Dedicated to Andy Duferense; I’d like to say he was a good man.

 

 

 

 

 

Contents:

One of many ways you can become a protagonist

Rule One – Never Look Back

Rule Two – Prepare

Rule Three – The Spy

Rule Four – Backstory

Rule Five – Survive?

 

 

 

 

 

 

being a protagonist is incredibly deadly if you are not fully trained and user discretion is always advised, please remember that this is only advice and if by following this advice you come to a gruesome yet fitting heroic death or become a mortally wounded war veteran with a badass scar, you cannot sue us. If you become a protagonist, run. Before it is too late. The police cannot help you now. They are coming.

 

 

 

 

One of many ways you can become the protagonist

Be careful.

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In the first moments of his existence, the Protagonist of our story was internally commenting on how mundane it all was. Perhaps, how it was incredibly hard to see at night; especially since half of the street lamps didn’t work and the ones that did illuminated a harsh spotlight, and little else.  A scene pulled from ‘How to Write a Horror Story – The 10 Year Old’s Edition’. The kind you hear about in cliché after cliché – dark and extra ordinary; as if the writer were somehow lulling you into a sense of false security by making the setting so inconceivably dull that you should think very little of it.

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WHACK!

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In the second moments of his existence, the protagonist was dumbfounded to the sudden change of scenery as he regained consciousness. The pain in the back of his head ebbed as he recovered from the blunt object injury. The scratching of a burlap sack on his handsome lone wolf whiskers. Just as he was thinking this the sack was ripped from his head and suddenly it all made sense - he had been kidnapped. But why?

 

He was the protagonist.

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And this (he presumed) was his villain. Late 40s male with the distinctive ‘evil’ face scar warping his weathered scowl at the middle and slicing diagonally to just under his right eye (probably given to him by his father as a reminder of his hard home life which “forced him into a life of crime”) He wore a large trench coat, black. From The Protagonists’ positioning, the best he could gather about his surroundings was that he was facing the back of some sort of empty warehouse; the metal walls barely standing under their own weight and peeling away, as if a tornado had ripped through here scarcely moments before their arrival. The Villain stared. The Protagonist stared back.

 

They stared.

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 “Are… Are you going to say anything? Are you deaf?” The protagonist remarked, eyebrow raised and his quick wit ready to fire. “I would use sign language but I’m a bit… tied up here.”

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The Villain squinted again, to the point where the Protagonist assumed one of two scenarios were happening: The Villain was impersonating Donald Trump or he was attempting to communicate telepathically. If so, neither were working.

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“Seriously if... if you’re checking me out right now, I don’t swing that way.”

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“It’s been a long time.” The Villains voice was especially villain-esque – gruff and emanating a ‘I-Stab-Puppies-For-Fun’ tone.

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“I’ve… literally never seen you.”

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The Villain ignored him. “Who do you work for?”

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The Protagonist jeered. “Do I look employed?!”

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“Yes.”

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The Protagonist drooped, then flinched; the cheap twine rope that bound his wrists was clawing into them. “Fine… I work for the Romanian Doughnut Smugglers – Would you have a minute to discuss the destructive donut insufficiency in outside nations?”

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The Villain was not impressed.

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“It’s just awful, think of the children!” The protagonist rambled. “God why won’t anyone think of the children!?” He threw his head back, reviling the heavens and ripping his arms free of the twine. He held his arms up in fists to the skies, falling to his knees screaming. He slammed his right fist into the concrete floor, his left into the Villain’s crotch.

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Rule One of Being the Protagonist

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Never look back.

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“There will be a bad guy behind you.”

 

The Protagonist dashed out the warehouse; he was surrounded by a smoggy skyline and warehouses. Before setting off he sent a departing glance over his shoulder to the Villain, who was doubled over like The Hunchback of Notre Dame.

