Although he did not look like one, The Golem was a hero. An accident in space ravaged his body and made him appear a monster, as it did his brother, The Grim. Glen “Gray Hair” Graboyes, a hot shot shuttle pilot, and his brother Reuben, a crackpot scientist; together attempted to travel around the rings of Saturn, backwards and forwards through time. Interstellar raydons changed the identical twins into matching monsters. Save for the distinct scar across Glen’s face, they remained two stupendously different men who happened to spring from the same chromosome. They shared only two things, their appearance and their bold daring sense of adventure. A cataclysmic miscalculation on Reuben’s part, and overly impetuous piloting on Glen’s part, resulted in the interstellar radiation that changed them. They returned to earth, but they did not return as Glen and Reuben. Glen came back the noble and loving Golem, however Reuben’s dark heart grew only shades blacker as he became the murderous and hateful Grim.

When Oliver’s mum gave him the toy, the package read “THE GRIM,” in bold yellow and red letters, but he knew better. He knew it was actually The Golem, it was the hero. The Grim lied, cheated, stole, and even killed! Oliver’s toy was that of a good man. A man befallen by tragedy, which mad him a better man. His toy was not the Grim, it was the Golem.

Everyday Oliver played alone in his yard. Inside the trailer his mum yelled so loudly at the TV it forced Oliver to gather a handful of toys and make his way to the barren front yard. There the tall dying grass became a desert savannah, a tropical rainforest, a far off alien world, anywhere other than where Oliver was. His imagination carried him off with one consistent feature to his tall tales, a quiet thoughtful hero subdued a loud and bombastic villain. The toys he took would vary, with one exception, he always took The Golem. The Golem was always the hero, Oliver’s hero.

The yelling happened when his Mum was alone, as she was nearly all of the time. Sometimes she shouted about those “liberal bastards,” or “those cunt bag Republicans.” He did not know what any of it meant, but he knew if his mum did not like them they must be no good.

Other times the shouting was different, like she was in pain, but enjoying it. That kind of shouting came when the men visited. She called them her “Special Company.” That shouting came at night. He knew it was best to pretend to sleep, trapped in his bed attempting to find quiet in his head. When the Special Company came during the day she never had to tell him to go outside, he already knew it. It was apparent to him by the looks on the faces of the men. There he remained until they left. On those days, even if it was raining, Oliver would venture as far from the house as he could go without leaving the yard.

In the yard he played, and for the most part he tuned out the noise. He took The Golem on adventures all around the world. In his hands The Golem traveled deep into the past and far into the future.

The noise from inside often prevailed, and he moved farther out into the yard. On the loudest days he played almost on the gravel road that weaved through the trailer park, often coming to the edge, but never stepping into the street.

Everyday the Paper Boy would come, deliver the newspaper, regard Oliver’s toys and then be on his way. Other than the Paper Boy and the Special Company visiting every few months, never coming back a second time, Oliver was left alone in the yard.

Occasionally he had company from the Neighbor, a former Marine turned kindly-but-chronic-drinker-next-door. The Neighbor periodically stood over the open hood of his rusted-patch-work-primed Trans Am. On the rarest of occasions he even got as far as taking a wrench to a valve or hose on the engine, but in the whole of Oliver’s short memory no progress had been made.

It was a Tuesday, and it was hot. Oliver’s mum somewhere in the house with her special company. The noise forced him to the edge of the lawn. He would never step onto the road. He pulled several bunches of the pebbles from its edge and built The Golem a fortress of rock. A battlement from which The Golem and his super heroic adventuring friends would enact justice and protect the weak. As he played, he became lost in The Golem’s medieval journey. The sound of gravel crunching under boot and the smell of garlic and motor oil snapped him out of the trance of his imagination. Returning to reality, he saw a large man standing over him. By adult standards the Man would have been considered short, but to Oliver, as he loomed over him, he was a giant. For a split second he could have sworn he looked upon The Grim. He was sure he was a villain, until the Man spoke.

“You best be careful buddy, else you’ll end up in the road,” he said grinning.

