A few pizza crusts, a piece of chocolate, half a protein bar, and an expired Pepsi... lately, it hadn't been easy to find such delicacies all in one dumpster. For weeks, it seemed like no one in Rotten City had leftovers anymore.
And Rotten City isn't some small town—it's a massive metropolis with an even more massive population. The dumpsters are no exception: there must be hundreds, maybe thousands of them. And yet, somehow, finding something edible had become harder and harder. Just a few months earlier, Smog had found an almost-whole pizza on the street. Only one slice had been eaten. He'd wolfed it down in just a few bites—not a problem for someone like him.
Smog was a monster, even if he never really thought of himself that way. People were the ones who reminded him, pretty much every time they saw him. That's why he lived off garbage, scavenging for food. In fact, he couldn't remember ever doing anything else in his life.
What else could a monster like you possibly do, Smog?
Smog stood about six-foot-three and didn't even remotely resemble a human. Maybe in the dark, from a distance, he could fool someone for a second—but up close, no doubt about it: he was a terrifying monster. His skin was completely green, tough like leather, rough and uneven all over. At the end of his muscular arms and legs were long, strong fingers and toes, tipped with sharp claws. His head was big, round, and bald, with huge yellow eyes and a wide mouth that could swallow a whole hamburger (if one ever happened to show up in the trash).
Life in Rotten City was boring—or at least it was if you had to stay out of sunlight just to avoid being seen. Smog spent most of his time lurking in the city's dark alleys. To get from one alley to the next, he couldn't just stroll across the busy streets in plain sight—a frightened taxi driver would probably run him over without a second thought!
Who wouldn't run you over, Smog? You're a freak.
So instead, he had to climb the tall buildings—easy enough with those claws—and leap from rooftop to rooftop, hidden from view by the nearly tangible smog blanketing the city. When he had to travel farther, maybe across the whole city, he had no choice but to go through the sewers.
Smog spent a lot of time in the sewers. Down there, he didn't have to worry about being seen. And the stench wasn't all that different from what drifted through the filthy streets above.
From the drain grates in the sidewalks, the monster could watch the passersby on the other side of the road. That was basically his television. He liked watching people. Everyone dressed differently: some wore tight clothes, some wore baggy ones, some looked like they were barely wearing anything at all. For some reason, Smog liked watching the females more than the males, though he couldn't quite explain why. There was also a kid—maybe eight years old—who passed by every day around four in the afternoon, probably coming home from school.
As if you know what school is, Smog. You've never even seen the inside of one.
Smog liked that kid. He seemed nice. A little chubby, with very blond hair and thin-rimmed glasses. He always wore a bright orange backpack and shorts that were about half a size too small.
Like you know anything about clothing sizes. You don't even wear pants, Smog.
But the kid hadn't shown up in two days. It wasn't Sunday, so he definitely should've gone to school. Maybe he was sick? Smog felt sad, though he didn't really have a good reason to be. There were still plenty of people to watch. Evening came, and Smog's stomach had already started to growl that afternoon. He didn't feel like eating trash. Trash was disgusting. He wanted something tastier. Something alive. He wanted to devour a freshly killed prey.
Without hesitation, the monster began sprinting through the sewer tunnel, heading from the southern part of the city to the east, where he emerged from a barely visible manhole. The east side was perfect for hunting: a river ran through it. The water was filthy, polluted beyond belief, but if you looked carefully—and got lucky—you could still find the occasional fish. Making sure he stayed hidden, Smog crept the hundred meters or so to the riverbank. Cars rolled by at regular intervals... not getting caught was almost too easy.
Groan.
I know what you want, monster. You want fresh meat, a prey still warm from the kill. You want to eat some human, don't you, Smog? Is that what you're after?
A group of guys was standing outside a bar, drinking beer and smoking. They hadn't seen him. They were distracted. Defenseless. Easy prey... Smog had to climb over a building to avoid being spotted and came back down just a few meters from the river.
He dove in.
The water was cold—freezing cold—but his tough skin didn't let him feel it. Smog was at home in the water. He was pretty sure he was some kind of amphibian; he could stay submerged for hours before needing to surface. His uncanny swimming ability only added to the theory.
It was dark—pitch black. Smog had to rely on pure instinct. He swam for several minutes without luck, until something brushed against his foot (or paw). It had to be big. With lightning-fast reflexes, the monster grabbed it with his claws—and to his delight, it was a fat, juicy fish.
He tore it apart in seconds. Finally, he was full. He floated near the surface, playing dead, eyes turned toward the sky. There were no stars to look at in Rotten City—the air was too polluted.He got bored quickly and decided to head home.
Home... though it wasn't really a home. It's just that Smog didn't know a better word for it, so that's what he called it. It was a section of the sewer system where barely any runoff passed—practically dry. Actually, it was the only part of the entire underground network that stayed almost dry all year. That's why Smog chose it as his resting place. It was from there that he liked to—well, not exactly liked, but let's say used to—watch the people walk by above, on the sidewalk.