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The Protagonist needed normal civilian houses to use as a hiding spot, like most action films with Jason Statham in. The sound of gunshots billowed out from the road behind him along with the raw snarling of an engine. Six Harley-Davidsons emerged from a back-alley. The Protagonist dived into another suspicious-looking alley on A-Lot-Of-Warehouses Street, as he so coined it. A mesh fence denied him from his escape route and he was overcome with aggressive, brash, body-builder bikers.

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They stood in the stereotypical boy band photo formation, complete with two bikes behind to emphasise their ‘bad boy’ phase, and the six closed in on our hero. The first was a man bulging out of his rags, to the point where you could see his straining veins. The Protagonist assumed this to be the ring leader of the bikers. Fred the leader of the biker gang.

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“Alright. Thuh boss sent us boys, betta do this right.” Fred addressed his ‘boys’ with a thick ‘I-Eat-Children-For-Breakfast’ accent. “Giv’ us y’ur monies.”

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The Protagonist was torn; material possessions or life in a wheelchair?

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Fred held out his open palm. At the same time, a young teenage boy with a boom box and a bouquet of roses passed the alley; the protagonist of another kind of story – lucky kid.

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The Protagonist was in an inescapable situation. But… he has a special power we in the business like to call a ‘Plot Shield’, meaning on the off chance you are the protagonist, you simply aren’t allowed to die because the story would be over too soon. With this in mind, our Protagonist could feel a cold, smooth pipe in his right inside trench-coat pocket. He tentatively reached inside and pulled out a Smith and Wesson M&P revolver, much to the surprise of everyone present.

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Fred gave a war cry, almost smacking his chest. The other five burst into a buzzed bolt towards him with fists locked and loaded. The Protagonist fired. The recoil jerked the gun out of his hand, and one biker flew back.

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A biker’s clenched fist swung for his head. The Protagonist ducked and grabbed his arm from underneath, pulled him up and over his back; He flipped him into the two bikers on the other side. The Protagonist stood back up straight just in time to grab a fist aimed for his gut and twist it behind a biker’s back. The biker took deadly blows meant for the Protagonist, and he fell limp. His shield was suddenly ineffective, probably leaving him with many broken ribs. The Protagonist had to think of a plan to take down the remaining two bikers. Four bullets were left in his revolver, he dived for it on the gravel, just in time to shoot one before he was tackled to the ground by the other. They struggled and struggled.

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BANG!

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They both stopped. The biker looked over to Fred, whose foot was smoking and bleeding profusely. Kicking with his injured foot, he stampeded towards the men and rocketed his boot into the stomach of the biker. He flew, as elegant as a slim hawk piloting a jet, until he came down with a chorus of sickening cracks, snaps and wallops.

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The Protagonist arose. Fred smiled a yellow-toothed threat. The Protagonist’s hands blurred and Fred crumbled to the floor, with the throwing knife the Protagonist had kept up his sleeve sticking out of his chest.

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RULE TWO OF BEING THE PROTAGONIST

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Prepare witty one-liners prior to needing them.

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“Stuttering is not cool.”

 

 “Damn I… I had something for this.” The Protagonist stood over the ring leader of the gang, aiming with one eye open and one locked tightly.

Fred used the last of his strength and will, wheezing “It’s... k-knife…. to meet you…?”

“Damnit, shut up, Fred.” The Protagonist muttered, kicking Fred in the side and ideally breaking a rib or two. The Protagonist made a mental note of what he should do next, as this had all been a little insane and he needed to plan ahead, expecting another gang to jump out from every alley like a violent rendition of West Side Story.

                     

                                                                   TO DO LIST:

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RESEARCH ONE-LINERS

GET AMMUNITION

FIND THE VILLAIN

KILL THE VILLAIN

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(STOP FOR HEAVY GLOATING AND FLIRTING)

 

The Protagonist had no idea how to go about getting ammunition. He just sort of figured it would be endless, considering he was the protagonist. It seemed this wasn’t the case, and he would need to go looking for some extra ammunition.

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For today, he decided to go home, make a cup of tea and watch some old episodes of Mock The Week. He didn’t fancy this ‘protagonist’ stuff. He just wanted to wave to the lovely old grandma who baked apple pies and invited him around for tea, to the hoodlum teenagers who would share their usual greeting of a sullen silence and a dirty look, and to the groggy old man on the end of his road whom he’d heard was once an astronaut.