After the man spoke Oliver knew he could not be The Grim. The Grim would not be thoughtful, The Grim, would not look out for anyone other than The Grim.

The Man continued, “the road’s dangerous, it’s not nice to little guys who get lost in it.”

The Man hunched down over Oliver, casting his shadow over both him, and The Golem’s fortress. Oliver flinched upon the Man’s proximity. The Man leaned back, but he did not step away.

“It’s a snake that’ll bite off your little head,” snapping his teeth together with a hiss the Man smirked.

Oliver fled into the house, leaving his toys behind. Once inside he locked the door behind him. He sat on the floor next to his mum’s chair, hoping she would come and comfort him, but knowing she would not.

Outside the Man bent down and carefully reinforced the walls of the Golem’s stone fortress. The Neighbor stepped through his front door. The Man froze for a moment as the Neighbor peered at him. The Man resumed his reinforcement and the Neighbor passed it off as “simply peculiar.” As the Neighbor popped the Trans Am’s hood, the Man gathered The Golem and the other action figures, walking them over to the house. The Neighbor glared at the Man as he crossed the yard, the Man responded with a hidden chuckle.

Back inside the trailer, the Special Company stepped out of the bedroom. He was fat and hairy. As he walked to the bathroom Oliver saw everything, all of the parts he knew he should never see. Even parts half hidden by fat. All of the parts he never wanted to see again. Despite his disgust, Oliver wished that one day the Special Company would be nice, that one would stay, that he would be his dad. But they were never nice, they never stayed, they would never be his dad. After using the bathroom the Special Company stopped in the hall, looking on the boy through small dark eyes. He entered the bedroom. A moment later his mum shouted, “Get outside! Mummy’s got company! Go play in the yard!”

Upon his mum’s yell he got up to the door.

“And don’t slam the goddamn door on your way out!”

Oh-so-carefully closing it behind him, he stepped through the door. His action figures greeted him on the porch. The Man had stood all the toys up in a row, The Golem at the center. Oliver smiled. He checked the yard, and looked down the street. No sight of the Man, only the Neighbor leaning over his Trans Am’s exposed engine. Oliver returned to his fortress, finding it better than when he left it. Twice as tall, twice as strong, infinitely more glorious.

Each day the strange Man passed, and each day he passed closer and closer, finally crossing through the yard. Prior to that, the only one who would cross through the yard was the Paper Boy, everyday bringing more. Eventually the Man passed through daily and freely as though he were strolling through a park. The only exception being if the Man saw the Neighbor at his Trans Am. On those days the Man journeyed at an absurd distance, inconveniently far away.

One day the Man stopped. “I know your name,” he said.

Oliver glanced up.

“Is it Glen? Maybe Reuben?”

Oliver looked away.

“Maybe it’s Huey, Dewey, or Louie?” the Man paused, “I know what it really is, your mum told me, she’s my friend. She said it’s Oliver.”

Oliver smiled, and moved The Golem.

“My name, I had to give it to myself. Your mum named you, but my daddy named me and he was a villain. I named myself Indian. All the greatest heroes and warriors were Indians, and I became a good man when I gave myself that name,” Indian finished.

Oliver’s hand trembled. The action figure dropped out.

Over time the comments expanded beyond broad greetings and generalities, they became open doors. Doorways through which Oliver refused to step. Invitations to conversations the boy did not want to have.

Day by day Indian tried something new, saying something about the neighborhood, cartoons, superheroes, even Oliver’s mum. With the crossing always came a kind word, a warm greeting, a comment on Oliver’s toys, or the cartoon or superhero t-shirt he was wearing. Oliver did not like it, Oliver did not like Indian, but he was always so polite, and knew the names of all the toys! Nothing worked, Oliver never responded.

Until one day Indian hit upon the right detail, “You know The Golem really isn’t the hero, he’s the villain. The Grim’s the hero, but The Golem stole his identity and does evil in a good man’s name.”

With his eyes as big as hub caps on the Trans Am next door the boy could not help but retort as the passion for his hero flared within him.

“No he isn’t! The Golem’s a good guy.”

