Sundays. The royal feast days of childhood. A time when the only calendar entry was “Do absolutely nothing and be as dramatic as possible while doing it.”

  The sun was out like it was paid overtime, the wind was doing pirouettes through the trees, and somewhere in the background, a pressure cooker was hissing like a dragon with asthma. This was peak suburban ambiance.

  But this wasn’t just a regular Sunday. No sir.

  This was the kind of Sunday where gods are born.

  The clouds began to gather in the sky with all the subtlety of a theater kid ready for their solo. No rain yet — just dramatic thunder rolls and lightning flashes like the weather was practicing its jump scares.

  Mom said it might rain. The sky said, “Let’s make it epic first.”

  And just like that, after exactly 127 minutes of watching Thor, something awakened within me — something ancient, powerful, and wildly unsafe.

  Fresh off a Thor movie binge and high on delusion, I had my hammer (courtesy of Dad’s definitely-not-child-approved toolbox) and the unshakable belief that I was the chosen one. There was just one thing missing.

  A cape.

  Because every self-respecting superhero needs one. It’s not just fabric. It’s identity. It’s flair. It’s what separates the gods from the guys in pajamas.

  So I began my quest.

  I scoured the closets like an archaeologist unearthing ancient textiles. I checked under beds, inside drawers, behind the sofa cushions (don’t ask why). I even stared longingly at a curtain for a full minute before realizing it was screwed into the wall and I lacked both tools and upper-body strength.

  And then… in the forbidden lands of the "guest bathroom," it appeared.

  The Towel.

  Fluffy. Pink. Decorated with delicate embroidered flowers and definitely meant to dry the hands of royalty or possibly aliens, judging by how off-limits it always was.

  Was it a cape? Absolutely not.

  But did that stop me?

  No. Because when destiny calls, you don’t say, “Oh, sorry, I don’t have the right accessories.”

  No. You tie that guest towel around your neck, ignore the faint smell of lavender and danger, and declare it a cape with the confidence of someone who thinks gravity is optional.

  It flapped behind me as I stepped outside — less like a majestic superhero banner and more like a fancy napkin in a tornado. But to me? It was glorious.

  And thus, towel-caped and hammer-clutching, I stepped into the courtyard.

  The wind howled. The trees whispered.The courtyard transformed before my eyes.

  No longer just a patch of slightly overgrown grass and a suspiciously wobbly clothesline — it was now the battlefield of Asgard. The wind howled like a beast awakened, and the rustling leaves sounded like whispering enemies plotting my downfall.

  I squinted dramatically at nothing in particular. That’s when I sensed them.

  Frost demons. Invisible. Ruthless. Probably slightly chilly.

  They were here.

  Clearly.

  I couldn’t see them, of course — that’s what made them so dangerous. But I knew. My instincts were sharp, like a sixth sense forged from movie marathons and sugar crashes.

  With a battle cry that sounded suspiciously like a sneeze, I leapt forward in the most majestic, semi-controlled flail known to mankind. My cape-towel exploded behind me in the wind like a floral parachute. My hammer — heavy, slightly greasy, questionably safe — was raised high.

  And then I swung.

  I spun. I twirled. I leapt and landed like a thunder-powered ballerina with zero choreography.

  Invisible enemies fell all around me in droves — probably. If anyone had seen me from a distance, I either looked like a Norse god or a small child fighting off a bee in slow motion. Either way: unstoppable.

  I ducked. I dodged. I swung wildly at empty air with the confidence of someone who had absolutely no exit strategy.

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  By the end of it, I was sweating, triumphant, and just slightly dizzy. The frost demons had been vanquished. The backyard was safe. And I was a hero.

  Our courtyard wasn’t grand, but it had character — the kind of backyard where every broken tile and overgrown weed had a story. And in the far corner, like a silent, leafy sentinel, stood the mango tree. Majestic. Ancient. Possibly older than time itself (or at least older than my math homework).

  Its branches swayed gently in the breeze, and I swear — swear — they nodded in approval. As if Mother Nature herself had decided, “Yeah, let the boy cook.”

  Beneath its sacred shade lay the Bricks.

  A tower of terror.

  A fortress of evil.

  A bunch of construction leftovers my dad had stacked with geometric obsession, likely planning to build something important… someday… maybe… probably never.

  To the average eye: boring, red bricks.

  To me: the final battalion of frost demon scum, mocking me with their quiet, rectangular defiance.

  This was it. The climax. The final boss level.

  I stepped forward, dragging the hammer behind me like a cowboy in a spaghetti western, minus the hat and with slightly more mosquito bites.

  And then — with a roar that could only be described as “prepubescent yet passionate” — I raised the hammer and swung with the fury of ten thousand thunderstorms!

  CRACK.

  The sound rang through the courtyard like a divine mic drop. The first brick split cleanly in two, as if it had been waiting its whole life for that moment.

