No Heroes Awards

1980

“That’s not true. That’s not true. I admire plenty of artists. None of them have had the spine to express the image of the Prophet Mohammad. Therefore, I have no comedic heroes or cartoonists. No one is out there that will do it. I think I will,” Fenton Cargill explained to the newsman.

He rounded the corner on his dirtbike, backpack strapped to him. He pulled up to his house and stashed the ride on a chain locked onto the fence.

He discovered his room. Portraits of his characters adorned the walls. Large pages and tiny papers dotted the space. Full color blasted its way into the retina of anyone who laid eyes on the images.

No one, not even his parents or his younger sister ever dared into his lair. It was like a studio and an airplane runway all wrapped up in one. The best way that he could describe his space was, “with limited creature comforts. A bed, unkempt, was in the corner with clean sheets. A boombox blasted public radio while he worked. The Daily Delaware papers littered the floor. No comics anywhere. No TV or Walkman or sound system existed there. He let paint drip like blood or melting ice making water puddles.

Cargill looked at the giant portrait of the Prophet. His face was locked into sheer joy. The bursting bit of happiness shown through in this painting. Cargill focused on the teeth. The white was like cocaine. The expression of euphoria dripping from the image made it seem as if the Prophet had done a bump of the party powder.

A knock came.

“Yes!”

“The dry cleaning!”

Goddamnit! Carghill swore to himself. He unlocked his dirtbike and sped away to the cleaners. He went to the shop. Closed. Opens again at ten the next morning.

“Shit,” he started his bike and saw Delina.

“Hey, Fenton.”

“Hey, Delina.”

“I know you don’t go to too many dances but I was wondering if you’d take me to the senior ball and banquet.”

“Sure.”

“I saw you on that news broadcast earlier. Really cool.”

“Thanks.”

“I see you’ve got to go. Think it over.”

“Yep. You need a ride or anything?” He asked.

“No, thanks. I’m meeting some friends.”

“Copy.” He cycled away into the dying of the sun.

“Did you see what they did?! They made America kowtow to their vice. They made the good accept evil. That’s why I paint, draw and sculpt. The image of Mohammad is their precious Achilles heel. No, making an act of war by holding American prisoners hostage is okay but God forbid a visage of that bastard be put into a comic book or newspaper or a novel cover. Those sickos don’t deserve the sweet breath of life. If I could nuke ‘em….”

“It’s okay,” Delina started.

“No it most certainly is not okay. They’re going to spend the next few decades dancing in the street, stomping on the American flag and bombing United States citizens out of existence,” he fired back.

Delina looked down. She tousled a gold necklace with her name on it.

“Just don’t work yourself up like you do.”

“I just get mad, goddamnit! I know this presidency and the future ones are going to sell the soul of this country not whole but piece by piece until we’re swept out of history.”

“That’s never going to happen.”

“Not while I’m breathing. I don’t give a damn if the Daily doesn’t accept one picture. I don’t care if ComicConnect doesn’t take my stories. I know I’m doing the right thing. I know I’m taking the time to do this.”