Hello All:
It's Friday and I've managed to squeeze out a short story. I thought of it just this morning when seeing a "no weapons or firearms" sign on the front of a business. "Does that include num-chucks"? I thought.
***
Next week is Halloween Week and we have our annual week-long celebration. It's a long standing tradition on the blog. This year we roll out a brand new short novel that will be featured throughout the week. Be sure to vising starting Monday.
Numbchucks for a Numbskull
He had found them by accident—or perhaps fate had nudged him toward them. It was the sign at the entrance of QuickMart: "NO WEAPONS OR FIREARMS ALLOWED." Milo had paused, scratching his bald head. Weapons? He scoffed. Numchucks weren’t weapons. They were an art form. A discipline. A way of life.
And so, Milo had purchased them.
At first, it was just practice. He’d swing them in his tiny apartment, missing more often than not, the wooden sticks cracking against his shaved scalp with a hollow thud. His neighbor, Mrs. Delgado, had once knocked on his door, concerned. "Milo," she’d said, eyeing the bruise forming on his forehead, "are you okay?"
"I’m fine," Milo had assured her, rubbing the welt. "Just… refining my technique."
Now, he carried them everywhere. They dangled from his belt like a badge of honor, or a warning to passersby. Some people laughed. Others pointed. A few crossed the street. Milo didn’t mind. He was on a journey.
One Tuesday afternoon, Milo was mid-swing near the corner of Maple and 5th when he heard the laughter.
"Oh my gosh, look at this guy!"
Milo paused, numchucks still swinging lazily in a wide arc. A group of teenagers leaned against a lamppost, phones out, recording. One of them, a lanky kid with a backward cap, zoomed in on Milo’s face.
"Bro, he’s gonna knock himself out," another said, snorting.
Milo blinked. He hadn’t even realized he was being watched. He gave a small, polite nod, as if to say, Yes, I am aware of my own brilliance.
The kids howled.
Victor "Iron Fist" Kaine did not like being laughed at.
He sat in the back room of Kaine’s Combat Academy, a dimly lit space above a laundromat, counting the day’s earnings. The dojo’s reputation had taken a hit since the last viral video—some kid had flipped him with a well-timed hip toss, and now the comments section was a graveyard of memes. Iron Fist KO’d by a toddler.
His phone buzzed. A notification from FightFail.com, the site that hosted his "humiliation matches." A new video had been uploaded: "NUMCHUCK NUT JUST GOT DESTROYED BY IRON FIST!"
Victor clicked it.
There was the numchuck guy—bald, earnest, swinging those ridiculous sticks like he was conducting an orchestra of pain. The comments were already piling up:
"This man is a menace."
"He’s gonna kill himself."
"I’d pay to see Iron Fist destroy this guy."
Victor’s fingers twitched. This was his chance. A new challenger. A fresh humiliation. He could already see the ad revenue rolling in.
He stood, cracking his knuckles. "Get me a mic."
The challenge was posted by noon.
By 3 PM, Milo had seen it.
He stood in the middle of QuickMart’s parking lot, phone in hand, watching the video for the third time. Victor "Iron Fist" Kaine stood in a fighting stance, his face twisted into a scowl. The caption read: "NUMCHUCK NUT JUST GOT DESTROYED BY IRON FIST!"
Milo frowned. That didn’t sound right.
He dialed the number on the screen.
Victor answered on the first ring. "Yeah?"
"Hello," Milo said, adjusting his numchucks. "I believe there’s been a misunderstanding."
Victor blinked. "A misunderstanding?"
"Yes. I don’t think you destroyed me. I don’t recall being there."
Victor’s eye twitched. "You—what?"
"I’d like to accept your challenge," Milo said. "But I think we should clarify the rules first."
The fight was set for 7 PM in the park. By 6:30, a crowd had gathered. Local news had caught wind of the spectacle, and a reporter stood near the ring of onlookers, microphone in hand.
Victor arrived in a tracksuit, flexing for the camera. He cracked his neck, then turned to Milo, who was still practicing his swings.
"Alright, Numchuck Nut," Victor sneered. "You ready to get your ass handed to you?"
Milo stopped swinging. He looked at Victor, then at the numchucks in his hands. "You know," he said thoughtfully, "these aren’t actually weapons. They’re more of an… artistic expression."
Victor rolled his eyes. "Oh, spare me the—"
Milo swung.
The numchucks arced through the air—then wrapped around Victor’s leg like a constrictor snake. Before Victor could react, he was yanked off his feet and sent crashing into a fruit cart. Apples, oranges, and a very confused-looking watermelon rained down on him.
The crowd gasped. The reporter’s eyes widened. Victor groaned, spitting out a grape.
Milo, still holding the numchucks, bowed deeply. "Thank you for the lesson," he said. "I feel I’ve learned much today."
Victor scrambled to his feet, face red with fury. "This isn’t over!"
But before he could lunge again, the numchucks—seemingly of their own accord—whipped around and smacked him square in the chest, sending him stumbling backward into a picnic table. The table collapsed under his weight.
The crowd erupted in cheers.
Victor didn’t stick around to see what happened next. He limped away, muttering about lawsuits and cursed relics, his dojo’s reputation now in tatters.
Milo, meanwhile, was mobbed by admirers. A little girl tugged on his sleeve. "Mister! Can you teach me?"
Milo beamed. "Of course! But remember—numchucks are an art form first."
The reporter shoved a microphone in his face. "Milo, how does it feel to be the Numb-Chuck King?"
Milo scratched his head. "I don’t know about king," he said. "But I did learn something today."
"What’s that?"
"That I should practice in a less crowded area."
The crowd laughed. The reporter nodded, satisfied. The story was perfect.
As the sun set, Milo walked home, numchucks swinging at his side. A few kids trailed behind him, mimicking his swings. Mrs. Delgado waved from her porch.
"Milo!" she called. "You okay?"
He turned, grinning. "Never better."
And with that, the Numb-Chuck King disappeared into the twilight, leaving behind a trail of laughter, a few bruised egos, and the legend of a man who had accidentally become a local hero—all because he couldn’t stop hitting himself in the head.
The End
