EXCERPT - Hero is a Four Letter Word

Bonus Story: On His Birthday, Reginald Got

As a digital exclusive, I'm including one extra short story that's not in the print edition! Enjoy!

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On his 257th birthday, Reginald got stuck in a bank.

Well, yes alright, it was a bank robbery, but you know, it sounded better to say "in a bank." Less horrifically embarrassing.

Imagine, someone like Reginald Schilverspün (and he's heard all the jokes about being born with things his mouth, and yes, they're all very clever but, you know, after 257 years the joke gets rather tired don't you think? So he'll thank you very much for not telling it. Besides, he wasn't.) Imagine! Reginald getting stuck in the middle of a bank robbery on his birthday.

Really now; only Reginald.

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On his 8th birthday, Reginald got new shortpants from his father ("Practical, son. Take good care of those and they will take good care of you."), a set of chalks from his older brother ("Colourful, see? Yellow and red and white – half a yellow, sorry. I got a new set, so you can have these.") and a pudding-bowl haircut delivered by his mother.

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Reginald hadn't meant to be in the bank at the same time as the robbers, only it was his birthday. He was going to pull out exactly one hundred dollars to buy new shoes and a haircut.

The first thing Reginald always did after his birthday was finished was buy a pair of solid leather shoes. Then Reginald went to a barber, the kind with the striped poles outside and straight razors inside, the kind that did haircuts the way young men should have them, not the sort that flop about in a man's eyes.

Reginald did not like using the plastic, faceless bank machines. They beeped at him and electric lights always hurt his eyes. That was one of the draw backs of having the sort of birthdays that Reginald did. Instead, Reginald liked to go inside to smile prettily at the nice young ladies in the smart suits. He preferred the personal touch of a teller, although he missed the crisp smell of the pink slips that he used to fill out.

Had Reginald used the machine today, his eyes would be smarting, but he would not be stuck in the bank.

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On his 13th birthday, Reginald got a new pair of leather shoes from his father ("Practical, son. Take good care of those shoes and they will take good care of you.") and a wooden sword from his older brother ("Sorry 'bout the nick in the blade, yeah? Had to try it out, first. You can have it. I made me a better one.") and a pudding-bowl haircut delivered by his mother.

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The men wore black balaclavas, which Reginald thought was entirely clichéd. Nowadays, crimes were solved with blood splatter patterns and the scratches along the sides of retrieved bullets, or at least they were on television. What good would hiding your face do when the authorities could identify a person by voice print? Silly.

Still, the blank facelessness of the masks were sufficiently intimidating, which Reginald supposed was the point.

"Oh, dear," Reginald said when they brandished their pistols and told everyone to get down on the floor. "I say, this puts me in rather a spot, boys. Do you mind terribly if I just pop out the front and let you continue without me?"

A masked man hit Reginald in the side of the head with the butt of his gun, which hurt far more than television heroes let on. He slammed the floor with the other side of his face. His last thought before the black swam over Reginald was gratitude that at least he wouldn't have the headache for long after he woke up.