Part Four: Three months ago (4)

4.

Ykwanda screamed a mighty scream, awaking in a panic when a many-legged nightcrawler attacked her in her sleep. Meanwhile, one floor up, her daughter Selene had company. Chad lost his cool and fled out the 2nd floor window, the same way he entered. The nosy neighbor across the street, Mrs McConegie, up at this late hour watching her soaps (and her neighbors) saw a hoodlum exiting the Lamar's home, possibly with valuables, possibly with a collection of human heads. Needless to say, she called the police (as she frequently does). Dispatch was used to her calls, and knew her by name, so they also knew better than to take her calls seriously, yet policy requires that they do so. Eventually. Janice took the call, then checked her Facebook page to get all the latest gossip before sending a squad car to the scene. While online, she saw a particularly applicable advertisement for a nifty patchwork quilting company, and browsed their site for a full twenty-three minutes - but that has nothing to do with this Chain of Events. Officer Davis received the call to deploy to the Lamar's neighborhood while he was on the phone with his girlfriend of three weeks, Michelle, who was across town yearning. When her beau had to get back to work, she felt the need to watch a steamy romance on cable. The flashing lights of her flatscreen cast across the street alerting the neighborhood dog, who began to bark incessantly. Not to be outdone, the other dogs in the vicinity chimed in as well, creating a sinuous pathway of sound throughout this side of the the city, dog to dog. Most of the dog's masters, awoken from slumber, shouted at each of the dogs and then returned to bed in a bad mood. Eight of these people happened to be coworkers at the same investment firm, a job they all despised anyway, but today adding fatigue from poor sleep along with a generalized bad mood, the mutually decided to go on strike the following day until their employer gave in to giving better benefits, specifically dental insurance. The employer was enjoying a fine morning of golfing at the time he was informed of the strike. He was only four over par at the 10th hole, his personal best. After his secretary called him, his next shot went wildly off course, landing in the pond directly into the head of a fish in the process of leaping out of the water at a breakfast fly. Instant death, poor fishy! For three days this dispatched trout slowly decomposed until Ricky the maintenance man fetched him out. As is the way with rotten fish, they leave a stink. So Ricky, upon coming home for the evening, smelt poorly, so he didn't get no play from his ladies that evening. But again, this has nothing to do with the Chain. Back to the dumpster wherein the fishy rots. Thank the stank, this particular dumpster now has added bum repellent, as that the homeless are less likely to go diving where such extreme smells are found (Hey! Even they have standards!). As such, this dumpster was left unmolested all the way through the weekend, at which point a particularly potent batch of mould festering on the bottom suddenly sprouted legs and began to tap dance and hum its way out through the top and then across the street where it starred in a low-budget broadway musical for three weeks and a day. On the very last performance, at the pinnacle of its career, the fungus suddenly exploded, spraying spores all over the stage and dining guests, creating a massive fungal infestation. Soon the Department of Health shut the business down for contamination, and the building was condemned. Neighboring real estate began to plummet, and within a matter of weeks vendors and renters were packing up and moving out. All the combined might of pest and mold control couldn't stem the flow of tapping and singing fungus from spreading, so they had to summon the Specialists. They arrived with flame-throwers in hand and lit up the entire block late Tuesday night. Nothing ever happens on a Tuesday, so when Bill Webern, the gate security guard at Ft Burkgold, saw a significant glow in the evening horizon, he speculated for a bit about it and then set his jaw for another long pointless night. Little did he know, the four and a half seconds he watched the city glow, a pair of shadows could be seen on one of the security camera monitors crossing over the fence.

Twenty minutes later, now indoors, Stu begins to loose his cool.

We're currently crouched behind an office partition on the ground floor, attempting to ninja our way past the only manned desk in the entire room, currently occupied by a particularly rotund security guard lounging back in his office chair while his sidekick works on a word puzzle of some sort, neither one of whom seem in any way concerned with their job. The silence is intense as we wait for something to happen.

Wait...

Wait...

Wait...

"Hey Mel..."

"Whut?"

"How do you spell…?"

(silence)

"You link digital characters representing sounds in a specific manner to coherently form another perceived mental symbolic representation of human thought. That's how you spell."

"...What?!"

The radio crackles suddenly, some garbled speech on the other end which I don't quite understand, but immediately Mel clicks his set on and responds, "Yeah, I'll have Doug head right on up." Then clicks off.

"Chief Bizsnitch wants you upstairs pronto."

"Yeah, I heard 'im." Doug packs up his papers and trots out, passing directly opposite the partition behind which my knees are burning.

Apparently this has become too much for Stu. He taps me on the shoulder, and I look back. His frantic hand gestures combine with his frantic face mouthing something frantic about going back the way we had come. And because I'm like that, I play dumb and gesture back a double tap to my head, a thumbs up, an OK sign, and a bunch of other random meaningless signs for good measure. I indicate forwards and mouth back to calm down.

What do you mean calm down? He mouths back, then double-times another rapid series of hand-wavings and mouthings at me, several of which were quite explicit, all in silence.

I was in the middle of a potent reply when the silence was split in twain by a sudden gut-wrenching snore from the desk. Our two heads pop up over the partition where to all bewonderment, the pathway has now been laid clear. I smile at Stu, and we then stealth past the sleeping guard and make our way directly to a maintenance locker room in which we quickly change into some of the spare uniforms we see lying around.

"Now the trick here will be to avoid close contact with anyone who will see that we don't have any security badges." I instruct, "That shouldn't be a problem, because I think I have it arranged so that we won't have to run into anybody at all. But just in case, act like you belong here and no one should take any notice."

"Right, it's just that easy." Stu replies a little sardonically. "You act like you've done this before."

"That's because I have." I reply smugly as I open the door and exit before Stu can respond. That seems to have at least silenced Stu for the time being, because he follows my lead without questioning or balking through the labyrinth of the first floor until we get the the back stairwell. It's got a security lock on it and is shut tight.

"What now?" Stu challenges. "I thought this was all planned out!" He's about to abandon ship so I flourish my hands dramatically.

"Never fear, Young Grasshoppa!" I reply, then take a step behind him, reach into a fake potted plant, and to Stu's bewilderment, procure a security badge of one Miranda Peters, a consultant of some sort with high security access. I swipe the card across the base of my nose, inhaling deeply and say, "Why hello, dear flower. There you are!" Then quickly swipe it through the card reader, producing a very satisfying beep and a green light. The door clicks, and I open it, waving Stu in.

"I will never doubt again."

"See that you don't."

We efficiently climb flight after flight, for a while seeming to be on the Penrose Staircase itself. Finally, at floor twenty-two we pause for a breather. Suddenly to our dismay, a set of voices on the other side of the door becomes markedly louder, and we duck behind the door just in time as a pair of Important Someones open it into the stairwell. They are so engrossed in their conversation, having something to do with a large increase in their missing persons lists as of late, that they do not even notice us flattened against the wall behind the closing door as they proceed down the stairwell. Breathing comes back in slow increments and we resume our ascension.

At last, we arrive on floor thirty-five, having burned approximately a bajillion Calories in the process. I feel so sexy and slim right now as I all but vomit on the floor from over-exhaustion.

"Seriously, Seamus, couldn't you have finagled us a way into an elevator or something?"

"Dude, shut up!" I reply through my gasps.

"Well, this is it, right? The thirty-fifth floor?" Stu presses his ear to the door and listens.

"This is it," I confirm.

"So what's our next move?"

"What time you got?" I ask. Breath recovered.

"It's nine forty-three."

"Perfect!" I reply, "Time to go in!"

