The Golden Age

By Kaleb Quist

Once a generation, there comes a novel bursting with spectacle and drama, inspiring the hearts and minds of readers all over the globe...This is NOT one of those novels.

THE GOLDEN AGE is a slice-of-life comedy/drama which follows a group of elderly superheroes stuck living together in a nursing home. Stripped of their pride and superpowers, they must face their greatest adversary of all: RETIREMENT!

In a last ditch attempt to stay relevant, our heroes stage a mutiny against the nursing home, vowing to take the power back...Even if it kills them in the process!

THE GOLDEN AGE reflects the inherent fear of growing old in a world that treats its senior citizens like second-rate citizens. In the end, what becomes of our heroes when we have no more use for them?

Read what TOP CRITICS are saying about the latest violation of the Geneva Conventions, THE GOLDEN AGE:

“At least you tried.” – my mom

“If I could, I would pay to have this removed from the internet.” – an actual Facebook review

“I can’t read any of this s***.” - a blind man

“(dead drunken silence)” – Ernest Hemingway

“I’ll see you in court.” – Alan Moore

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

KALEB QUIST is the 7,832nd best writer in the world. What a miracle that a man who's both blind and illiterate can write an entire novel. Simply amazing.

THE GOLDEN AGE started out as a film project, but was immediately scrapped when it was discovered that you need money to make a movie. We humbly apologize for any inconvenience.

Check out these other award-winning novels from KALEB QUIST, including:

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kaleb Quist
• Release date: Nov 1, 2021
• ISBN: 9798540492669

Kaleb Quist

After being forcibly kicked out of an all-you-can-eat buffet, Kaleb Quist decided to change his life forever by moving to Hollywood (otherwise known as “The New Sodom and Gomorrah”) and becoming the number one screenwriter in a 5-block radius. In a world plagued by superhero movies, Kaleb Quist decided the only solution was to plague the world with even more superhero movies. Thus, “The Golden Age” was born.Mr. Quist tried selling “The Golden Age” to various studios and production companies within the Hollywood system. After discovering he had no soul left to sell, however, the entire project fell through, and he was forced to write books instead. The only problem with selling books on Amazon is [statement redacted by Amazon].Also, did you know that when you go to a fast food restaurant and buy a burger, you’re actually buying horse meat? It’s true – horse meat is actually cheaper than cow meat. This is because Mad Human Disease wiped out roughly 90% of the world’s population of cows. When you’re driving down the road and you see a bunch of cows, they’re actually a bunch of horses dressed up like cows, to hide the fact that the milk you’re buying at the store is actually coming from a horse. This conspiracy was put into place by Psycho Mantis after a crippling battle between the Space Soviets and the dinosaurs in the Great Battle of Knob Noster, Missouri, in which almost ten billion cows were killed. This is because the Moon Soviets – under the command of Space Emperor Gorbachev – tried creating a virus to wipe out the velociraptors, but ended up wiping out the cows instead. It was okay though, because they just used catapults to launch all the cows at the stampeding dinosaurs, who were being ridden by clones of Space President John F. Kennedy. Why did my wife leave me for a horse

Book preview

THE GOLDEN AGE

A Novel by Kaleb Quist

ISSUE #1

THEY SHALL GROW OLD,

BUT THEY SHALL NEVER GROW UP

The early morning Sun rose to greet a whole new day, steadily climbing the bright blue of the sky, until its light was free to shine down on the world below. Its glistening rays beamed down like the spotlight of God, seeming to smile on everyone and everything. It was the same old Sun we’ve seen time and time again, and yet the rising of the Sun always signified a new day, and therefore, new chances and new possibilities. New things would turn into old things, but old things would give rise to new things again, until it kept going in a never-ending cycle, just like the coming and going of the days themselves.

In the midst of these new possibilities, the Sun washed over the wrinkled old eyes of a wrinkled old man, who laid fast asleep in bed with the blankets draped over his silhouette. The blinds on his windowsill were cracked open slightly, giving just enough room for the Sun to shine through, until it spread evenly across every inch of his bedroom.

The old man laid on his back, since it always hurt his shoulders whenever he slept on his side. Laying on his back meant he was more prone to snoring, however…And snore, he most certainly did.