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With this, he waved down a taxi hoping that the driver wouldn’t notice his bloodstained clothes.

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Twenty minutes later, he looked up from his Twitter app to the taxi driver to throw a sum of money his way and waddled to his front door, trying (and failing) not to trip over potted plants and scary monsters that looked like they were real objects but were actually just shadows. That’s when he noticed something and sighed, rolling his eyes at the writer who just couldn’t quit it.

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The latch on his door was broken.

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Rule Three of Being the Protagonist

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Embody a spy stereotype

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“What would James Bond do?”

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He tightened his fingers around the grip of the revolver, breathing deeply and soothing his shaking boots.  “Hey, if you’re in there, I don’t have anything of value.”

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There was no sound.

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The Protagonist bit his tongue and nudged the door open with his shoulder. It was too dark inside to see anything. “Oi, seriously. Out. C’mon.”

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He hoped for a reply.

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“Please.”

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“At least you’re polite.” The voice wafted from inside. It was deep, like tulip petals. “Unlike most men.”

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He let his guard down, running one hand through his hair and letting his left hand hang loose with the gun swinging on his index finger. “Come on out, Miss.” Charming and defined, he grinned cheekily inside making sure to use his most effective blue steel look. “Wouldn’t want to call the cops on such an innocent little lady, I’m sure this can be explained easily.” He heard the clicking of heeled shoes, gaining speed towards him---

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WHACK!

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A wave of de ja vu hit him. Waking up from being knocked out? Check. Tied to a chair with cheap rope? Check. Headache? Check. But maybe that was just last night with Debra from his office. He opened his mouth and closed it repeatedly, trying to stretch out his aching jaw. He was in his living room, bound to a cold, metal kitchen chair. It was never a ‘rad bachelor pad’, but it suited him just fine. The carpet had always reminded him of a cheap Premier Inn or a tacky B’n’B in Blackpool, and the wallpaper could have been stolen straight from the 60s. He had a single shelf with books clobbering over each other and the rest of the furniture had an eloquent, chic, IKEA feeling to it, especially the 80’s sofa he had perched in front of a coffee table, staring straight at him with offensively bright colours. “Did you punch me?”

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“Yeah.”

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“This isn’t what I meant when I wanted you to hit on me.” He sighed. The woman wandered into his living room from his kitchen.

 

“You were annoying me.” She replied bluntly, cocking her head to the left and sitting on the sofa in front of him. She wore a very… flattering… low-cut red dress and red high heels with distracting red lipstick and her blonde hair curled around the frame of her defined face. She smiled at him briefly and curtly, crossed her legs before speaking. “Your presence was requested at the Pentagon.”

 

“The Pentagon.”

 

“Yes.” She said so casually it made him laugh. Her voice was distinctly… I-Am-The-Only-Woman-And-So-We-Shall-End-Up-Sleeping-Together-Because-You-Are-The-Protagonist-esque. Or at least to the protagonist, that is.

 

“The Pentagon? The super cool American military base Pentagon? The Pentagon?”

 

“Yes.” She sighed, already sick of his moronic disposition.

 

For the Protagonist, this was his childhood wet dream. An attractive woman, gangs, the Pentagon… What more could a man ask for? She promptly untied him, apologising for any bruising. She instructed him to fill a long-stay suitcase, as he was no longer safe here and would need to be under constant protection. The Protagonist ran into his room and pulling up a large metal suitcase from under his bed. He debated taking guns, but just kept his revolver in his inside pocket, still with two bullets inside. If he was in need of ammo, the Pentagon would surely be fully stocked. He rolled his now full suitcase out of his house and followed her to a white van which just screamed “child molester”, parked at the foot of the path. It had  the word “PENTAGON” on the side, in black messy spray paint. She opened the sliding back door. He smiled and nodded to the woman, about to push his suitcase into the back, when he himself was pushed into the back by a set of large, familiar, calloused hands.