I swipe the card through the security lock and swing the door wide open into a room bustling with activity and noise from all directions. One-way mirror walls surround darkened rooms, some with solitary spotlights shining on a seated individual in the center. White Lab Coats carrying clipboards are busy taking notes at each chamber while Black Suits carrying briefcases ask questions and talk on cell phones. A loud humming dominates the background ambiance, so no speech is actually heard from one bay to the next. By design, no one is looking at the blatantly open doorway into the stairwell at this exact moment. Stu has no choice but to follow as I rapidly walk into the room devoid of cover and follow a prescribed, coordinated pathway. My latest masterpiece! For here an assistant stumbles on something lying on the ground thereby distracting the people in her bay, there a phone rings and the Suit turns towards the back wall to answer discreetly. Once someone steering a rolling tack board with a lot of complex schematics pinned on one side drives past another opening, and we stealth behind it for a few steps, until reaching the next diversion - this one a particularly greasy looking fellow wearing a hawaiian shirt who suddenly slams himself against the glass from within, shouting "Can't nobody hold me for long!!" and everyone in the bey recoils with surprise. The coordinated Events are plethora, and are like music to my ears. I cannot help but hear Fonklagi by Sigur Ros play in my head as we waltz through the floor. Spirits passing through a fog, completely unseen, yet if seen, not noticed. At the end of the room, the doorway-

leading to the hallway-

leading to the security pass lock-

leading to the destination:

They.

Part Four: Three Months Ago (3.5)

The Story of a Millipede,
By Just Seamus, AKA Hot Links

Once upon a time there was a little baby millipede named Daryl. He was abandoned shortly after hatching from his egg by his mother (as all little millipedes are). He never met his father, nor ever even knew he had one. He lived his little millipede life happy and free, feeding on dead decomposing matter (so tasty!), wriggling withersoever he wished with his three hundred twenty-two legs (his favorite leg, the one he calls 'Lucky Sam' is fourty-fifth from the back on his left side). One fine day Daryl met a particularly attractive female millipede names Phyllis, but she got squished, so he was sad. Life was at an all-time low (only four months old, poor bugger!), so he decided to go for a mid-night jog across the sidewalk to get his mind clear of things. Suddenly, out of the black sky, a giant pink Death-from-above swooped down upon him, trapping him. Poor Daryl saw his little life flash before his eyes, and had all but counted himself for dead, when to his astonishment the Death-from-above released him unharmed, having magically transported him to a strange far-away land with brand new and unfamiliar smells and textures. "Where am I?" Daryl asked himself, "And what a marvelous place this is!" He rubbed his lucky leg with two of the adjacent ones, smiling to himself all the while, feeling elated (as a millipede, it's rather hard to smile, so they only can pull it off during extremely heightened emotions). He set of at once to explore, hoping for a nice warm and dark crevice to lodge in before the great white blindness came, as it did at the end of every night. Steadily, throughout the night, he attracted to the one detectible source of heat, crossing vast planes, every one of which providing a new color, texture and smell to bedazzle his sensations. At last he arrived, and made no short order making himself at home. Little did he know, however, that his new-found resting spot was snuggled inside the supple bosom of Ykwanda the grocery store teller, who had little tolerance for millipedes such as he (the bigot!). Poor Daryl! Before he had been settled five minutes, Ykwanda had awoken from her slumber enough to tell something was amiss, and he was evicted from his new home with much violence and screaming. Fortunately for him, after having been roughly brushed off onto the bed, Ykwanda's panicked strikings did little other than to catapult Daryl into the air, landing him close to an open air vent. Hurriedly, he rushed inside. With continued signs of a struggle without, Daryl opted to move further into the vent. Soon he came across a jagged opening, one through which he could smell the welcoming scent of earth, moisture, and -graciously- the smell of decomposing matter. Daryl's adventure had left him with a monstrous appetite, so rubbing his lucky leg once more, he wriggled his way into the crawlspace paradise, the Land of No White Blindness, and had himself a mighty millipede feast.
And he lived happily ever after...

Part Four: Three Months Ago (3)

3.

"Aha! There it is!"

"Seamus, what are we doing?"

"When I suggested that we make a visit, I meant literally that we needed to make a visit." I pause momentarily, after an hour of walking distractedly and make a subtle, yet crucial adjustment to a particular decorative flowerpot innocently lying beside a condominium, then pluck one of the daffodils growing there and pitch it into the street. "Where we're going, we can't just waltz in with a fine 'howdy-do' and expect to be welcomed with open arms."

"So this visit will require prep work, then?"

"Prep work, yes." Content that the ill-fated daffodil has fallen at the appropriate spot, I resume our leisurely stroll. "They is one of the more closely-guarded secrets of the government, kept right here in Paradise City, believe it or not."

“They who?”

“Precisely. They who. They also what, why, where and when as well.”

"I have no idea what you're talking about, but all this improper grammar is driving me looney!" Stu complained, "We Brits are renowned for our rampant misabusing of the English language."

"Trust me Stu, there's no improper grammar here." He's such a Nazi.

"Who are They, then?"

"Is They, Stu. Is They."

"Who IS They, then! (bloody hell!)"

"They is the ultimate source of information, but besides that it's not something that can adequately be explained." I pause to pick up an innocent decorator rock lying next to another little flower garden several houses down from the first and heft it in my hand as we continue on.

"So what is They, some sort of super-powered computer?"

"Sort of, but not really. Trust me, you'll just have to wait to meet They in person."

"So They is a person."

"Sort of."

Stu flings his arm up in exasperation. "I swear Seamus, you're being as cryptic as humanely possible!"

"Stu, remember how I tried to describe Murphy to you? How there's really no proper adjectives in the human language to do the job?"

"Yeah."

"Well, this is another one of those circumstances."

He thinks for a moment. "Sounds like you're starting your own collection of indescribable personages."

"I am."

"Well can you at least try?" He asks as we approach a rather familiar Beamer parked curbside.

"Patience, young padawan. Patience! Now, are you ready for a change of pace?"

"What do you mean?" He asks, then goes bug-eyed as I drive the rock into the driver's side windshield of the Beamer, leaving a large stellate crater in the glass. The car alarm sounds, and I make a break for it, laughing mirthily. Meanwhile Stu stands frozen, staring at the damage.

"Come on Stu, time to go!"

He recovers from his shock, then speeds after me, quickly catching up. We round the corner just after hearing the owner exiting his house and swearing in dismay. A few blocks down we slow, catching our breaths. Silence dominates for a few minutes as we wander at a walking pace again.

"So now we're the bad guys? When did that happen?"

"Oh, that? Don't fret about it Stu, that was a really great chain I started back there. We're going to need that one. That makes it so we can get out afterwards."

"Get out of where?" he asks carefully. "What are you getting me into this time?"

"Well, closely guarded government secrets aren't exactly kept on the shelf at Wal Mart, now are they?" I retort, "That is, except for the mind-controlling chemicals they infuse into the rotisserie chickens. Which is why they make them taste unbelievably good, and then everybody ends up eating them repeatedly and then end up voting for the idiot. All a conspiracy!"

"Enough of your mind-controlling chickens, Seamus! Where are you taking me?"

"Fort Burkgold."

Silence.

"You're kidding me!" A plea.

"Nope. It's where we're going."

"Well gimme another rock, we're going to need a few more randomly broken windshields to get into that steel trap!"

"Actually, no, but I'm still working on that. Two or three more chains ought to do the trick. Here's one now!" I stoop over real low to the ground to inspect a slow-moving millipede crossing the sidewalk. "Hello little buddy! You ready to go on the biggest adventure of your life?" I scoop it up gently while Stu watches in fascinated silence, then walk over to a barred bedroom window, cracked open an inch, and quietly place it on the sill inside.

"That's downright evil, Seamus."

"I know!" I giggle, "I wish we could stand around and watch this one happen, but we got to go."

"Let's." Stu tries to sound disgruntled, but I can see the sparkle in his eye that betrays his inner prankster.