In fact, this old man snored so loudly, so uproariously, the neighbors probably thought there was a chainsaw-throwing contest going on at the retirement home next to them. Either that, or someone was using some kind of strange new lawnmower, which somehow growled and wheezed at the same time. It was the same old snoring of the same old man who’d been living there for years now, and yet, strangely enough, it sounded different every single morning.

The old man’s eyes were so dim, the brilliant morning Sun wasn’t enough to wake him up; just like his hearing was so subdued, the sound of his own snoring (quite remarkably) wasn’t enough to wake him up either. Instead, what woke him up was the feeling of his own bladder, which practically screamed at him through a pair of tightly-clenched tighty-whities.

At last, the old man opened his eyes, which were so weary, and sunken so deeply into his skull, it looked like he hadn’t slept a wink. No matter how much sleep he’d gotten, it never seemed like enough. Even death wouldn’t have sufficed him or given him the kind of rest he needed.

The first thing that popped into his head was how grateful he was to wake up and face another day. At his age, this kind of luxury – which we so often take for granted – was never a sure thing…

But then, the second thing that popped into his head was the toilet – the porcelain throne, the holy grail of human waste, the birthplace of politicians and corporate bureaucrats alike – and how he desperately needed to make it there, as fast as he possibly could.

There was a problem with this scenario, however: His body was old and weak and frail. Whether or not he could make it to the toilet in time completely depended on how he felt from one day to the next…

This morning, he was feeling particularly unlucky.

He tried rolling out of bed – groaning as he twisted his back, while a shockwave of pain shot straight up his spine. At this stage in his life, it was painful simply to move around, which meant it was agony simply to exist.

He set his feet down on the cold, hard laminate floor. There was a railing attached to the side of his bed, which he clutched onto for dear life.

Though it took some time, he managed to pull himself up, until he was standing on his own two feet. Already, he was out of breath, even though he’d barely done anything. It felt like time itself was slowly weighing down on him, until it suffocated him more and more, as the days dragged on.

His failing bones weren’t the only thing slowing him down, however. Even though he was just now getting out of bed, God knows why he was dressed like a colonial soldier from the American Revolutionary War. He wore a black colonial hat on his head – which did little to cover his messy head of gray hair – along with a blue trench-coat, made out of thick fabric, which draped all the way down to his ankles. The seams of the trench-coat were solid gold, which shimmered under the light of the distant Sun. A row of golden buttons went up the edges of the trench-coat, though he never buttoned them together.

Underneath his trench-coat, he wore a bright red vest, which was buttoned-up all the way to his neck. The vest was made completely out of silk and always seemed to glisten, even when the Sun was too lazy to give its light. Besides this, he wore a white jabot around his neck, along with fluffy white cuffs around his wrists, in order to match them. These white frilly things made him look like a true aristocrat, which is exactly how he thought of himself.

Since that apparently wasn’t comical enough, he wore cowboy boots with the American flag painted across them, the stripes running across his feet while the stars ran up his heel. The boots went all the way up to his ankles and were nestled comfortably over a pair of black trousers. The trousers themselves were made out of solid spandex and clung onto him so tightly, they highlighted every lump, every bump, every wrinkle, and every last bit of cellulite etched out of his skin. Naturally, this made him look more out of shape than he already is. There was even a slight bulge sticking out of the groin area, despite the fact that there wasn’t much ammo left in the metaphorical chamber these days.

A golden utility belt was strapped around his waist, which had the unenviable task of holding up his beer gut, much like Atlas holding the world on his shoulders. Almost miraculously – in all the years he’d been wearing this particular belt – it had never come apart, no matter how pregnant he might have looked. Regardless, the belt was something of a ticking time bomb, considering his beer gut was only growing rounder and heftier by the day.

The utility belt had several pouches in it, which he could use to casually smuggle medication, leftover bits of food, or even sporks from the kitchen area. Sporks were in constant demand around there, since the residents always preferred to use them over regular forks and spoons; but for whatever reason, the management there never ordered that many of them. Because of this, any opportunity he had to hide sporks in his utility belt was a golden opportunity.

Of course, a costume like this wouldn’t be complete without a black domino mask, which he used to conceal his identity. Though the mask covered his eyes, it did little to hide the scars and wrinkles which decorated his face, including one for every villain he’d ever faced.

Actually, it would be unfair to call this costume a costume at all. If anything, it was more than just a costume. It was a part of who he was, sewed onto the very fiber of his being. It was something that defined his very existence and gave him a reason to get out of bed in the morning…In other words, an unhealthy measure of who he was as a human being.

