“What on earth is this?”
His secret nemesis, the graffiti artist Scratch, had signed and stolen credit for every piece Cuchulainn painted. If there was a neighborhood without their collaborations, it was only a short walk before one could be found. At this point, Cuchulainn had retired from art. If Scratch was going to intrude upon everything he created, he would no longer give him the satisfaction. But apparently Scratch was still eager to write his name on every surface. This morning Cuchulainn found the librarian washing it off her front door.
“Grab a sponge,” she said.
“It is Scratch!” said Cuchulainn.
“You’re not the first person to get excited about that. I guess it’s an honor, huh?”
“It is a disgrace!“ Cuchulainn spat at the door. “Do the police have any suspects?”
“The police?” The librarian wiped away the spit. “No.”
“He must know I frequent this library.”
“What?”
“That it is a second home to me.”
The librarian smiled. “Well, that’s sweet! But what are you talking about?”
“Scratch!” said Cuchulainn. “He attacks my safe space! He declares war on my peace of mind! Endless war!”
“I think you’re a little more paranoid than usual, Cuchulainn.”
“Or does he yearn for me?”
“What?”
“He knows he is nothing without me." Cuchulainn touched the door and closed his eyes. “Yet he dares to go rogue like this?!”
“Would you just grab a sponge?”
“He is too good for me now? He insults us both, Librarian!”
“I honestly have no idea what we’re talking about. But I can clean this off a lot faster with your help.”
“Very well.” Cuchulainn grabbed a sponge. “But henceforth, I am out of retirement! If he thinks I will let his solo career flourish on my coattails, he is mistaken. Ha!”
“Again," said the librarian, “no idea what you mean.”
“Him and I…” Cuchulainn whispered. "We are fated for this war of wills, until only our blood paints these walls.”
“You really need to clip your fingernails, you know that?”