Introduction
“Time itself is neutral; it can be used either destructively or constructively. More and more I feel that the people of ill will have used time much more effectively than have the people of good will. We will have to repent in this generation not merely for the hateful words and actions of the bad people but for the appalling silence of the good people. Human progress never rolls in on wheels of inevitability; it comes through the tireless efforts of men willing to work to be co-workers with God, and without this hard work, time itself becomes an ally of the forces of social stagnation. We must use time creatively, in the knowledge that the time is always ripe to do right.”
Martin Luther King Jr, Why We Can’t Wait, 1964
ᛏᛁᛗᛖ ᛊᛟᚢᛚ ᛈᛟᚹᛖᚱ ᛗᛁᚾᛞ ᚱᛖᚨᛚᛁᛏᛁ ᛊᛈᚨᚲᛖ
Any tale conveyed by Luis was… well, it was difficult to describe. An assault on the senses didn’t really do it any justice without background knowledge of General Norman Schwarzkopf and his shock and awe approach to warfare. An abstract representation of reality might work providing the audience had seen anything by Pablo Picasso. The sudden and unexpected comedic moments, plot twists and tragedy that he embedded within his narratives was almost Shakespearian, but delivered with a relentless barrage reminiscent of dialogue from the mouth of Denis Leary.
Imagine a child raised under the modelling of the four men named, and you might begin to appreciate what it was Luis gave to the world when he shared one of his tales. The story was always an abstract presentation involving what was surprising yet almost predictable, a haphazard spatter of the often unconventional and inappropriate (and in far too many instances, unrequired) material. The kind of stuff that suggested the influence of an overconsumption of both alcohol and copious quantities of illicit narcotics that would end in the narrative equivalent of a trip to a hospital and or morgue, and left any witnesses trying to come to terms with whatever the hell had just happened.
This day was no different.
“That’s not what you said,” Dave pointed out, glaring at Luis from behind his desk.
He and Kurt did not look impressed. They had settled in for the second half of what Luis claimed Scott had told him about the events following the defeat of Thanos, during the Twenty-twenty-three conflict on the Hudson, at the Upstate New York Avengers facility. Actually, it was what several of those involved had told Scott, and then Scott interpreted that and added what he knew. What he told Luis was a close approximation of the event, but then Luis recreated what he heard and presented that in his own unique way.
Regardless of the accuracy of the tale, both Dave and Kurt had stockpiled a variety of snacks and beverages for the rendition, their office space temporarily modified, work suspended for the duration. Luis had violated Dave’s sacred no-cliffhanger’s clause in the first installment. It had also resulted in a chipped tooth. The stories Luis told sometimes felt like a contact sport. Dental threats aside, they were not going to be denied an ending this time.
“It isn’t?” Luis asked, apparently surprised.
“No,” Kurt agreed with a heavy accent and hard stare.
Luis opened his mouth, evidence that he was preparing to embark on a second attempt to recap what he had shared in the first half of his tale.
“Oh, hell no!” Dave cursed as he recognized the warning signs. “Not goin’ through that again.”
Dave turned to Kurt but continued to glare at Luis.
“Kurt,” Dave said, knowing there was a far easier way for everyone to get back up to speed, “would you be so kind as to translate the Luiscana? Just the cliff notes.”
Kurt nodded, eyes narrowed at Luis, arms folded in what was a mirror of Dave’s posture, both conveying displeasure over the tale being cut short and delayed until now.
“Big purple nutjob kill half all living things, Avengers left kill him,” Kurt stated in his thick Russian accent.
Dave held out a fist, knuckles up, and raised the thumb, marking off the points.
“Avengers left go back in time to get Infinity Stones for magic glove, undo it five years later but Russian girl die,” Kurt continued as Dave extended his first finger, adding it to the thumb to indicate a second point.
“Big purple nutjob follow them through time,” Kurt said as Dave added another finger to mark the count, “they kill him again, mess up timeline. Rogers go back on own to put things they take back.”
Dave added a third finger to the other two and his thumb, then extended the last digit as Kurt continued.
“Wizard meet him at Peggy house with green girl, blue girl and tiny people,” Kurt rattled off while Dave raised his other hand in a fist, knuckles up, thumb extended beside the now open first hand.
“They put back things they borrow,” Kurt said, “rescue not dead Russian girl, beat up bad guys.”
Dave nodded, grinning as he held out a finger with the thumb, feeling happier now he knew Natasha Romanoff did not die after her fall. He liked her.
“That girl is one dope Betty,” Dave added with a wistful expression, the look of a love-struck man-child.
“Learn heartbreak end for Peggy and Rogers,” Kurt said, flicking his eyes toward Dave, eyebrows descending at the interruption, “after awkward moment on spaceship.”
Dave pointed his finger and thumb at Kurt as his friend continued his abbreviated retelling, nodding.