For that reason, he never took this costume off. He wore it while he was eating, while he was sleeping, while he was bathing, and even while he was getting out of bed in the morning, just like he was doing now. Asking him to take off his costume would be like asking a piano player to cut off their fingers, or like asking a marathon runner to break their own legs…In their mind, there would be no place for them in this world anymore.

His name was The Militia Man – secret identity unknown – and he was determined to don this very same costume until the day of his own demise. After all, this costume which was just as much a remnant of American history as the man himself. The Militia Man was a figure of truth, justice, and the American way, with little regard for communists, fascists, or anyone who disagreed with his political opinions, even slightly.

Despite all this, the Militia Man had trouble getting out of bed in the morning, every morning, and this morning was no exception. Every quest to the bathroom was a perilous one, when it felt like every step was a mountain to climb, and even the slightest wrong move could throw out his back or send him collapsing to the floor.

Like the other residents, the Militia Man had his very own bathroom nestled inside his bedroom. It was only a short walk to this bathroom – maybe ten or fifty or even twenty steps – but for him, it felt like an eternity as he dragged his feet across the floor, one after the other, in imperfect succession…

The Militia Man’s bed was just the right size for one person to toss-and-turn in excruciating pain all night long, which was exactly what he did. There were railings attached to both sides of the bed, which not only helped him get out of bed in the morning, but helped him so he didn’t roll out of bed in the middle of the night. At his age, nothing his body did would surprise him anymore.

The railings had a number of buttons scattered across them, most of which the Militia Man could never figure out. There were some buttons to raise and lower the bed, which typically, would help an old person get out of bed in the morning. However, the Militia Man never used them because he claimed they were for sissies and communists. Thus, rather than easing his way out of bed every morning, he chose to drag himself out of bed and endure the horrific, agonizing pain instead. Somehow, this made him look more manly in his own eyes, despite the fact that it constantly left him feeble, drooling, and out of breath.

There was a remote control attached to the wall by a long, winding cable, which looked like an old telephone cord. The remote control had a big red button on it, with one simple but terrifying word: "HELP." If the Militia Man pushed this big red button, it would set off an alarm, which would trigger the nurses to come help him. Occasionally, he would push the alarm button as a prank, which always got him a stern talking-to from all the other nurses.

Across the room, he had a dresser filled with new socks, new underwear, and nothing else. He had one outfit, and one outfit alone, and that was exactly how he liked it.

Sitting on top of the dresser was a TV, which he occasionally watched to help him doze off to sleep at night. However, he often became frustrated with the sheer abundance of commercials, which seemed to bombard him with every flip of the channel. Back in his day, there used to be TV shows with a side of commercials; but nowadays, it seemed like it was all commercials with a side of TV show.

Besides this, there was a small desk where he never sat, along with a stack of old comic books sitting on the desk, which he never read. Though the comic books were more like pieces of biographical history at this point, they’d been collecting dust for the better part of a decade now, much like himself.

On the walls, there were an abundance of newspaper articles from over the years, all of them yellowed and aging, despite being locked tightly within a set of frames. The articles had overexaggerated and sensationalized headlines, which read things like:

"MILITIA MAN FOILS THE CRIMSON GHOUL’S

PLANS FOR WORLD DOMINATION…AGAIN!"

"MILITIA MAN FINDS

PROOF OF ELECTION FRAUD!"

"MILITIA MAN RESCUES

SCHOOLCHILDREN FROM COMMUNISM!"

"WHO CAN STOP EUROPE

FROM DESCENDING INTO CHAOS?

ONLY THE MILITIA MAN CAN!"

Essentially, every single news-piece lauded the Militia Man on beating the bad guys and saving the day, which was exactly why he’d kept them after all these years. Nothing gave him more confidence and more motivation than reading a bunch of outdated headlines from before most of the world’s population was ever born.

That being said, the articles ranged in date all the way from the mid-1940s to the early-1960s. Whenever there was a picture next to the headline, it showed a much younger Militia Man, complete with a head of dark hair and virtually no wrinkles. Despite wearing the exact same mask with the exact same colonial costume, his muscles bulged out of the costume so unstoppably, it was a miracle any of the seams were still intact. His jawline was sharper than steel anytime he smiled wide for the camera. Meanwhile, his pearly-white teeth always seemed to glisten with godlike perfection, much like the rest of his superhuman figure.

