The Contest Between Two Fools

The road had carried our crew of four down from the hills into a town that looked like it had been pieced together from spare parts. Roofs slanted at different angles and were patched with whatever wood, metal, or scrap the builders could find. Some houses leaned toward each other, their chimneys coughing smoke in uneven bursts. A dozen pulley-lines stretched overhead between poles, creaking in the wind and carrying baskets of screws, vegetables, or laundry that squeaked as they rolled along.

It wasn’t a huge town, but it was noisy. It was unlike the pleasant chatter of Glazebend’s markets or the damp quiet of Duskfen. Here it was the constant hiss of steam valves, the squeak of pulleys, the clank of loose hinges, and the occasional thunk of some mechanism smacking itself back into place. It felt very steampunk in some ways.

“Feels like walking inside a toolbox.” Gus muttered, eyeing a fence patched with wagon wheels in their entirety.

Bart sniffed, unimpressed. “Nothing wrong with a toolbox. If it squeaks and clangs, it’s telling the truth.”

Willow arched an eyebrow. “That’s the best you can say about this place?”

Joren didn’t answer. His attention had caught on a sound of something squeaky. Somewhere withing the town they could hear what sounded like a party going on, but only one voice was coming through.

As they walked around the town's streets, they came upon an area with a small gathering of uninterested individuals.

Joren slowed, tilting his head toward the square ahead. “Do you hear that?”

The others fell quiet. Through the hiss of steam and the rattle of pulleys came a high, squeaky chorus, like children’s toys pressed in quick succession. Over it all, one voice carried, loud and steady.

Bart squinted down the street. “Sounds like a birthday party. A bad one. And I would know, Aunt Bertha on the corner store in Glory had a real doozy last year.”

They followed the noise, weaving through a mess of scrap until the street opened into the fountain square. A loose circle of townsfolk were busy around tables and stores, trying not to pay any attention to the man in the center.

A man in a blinding orange jumpsuit, its fabric patched with pins and pockets that bulged was seated at the lip. His slicked-back hair shone with oil, a toothpick hanging lazily at the corner of his mouth and a very curly, wispy mustache capturing their attention. A wagon sat behind him, overflowing with rubber ducks, each one wearing an article of clothing or accessory.

The man adjusted one duck’s tiny scarf, then tapped its head with a grease-stained finger as if granting a blessing.

“Clarence,” he said, voice slow and grave. “Today you are two. You have survived winters harsh and summers cruel. You are a man now.”

The duck squeaked when he squeezed it, and he nodded as if in solemn agreement.

Around him, the square tried to ignore it. A woman haggled loudly with a fishmonger. A boy hustled past carrying a crate of gears. A pair of old men sighed and shook their heads from a table nearby at their card game.

Joren kept his silence, though he felt the odd gravity of the scene. It was as if this man’s entire world was contained in that wagon.

Bart, on the other hand, snorted so hard it startled one of the ducks, causing it to tip from the pile. “A warrior? He’s talkin’ to bath toys.”

The man’s head turned slowly, aviator lenses catching the light. He didn’t answer right away, just chewed his toothpick once and rose to his feet, his thin frame attempting to look bigger.

“They’re champions.” he said at last, voice flat, as if the word alone explained everything.

Bart planted his fists on his hips, still grinning at the wagon. “Champions? They’re rubber, mate. I could squash one in my fist and not break a sweat.”

The man chewed his toothpick once, unfazed. “Rubber rebounds, cheddar head."

Bart blinked, then barked out a laugh. “Cheddar head? That’s the best you’ve got? I’ve eaten wheels bigger than your wagon."

The man chewed his toothpick, tilting his head as though Bart had just spoken a foreign language. “Size means nothing if you can’t float.”

Bart snorted. “Float? What’s floatin’ got to do with anything?”

“Everything,” the man replied, adjusting the tiny scarf on another duck. “If you sink, you’re forgotten to the tides that float this world."

Bart leaned forward, voice rising. “You think I’d sink? I could walk across rivers standin’ on my cheese alone.”

The man shook his head slowly, clearly pitying him. “I feel sad for your delusions. Ducks do not need bridges, they make the water obey to their will.”

Bart’s face reddened, half from laughter, half from outrage. “The water obeys me too! I drink it!”

The man adjusted his sunglasses, squaring his thin shoulders in complete confidence and arrogance. “Drinking is surrender, but floating is victory.”

Bart threw his arms wide, his voice loud enough to make a few townsfolk glance over from their stalls. “Victory? You call sittin’ in a tub with toys victory? I could crush your whole flock and still have room left over for dessert!”

The man clicked his tongue, leaning back against the wagon as if Bart had confirmed his worst suspicions. “Crushing is what weak men do when they don’t understand. Power without understanding is nothing.”

Bart jabbed a finger at him. “Control? I’ve got control! I could balance a wheel of gouda on my head while fightin’ an ogre, and I wouldn’t spill a crumb.”

