Stand Tall: Origin of a Supervillain
Copyright© 2026 by Dragonpig
Chapter 3: The Belt
Stan scrolls through Craigslist on his laptop, Sugar Mama’s holographic interface flickering beside him. Bella sits nearby, methodically licking a cherry snow cone.
“Stanley, bubeleh,” Sugar Mama says, “what exactly are you looking for? You’ve been scrolling for twenty minutes. My circuits are getting bored just watching you.”
“Equipment,” Stan mutters. “Weapons. Anything that gives us an edge against the other holidays.”
His eyes catch on a listing:
MOVING SALE - Magical artifacts, adventure gear, memories included. Cash only. Must pick up. Serious inquiries.
There’s an address in a suburb Stan’s never heard of. No photos. No details.
“That’s either a scam or something interesting,” Bella observes, her button eyes looking at the ad. “Want me to come?”
“Obviously.”
The house is modest—a single-story ranch with peeling paint and an overgrown lawn. Stan parks his modified battle sleigh—currently disguised as a beat-up black van—and approaches with Bella waddling beside him.
The door opens before he can knock.
A parrot. A large, blue and yellow macaw with feathers that have seen better days. He’s wearing tiny reading glasses perched on his beak and what appears to be a miniature cardigan.
“You the elf from the internet?” the parrot asks, his voice raspy but clear.
Stan blinks. “Uh. Yes?”
“Good. Come in. Name’s Salty. Wipe your feet. My sister’s already complaining about the mess and I haven’t even moved in yet.”
The interior is cluttered with boxes, bubble wrap, and decades of accumulated stuff. Swords lean against walls. Shields are stacked in corners. A magic carpet is rolled up near the fireplace. Everything looks authentic, well-used, and vaguely dangerous.
“You’re moving?” Bella asks, looking around with interest.
“Sister’s place,” Salty says, hopping onto a perch near a box labeled FRAGILE - ENCHANTED. “Her, her husband, the kids. They’ve got a spare room. Beats living alone now that...” He trails off, ruffles his feathers. “Anyway. Everything here’s gotta go. Pick what you want, make me an offer.”
Stan moves through the space slowly, examining items. Most of it is junk—tourist trinkets, broken weapons, things that probably haven’t worked in a long time. But some pieces hum with residual magic. A dagger that feels warm to the touch. A compass that spins backward. A—
He stops.
On a dusty shelf, half-buried under a pile of maps, is a belt. It’s ornate—golden buckle, black leather that somehow hasn’t cracked despite obvious age, intricate patterns etched along its length. Something about it makes Stan’s pointed ears twitch.
“What’s this?” he asks, lifting it carefully.
Salty goes very still. For a moment, he doesn’t answer. Then: “That’s ... that was Sinbad’s belt. The magic belt. We used it on all our adventures back in the day.”
“Sinbad,” Stan repeats. “As in Sinbad the Sailor?”
“Sinbad Junior,” Salty corrects, and there’s something sad in his voice. “My boy. He was ... he was the best of us.” The parrot’s eyes get distant. “Used that belt to get us out of more scrapes than I can count. Made him stronger, tougher. Helped him be the mighty sailor he wanted to be.”
Stan turns the belt over in his hands. The magic is faint but present—dormant, maybe, but not gone. “I’ll take it.”
“That one’s three hundred,” Salty says quietly.
Stan reaches for his wallet, counts out bills. Two hundred. That’s what he brought.
“I’ve got two hundred,” he says, extending the cash.
Salty looks at the money, then at the belt, then at Stan. His feathers ruffle. “Come on, kid. That’s not enough. That belt’s worth way more than that, even if nobody knows it anymore. It’s got history. It’s got—”
“Two hundred,” Stan repeats, his scowl deepening. “Take it or I walk.”
Bella shifts beside him, her button eyes somehow conveying confusion. She glances between Stan and Salty, clearly questioning why Stan’s lowballing on something he obviously wants.
There’s a long silence.
Salty stares at Stan. Stan stares back, unblinking, his expression unreadable.
Finally, Salty sighs—a very human sound from a bird throat. “Fine. Fine, you gonif. Two hundred.” He hops down, snatches the bills in his beak, and tucks them into a small lockbox on the table. “Take it. Get out. I got packing to do.”
Stan tucks the belt under his arm. “Thanks.”
“Yeah, yeah. Enjoy the belt. Hope it treats you better than—” Salty’s voice cracks slightly. He turns away, busying himself with a box. “Just go, will ya?”
Stan heads for the door. Bella follows, giving Salty one last curious look before waddling outside.
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