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“You’re not the real Knightmare,” she says, hands on her hips. “My daddy is!”
She motions to me, so there’s no mistaking who she’s talking about. Shit.
The man eyes me with a look of disgust. “Him? Ha! He’s not the real one! He doesn’t even have the gloves!”
Madison glances at my hands. “So? He doesn’t always gotta wear them.”
“Fair enough,” the man says. “But if your father is the true Knightmare, perhaps he’d like to come down and stake his claim.”
He points at me with his sword.
I shake my head. Not happening.
“He will,” Madison says, contradicting me.
“It seems your father disagrees,” the man says. “I suppose he’s afraid of being exposed as a fraud.”
“Nuh-uh! He’s not!”
The man laughs.
Madison’s getting heated, and seriously, fuck this guy. I’d never begrudge someone their act, wouldn’t demand they break character, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to let someone antagonize me in front of my daughter. Broken wrist or not, I’m defending her honor.
“Fuck it.” I get to my feet, marching straight down to him as I say, “Someone give me a sword.”
Right away, half a dozen guys offer theirs up. I grab the one closest to me, trying to get a good grip on it with the cast. Mister Antagonizer has the nerve to look concerned, whispering, “You know we’re just playing around here, right?”
“Are we?” I ask. “I wasn’t sure.”
Look, I’ll be honest. Filming most of the second movie was a blur, but the lead-up to it, the endless hours of training for the fight scenes, is ingrained in me to the point that I could do this with my eyes closed. So while I’d probably die gruesomely if I lived back in the days of King Arthur’s court, a fucking Knightmare LARPer is nothing.
“Feel free to kneel at any time,” I tell him. “I’ll accept your surrender.”
He scoffs, those words setting him off. He takes the first swing. It’s weak, easy to block. I let him try a few more times, picking up his pattern, before I put him on the defense, something he’s clearly not used to.
BAM. BAM. BAM. Hit after hit, I go after him, following the same fight routine from the movie. It’s like a choreographed dance, one the guy knows, but he’s not quick enough on his feet to stop me. Five minutes maybe, I rail at him… he breaks a sweat, eyes wide like he’s starting to think I might actually stab him. He puts up a decent fight, enough that a few blows nearly makes me lose it, my wrist stinging, pain shooting up my arm, but I don’t stop until he kneels.
He drops his sword, dropping to one knee, and I hear Madison cheering, screeching as she runs for me. She wraps her arms around my waist, hugging me, and I laugh as I hand the sword off to whoever lent it to me.
“Man, you’re good,” the guy says with a laugh as he gets to his feet, holding his hand out. “Name’s Brad. You are…?”
“Jonathan,” Madison chimes in, answering for me. “Oh, wait, he’s Knightmare today!”
“Well, Knightmare, if you ever decide to join a LARPing league—”
“I appreciate it, but it’s not my thing,” I mumble, steering Madison away.
“Could’ve fooled me,” the guy says.
I ignore that, leading Madison back inside the convention center. “So, did we decide what we’re doing now?”
“More sword fighting!”
“Ah, I’m afraid that has to wait for another time,” I say, “but there’s still other fun to be had.”
More panels. Some shopping. Even another trivia game. She eats ice cream, getting it all over her. I buy her the Maryanne doll, so she doesn’t have to keep substituting with Barbie. It’s nearing nightfall when things start coming to a close. I can tell Madison is running out of energy. She’s quiet now, clinging to my hand.
“You ready to head home?” I ask. “I’m sure your mother must be missing you.”
She nods.
We start toward the exit, but Madison hesitates halfway there, tugging on my hand. “Wait! We forgot!”
“Forgot what?”
She doesn’t answer, instead dragging me straight over to the booth with all the standees.
“I wanna Breezeo one,” she declares, telling the worker, pointing at the standee.
“They’re $30,” the lady says.
Sighing, I count out the cash and hand it over before grabbing the standee and hauling it along with us.
We make our way through the lingering crowd and out the exit. I lead Madison around the corner of the building, lingering there as I send a message for the car to get us. It’s a minute or so out, so we wait as people wander past.
I shove the mask up off my face when I see the car coming and take a step toward it when a voice calls out, “Johnny Cunning?”
I turn, tense, and see a woman with her young son, the two of them gawking at me.