The man’s mustache twitched. “Ridiculous. A duck balances on a storm waves without any effort. That is elegance. That is art.”

Bart barked a laugh that startled another duck into squeaking. “Art? You think these lumps of rubber are artists? I’ll show you art with my cheese!"

That finally seemed to get under the man’s skin. He snapped his toothpick to the other side of his mouth and leaned forward, towering himself over Bart. “Enough, you fool. If you think you are so tough, why don't you challenge me at tomorrows body building contest? Then we will see who's a real champion!"

Bart’s grin widened until it looked like madness. “Fine! But when I win, I’m takin’ Clarence as my war trophy.”

The man clutched the scarf-wearing duck closer, sunglasses flashing in the sunlight and clearly exasperated with this whole argument. “Over my dead, floating, body.”

A few onlookers had stopped pretending to ignore them. Market chatter dipped as heads turned toward the fountain.

Bart threw his arms wide again, puffing his chest. “Tomorrow we'll show your whole town what real champions looks like! They’ll remember my crew flexing for the next hundred years!"

The man’s mustache twitched, his voice cutting through the square like a verdict. “A hundred years? I'll be remembered for a thousand!"

The man stepped forward, closing the distance until only the reflection of Bart’s wild grin showed in his sunglasses. He snapped his toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other. “Then tomorrow, on the stage, we settle this. No talk. No excuses. We’ll see who leaves this square as a champion and who leaves as a fool.”

Bart could only manage a hmpfh in return.

The man stomped away, dragging his cart behind him as he left.

And that was how Bart dragged the four of them into a body building contest.

The square loosened once the man in orange disappeared, the crowd returning to their shopping and their card games as if nothing had happened. A few chuckles followed him down the street, though no one dared to be too loud.

“Who in the sammy hell was that?” Willow muttered, folding her arms.

An older man nearby, sleeves rolled to his elbows spoke up, gesturing his cane with a grunt. “That man you just had a squabble with is called Rico. Been here longer than most of us care to count.”

The man continued. “Spends his days in that basement workshop of his, tinkering and talking to those blasted ducks. Brilliant inventor like his father. Nobody takes him serious, though, ’cept at the contest.”

Gus frowned, clearly confused at what transpired. “Contest?”

The man gave a tired shrug. “Bodybuilding. Every year he struts out of that basement of his and sweeps the competition without a hitch."

The old man spat to the side, shaking his head. “Not with raw strength, mind you. He’s got some rigs he straps on the night before. Pumps his muscles full, makes him look like a hero straight out the old tales and lasts just long enough to win, then he slinks back to his basement. Folks cheer while he’s up there, but come morning he’ll still be the duck man.”

Bart puffed his chest, ignoring the warning. “Then tomorrow, I’ll beat him with nothing but lactose and a big brute. Let’s see if his rubber army can squeak louder than us.”

Willow groaned, rubbing her temples. “So now we’re in a bodybuilding contest. Wonderful.”

Joren glanced at the wagon tracks streaking the dust, the squeaks of rubber still echoing faintly down the street. He wasn’t sure what unsettled him more: Rico’s arrogance, or Bart’s grin that promised they would all go through with it.

They hadn’t been in this town for more than ten minutes and Bart already dragged them into some strange battle from a nonsensical squabble.

Late Evening – Rico’s lab

The basement stank of oil and copper, every surface cluttered with half-built machines. Rusted gears leaned against stacks of sheet metal, jars of screws spilled across warped tables, and a dozen belts and harnesses hung from the rafters like butchered carcasses.

Rico stood at the center of it all, jumpsuit sleeves rolled, his sunglasses moved above his forehead, and a wrench clenched while he tightened a valve. A hiss of steam shot past his ear, but he didn’t flinch.

“All right, Clarence,” he muttered, tugging a lever until a piston slammed down with a satisfying thud. “Tomorrow, we show them the greatest bodybuilder in the nation.”

Rows of ducks stared back at him from shelves nailed into the stone walls. Some wore scarves, others tiny helmets, one a cute monocle carved from glass. Their glossy eyes gleamed in the candlelight.

“You have carried me through nine victories.” Rico snapped his toothpick back into his mouth, pacing between the shelves like a commander reviewing his troops. “And tomorrow will be the tenth. They’ll laugh, I'm sure, but they’ll cheer when I flex. They always do.”

He stopped before a duck with a torn wing, his mustache twitching as he adjusted its crooked paper crown. “And when they cheer, we will prosper.” His voice dropped, almost tenderly. “We won't lose to some cheddar head.”

Behind him, the rig gave a low groan. Leather straps tightened, pistons pumped, and the outline of a frame fit just right for a body to squeeze into shown against the lights.

He turned to the machine and spoke once more to his friends. “Tomorrow, only one will float while the other sinks.”