“Beat up more bad guys, have milkshake, think Rogers is losing mind,” Kurt says, skipping over the fact Natasha was never with the others for most of the previous tale. Her presence had been a figment of the exhausted, overstressed mind of Steve Rogers. Or perhaps it was something worse. An unforeseen consequence of the super-soldier serum.
Dave held out another finger.
“Russian girl go somewhen else in time and take Winter Soldier and flying man to rescue Rogers from other group bad guys, things go bokom, blond girl get killed,” Kurt said as Dave added another finger to the count.
“End with cliffhanger of Baba Yaga coming back,” said Dave, Kurt-style, getting an approving nod in return.
Dave opened his hand completely, extending both with palms up toward Luis, indicating he should now continue with his story because they were all caught up.
Luis watched as Kurt summed up what had taken him much, much, much longer to share. His face conveyed an awkward smile. It was tinged with a little hurt over what he had considered a finely crafted tale, one Kurt had clinically dissected to provide such a cold synopsis.
“Sounds kind of bland when you say it like that,” Luis offered, doing his best to maintain his cheerful disposition. “Doesn’t really capture the emotion and excitement of the story. Like a waffle without the canjica de milho.”
His disappointed expression was replaced by an excited grin as he considered the Portuguese sweetcorn pudding.
“Oh, man, I could go one of those right now!” Luis said, distracted, his taste buds hijacking his forebrain. “You want one? I can make you one if you want?”
Luis looked back and forward between Kurt and Dave. They glared at him, their arms folded.
“Nuh-uh,” Dave responded as Kurt gagged. “First, that’s nasty! Just have it with ice-cream and maple syrup! Like a normal person! And second – ”
“Finish damn story,” Kurt glowered, still looking pale as he recovered from the recall of trying what Luis claimed would be a taste sensation.
It had been, but not one he ever wanted to repeat. He had even considered approaching the Avengers and asking if he could go back in time to prevent himself agreeing to try the vile concoction the first time.
“Okay, okay,” he waved his hands about apologetically, shrugging, confused as to why his friends wouldn’t want to accept his offer.
“Okay, okay,” he waved his hands about apologetically, shrugging, confused as to why his friends wouldn’t want to accept his offer.
“So, to get what happens next,” Luis began, “you need to know what happened after the thing in Wakanda when everyone got dusted. Well, not everyone, obviously. But, you know, like, half of everyone.”
Luis grinned, laughed awkwardly, then frowned as his expression transitioned into sorrow.
“Like, half of all the people and things, not half of each person,” he clarified.
Kurt and Dave were still glaring at him, arms folded as they waited for him to get on with the story.
“So everyone is looking for people who are missing,” he said, returning to his tale, “and then Cap and the others kind of go their separate ways to do what they can – ”
“You better not go into a flashback things like last time,” Dave snapped. “We know what happened. That was a drag. Just get on with the story.”
“I was setting the scene,” Luis reponded, frowning, his expression defensive. “Building context. Character. Mood. Some people don’t know what happened.”
“What people?!” Dave demanded, looked around with frustrated sarcasm. “There’s nobody else here!”
“Thit’s rood,” a disembodied voice observed.
Dave jumped in surprise, looking for the speaker.
“Who said that?” he asked.
Kurt turned to a laptop and tapped a few keys. Korg and Miek appeared on the screen, sitting on a couch. The first was wearing cargo shorts and a vibrant Hawaiian shirt. The insect-like Sakaaran, Miek, was eating popcorn.
“Dave live stream stories,” Kurt explained.
Korg and Miek waved.
“Hoy, bra,” Korg greeted.
Dave waved back, uncertain.
“You could have said something,” he whispered at Kurt from the corner of his mouth.
“You never ask,” Kurt replied.
“Where was I?” Luis asked, lost in thought.
“Ivrywin uz louking fur pipule who err mussing end thin Kip end tha ithurs kend uf gue eff ta hilp thum,” Korg said from the small screen.
“Oh, yeah,” Luis grinned, eyes brightening.
“Wait,” Dave interrupted, “you understood that?”
“Yeah, my cousin’s friend’s sister is married to this guy from South Africa,” Dave responded, “so if can understand that, you can understand accents that sound Australian.”
“Rung sayd uf tha dutch, kez,” Korg smiled, any offence he may have taken concealed behind his polite correction.
“Story?” Kurt prompted to avoid further distraction.
“My bad, my bad,” Luis apologized, grinning. “So Cap and the others get out of Dodge to help people and, like, they’re still fugitives and now that whack-job Osborn’s in charge of the US and telling everyone his usual bullsh-”
A car pulled up outside and the sound of its radio could be heard. Indistinct advertising and announcer jabbering, a squall of noise, then Don McLean’s Nineteen-seventy-one hit American Pie started to play.
