Champ

When Elgin had been born, the first thing his grandmother had said was, and he's paraphrasing here, "he looks just like his father." He paraphrases, because she used some colorful words that he'd rather not repeat. He likes to lead a pure life, unlike the man he resembles. Resembled, actually. He's dead now, along with his tradition of pulling the worst pranks on the 90th day of the year. 

He refuses to name the date aloud, as if it is haunted. He'll let you do the math.

At the age of eight, Elgin had encountered the first truly awful prank. The other years had been kinder to him. That's not to say they had been kind, replacing chocolates with Brussel sprouts, or unplugging the tv. That eighth year though, that had killed his spirit.

It was a Thursday. He had awoken late, and was scrambling to get ready for school. He tugged a sweater over his head, knocking his glasses to the floor. When he had opened his underwear drawer, he was shocked to find his sister's thongs in his drawer. His hand flew up to his face. 

Okay, so he had put his glasses back on. This wasn't some sort of blurry illusion. 

He cringed, digging through the pile. Every last pair of his briefs were gone, all replaced by lace and string that his sister had begged her mother to let her wear, because all the cool girls were doing it. 

"Elgin, hurry up or you'll miss the bus!" his mother called from the base of the stairs. He scurried across the hall to try the knob on her door. It was locked. She always did this before she headed off to school.

He ran back to his room, surveying his options. His sister was a waif thin girl, and he, being a bit portly, could, hypothetically, fit into her underwear. It was either that or go commando. 

"Have a good day, Champ," his father grinned as he ran down the stairs, yanking his pants up to avoid showcasing his whale tail.

He did the exact opposite, flashing the entire classroom his lime green g-string as the class bully pantsed him, screeching 'April fools' to the sound of laughter. Lots of laughter. He grabbed for his waistband, fumbling as the teacher came in.

That one had ended in detention.

The twelfth year had been a disaster. His father had turned the heater on in his room to a sweltering ninety degrees. He woke in a sweat, drenched in a pool of it. 

It was a Tuesday, so he had to rush to clean up before school. Normally he would reserve his showers for after school. With gym being the last class of the day, he could wash off all his hard work and smell like oranges, instead of dirty socks.

He turned the water on high. Suddenly he was hit with the smell of chicken soup. Who would cook soup so early in the morning?

No, nobody was cooking soup. That was him! He noticed the wrapper for a bouillon cube in the trash. It glinted gold, and he cursed himself for not thinking to be extra cautious that morning. 

Elgin made his way downstairs, still wrapped up in a towel. His mother took a sniff at him.

"Do you know if Dad tampered with the garden hose out back?" 

"Pretty sure he's out there now. Sorry sweetheart. You want a ride to school to use the locker room showers before you start?" She took a sip of her coffee, coughing. He had replaced the sugar with salt.

She drove him in. His bully wandered in to put something in his locker, seizing the opportunity, and his clothes, while he was at it. He no longer smelled like chicken, sure, but he no longer had anything to wear.

He ended up wearing his gym clothes all day, freezing in shorts and a tank top. Stupid prolonged winter.

Stupid pranking holiday.

When he was seventeen, the holiday landed on a Sunday. That should have been great news. He could hole up all day inside and not have to worry about a thing. Except there was the fact that his father was also off, and was probably going to make his day miserable.

He decided to drive to the city. There he'd be separated enough from his father to not fall victim to his pranks.

That evil mastermind had already thought ahead of him. Screwed into his back license plate, he had screwed on a novelty. It had read 'Pls Honk.' Which many, many cars did. 

Elgin hated driving as it was, and was slowly losing his nerve to keep going. It completely went to shambles as the siren went off behind him. He pulled over, wondering why he hadn't thought to pee before he left.

"Hello officer."

"License and registration."

He dug into his wallet, only to find that his dad had given him a novelty ID as well. His name was Seymour Butts. The officer frowned, unamused.

"Sir, it seems my father pulled a prank on me." He struggled to find sanity as he dialed his father's number, only for it to go straight to voicemail. His heart beat practically out of his chest. Any further and it could honk the horn.

"You're going to have to come with me," he eventually said, leading him back to the police car. His leg felt wet. As they reached the car, his father jumped out from the passenger seat, and then his feet started to feel wet as all broke loose and his bladder failed him.

It was all another prank. He hated his father. He hated this excuse of a holiday.

Which is why, two years later when his old man kicked the bucket, he washed his hands of it. April first was going to be a day for good deeds. He would make up for nineteen years of bad juju. 

He started with his landlord. His downstairs neighbor had three kids and overdue bills. The walls were thin, and he could hear her crying at night, trying to make ends meet. 

With his rent check he included a note.

'You'll notice I've paid double this month. Please use half to cover apartment 3. -Elgin P.S. This is our little secret.' 

He slid it into his landlord's palm carefully, holding eye contact for a few seconds before fleeing. He wanted to be out of sight when the envelope got opened. Congratulatory back patting was unnecessary, and frankly awkward. He had things to do, and getting a verbal gold medal was not one of them.

Filling out the form in the waiting room, he nervously clicked the pen. The secretary pushed her seat back to bring him a new pen. A non-clicking pen.

"Sorry," he said, looking over the form. "I'm afraid of needles."

"You sure you want to go through with this then?"

He assumed a false confidence. "Of course. I'll be fine."

The nurse in the room had chuckled when he put the blindfold on. If he didn't see the needle, he couldn't fear it. All it would do is take some blood and donate it to people who needed it more than him. Hoarding all of his blood would be selfish.

At the last tube, the nurse, who had been so kind to turn on a video of Weightless, swearing Marconi Union was the most soothing song to ever exist, at least to Google, turned down the song to congratulate him.

"You did good, Champ."

Champ. She could have called him anything but champ. Even Onion Boy would have sufficed, as he had accidentally burped when she sat down, the remnants of his breakfast greeting her nostrils. 

She bandaged him up and gave him a juice box. He slurped it down, and everything tasted like onions and apples. He had survived. 

There was no time to celebrate conquering his fear. The flower shop was closing for lunch. If he didn't make it, the entire day would get derailed. He rushed through a few yellow lights and dropped thirty dollars on flowers.

The cemetery was deserted. He took his time wiping the headstones clean, each given a yellow flower. If nobody ever visited these souls, at least he did. Each soul would have one yellow flower to cling to, hope that someone, even if not their family, cared.

He approached the last grave.

"Hi Dad." He played with the stem of his final flower. "It's your favorite day today. It's almost weird, not having to watch my back for your pranks. I'm going to go visit Mom today, cook her dinner. I've decided not to continue your legacy and start my own."

Wind rustles in the trees. He wonders if his dad is responding. He wonders if it hurts when he doesn't leave him a flower. 

He doesn't say he loves him either. That'd be lying. 

And lying is not a very good deed at all.