Besides the newspaper articles, there were Keys to the City hanging on the walls, which had lost their edge decades ago. The keys had been awarded to him over the years, as a means of thanking him for saving a number of major cities, including Manhattan, Los Angeles, and Washington DC. To anybody else, however, they were nothing more than oversized paperweights now, which is about all they were good for.

While you were busy reading all of that, the Militia Man was still busy making his way to the bathroom, dragging his feet across the laminate floor, slowly but surely.

During this time, many things ran through the Militia Man’s mind, number one being how redundant this morning was already turning out to be. After all, this was the exact same thing that happened every single morning. Yesterday morning, he’d already made the exact same journey to the bathroom. Tomorrow morning, he knew he would made the exact same journey again, just like the morning after that, and after that, and after that…

Essentially, he felt like he was living out the same morning, over and over again, without fail. If anything, it felt like he was trapped in some sort of perpetual time loop. Forever damned to grow old, while also living out the same day, over and over again, at the exact same time. If there was a Hell, surely it couldn’t be any worse than this.

At last, the Militia Man made it to the bathroom, in an exciting, pulse-pounding, heart-throttling feat. On top of that, he managed to yank the toilet seat up without throwing his back out of place, perhaps his most daring achievement in years.

As soon as he unbuckled his utility belt, his beer gut drooped down so far, it almost looked like it was going to fall off (though quite honestly, it wouldn’t have upset him if it did). He fumbled for his zipper as fast as he possibly could, feeling like his bladder was going to burst at any given moment. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could hold it, and he didn’t want to embarrass himself any more than he already had, simply by being him.

Thankfully, he managed to undo his zipper and start relieving himself in the porcelain bowl, right in the nick of time. Immediately, he let out a sigh of relief as he felt the warm liquid leaving his body, slowly deflating his bladder and making him feel like a normal human being for once.

There was just one more problem, however: His urine didn’t go in one direction, but in a whole bunch of different directions, no matter how much he tried to control it. Not only did it make its way into the porcelain bowl, but on the rim, on the floor, on the toilet paper, and even on his pair of all-American cowboy boots.

Immediately, he yelled out, Oh, Goddammit!! along with every other curse word known to science, and then some. This included words like, Oh, shit! You sonuvabitch! You fucking bastard! and perhaps most colorful of all, You literal dick! which he yelled at his own private parts, with enough disgust and contempt to blot out a thousand suns from the night sky.

When he finally finished relieving himself, he thought about kneeling down to clean up the mess his trouser-snake had made. But in the end, after very little thought and consideration, he decided it was too much time and hassle for his bad back, which could potentially collapse like a Jenga tower at any given moment. Thus, he left his own waste-juice all over the floor for somebody else to clean up instead (which was probably why his bathroom was always shrouded by the stench of urine).

Thank God, he decided it was worth the time and energy to wash his hands. He walked over to the sink and turned the faucet on, waiting for the water to get as hot as it possibly could…

He didn’t wash his hands until the water was blazing, scolding hot, with steam shooting all the way up to the ceiling. After all, he never felt like his hands were truly clean until they were bright red from being soaked in the fountains of Hell for at least 20-to-30 seconds. The same principle applied for when he was bathing, since for him, there was no better feeling than blistering hot water practically melting through his old, withered layer of skin. At this point in his life, it was the only thing that made him feel truly alive anymore.

That, and the special pills he kept stashed in his utility belt. Nobody knew about these sacred pills except for him, and that’s why he kept them hidden more secretly than the Ark of the Covenant. Though he didn’t know how to pronounce the name of the medication – and though he didn’t know how legal or illegal they were, exactly – all he knew was they made his legs and back feel better, and quite frankly, that was all he cared about.

When he was done washing his hands in a baptism of hellfire, he filled a Dixie cup with some cold water. Then, he popped one of his sacred pills in his mouth and swallowed it whole. He drank some water out of the Dixie cup to help the pill go down, making sure it didn’t get lodged in his throat like it sometimes did.

Once the pill went down, he threw some water on his face, trying to wake himself up and come back to life again.

Eventually, he looked up, staring at himself in the mirror…However, he barely recognized the old, wrinkled face staring back at him. It seemed like only days ago, he was fighting bad guys, lifting cars over his head, and shaking hands with the president. But now, his eyes had grown tired and weary of this life. He could see the pain in the whites of his eyes, just as clearly as he could see laugh lines around places where he hadn’t laughed in so long.