 

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Rule Four of Being the Protagonist;

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Have a mysterious and terribly sad backstory

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“Become the Batman.”

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They had been driving for hours, maybe. The Protagonist was riding in the back of the van, with his hands again bound with rope; He was accompanied by his old friend Fred and The Villain.

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“Y’know,” The Protagonist started “when I was a kid my cat died. His name was Fred too.” Fred barely paid any attention to the Protagonist, discussing matters in what sounded like Russian with the woman in red who was in the driver's seat. “It was really sad, actually. Taken before his time. Hit by a truck. Whenever I see that Coca-Cola Christmas advert on TV, you know the one right? With Santa and the truck?”

 

…

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“Well, that really triggers me.”

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Fred rolled his eyes, talking more urgently to the woman in red. The Protagonist finally realised he had been fooled. He wasn’t going to the Pentagon. In light of this, he decided to edit his previous mental note.

 

                                                            TO DO LIST:

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̶R̶E̶S̶E̶A̶R̶C̶H̶ ̶O̶N̶E̶-̶L̶I̶N̶E̶R̶S̶ ̶

GET AMMUNITION

̶F̶I̶N̶D̶ ̶T̶H̶E̶ ̶V̶I̶L̶L̶A̶I̶N̶ ̶

KILL THE VILLAIN

SURVIVE

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        (STOP FOR HEAVY GLOATING AND FLIRTING)

 

“Are we there yet?”

 

“…No.” The Villain replied.

 

“But I need to pee.”

 

“What?”

 

“You heard me.”

 

The Villain exchanged looks with Fred, then muttered. They then turned to the woman in red, whose voice aggressively flared up. The Protagonist took that as a resounding no.

 

Another hour of driving and the van dry heaved to a gradual stop. The woman in red stepped out and rolled open the side door. The Villain got out, gesturing toward the Protagonist to Fred. Fred grumbled and yanked the Protagonist to his feet. The Protagonist rolled his eyes. “Not so rough. This jacket was, like, £50.”

 

Fred pulled the Protagonist like a dog, into the burning outdoors. They were in a field in the middle of no-where, so it was likely that they were in Yorkshire. Fred was tugging the Protagonists further and further away from the white ‘Who-Wants-Sweets?’ van. The woman in red, somehow not struggling to walk perfectly on a grassy field, stood with arms crossed, shoulders broad and head up. The Villain stood next to her. Maybe, the Protagonist thought, he had misjudged who the Villain was. Although it was far too late to change their names around now.

 

Fred cut the rope binding his hands. Which, on his part, was a massive mistake. The Protagonist whipped the revolver from his pocket, disposing of Fred with a single shot. Fred roared, stumbling to the floor like Voldemort at the end of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows (except a little less dramatic). The Villain and the Woman In Red pulled their pistols. The Protagonist smiled. “You can’t kill me.”

 

“Why not?” The woman in red raised an eyebrow.

 

“I’m the protagonist. I have a plot shield.”

 

She smirked. “But there’s only 199 words left.”
 

Oh no.

 

He grabbed the body of Fred and used him as a veiny, dead cover (which was a feat as he was such a muscular man). Behind his shield of meat and muscle the Protagonist’s mind was racing. This isn’t the way the story was supposed to end. He was supposed to win.

 

The Villain fired a few rounds into Fred’s body, but The Protagonist was completely enveloped in a bloody pile of bulging muscle. The Protagonist checked his gun - one bullet left; he waited for the Villain to get closer and closer, until he could throw the body of Fred on top of him and crush him like Dorothy’s house in The Wizard of Oz.

 

He ran at the woman in red and tackled her to the muddy ground. She dropped her gun in shock, but managed to punch him in the face with her other hand. He was startled for a mere moment but that was all she needed.

 

She grabbed his gun, put it to his skull and pulled the trigger.

 

 

Rule Five of Being the Protagonist

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Ignore all previous rules

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“I suppose being the hero isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, huh.”