Part Four: Three Months Ago (2)

2.

Nor was that the last encounter with Rufus. We would encounter him again and again when in that general vicinity. Stu always insisted on speaking to him, much to my chagrin. Apparently once soiled, Rufus’ opinion doesn’t recover. The most response I could ever get out of him was a gruff harrumph a time or two, whereas Stu, apparently his new number one fan – excuse me – Number One Fan, catered to his every whimsical statement and as such received limitless encouragement and praise from his new Jedi Master, Rufus.

“What do you have against the old man anyways?” Stu asked me on one occasion, right before receiving a fist into his face from one of three smalltime thugs who we caught robbing an entire busload of retirees on vacation. The scum. I mean the thugs, not the retirees :)

“What do you mean, ‘What do I have against him?’” I reply, backing away from a second, while the third kept the vacationers at bay with a large fillet knife. “The man is an absolute loony! He sits in a back alley corner all day and pretends he’s a space ranger ‘defending the galaxy!’ You actually encourage him!”

“I know-OOOGH!!” Stu admitted, blocking a powerful left jab with his stomach. He folded over onto the ground, perfectly poised to receive a kick to the head. “There’s – HOOF! – something – DOOF! – about him – OOF! – I just can’t figure – OOF! – out.”

“Oh yeah? What’s that?” I ask, nimbly sidestepping a forceful advance from my quarry, who stumbled into a freshly formed pothole right behind where I was standing. The satisfying crack as his right posterior talofibular ligament snapped apart was music to my ears.

“Well,” Stu replies dodging the next several assaults with ample room to spare, speaking up so I can hear over the cries of agony from my dispatched foe, “You yourself have said that folk like us are to be found in the most unexpected of places.” Ducking below a powerful uppercut into a semi handstand, he plants the sole of his baby blue Nike Air Maxes directly into his assailant’s face then somehow converts the resulting force to propel himself back upright into a smooth double-roundhouse kick to the cranium. Four full midair rotations later the thug lands with a squish on the asphalt and remains motionless.

Lowering the fillet knife, the third thug, suspecting that the situation had drastically turned other than in his favor, trembles visibly as Stu, wiping gore from his mouth, tattered and bruised, seeping all over, alongside I, untouched, looking amazing, with hands in pockets for all the world appearing to be at a photoshoot, approach. Then gathering his nerve, turns tail so suddenly he rams face-first into the opened bus door, flattening himself out on the ground as well.

We regard him lying there clutching his nose a moment before Stu asks, “You do that, Seamus?”

“Maybe.” I reply, “I dunno. Let’s go.”

We ignore any pleas of gratitude and escape the scene quickly as that the police are arriving, late as usual.

Two blocks down Stu continues our conversation as he rubs his face with a wetted handkerchief to wash off his spilt blood, “All’s I’m saying is that until proven otherwise, I am going to treat Rufus like he’s telling the truth.” At this I roll my eyes and he adamantly continues, “Not necessarily about his alleged Power to Do Anything – I know you don’t give two beans what he talks about, but the man is actually a treasure trove of knowledge and experience. If you’d ever listen to him you’d come to realize that most of the things he says couldn’t possibly originate from a mad delirium.”

“Buddha, Stu? Seriously?”

“I said, ‘most of the things he says.’”

“Right.”

“Just saying, give the poor old man a break. Stop being so judgmental.”

“I’m not… judgmental. Just opinionated, that’s all.”

“That means the same thing, Seamus."

“Whatever. Oop, speaking of Satan…” I gesture down and across the street where sure enough, we spy Rufus pulling a rattling shopping cart filled with old cardboard and heading our way. He looks agitated, as per usual.

"Well howdy-do?" Stu greets him with a decent southern accent.

"Gentlemen," Rufus begins, "the universe beckons, so I must be brief."

I snicker. Honest, I didn't mean to, it just happened.

With a slightly less than patient sidelong glance at me, Stu anxiously asks as to the nature of his urgency.

"Despite your obvious lack of intellect and respect for one so great as I," he replies, actually speaking to me for once, "I come at a deeply distressing time, and at no small inconvenience to myself to deliver a Message."

Impressed, I ask, "A Message? From whom?"

"From me." Rufus replies.

"Oh."

"It's coming."

"That's your 'Message'?" I ask incredulously.

"Indeed." He replies, simply.

"What's coming?" I ask, impatiently.

"Now, what might you think?" He counters, impatiently.

"I don't know!" I return, heatedly, "Besides the circus, obviously! You tell me cryptically that 'it's coming' so you tell me what 'it' is!" I trail off, swearing under my breath.

"So be it!" Rufus shouts, standing rigid, "You persist in your insolence, and I will tolerate it no further!" Then holding his hand aloft, as if supporting the worlds largest burrito he proclaims, "Femnebulous cosmolicious obsidianus! You are now Known to me, Prince of Deception! Thief of Fortune! They told me of you. They have been watching you. They spoke your secrets. Secrets you have preserved even from yourself in your infinite trickery. I know what you Are, I say! They told me! Spare me this ignoramusnistical facade when I know so much the better! Receive a fair warning when it is given in good grace, intent, and sophistication when it has been given with due diligence, promptness, and accuracy when it has been given... in..." he trails off, staring with sudden horror off into the distance. Then, abandoning his shopping cart and cardboard collection full-out runs in the opposite direction, quickly disappearing around a building corner.

Stu and I look around, frantically searching for anything that could have raised his alarm so suddenly.

Absolutely nothing was happening.

We look at each other, trying to make head or tailbone out of this stunning visit with Rufus, communicating silently. Stu lowers his eyes, then abashedly admits, "Ok, Seamus, you win today. Absolutely none of that made any sense to me."

Strangely, I have no come-back. I seriously would never pass on the opportunity to rub this one is, except something he said this time unnerved me.

Stu, recognizing my trepidation asks, "Seamus? No come-back? Are you serious? Aren't you going to at least rub it in a bit? Something got your nerves?

I stand there silent.

"Seamus, what was he talking about, how they knew your secrets and all?" he asks, after pondering for a moment. "Is that the problem? What are these secrets he's talking about?"

"Now to that I have no answer." I answer.

"Then who are 'they'?"

"Not 'they,' Stu, 'They'."

"Oh." Stu realizes the significance. "Who are They?"

I ignore his question, only due to distraction, and ask myself aloud, "Now why would They be interested in me?"

"Seamus, what's going on? Who are They?"

"Who is They, Stu. Who is They. Come on, let's make a visit." I about-face and hurry off to the south with Stu trotting along behind.

Part Four: Three Months Ago (1)

1.

20,000,000,000,003 light years away from Paradise City, a bloody space battle commences between Rufus the Hyperdimentional Space Bogey and Diabolicon with his Army of the Infinite Mass. A single battle within a war waged eons ago in the garbantuous Quadhelix Cluster when Diabolicon and his sultry 2/3 she-wench usurped the throne-world of Amadorcia from the then-infant-heir Two Sticks the Meek. Ever the Forces of Darkness press forward, their hunger for domination without bounds. Ever the Force of Light repels, a solitary hand redirecting the mighty river whose sole purpose is to destroy. Everything.

Rufus taunts his foe thus: “You, Diabolicon, and your minions are like a festering flesh wound, filled with bacteria, paramecium, and other such protozoa.”

“You’ll pay for that, Rufus! How dare you affront the Ruler of the Universe! I’ll crush you like the insignificant insect that you are!” Diabolicon offers his rebuttal with charisma.

“HA! Fool! You forget that I, Rufus the Hyperdimentional Space Bogey have been endowed from On High by the Angel Silesius with the Power to Do Anything! I challenge you to make your feeble attempt. Scratch me if you dare, O pitiful one!”