Smog climbed out of the river around midnight—and there, right in front of him, stood a man. Couldn't have been older than twenty-five. He was clearly drunk, holding an empty beer bottle.
"Oh shit! Help! A monster!" the man yelled. Smog didn't have time to explain. In fact, he wasn't even sure he could talk... he couldn't remember ever trying.
The man took off running in a panic, while Smog quickly made his way back to his so-called home, bothered by a strange, wet sensation around his eyes.
You scared him, Smog. You're terrifying.
He got home, fixed up the couch, and flopped down on it. He'd found that couch on the street. Someone had probably abandoned it, hoping some poor soul would pick it up. And Smog was a poor monster: he really didn't like sleeping on the hard sewer floor.
Piled up next to the couch were various tattered issues of the monster's favorite comic: Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. He didn't have the whole collection, of course—just the beat-up ones he managed to find in the trash. He loved that comic. The characters lived in a situation so similar to his...
But they're four. You're alone, Smog.
He loved reading about the turtles for one specific reason: as he flipped through the pages, he could pretend he was their fifth brother, having fun with them. But tonight, he didn't feel like reading at all. He fell asleep.
Normally, just an hour of sleep was enough for Smog to fully recharge, but that day, he decided to sleep a little longer. He woke up with the first light of dawn, and the usual routine began again.
"Breakfast is the most important meal of the day" he thought as he emerged from a manhole in search of something to munch on.
Good job, Smog. Go find yourself some garbage to eat.
The sun was blazing, but the shade was almost pleasant. Smog decided to head behind Pechino Specialties, the local Chinese restaurant near where he "lived". There was always something tasty in their dumpster.
"Bingo!" thought Smog, stuffing his face—without even chewing—with almost three full spring rolls he'd found in the bin. The day had started off wonderfully.
A massive pigeon poop splattering right on his shoulder brought him back down to earth. That happened a lot: Rotten City was full of pigeons. Still, the incident helped restore the cosmic balance of luck and misfortune that governed Smog's days. No way two good things could happen in a row.
The rest of the day dragged on, as boring as all the others. For lunch, Smog managed to catch and devour two pigeons and drank straight from a public fountain for nearly a whole minute. Then he went back home to watch people walk by on the sidewalk, as usual.
At four in the afternoon, after two full days of absence, the blond kid Smog liked so much finally showed up again. Something was different. His face was different. The kid's right eye was swollen and completely purple. The monster understood right away—he'd been beaten up. He wasn't stupid. Was that why he hadn't come around for two days? Had he been hurt that badly? But who could've done that to him?
Smog couldn't just sit with these questions. He needed answers. He kept an eye on the boy, following him from the sewers, peeking up through the manholes that dotted the sidewalk every ten meters or so. They stopped (well, one above and one below) at a bus stop.
The boy got on the bus a few minutes later. Not wanting to lose sight of him, Smog stuck his head out of the manhole just enough to read the bus's destination: Singing Valley.
You can read, monster? Monsters don't read!
He knew where to go—he knew the location of every manhole in the city, and there were plenty in Singing Valley too. He ran as fast as he could, first on two legs, then on all fours.
His destination was basically on the outskirts of town, far away. At least 10 kilometers. Luckily, Smog had never truly understood the concept of fatigue. He couldn't recall a time he'd ever pushed himself so hard he felt tired. In fact, thinking about it... maybe he wasn't even capable of it.
Singing Valley was probably the most luxurious neighborhood in Rotten City. Instead of massive gray towers that all looked the same, Singing Valley was filled with villas and gardens. The streets had no potholes, no trash along the sides. The air was clearer. More breathable.
Smog crawled out of a manhole, fresh as ever, but sure he'd arrived too late. To his great surprise, he saw the bus still in the distance—it hadn't reached the stop yet. He hid behind a perfectly trimmed bush and waited.
The kid with the orange backpack—the color clashing oddly but nicely with his black eye—was the only one to get off. He started walking toward home. Smog followed, hidden, growing more unsure of himself with every step. Why was he even doing this? If the kid got beat up, it wasn't really any of his business... And yet, he kept going.
What are you trying to do, Smog? Don't you see this place isn't for you?
The house the boy entered was one of the biggest. It was tall and painted a lovely shade of pink. It had a huge garden full of trees, where many birds chirped in perfect harmony. There was even a stone fountain right in the middle of the lawn. The boy walked in through the main door, while Smog climbed over the fence and slipped into the garden.
It wasn't easy for a monster nearly two meters tall to hide, but luckily, Smog managed to climb up a tree very close to the house. He settled on a sturdy branch and started eavesdropping.
"Hi, Mom!" said the boy. "Oh, Nigel, finally! I was so worried!" answered a woman's voice. Nigel spoke again: "Oh, come on, Mom. There's no need to worry." "After what they did to you? Of course I'm worried!" "Colin and the others already apologized. They won't do it again." "Don't trust bullies, Nigel!" the woman said sharply.
