The challenge: write a complete story in 500 words or less following these guidelines:

Setting: Australia when it was a penal colony

Genre: True crime + middle grade

Trope: Up shit’s creek without a paddle

Characters: Conspiracy theorist + World’s most annoying superhero

POV: First/Future

The result:

One Last Cigarette

I’ll be on my way to the bodega for what I swear will be my last pack of cigarettes when I’ll hit a brick wall.

Literally.

All of a sudden in the middle of the sidewalk there’ll be this brick wall out of nowhere. What the actual fuck I’ll say to the guy next to me, this white-haired ponytailed dude with a potbelly and dandruff on his cardigan.

“This, my inquisitive friend, is evidence of the illuminati,” he’ll say as he runs his sausage fingers along the bricks.

“Aw, shucks,” a twerpy voice says. “Ain’t no illuminati. It was me.”

I’ll turn to see a kid, twelve max, in a silver cape.

“I am Turbo Boy. It was supposed to be a portal.”

“Listen, son,” the man will say. “I am Donovan Corduroy, foremost expert on conspiracies. “Perhaps you’ve read my wikipedia page.”

We’ll both shake our heads.

“No such things as superheroes. Only conspiracies not yet uncovered.”

“Listen mister, I’m a fourth-generation superhero,” the kid whines. “That’s what my mom said.”

“And where is this so-called mother?”

“Murdered. And I’m using my portal-making powers to catch her killer.”

“Shouldn’t you leave that to the police?”

“They’re useless.” He’ll lift up a blood-stained shirt. “This here’s the killer’s blood, and I intend on using it to create a portal to catch the son of a bitch.”

“Don’t swear,” Corduroy says.

“Piss poop fart butt dick ass!”

“How about you just unmanifest this wall? I need a Marlboro something bad.”

“Smoking’s bad for you mister.”

“I’ve never kidney-punched a superhero,” I’ll say.

Of course I wasn’t planning on punching a kid. But god I needed that nicotine. “Just pull a Gorbachev and tear down this wall.”

“No!” Corduroy will throw his body against it. “This is evidence. I must study it.”

Turbo boy smirks. “Step away from it, dork. I’ve got a murder to solve.”

The kid’ll shoot both arms out. The brick wall trembles like a mother rocking her baby, then like a drunk shaking a toddler.

And the wall will crumble like it’s Berlin 1989.

Then a blinding flash and a sound like an oncoming train. I’ll smell sulfur, which only makes me jones harder for a smoke.

Finally it’ll end.

And my feet’ll be soaked.

“What the heck.”

When I open my eyes it’s not night but light. Blue skies. Scrubby desert. And me ankle deep in a creek.

“What deception is this?” Corduroy will say. “Must be some kind of illuminati mind control. We’ve got to uncover their deception.”

Just then a man’ll ride up on a horse holding the longest rifle ever, aimed at me. “What’re you doing out here?”

“Are you the man who killed my mom?” Turbo Boy will say.

“No, but you,” he points to me, “fit the description of John Wesley Rotheram. The most wanted man in Australia. Escaped in the year of the lord 1804.”

“Time travel, you little bastard?” I’ll hiss. “And all I wanted was one last cigarette.”