Halfway through his second sentence he teetered. His stance wavered and the fear of talking to Indian overtook him.

“Let me show you, back in my trailer I have the proof. I got all the comic books. All the original issues. Goin’ way back into the sixties. When I was little, fresh little pumpkin peach like you,” he said.

Indian reached down for the boy. Oliver shrugged him off, taking The Grim he ran inside the trailer.

Several weeks passed, during that time the only person to cross the yard was the Paper Boy. His Mum had no visitors, and Indian did not come. Even the Neighbor failed to make an appearance, having given up on the now tarp covered Trans Am. Finally, Indian appeared again.

Indian stood far up across the other side of the road, acknowledging Oliver with only the slightest of nods. Paralyzed at the sight of Indian, Oliver stood, regarded him, holding his position in the yard, but not waving back.

As the next several weeks passed, summer turned to fall. The days grew colder and more damp, the papers came later, and the sun set earlier. Indian once again inched closer and closer to the yard, until he was again crossing the yard, returning to general pleasantries he greeted Oliver, “Hi little friend.”

Now thoroughly the heart of fall, the leaves were a dying rainbow of red and orange. Oliver grew comfortable with the routine. The moment of encroachment a long forgotten memory, the Man’s passing became the highlight of remarkably uneventful days, greater even than the delivery of the newspaper.

One day, moments after the Neighbor parted from his again untarped Trans Am and disappeared into his shed, Indian stopped in the yard. In his hands, a comic book featured the splash title “THE GRIM AND THE GOLEM.” Oliver did not know the comic book, but he knew the characters.

Entranced by the cover, Oliver yanked it out of Indian’s hands. It featured a weeping Golem standing over a grave that read “Here lies, The Grim.” The title at the bottom read, “Brother’s Keeper.” Oliver did not know what the words meant, but he knew they were beautiful. With greater desire than he had ever before known, Oliver wanted to open that comic book. To step through the doorway of the mylar bag and live in that better more vibrantly colored world.

“You like it?” asked Indian.

Oliver responded with a nod.

Indian leaned into the space of the boy, Indian’s beard brushed Oliver’s cheek. The beard scratched the boy’s soft skin just a little, but he did not move away. In the discomfort he felt a closeness he never felt with a grown up before. A warmth that the Special Company nor his Mum ever showed him. Oliver thought this must be what it is like to have a Dad. In a whisper Indian spoke, “Do you want to see more?”

This time, Oliver spoke clearly, loudly, full of anticipation, “Yes!”

Saying it the way he would have said it if his dad asked him to go for an ice cream, wherever and whoever he was. Indian nuzzled Oliver. Oliver wanted to inch away, to flee the grotesque encroachment, but again he froze in the intimacy.

“I’ll tell you all ‘bout The Grim and The Golem, and Hero, and his son Hero II, even Vigilance. All of ‘em. I know all their stories. I have all the comics, and more toys even than you!” he shouted.

It again confused Oliver. He did not understand why Indian knew about the action figures, why he knew so much about comic books and cartoons, but again, he battled back his worry for the sake of this strange new closeness.

“Come to my trailer, I have boxes of ‘em in my bedroom,” said Indian.

Indian leaned back and took Oliver by the hand. Oliver extended the comic up to the man, but Indian pushed it back upon the boy, “No, no, you hang onto that. That one’s for you.”

With the comic book dangling down behind him in his free hand, Oliver walked hand in hand with Indian. They strolled out onto the road and down over the crest of the hill. Just after they were out of sight the Neighbor returned from inside his shed, dragging a soiled gray tarp behind him. Staring at the space vacated by Indian and Oliver. He shrugged and covered the Trans Am with the tarp.

Down they went, down to a spot, hidden behind uncared for hedges and bent jagged shrubs, there Indian lived. The yard, filled with car parts and various other elements of mechanical junk and construction debris, a virtual wasteland. Near the door sat a pile of trash, mostly discarded pizza and take out boxes, flies and maggots populated the stack.

Oliver halted, with a whimper he spoke, “I want to go home.”