“We’ll see who’s the fool after my Army of the Infinite Mass has had their way with you! You can never beat Infinity! You are destined to fight it for all Eternity! Some day you will tire, be it a million eons in the future! Are you prepared to spend Eternity locked in a bloody stalemate face to face with Me? Face it, Rufus – you will never extinguish my Darkness with your insignificant light. The Darkness is Infinite! BWA HA HA HA HA HAAAAAAAA!!! BWA HA HA HA HAAAAAAAA!!! BWA HA HA HA HA HA HAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!”

Stu and I cautiously approach the homeless beggar sitting in a corner in the back alley, role-playing to himself and a collection of pigeons who have gathered ‘round to snack on the insects in his hair and to defecate on his shoulders and knees. Our curiosity got the best of us while on-route to Two Mugs for our evening boost, hearing him ranting from all the way out on the main thoroughfare.

“What ho? Is this another of your feeble attempts at trapping me in your pathetically outdated Giga-Gravity Wells?” The man speaks, suddenly cocking his head to one side, “You forget that last time I simply conjured an Antigravity Kalidotron to nullify them, what makes you think you could possibly succeed this time?” At this point he changes voices again, “Because I have reenforced my Giga-Gravity Wells with Infinity Vortex Spray!!! Now my Giga-Gravity wells will gravitate Infinitely!! What have you to say to THAT?” He switches again, “NOOOOOOOOO!!! – Can I help you gentlemen?” He asks, suddenly sitting more upright and looking in our general direction, just not quite eye-to-eye.

Stu replies a little uncertainly, while I stifle some laughter, attempting to not be judgmental. Fail.

“No, we were just coming to see what was going on back here. It sounded a little exciting, to be honest.”

“Darn straight its excitement!” He says, leaping nimbly to his feet, spraying pigeons every direction, then pacing briskly to and fro continues, “Diabolicon has got me temporarily trapped in an Infinity Vortex Spray-enhanced Giga-Gravity Well! Those are not any simple matter to get out of! Sticky business – sticky business I say!” He freezes mid stride gazing down at my right elbow as if it holds some great wonder to behold.

An awkward moment passes.

“…So,” I venture, self-consciously rubbing my elbow with my left hand, “How are you going to escape the infinity giga-vortex then?”

He snaps awake and looks me square in the eye, “What in the High Holustreum is an ‘infinity giga-vortex’?” Spoken with a hint of anger, “No one has ever heard of an ‘infinity giga-vortex’ before! Those things just don’t exist! You are not making any sense, little man!”

“Easy there poppy!” Stu intervenes, “He just meant… whatever it was that you said.”

“I don’t recall speaking anything to either of you. What do you want? You want to torment what you perceive to be a weak old man? Think again, Foul Persecutors. Your monkey minds are far to inferior to even come close to comprehending my true nature, so I will spare your feelings and not try attempting any attempt to attempt an attempt…” He drifts off.

Another awkward moment passes.

Stu prompts, “…Attempt to… explain?-”

“Explain, I can do. The demonstration you could not tolerate within your current physiology. The sheer awesomeness of my true nature would melt you to pieces.” He finishes smugly.

“In that case, please do not demonstrate.” Stu implores solemnly. “But an explanation would be magnificent!”

“A wise choice, my friend.” He claps Stu on the shoulder and meanders with him toward the main street. “To begin explaining, I must first describe back when I was in Indonesia searching for an ancient relic of unfathomable value – a twenty foot pile of poo made out of solid gold locally fabled to have been defecated by the great Buddha himself-”

I lose control of my nostrils, snorting loudly and uncontrollably.

He regards me momentarily, “Heed not this inferior waste of O2 saturation,” He says, waving me off, “His substandard taunts and obvious lack of reasoning ability do nothing to soil my mood. I have endured much worse exchanging might with Diabolicon and his Quest for Omniconsumption.”

“Diabilicon and his army of the infinite mass, right?” Stu proffers.

“No. Diabolicon and his Army of the Infinite Mass.”

“Ah.”

“You have promise, young one. I see the Spark of Gheladrenschia in you!” He speaks with a sparkle in his eye.

“…Thank. You.” Stu replies, uncertainly.

“Rufus, you may call me.” He shakes Stu’s hand, having completely tuned me out. “And I… am a Hyperdimentional Space Bogey.” He says as if revealing a mighty truth.

Silence.

“…Tasked with defending the entire Universe from falling into the clutches of Diabolicon – ”

“-And the Army of Infinite Mass. Yes. We heard.” Stu finishes.

“…Endowed from On High by the Angel Silesius with the Power to Do Anything.” He says, veering off back towards the back alley once more. Then more to himself, “I challenge you to make your feeble attempt. Scratch me if you dare, O pitiful one! We’ll see who’s the fool!...” And on and on until he sits back down as he was before. The pigeons reconvene, and we depart, speechless.

Part Three: The Villains (2)

2.

The man leaned over in agony and spat. Three teeth rolled across the concrete floor like ivory dice. Well, parts of three teeth anyway, mingled with blood. It had been going on for hours, and not even purpling his face with the steel pipe had stopped or even slowed any of it. His tattered clothing revealed the multifarious welts and gashes all over his body, inflicted previously in utter desperation.

“BUDGET EVERYONE COULD KING YAW!” The words flowed from his mind and mouth uncontrollably, while prostrate upon the ground on elbows and knees, tearing out hair by the roots. “GENERALLY OBVIOUS OUR LIFT SEND BLOCK YET!” No pattern! No pattern to it at all – I am loosing my mind! He manages to squeeze the thought between the gibberish. It had all started after a nice, yet unproductive evening of speed dating at a local bar. Sure, he had been under a little stress at work. Sure, he had been met with a few poignant rejections from women who really shouldn’t be choosey anyways. Sure he had had a few ‘comfort drinks’ to take off his edge. Sure that rash wouldn’t go away no matter what ointments…

“IN SHEET SHARE OLD FINDING EFFECTIVELY TEAM CLOSELY HEAD!!” This deluge had worn him out long before 10:30 and now it was well past midnight in the back-alley to which he had fled shortly after it had begun. “IMMEDIATE NOTHING GOD GLASS OUTPUT REQUIRE GUN EXPENSE ORGANISE UNDERSTANDING STAFF!!” Breath! Breath! Breath! Stop it! He knows he can’t take much more of this before his brain erupts as molten myelinated matter.

The nonsense breaks long enough for him to begin to catch his breath. He massages his abused throat, sore from all the hours of shouting, and wipes the tears of futility from his eyes. Well, maybe it’s finally stopped. He hopes to himself. The pain from his self-mutilation hits him all at once like an ocean liner of doom, causing his breath to come in gasps. After a moment of recovery, he shakily begins to lift himself from the crawling position. Suddenly, he pauses in horror, feeling another compulsion welling up inside himself.

Oh no!

Taking a deep breath, as loud and as rapidly and uncontrollably as possible he shouts, “SYSTEM HOW EAT MEETING APPLICATION KID EXCEPT SOMEBODY MISS EXPRESSION FRIEND EITHER EXPERIMENT LONGEST NICE APPEARANCE USEFUL GATE HOUR TAKES YOUR–AAAUUGH!!!!”

–And something inside went snap! As his head jerks suddenly back, then forward, he collapses on the ground. He lies there, completely still, as the flies stare hungrily on the sidelines, awaiting their surprise man-buffet, for one full minute.

The flies begin to congregate.

Rise.

The command is given silently, and the man slowly arises, much to the disappointment of the scattered flies. Head hanging limp, this is no longer a man, but an automaton. All independent thought wiped clean.

Come.

Commanded again in silence. Arms wagging limply as the automaton staggers gimpily. This beast now knows how to speak only a single response: ‘Master!’ Which upon uttering, no longer possessing either speech processing centers, sounds a little more like ‘Mmmmauuuuuuugghhrrrrrrrrrrr!” Arms spread out and forward – adoringly of course – when voiced.