"Bullies," thought Smog "of course". How had he not thought of that? Following Nigel all the way home made no sense—the problem was at school! Suddenly, the monster felt dumb, almost embarrassed with himself. Even if the problem had been at home, what would he have done? He stayed sprawled on the branch, contemplating the greenery around him for a while. Then he noticed a nest on the highest branch. Inside were probably some delicious eggs, but Smog decided to wait for Mama Bird to return. That would make for a more filling dinner.
The air was fresh and clean, and Smog—lulled by the almost dreamlike atmosphere—didn't even realize his eyes were growing heavier and heavier. He woke up hours later to a sudden noise. It was dark—it must have been night. The monster looked down at the garden and saw three shady figures dressed in all black sneaking along the house wall. One was tall, one short, one had dark skin.
"I can't wait to rob these rich motherfuckers!" said the dark-skinned one, gleefully. "Burglars!" thought Smog, staring at them from his branch, just a couple of meters above. "What if we get caught?" asked the tall one, his voice laced with doubt. "That's easy—we kill 'em like dogs," snapped the short one.
A wave of confusion and fear swept over Smog—feelings he'd never known before.
These burglars wouldn't hesitate. They'd kill Nigel if they had to! What could he do? Would he really let that happen? After all, it wasn't his problem...
"Let's break in already," said one of the three.
What do you think you're doing? You don't even know that kid!
And yet, Smog felt there was something different about this child. His face was too kind to be cruel.
Nigel would never have called him a monster.
In fact, if he stopped the burglars, maybe—just maybe—he'd thank him and even hug him.
Ridiculous.
Smog dropped down from the branch, landing right in the middle of the three men.
All of them were shorter than he was.
"What the hell?" "Shit!"
The dark-skinned burglar swung a hammer at his head. The monster dodged it easily and slapped the man across the face so hard he collapsed to the ground.
He spun around and dashed at the tall burglar—fast as lightning, deadly as poison.
Blam! Blam! Blam!
He froze.
A sharp pain flared up in his back, in three distinct spots. He felt something warm trickling down toward his feet.
He turned and saw the short burglar, white as a sheet, pointing a still-smoking gun at him.
He had just shot him.
Smog charged at him—eyes bloodshot—knocking the man backward.
He jumped on top of him, ready to strike with a crushing blow.
Not to knock him out. To kill him.
Meanwhile, the tall burglar had started sprinting down the road without ever looking back.
Blam!
Another pain. This time in his shoulder.
He'd been shot again.
Smog looked up and saw a man in a bathrobe, standing at a second-floor window with a rifle.
"Get off my property!" the man roared, clearly furious. He had to be the homeowner—maybe even Nigel's father.
Smog knocked the short burglar unconscious with a powerful blow, preparing to explain the situation as best he could.
After all, he was only trying to help.
Blam!
Another bullet hit him—this time in the leg.
"Monster! A monster!" screamed a shrill voice.
Smog looked up again to see where it came from.
It was Nigel, standing beside his father.
The boy was pointing straight at him, face frozen in terror.
"Shoot him, Dad!" Nigel yelled.
What did you expect? You know what you are.
He ran as fast as he could toward the street.
He had five bullets in his body, but the wounds didn't hurt all that much. What bothered him more was again that damn damp feeling in his eyes.
The walk home was completely silent.
Not that Smog usually talked much, but this time, even his thoughts were quiet.
He just wanted to crawl back to his corner of the sewer and sleep.
He wanted to forget.
Back in his neighborhood, Southband, he climbed out of a manhole to get a breath of air in his favorite alley—like he did most nights.
"Aaargh!" screamed a voice in front of him.
It was a girl with rust-colored hair, caught in the act of spraying green paint on a wall.
Smog froze, unsure of what to do.
"And what are you supposed to be? You scared me!" she said, smiling.
He didn't answer.
He just stood there—three meters away from the first person he could remember who hadn't instantly hated him just by looking.
"You're hurt! Let me help you."
She took a step toward him, and instantly Smog leapt backward.
"Wait!" she called out, but the monster was already climbing the wall. In seconds, he was gone.
"Nigel's just like all the others! I helped him and he still chose to hate me!"
Smog hurled his couch across the sewer canal, slamming it against the opposite wall.
"But that girl... she wasn't like that.
She was the first person who ever offered to help me."
He felt stupid all over again. Why had he run away like that?
That night, Smog made an important decision.
Yes, people were cruel to him—even when he tried to help them. But not all of them. One in a thousand was good. And that girl he'd just met? She was living proof.
The monster decided he would keep helping others. Because for every thousand he saved, one might be a good person. And for him, that was enough.
Who knows? Maybe that one person might even end up caring about him...
Don't count on it.
And yet... he hoped.
Smog adjusted his couch and fell asleep.