Militia Man’s journal. Saturday, March something or other.

The year was 1946. There was us…And then there was everybody else.

We had the whole world in the palm of our hand: The news media, the toy companies, the comic book companies…Everybody, man. Everybody was just waiting to get a piece of us.

And you know what? We was waiting to get a piece of them, too.

We beat the Nazis…We beat the Commies…We beat everybody who was worth beating. In the end, the only thing standing between us and them was our fists.

We had the Golden Age. We had the Silver Age. We had the Bronze Age…But then, when our bodies started to fail us, we embarked on a whole new age. The age of broken backs, wrinkles, and gray hairs. The age of popping pills and fighting insurance companies, instead of fighting bad guys.

But I mean really, when all’s said and done…What’s the difference?

The Militia Man had been staring in the mirror for so long, he’d lost track of time. The sink was quickly filling up with water, which was only growing colder by the moment.

The sound of running water was so constant, so droning, he barely recognized the sound of a woman’s voice, which called out to him…

"Well, good morning, Militia Man!"

It took Militia Man a moment to snap back to reality. He shook his head, trying to shake off his negative thoughts, which had plagued him for far too long.

He turned the water off. He looked over…

He saw Nurse Nina standing in his bedroom, looking over his bed, making sure he didn’t have any accidents in the middle of the night.

How are you doing, old timer? she asked him, trying to make conversation.

Every time Nurse Nina spoke, she always had a smile on her face, which was her greatest weapon, as well as her greatest defense. Though she constantly wore a smile and a cheerful façade, it was simply a costume, much like the colonial costume worn by the Militia Man. The smile was merely there to hide the constant pain she was in, along with the constant fear which lingered over her head, every waking moment of every day.

In fact, Nurse Nina was consumed by a number of fears: Fear that the Militia Man would pass away in his sleep, like so many other residents had done. Fear that he would have a nasty fall, and she wouldn’t be there to help him. Fear that he would wander off in the middle of the night, and she wouldn’t be there to find him. Though the smile was there to hide her fears, the Militia Man could see the fear in the whites of her eyes, which were constantly weighed down by a heavy burden.

Nurse Nina had dark hair, which she usually kept in a ponytail, so it didn’t get in her face whenever she bent over to pick something up. Her dark hair was matched by her dark eyes, which always looked dead tired, and therefore, only amplified the fear hidden inside of them. It was no surprise, considering she worked 12-to-15 hours a day, sometimes 6-or-7 days a week. Simply put, she was overworked, overtired, overstressed, and spent most of her waking life cleaning up dishes, toilets, showers, bodily fluids, or some combination of all of the above.

Nurse Nina’s dirty, raggedy sneakers told the tale of all the cleaning she’d done. They were falling apart at the seams and were literally held together with nothing but duct-tape. Both shoes were covered in weird stains, but where those stains had come from, she didn’t know, nor did she want to know.

Even though she changed her scrubs every day, they always seemed to reek of urine. Plus, she always found them covered in rips, tears, and other weird stains. She kept her fingernails short, so that way, she didn’t accidentally scratch any of the residents while helping them in-and-out of bed every morning. Yet somehow, she always wound up with dirt and the scent of stale bleach stuck underneath her fingernails, no matter how much she trimmed them.

Since the Militia Man never responded to her original question, Nurse Nina asked him again, "How are you doing,

Reviews for The Golden Age

[reneepaule · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

A lovely blend of the reminiscences of Kenneth Grahame's own childhood experiences, fantasy, metaphor and ancient Greek Legends. I particularly enjoyed reading the chapter 'A white-washed Uncle'.

[andy_dingley-103481 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

This is a very strange book, but it grew on me and in the end it felt quite charming.It appears as a typical Edwardian children's book, with small illustrations in each chapter head (Lois Lenski in my edition) and a few tipped-in coloured plates. But reading it soon shows a strange divergence: the grammar and vocabulary is much more adult. Even for an era in which children could be expected to know, and quote in play, the characters of the Argosy this is unusual. It's soon revealed as an adult biography instead, looking back to childhood but written in a contemporary first person narrative.If anything, this reminded me of the Just William stories. But don't tell Martin Jarvis.