Through the long hours of the city night, he trudges on to his commanded destination, an abandoned train graveyard on the outskirts of the dirtiest corner of town, to finally join ranks with dozens of other mind-numbed persons, all exhibiting similar disheveled and bloodied appearances.

Above and behind this motley crew looms an ominous shadow. A slender, twitching shadow sourced by He Who Commands in Silence. Even now, his plans are all coming to fruition with his newly-honed power. His army ranks grow slowly, steadily, like a festering cancer – if detected to late, will have disseminated throughout the system in numbers too high to combat, rendering resistance futile. A New Order will arise with him at the head, wielding indomitable power. With merely a point of his finger and a grunt, entire cities – NO! – Nations will crumble and fall at his command! All will bow and pray mercy from the Mighty Emperor of the World! Unlimited channels of Direct TV and let’s not get to far ahead of the game here.

He regains composure, yet upon brief reflection, begins anew a low, steady chuckle.

All in good time. He humors himself, All in good time.

And yet another mindless victim stumbles in amongst the quietly moaning crowd.

Part Three: The Villains (1)

1.

A quiet street corner, occasioned by pleasant, quiet insects going about their business in a peaceful, quiet sort of way on a peaceful, quiet sort of morning. A little bird quietly sits atop a quiet branch, unbothered by even the slightest of gentle breezes, and quietly utters a peaceful sigh of contentment. “Nothing bothers me.” The little bird congratulates herself, “All is well.” She looks down upon her friend, the peaceful, lazy cat, who lazily licks his paw and grooms his head while lying in the gentle sunlight of early spring. “All is well,” says the lazy cat, “and life is soooooo good!” Across the street, a fruit merchant looks northbound on his quiet, empty street as he hears a distant engine sound. “Mayhaps a customer cometh my way?” He thinks to himself. After a moment, the engine noise fades away, and he settles deeper into his cushioned chair and resumes reading his Shakespearian novel. “Mayhaps not.” He reasons.

A quiet minute passes peacefully.

Of a sudden, the engine noise returns, and at high amplitude. The sound is like an icy knife-jab to the eardrum, shattering the morning complacency into a thousand writhing worm-segments as the 8-cylinder flame-embroidered yellow Mustang blazes down the street and off into the distance. The fruit stand is upended by the blast, and the cat is shocked into a maniacal frenzy. The bird falls flat off the branch, instantly dead of a heart attack. Seconds later, the dust kicked up from the Mustang drifts past, settling like a veil over the scene to hide the atrocity.

Piloting the mustang and laughing at intervals, a mysterious man has his fun. This pleasure-seeker has been at it all morning, beginning with pinching this very car from its rightful owner, progressing to a top-off at a local gas station without paying, and reaching a crescendo in a single-man-powered, full-scale bank robbery. He is adept both at thievery and evasion, and does so with wanton style. The back seat of the car is openly packed with embezzled cash from his heist, bills occasionally catching some wind from the open windows, flying out onto the streets he rapes with incessant noise pollution. O, the mirth!

On closer inspection, this man, Caucasian of descent, wrinkled of clothing, reeking of Listerine, is genuinely pleased with himself. He rubs his two-day facial growth, looks at the reflection of his dirtily tanned, mid-forties face in the rear view mirror, framed with money-green from the back seat, and laughs again. Much harder now. He continues for quite some time.

He laughs until the squad cars catch up with him, then outright bellows laughter. “You think you can take me?” He shouts out the window, heard by no one but himself, yet he shouts again, “Ain’t nobody can take me!” He wings a hard left, onto a main strip, and shifts into high gear. The morning traffic is still light for this suburb, leaving his pathway relatively unimpeded. It quickly turns into a high-speed chase, attracting the attention of a newscast helicopter, which joins in, broadcasting on live television.

“The more, the merrier!” He says rejoicingly, downshifting to make another hard left. “Now y’all get to see me shine!” He takes the freeway onramp towards downtown Paradise City. He watches in amusement as one of the three squad cars characteristically lines up to attempt a PIT maneuver. “It’s not going to work, boys.” He mirthily warns, “It never does, don’t you ever learn?” More laughter.

Accelerate.

The noise of compound sirens is music to his ears.

He revels in his art.

Thinking of music, he reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out an old burned CD with the roughly scrawled words, “Now would be a good time for a soundtrack” on the face. He flips it into the cd player and skips to track four, “Sleepwalk Capsules,” by At the Drive-In, and hits “play.” As the first thundering note sounds, along with the opening scream, “Taser taser kindergarten nap nap time” piercing the atmosphere, the first police car evens up with his left rear tire. “It’s nap time,” he mutters, all laughter stilled.

Blink.

Instead of turning into the mustang, the squad car sharply veered away, into the freeway meridian, nosing into the cement divider perpendicularly. Burning rubber, tilting up on two right tires, and finally rolling, rolling, rolling until its momentum threw it into the air off its hind bumper, to land in fragments and flame. One of the other squad cars halts to assist while the third, undeterred and naïve, regains headway on the Mustang.

Briefly surveying his effects in the side view mirror, he lowly mutters, “Told ya.” Then levels his gaze on the road ahead.

A grin.

A grip.

A gearshift.

Gone.

Part Three:

O itinerant heart of man!

If but all men

Possessing extraordinary abilities

And power

Were resolute in their disposition

To use it

For the betterment of mankind.

But alas!

‘Tis not to be so.

The demon within us all

Holds more secure a foothold

In the heart and mind

Of they who pursue the pleasures and luxuries

That are to be had in the flesh.

These are they

Who have received so much more

Than their due

From the Nature that birthed them,

Yet in their insatiable hunger demand more.

These are they

That, instead of using their endowed dividends

To perform acts of beauty,

Emulate a drug addict,

Forever seeking product and stimulus

To fill their rotten bellies.

These are they

Who take whatever they wish

From whoever they want

By whatever means needed

To whatever ends desired.

These are

The Villains:

Part Two: Six Months Ago (2)

2.

Actually, we’ll have more on Stu now.

Rule #27: You will never think of the perfect witty pun until at least five minutes after it’s too late to be funny any more.

“So tell me Stu, what was it about me that made you suspect my undercover nature at the diner?”

We’re sitting in a late night wi-fi bagelry/coffee shop in the Paradise City tower district called Two Muggs. Neither one of us sports anything like a flashy, new laptop computer, or even the old waffle-irons, but the place has a certain kind of library-esque charm about it that I love. All hush-hush for the occupants, yet you can eat and drink here as well. Hidden speakers emit sullen ambient tones in the manner that has been dubbed “elevator music” – that which is so quiet as to be on the verge of inaudible. Add to this the soft and dampened lights throughout the premises, and what you get is corporate-promoted rampant unconsciousness; so much so, that one must purchase large amounts of their coffee product just in order to keep from being booted from the store for sleeping at a table. An irony, but a profitable one.

“What are you talking about, Seamus?” Stu replies, a little lazily, from the other beanbag chair across the corner table from me. We’ve known each other for three weeks now, and have had a few “joint ventures,” if you know what I mean.

No? Well, you will soon.

“Wasn’t it you who gave the code signal first?” I reviewed. “I certainly had no reason to suspect that you were what you are before that move.” We speak in low tones, partially for the atmosphere, mostly for the conversation’s confidentiality.

“I suppose you’re right,” he retrospected, scratching the cranium covering his occipital lobe beneath the brim of his bowler hat. “I don’t know, I just went out on a limb there and got lucky, I guess. If I remember correctly, it was a natural enough way to speak code without sounding odd to an outsider, just in case.”