  I stood there, breathing heavily, heart pounding, possibly foaming at the mouth just a little.

  I had done it.

  I was unstoppable.

  Brick after brick, I rained down divine justice like a pint-sized Norse war machine. Each swing of my hammer sent shockwaves — or at least small poofs of dust — rippling through the courtyard. The air was thick with glory, crumbling masonry, and the faint smell of mango leaves and questionable decisions.

  Dust exploded around me like I was demolishing a tiny villainous village. Red shards flew in all directions — one even landed in a flower pot, which I later claimed as "collateral damage in the war against evil."

  My confidence? Astronomical.

  I wasn’t just breaking bricks — I was forging legends. With every satisfying crack, I imagined lightning arcing from the skies, as if the heavens themselves were giving me a standing ovation. My body tingled with electricity.

  (Though, looking back, it might’ve just been the early signs of dehydration.)

  The brick pile began to shrink, brick by defeated brick, like a boss health bar slowly ticking down. And me? I was deep in the zone. Eyes wild. Hair wind-blown. Face streaked with sweat, dust, and raw heroism.

  I didn’t see danger. I didn’t see destruction.

  I saw destiny.

  And maybe — just maybe — the faint outline of my future as a god, action figure, and inevitable movie franchise.

  I was nine.

  But I was immortal.

  And then… it was over.

  The battlefield lay silent.

  The dust settled like the final scene of a war movie, and I stood amidst the rubble — cape flapping gently in the breeze, hammer hanging triumphantly at my side, and a wild gleam of victory still flickering in my eye.

  Every single brick lay shattered, neatly cleaved in two like I’d been trained by the gods themselves. The pile? Gone. Obliterated. Reduced to archaeological remains.

  I had done it.

  Asgard was safe. The frost demons were vanquished.

  The world would remember this day.

  …

  And then came the shadow.

  It crept across the ground like a bad omen, long and heavy, stretching toward me like the hand of fate itself.

  I turned slowly.

  There, standing in the doorway, arms crossed, expression frozen somewhere between “What am I looking at?” and “Someone’s not sitting for a week,” was my father.

  He didn’t say a word.

  He didn’t have to.

  His eyes did all the talking — first at me, then the hammer, then the mountain of pulverized bricks that had once represented “some important repair project”, and then back to me.

  Each glance felt like another nail in my mythical coffin.

  His face was going red — not just “mild sunburn” red. No. This was lava-grade dad fury, the kind that silently screams, “I was going to use those bricks… for ten years… eventually!”

  I stood frozen. Cape fluttering. Covered in sweat, dust, and shattered confidence.

  Just moments ago, I had been Thor, God of Thunder.

  Now?

  I was just a 9-year-old with a hammer, a death wish, and no idea how to rebuild a single brick.

  “What... have... you... DONE?”

  My dad’s voice boomed across the courtyard — louder than any thunderclap I’d conjured in my mind. It was the kind of shout that made birds fly out of trees and souls leave bodies.

  I froze.

  Hammer in hand.

  Towel-cape flapping in the wind like it too knew this was the end.

  My Asgardian fantasy shattered into a million dusty, brick-colored pieces.

  “I… I was testing my power…” I stammered, weakly — the last squeak of a boy who had just gone from Norse god to neighborhood clown in record time.

  “Testing your power?!” he repeated, blinking like he couldn’t believe his ears. “Do you know how much work you’ve just created for me?!”

  Spoiler: it was a lot. Those bricks weren’t props. They weren’t set dressing. They were for actual, real-world, grown-up stuff — repairs, walls, probably things I would never be trusted with again.

  And now they were dust.

  And I was doomed.

  The punishment came swiftly, like a divine sentence handed down by Odin himself:

  One hour. Kneeling. Outside.

  Not indoors where I could suffer in private like a gentleman.

  Outside. Where reputations go to die.

  I was stripped of my cape. My hammer was confiscated. My pride was on life support.

  And as I knelt there on the cold, unforgiving concrete, the neighborhood kids began to appear… like sharks smelling blood in the water.

  “Hey Thor! Where’s your hammer now?” one called out.

  “Careful, he might summon a storm if you laugh too hard!” another snickered.

  “Oh no, he’s charging up! Someone hide the bricks!”

  The jokes kept coming. Relentless. Creative. Painfully accurate.

  One kid even walked by with a toy hammer, just to rub it in.

  He nodded solemnly and said, “Don’t worry, bro. I’ll carry on the legacy.”

  I stared ahead, knees aching, soul broken, plotting silent revenge involving mangoes and well-placed sticks.

  Even the mango tree — my leafy companion from earlier — offered no comfort. It just stood there, a silent witness to both my glory… and my collapse.

  Deep down, beneath the layers of shame and bruised knees, I learned two valuable truths:

  1. Even superheroes face consequences.

  2. If you’re going to “test your powers,” maybe don’t obliterate your dad’s building materials.

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