Nice Guys Finish Last

Gunter stormed the tent, his stubby legs ramrodding towards the sitting knight. Taking his jester cap off he slammed it into the hay strewn ground of the tent. “What the hell was that, Byron?!?! You almost didn’t go down!”

Byron sighed slumping forward, defeated, his plate mail clanking. “I know how to actually joust. I have a master’s degree in medieval history and specialize in that era’s combat techniques. It was not pretty, it was brutal. I barely felt the hit when Petal made contact. Couldn’t you just give me a pass? Yeah, I almost missed my cue to take a fall but I thought we were about realism…”

Gunther wrung his hands before playing with his sweating triple chins. The obnoxious bells of the jester outfit he could barely fit into shook with anger. Spitting tobacco bits from the stubby cigar that rolled around in his ruined mouth before poking Byron in the chest plate. The small, rotund man might as well have been towering over the sitting actor.

“First, his name is not Petal. It is Periwinkle. Sir Periwinkle of the Dawn of the Lady Rose. Second, it is a show. It is not real. People don’t want real, they want heroes that triumph. They want fresh young faces in armor that crush evil. You are the evil knight. When you see wood splinters you eat dirt. That is the way it is. People pay for that sort of shit.”

Byron gazed towards the tent entrance, “Nice guys finish last, right?”

“They don't if they follow the freaking script!”

To make his point, Gunther raised a hand as the crowd went wild, cheering for their champion outside the tent. Wiping a hand through his short spittle coated beard the jousting manager patted Byron on a steel-clad shoulder before softening his voice a touch.
“Honestly, I’d love for you to bring about some realism. I know you could tear through these guys like tissue paper, but Prince Valiant types sell. Handsome armored good guys sell. Face it, children cry when the bad guy wins. We are all about making hopes and dreams come true even if it is for a little while. We are a decent sized faire and people love what we do.”

Nodding just to quiet Gunther, Byron looked at the visor of his dark helm, tracing his fingertips over the once intimidating helm. His voice dropping in volume with every word. “I know. I just…I don’t know.”

Gunther spit again, “What to know? You got two more falls and the season is over. Get out there, do your job. Sell it to them and treasure those smiles the good guys get.”

Hearing the announcer’s amplified voice calling for the treacherous Sir Kull, Byron rose donning his helm. “I guess nice guys finish last.”