“Hmmm. Maybe so.” I allowed. As he, roused from stagnation begins to talk about other times he had tried busting the code in other situations on other people unsuccessfully, I reflected on what I had learned the first day or so about my new friend.

Francis Stuart Montgomery. Raised in the backcountry of Llangefni, Great Brittain. He and his family had for many generations participated in the sport of fox hunting. Stu had a champion bloodhound as a hunting partner named Roxey, and they always took first place in any of the competitions they entered. His family swore by the old nose of that hound, and had given him a funeral service when he passed on some years back. He tells me the Mongomerys keep Roxey’s ashes in the trophy cupboard next to all the metals they had collected (perhaps a little too much braggadocio for my taste; a sentiment I never uttered to Stu). It was after relating this history that Stu sprouted his trademark mischievous grin, and leaning close to me, uttered, “You know, the fool dog was dumber than mud! Couldn’t tell a fox from a brick! All’s I could ever train him to do was to run where I pointed.”

“So how did you two win all those competitions?” I asked askance.

After a dramatic pause, and with a sly grin he whispered, “It was me.” As it turned out, Stu has an extremely sensitive sense of smell. I reiterate: extremely sensitive.

Let me demonstrate.

Some few days after our first meeting, we had been “on the haunt,” looking for trouble, or for those who would cause it. For a superhero, free time is crime-fighting time, for evil never sleeps. Anyways, we were not long in the search when, on a dim-lit street in the business district, we witnessed a Quatrahooligan Beamerectomy freshly underway in a near-empty parking garage. Now in superhero lingo, this qualifies as a Class III situation: Four culprits, armed, expensive property in jeopardy, and possible trauma or fatality to a civilian. Normally, this is a walk in the park for me, but it was nice having backup that night. Besides, I wanted to see what Stu was made of.

The poor wealthy businessman was flung from the front seat of his BMW, landing on his particularly large nose on the asphalt, richly bloodying his shirt as he rose to his knees. Midsplat, the thugs were slamming the car doors, about to make their getaway, when the lights in the garage shut off suddenly, bathing them in perfect darkness. As the headlights come on, revealed to the quartet of criminals were the bleached silhouettes of we twain, in battle poses, and in full regalia. I am wearing my usual Hot Links attire – a lightweight ankle-length jet-black trench coat with a divided tail and a tall flipped collar, tightly-fitting black leather gloves, black cargo pants of a loose cut (for easy maneuvering), and a thin black turtleneck with a stark white simplified icon of a skull in the center of the chest. No form of headwear adorns my smooth-shaven scalp apart from the yellow-tinted Maui Jim shades, worn despite the late hour. To finalize the image, around my left forefinger, I spin a Celtic cross suspended on a long, thin gold chain. Draped across Stu’s bones are the clothings of a Victorian-era englishman – a solid wool, burgundy frock coat hanging down to knee length. It remains loosely unbuttoned to reveal the white shirt (complete with grey cravat) and drab green vest (complete with chained pocket watch) lying underneath. Above all this, across the shoulders loosely draped, is a flowing black rain cloak. A black bowler hat secures his curly blonde locks above a pair of vintage octagonal lenses with the faintest of pink opacities. Brown flexible fibers constitute the trouser matrix, flowing down to ankle-height, where feet are clad in none other than a pair of brown Nike Air Maxes. In one of his white-gloved hands he grips the angular crystalline head of an otherwise solid black wooden walking stick. Four perfect silent seconds pass as the villains try to figure us out, and then we begin the purposeful, intimidating strut that we both have practiced so well. An unobtrusive observer could not help but hear the retro-70’s “Bom-chicka-wa-wa” in the background.

The garage lights come back on as out of the passenger seat pops the Alpha Male, outraged at the apparent challenge. In a fury, waving his piece in the air, croaking words I care not to repeat here, he proclaims our imminent doom, levels the pistol, and draws back the hammer.

Calmly, lowly, unflinchingly, Stu utters a single word.

“Pussy.”

The man pauses, lifts the pistol and squints his eyes, saying, “What did you call me?”

“You heard me. Anybody can shoot his way out of a challenge. It takes a man to fight his way out. Pussy!”

“Oh, you didn’t!” 38 strait seconds of cursing and mama-insulting brings this fellow to red-hot-facedness, along with the posse, who now flank him. Hogan-style, this fellow actually tears off his shirt and throws it to the ground, revealing an equal number of muscles and tattoos, neither of which I bothered to enumerate at the time. “Come on!” He proffers with raised hands and a fighting stance, gingerly stepping from foot to foot, “Let’s see who’s the pussy! Feel like having some fun?”

Stu ceremoniously removes his cloak, hat, jacket, and gloves, revealing his slender, yet athletic build. His is the musculature of the ectomorph, built for brain, not brawn. Not quite the finely-sculpted similitude of Bruce Lee, but Stu had previously told me, “Someday. . .”

He duplicates the fighter’s pose, and moves in suddenly –

– Directly into a heavy blow to the center-face sending Stu sprawling backwards onto the ground, accompanied by the soundtrack of the other hoodlum’s laughter and tauntings. Alpha Male struts back and forth, daring Stu to stand up and take some more. Stu sits up, spits a mouthful of blood of the ground, and as sure as shine stands up and says, “Come on, pussy. That was nothing! Kick me. Kick me pussy, I dare you!”

Somebody said, “Hooooo boy!” as Alpha comes at Stu at a run and, hopping back on his left foot, thrust powerfully forward with his right, right into Stu’s stomach.

WHAUUUUGH went the air out of Stu’s lungs like a miniature fog horn in puberty. He fell to the ground clutching his chest in pain and gasping. I was purposely keeping uninvolved so Stu could show me his madd skillz, as per previous arrangement, but about here I started having my doubts. For at that time, Alpha Male aped forward to grab Stu’s head with both hands, and lifting him into a stand, finished him off with a massive head butt. Again Stu fell to the ground, dazed. Alpha turned his back to Stu and walked away, pleased with himself. I was about to lift my hand to effect a Chain, when to my surprise, instead of moaning or vomiting, Stu suddenly began laughing, drawing everyone’s attention. After stabilizing for a few seconds on his hand and knees, he lifted his reddened, bruised head, and, with a blood vessel deeply engorging the center of his forehead, infuriatingly shouted, “Friend, now I’m going to royally kick your arse!”

“No, now you’re going to die!” Alpha screamed as he charged. But his first wind-producing punch met solid air, as did the second, as did the third along with the first kick. Stu deftly dodged every attack as though he knew what moves he would make even before the monkey’s own muscles did. Punch, punch, jab, SMACK! As Stu lands a beautiful uppercut, judo-style to Alpha’s jaw. Alpha staggers back, and in shock, spits out a small piece of tongue. From the pain and shame he is stirred into a newer, untapped plateau of rage. Punch, kick, jab, punch, WHAM! As Stu dips to the side and scores on Alpha’s right kidney. Oh yes! There will be blood in that urine for weeks! Painful quick outbursts from Alpha’s lungs, followed by a loud gasp for breath, and back to battle. Punch, punch, punch, fake, punch, punch, KABLAM! As Stu leaps in the air, his foot making a perfect arch into a roundhouse kick to the temporal lobe, and Alpha staggers beneath the force, head drooped along with eyes, he sways to and fro, and to again, to finally crumble to the ground, lights officially out.

No time to glorify.

“Get’um!” One of the others shouted. Aroused from shock, the punk who took the pistol while the fight commenced fired off his clip at Stu, gangsta' style.