Before Oliver finished his sentence Indian swung a short piece of rebar, splitting the side of Oliver’s skull. He failed to knock him unconscious. Still clutching the comic book his eyes searched for an escape that would not be found. With a yank, Indian pulled the now bloody comic book from Oliver and tossed it on the porch. He took Oliver, dragging him by his foot. Blood trickled from the wound across the yard, then the porch, and then into the house. Oliver’s exposed skull bumping over the metal at the base of the screen door.

Inside the house, Indian stood over Oliver. The house stunk even more strongly of garlic and motor oil than Indian. Oliver ceased to see a man, he now only saw a monster. With his dark deep set eyes and his roundness, Oliver was reminded of The Grim. The villain who shared the appearance of the hero. Oliver saw The Grim, the man was gone.

Oliver took away the last lingering threads of humanity that The Grim carried, nothing of the man could be left. That made it better.

As The Grim dead-bolted the door behind him Oliver thought of the screen door, “He left the screen door open.” Oliver’s last clear thought.

The hours and days that came after were a haze of pain and confusion. A million images a second with crystal sharp clarity in his mind. He could not feel them, but he saw them. The images taunted him, like a collection of memories that did not belong to him, but belonged to someone who lived long enough to understand what they meant.

For days it went on and on, The Grim did terrible things to Oliver. Oliver wept and bled. He saw The Grim during the torment. He only understood the pain, pain being all he came to know. His last knowledge. His deepest.

Oliver decided The Golem did not exist, there was only the betrayer, only The Grim. Upon this realization he gave up. He stopped believing in God. He stopped believing in his mum. He stopped believing he ever had a dad. He stopped believing in superheroes. There was no good, good was a figment of a child’s imagination. A product of a small boy’s split skull.

After a week infection set in. The gash split wider each time The Golem tormented him. The wound throbbed, the world pulsated and bent in all directions with great awful surges of blistering pain. The gash festered, with the stench growing ever more pungent, The Golem grew tired of Oliver.

In the dead of a crystal clear fall night, under the light of the moon, The Grim took Oliver, cradling him in his arms and carried him out the back door of the trailer. Through the tall dead corn and into the deep dark woods on the other side, The Grim carried him.

There in the woods at night, using a industrial steel wire, The Grim strung Oliver up, threading a noose of cold metal wire around his neck. The Grim released him, the wire tightened, slicing into Oliver’s thin neck. The pain did not register for Oliver. He did not know there to be new pain, or more of it, only that it continued. It was pain on top of pain.

He hung in the breeze, swaying back and forth, the resultant twitching, a muscular reaction. He did not try to escape.

As Oliver hung from the tree his life squeezed out of him. He saw The Grim, doing something to himself. Oliver did not know what it was, but he knew it was bad. Oliver did not know it yet, but he had died, the image of the hunched Grim became his last memory. The Grim roared in satisfaction and stumbled away, back through the forest and into the corn.

The boy’s lifeless body swayed in the breeze. The hurting stopped. There was only one feeling left and it was that of numbness. There was one more thought, “My mummy doesn’t know I’m gone.” Then once and for all, nothing.

The boy’s corpse hung, swaying, waiting to be found.

Suddenly there was a great bright light. Great columns and colonnades surrounded the courtyard to an etherial trailer park. The sun beamed as though it came from everywhere at once, everything glowed, the world smiled. Thousands upon thousands of cartoon characters and human sized action figures stood cheering at the center of the courtyard. Oliver noticed his mum next to the Golem, together calling him over to them. Picking Oliver up The Golem cheerfully heaved him up onto his shoulder. Overhead several fighter jets darted by leaving a wake of fireworks that read, “Happy Birthday Oliver!”

A whimper on the wind the boy stood. He looked up, there he saw himself, hanging from a tree, snow upon his shoulders, the ice preserving his body. He knew he was dead and that was okay. He knew what dead bodies were, they were corpses. He was kind of like a super hero now, Corpse Boy. He glided above the snow.

Watching himself as the leaves trickled down around his corpse he wondered, “How did I die?”