Series:Shorts series. Shorts are short one off stories done by request of the person generally in the story. Meaning, they will be self contained even if they have characters from other stories. Good for when you are looking for a quick fight that won't hurt your eyes reading for a long time.
Socials/Tip Jar: linktr.ee/TheCelticFire
The town name wasn't important, rarely was when things hit this close to home. What mattered was the neighborhood, the block, and the two people this story is about. They were two storms, once formed, that never passed peacefully. CelticFire and Diego had lived on the same block their whole lives, but there wasn’t a single memory between them that didn’t end with fists clenched or words sharp enough to cut. It was like they were born to hate each other, and they followed their Karma to the letter. CelticFire was the older of the two, a retired boxer with heavy Irish roots (and he would tell anyone who would listen) and the kind of hands that still twitched whenever he smelled leather and liniment. Old habits die hard, and some never do. His backyard smelled like smoke and meat more often than not, barbecue was his religion now, and neighbors swore he could grill a steak so good it could end wars. Just not the one with Diego, go figure. He carried his pride like an old belt around his waist, faded but still shining when he let his temper loose. Shine might not be a strong enough word, more like... burn. Diego, on the other hand, was somewhat younger, very proud Mexican, and carried himself with a swagger that came from a lifetime in kitchens and a childhood of sparring in neighborhood gyms, and back ally, and street corners, and... well you get the idea. Cooking was his art, his release, and nothing made him prouder (or more filled with joy) than the sound of family and friends tearing into something he made. His food could seriously achieve world peace if given the chance. But under the apron? Under all that charm? There was a man who never let go of the way CelticFire had wronged him. The offense? He had no idea anymore, maybe there wasn't one, and never would be, but he still just didn't like the guy. They were both fire to flint, every single time. Sometimes it was a scuffed-up mailbox. Sometimes it was a trash can tipped over “by accident.” Sometimes it was just the way one of them looked at the other too long. Everyone on the block knew it was coming. The question wasn’t if they’d fight. It was when.
That answer would come late one Friday night.