Incredibly, Stu ducks far behind, arching his back to dodge the first few bullets, then twists sharply to the left, bouncing lightly off his hands into a semi-erectness, and busts a triple-axle foot-to-gun disarmament, breaking a trigger finger and probably a few others as well. The painful outburst affords me time to make a dramatic flare with my arms as the lights above us shatter into thousands of sparks (of course, I effected the Chain that caused that to happen hours before, but I can’t resist the temptation to appear omnipotent sometimes). Stu steps forward in the newly created dark, and with another sweeping kick, spin, and punch, flattens the gunner. But I wasn’t finished either. As the two last gang members started to run, an electrical conduit broke loose from the ceiling, javelining the one in the face, while a patch of oil caught the other off-balance, landing him with a heavy concussion and a dislocated shoulder. One more blow from Stu subdued that final evildoer into candyland, and our job was complete.

Of course, our civilian friend was not just an idle spectator to this frenzy. He had slinked off to a neighboring park and had called the police long ago. When they finally arrived, they found the car appearing for all evidence to be untouched, with four bloodied and deeply abused pussies just coming back into consciousness to be carted off to jail. Of course, the businessman was bewildered and overjoyed that his Beamer was still present, let alone all in one shiny piece as he had left it. One curio, however: lying on his front seat was a roughly scrawled note reading, “Complements of Bruiser and Hot Links.”

As we had walked away, I asked Stu why he allowed himself to be beaten so badly before opening up on the poor devil.

“I have to learn his scent before I can anticipate his moves,” he told me. Stu then lectured me on how everyone gives off pheromones, or something very much like it, in anticipation of any move they make. Once he smells these chemicals, and can identify to what they pertain, his highly trained martial art machine can react peremptorily in such a way as to foretell what moves a man will make before his own muscles can know. All Stu had to do was survive the first few hits, and then he was essentially untouchable.

I then ask him incredulously, “And the whole dodging of bullets?”

He chuckles, and with a smile shakes his head and says nothing.

As it turned out, I was wrong about the judo-ness of his uppercut, and right about the Bruce Lee-ness of his build. Stu was a student of Bruce Lee’s jeet kune do art of combat and physical training, and idolized the man and his philosophies.

* * * * *

Back in the internet café, I come out of my reverie only to realize Stu had been talking idly for five or so minutes about predicting the weather based on the smell of the atmosphere. At that point I think to say, “So you could say you ‘sniffed’ my ability out of me, then?” But, of course, it is too late now to have any humorous effect.

Just to spite Murphy, I laugh at my little esprit d'escalier anyway.

Part Two: Six Months Ago (1)

1.

Law #3: When you drop your toast, it will always land jam down.

This occurs as my torso twists suddenly to the left, my elbow glancing across my side dish sending it precariously toward the edge of the bar table at which I sit. Reflexively reaching to catch the dish, my fingers fumble and release the apricot-jammed toast at one time destined to be my breakfast, yet no more. Four full rotations before scoring a perfect face plant on the checkered floor. This all in response to a greeting from a man unknown to me at the time.

A British chap. A full head of Arian hair complete with eyes as bright blue as the open seas – remarkably so. But the only other remarkable thing about him is that he is entirely unremarkable in every other aspect. Besides, that is, possessing an air of being coiled, ready to spring at any given moment. He dresses modestly, obviously not swayed by the modern fashion engine – he wears no logos whatsoever. He is perhaps a few years older than myself. 32. 33. A handsome devil, some could say, yet no wedding band adorns his finger. He holds his sizeable nose aloft as if testing the wind at all times.

His greeting was peculiar. Said he, “Can I beg a stick of gum from you?”

As I disgruntledly lifted my toast from the floor with a sigh of regret for yet another Morsel Unpalatized, and curiously reached into my suit pocket, wondering that he asked not if I even had a stick of gum in the first place, he furthered, “I’m sorry about that, friend, but to make it up to you, would you like to see a carnival trick?”

“Sure,” said I.

“Before you draw out your pack of gum, let me guess what brand and flavor it is, a’ight?”

“’A’ight.’” Said I. I delight in the British accent.

“Let me see. . .” this he spoke, drawing his palm to his back-tipped head in a melodramatic fashion, “Seems to me it’s Wriggley’s – NO! Trident!” With a sudden lurch forwards, “And,” returning to his contemplative pose, “the flavor is ‘Green. . . Apple. . . Fusion.’” He drew out. “Am I correct?”

Forgetting what gum I had, I did a double take at the pack – he was dead on. Dead as paint. It was a flashy pack at the store which I couldn’t help but try – I’m a sucker for advertisement.

“Do you have x-ray vision or something?” Said I, laughing in surprise. The back of my mind is tingling.

“It be super if I did, but the real explanation is far more rudimentary.” Aha! Code amongst alter egos – the emphasized “super” spoken candidly in conversation. I must reply appropriately.

“What’s your super secret?” I respond, also in code.

Leaning forwards, intently, while diminishing his voice, and giving me the laser eye, he speaks, “It’s a gift, you might say. Kind of a special power.” Excellent. Then it’s confirmed. Now to flash the super-secret hand signal inconspicuously. Done. The sudden gleam in his eye tells me it’s recognized, and he returns, with the counter-hand signal. A broad, jovial smile spreads itself across his face. A jovial smile, yet secreting a tint of evil. The evil of self-satisfaction one feels when one knows something – or perhaps has a certain advantage – which the rest of the world does not. Though I had just met him moments before, something inside told me that this was the exact same grin he had when as a boy of ten, he, through some means or other, escaped maternal retribution after sneaking the biggest cookie out from the cookie jar, and, having consumed all evidence of the crime, has nothing left to do but sit back and revel in his knowledge of a job well done (as well as enjoy the pleasant euphoria emanating from his tummy-tum).

“Seamus.”

“Stu.”

“A pleasure to me you, Stu. Let me buy you a drink.”

And so my acquaintance with Stu began. But we’ll save more about him for later.

Part One: Soliloquy (5)

5.

Rule #43a: The dumber the villain, the better his luck when evading the iron fist of justice.

So it would seem with the most trivial of evildoers – the bullies, the burglars, the highwaymen, the cross-dressers – those who have committed the slightest of offences, those who would get off the hook with barely a cuff on the wrist, yet opt to run instead; meanwhile the largest of organized crime syndicates in all their caution get bogged down with the most unlikely setbacks imaginable. Yet another manifestation of Murphy. He who thrives on organization and the disintegration thereof. This calls for another highly convenient rule:

Rule #14: The higher the order of an action, organization, mandate, etc., the higher the likeliness of random disorderly events occurring to befuddle the said action, organization, mandate, etc.

‘Tis like mint candy, a well-though-out plan, to Murphy.

* * * * *

The chase was like any other within the slums of Paradise City. The culprit running haphazardly through the crowds, knocking down man, woman, and child in his attempt to flee the grasp of the three Badges pursuing him, for what, I know not. Here a bicyclist careens over his handlebars, there a hotdog stand upends, sending bottles of condiments to their doom, spreading like holy guts where they land on the cement. Ever the villain makes headway from detention. The officers having to dance around the sprawled cyclist, slipping and falling on mustard, and so forth are hard pressed to apprehend the criminal. As for myself, atop a neighboring apartment flat, I watch passively as he approaches. He seems to me a small fish and no real threat to anyone but his idiot self.

And then, from ahead, the backup arrives. Two squad cars with full complement of officers apiece scream to a halt, blocking escape from that avenue. The police jump out from behind their car doors, shouting the usual spiel, sending the fool dashing down an alleyway. Screams and hollerings of anger from the effected mayhem in his hot pursuit, along with the officers with side arms drawn.

Of course I follow, but distantly. As an underground Uberhuman, I cannot allow myself to be discovered. Certainly seven officers can handle a simple Class I situation. Even so . . .

Crossing from rooftop to rooftop making no great trouble for me in this region, I observe the man scramble from one back-alley down another, and still another, disturbing many a homeless person and alley critter in his frenzy. He seems desperate enough for two men at the ends of their ropes. Perhaps I should draw closer.

