fantastic.

Reginald sniffed, and the dried blood that had been hanging out of his right nostril shot back up it and gave him a sneezing fit, which made his head throb even more. The horrid young man in the balaclava hit Reginald again. Reginald put his hands up over his head and said, "Sorry, sorry, my fault of course. Only, the floor is cold, rather, so do you mind terribly if I just sit up?"

"Slow," the thug said, and wasn't that just the problem with kids these days? All grunts and one word sentences that were primarily cuss words. Reginald mourned the loss of the love of language, he really did.

The man in the balaclava seemed to forget Reginald the moment he had himself upright. Of course, none of the other hostages saw fit to help Reginald. The nerve.

Reginald probed the goose egg on his temple gingerly and frowned. He really had hoped something like this wouldn't spoil his birthday. He had been so much looking forward to it this year, too.

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On his 22nd birthday, Reginald got a new set of fountain pens from his father, ("Practical, son. Take good care of those pens and they will take good care of you.") a pint of warm beer from his older brother ("Where on the Lord's fat backside have you been? Drink that piss and get out. She'll be here soon.") and a pudding-bowl hair cut delivered by his mother.

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When the throbbing in Reginald's head had subsided enough for his vision to be single, he looked around the bank. He supposed the guard was dead, though Reginald couldn't tell from where he was sitting whether the man's chest was bobbing. The pool of blood under his head suggested 'no', which was a pity because Reginald had sort of fancied being a police man this year.

Oh well.

What other options were there?

Reginald was trapped in the bank with the robbers and the hostages and the pretty tellers. Did he want to be a bank teller? No, those were all women and Reginald had never been a woman before. He wasn't really sure he wanted to be one; high heels and make up and hose, and Reginald wasn't at all sure that he'd know what to do when it came around to that time of month, and honestly, the thought of having to deal with it not only once but twelve times was rather more terrifying that he'd like to admit, so no, no women.

That left Reginald with the fellow hostages, or the hostage-takers.

Reginald found thuggery rather too dirty for his tastes, so a fellow hostage it would have to be. Reginald did so like his creature comforts.

Reginald turned to the fellow beside him – rather large about the waist and soft in the belly, which a hundred years ago would have meant wealth and nowadays meant middle class and addicted to the drive-thru – and asked, "I do beg your pardon, but what is your profession, exactly?"

"What? I'm a bartender, what the hell is it to you?"

Oh.

Well, no, Reginald did not like modern bars, with their indecent dancing girls and their loud noises, and the bright lights that always, always hurt his eyes no matter how many birthdays he'd had.