Another sharp turn brings him to a dead end. Barred and locked doors and windows affording no route for escape. Nothing but a pile of garbage and a dumpster proffering concealment. All else, blood-colored brick. Ha! Murphy catches him at last! I stand directly over him four stories high. Suddenly, it becomes a Class IV situation when he draws a snub nose revolver from his jacket, taking hold of a decrepit old homeless man previously unseen to me cowering in soggy cardboard, and with gun placed against his temple, stands his ground as the police cross the final corner.

“BACK! BACK! Or I mumble mumble BRAINS mutter mumble NOW!” The metropolis noises obscure what words are not shouted vehemently.

Like a greased ninja, I stealth down a fire escape leading to the corner behind him.

“Put down the gun, and we’ll mushy mushy mumbley mutter nothing else to lose here.” This from the captain. All eyes on the man with the gun, my person is not seen before I wish it. As I reach ground level, he shakes his hostage violently, producing agonized moanings from the old man, and takes a few bold steps closer to the exiting alleyway. The officers, with guns lowered yet ready, hesitantly step back, still demanding cessation. I heed them not, for I speak, and suddenly, emerging from the shadows.

“That’s quite enough!” I announce in a commanding tone. The villain spins around to confront the surprise, and reflexively fires a round dead in line with my aortic arch. . .

One point five seconds before this, however, a cast iron skillet took to flight out an overlooking window to score a perfect deflection for the bullet, and for its service, spun in shattered pieces to the ground. Of course, I don’t even flinch, but instead lower him a cold, knowing stare.

Three things happen nearly simultaneously. One: the owner of the skillet pops her curler-encumbered head out the window in dismay, then slowly withdraws as she comprehends the situation below. Two: the villain stands dumbfounded at the apparent miraculous intervention, pistol still raised and smoking. Three: an alley cat, startled from sleep on the opposite fire escape at the firing of the gun, soars in slow-motion through the air and lands directly on the villain’s face, claws bared.

He drops his gun and releases his hostage as he, screaming like a little schoolgirl, scrambles to remove the feline from his face, and is quickly subdued by the officers. Handcuffed, and pressed to the ground, an officer reads him his rights as the captain shakes his head at me. Walking over, he says, “That was the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen! I can’t believe it. I thought you were food for worms!”

Acting shaken, I reply, “Yes, I . . . I can’t believe it myself . . . I keep feeling all over for . . . for the bullet hole.” I finish with a feeble laugh, patting my chest in places.

“That’s definitely one for the boys back at the station.” He says while crouching to pick up and thoughtfully finger a few pieces of the shattered skillet. As he rises, his grin slowly melts as he continues, “In all honesty, although I’m grateful for your willingness to help, that was a pretty dumb thing you did just now.” I act surprised, slightly hurt, and feign speechlessness, as he furthers, “We had the situation under control, and there was no need for you to put yourself in danger. We receive special training for hostage situations, and this one was proceeding as planned. There was really no reason for you to play hero.” As always, the officer will take advantage to speak condescendingly to civilians. It’s okay, I’m used to this racket by now. “In most situations, people who try to help just get in the way and increase the body count. You got lucky this time. Don’t ever do it again.” As I appear cowed, he whips out a pad and pen, putting on his bad boy face. “I’ll have to take your information, now. Within the next few days you’ll have to come by the station and give your report. Let me see some identification please.”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t have any.”

He looks up in surprise, and with encroaching annoyance in his voice voices, “You’re too clean cut to be a bum. What’s your name?”

“Seamus.”

“Seamus, what?”

“Just Seamus.” Hmmm... perhaps a bit too cocky.

“Where do you live, Just Seamus?” Openly angry now.

“At the Salvation Army, when I can get a room.”

“Alright. I’ve had enough of this crap! Put your hands up. If you’re not going to surrender your information voluntarily, I’ll have to search you for it.” I comply and he pats me down. A search of my pockets reveals only an old, crumpled napkin with the number 42 roughly scrawled thereon and a clean pair of socks. I watch as one of the other officers carefully puts the revolver in a ziplock. The gunman is staring at me as if he is trying to figure something out. I return with a smug smile, and he looks away.

The captain returns the napkin. “With no identification or contact information, I’m afraid I’ll just have to take you downtown to the station right now.” I think these guys receive special training to be impatient, because they’re really good at it. “Come with me please.” Not a request. The seven officers escort me, the gunman, and the old homeless man towards the parked squad cars. Two arms on the gunman, one on the old man, and none on me. I walk slowly, tending towards the rear of the procession. A turn or two later, I pick up a plastic bottle from off the ground and quickly hurl it into an open window while no one is watching. As we join the throng on the main street four minutes later, a painter atop scaffolding loses balance and kicks his paint can off the edge. At this point I veer off. Although my escorting officer sees me make this errant move, before he can take hold of my arm or even raise an objection, the spreadfire of eggshell white explodes at his feet, sending all the officers jumping for cover. By the time they gather themselves, a spattering of white decorating their black drab, I am already melded into the crowd, and am seen no more.

Most typical, for a low-budget underground Uberhuman. Escapades like this run a dime a dozen for one such as me. Of course, because of my power, I saw the bullet as it sped towards my mortality months in advance through one of my Chains. But it’s up to me to effect a Chain on the fly to keep me under the law enforcement’s radars after the villain is vanquished. So it was with the plastic bottle.

You don’t believe me? You ask, “How could a plastic bottle hurled through a window cause a paint can to drop a city block over?” Well, for starters, it helped that the cicadas were in mating season...

Very well, I’ll tell you. Detail by miniscule detail. Here’s how it all went down:

The bottle I threw weighed 26 grams and, although blue-tinted, lands with precisely enough force to topple Mr. Graham Dubois’ wine glass onto his lap. As that he is wearing his nice Sunday shirt for the family portrait they are about to have taken that afternoon, he hurriedly rushes for the bathroom sink, exclaiming expletives along the way (much to the chagrin of his darling wife of thirty-two years, Ellen). The thundering footsteps awakens their neighbor below in the basement apartment, Mr. Steve Grainger, from his afternoon nap. Normally Mr. Grainger doesn’t nap during the day, but, because he had undergone a bone grafting procedure for his severe periodontitis two days prior, he, because everyone knows that the third day is the worst for such things, was on some heavy-hitting narcotics (by prescription) for the pain.

Anyways.

Mr. Grainger awakes from the thundering footsteps with a start, and, hearing his cat, a rare male calico whom he named Pebbles, howling at the door wanting out, takes the 9 steps that are required to cross his humble abode and releases Pebbles. Pebbles crosses the alleyway to do his business (which means he had to poop) in his normal place behind Mrs. Fleur’s rosebushes. Whilst there, Pebbles disturbs a happy family of cockroaches which are on pilgrimage to the Promised Land, AKA the dumpster. Instead of creeping behind the bushes, the cockroach family walks in front of the bushes, which lines up Papa Roach in direct view of a hungry finch on the prowl for some yummy, juicy bugs. The finch ambushes the roaches, murders and consumes the father, and is about to go for little Sally Roach when Pebbles, done with business, saunters back around the bushes and into sight of the surprised bird. The finch takes off in a flutter, and nearly passes by Raquel Jameson hanging up her laundry on a line overlooking the alleyway several stories up. Raquel pauses from hanging up a sheet for five extra seconds to watch as the bird flies by and away, then resumes hanging the white sheet. This particular sheet is extra white because Raquel uses laundry detergent fortified with color-enhancing bleach.

Anyways.

Because the sheet is delayed from being unfurled on the clothesline for the extra five seconds, in the wind it reflects the sun in just the way at just the time so that the motion catches the corner of Mrs. Janis Arthur’s eye on a rooftop across the main street while she is watering her flowers. The reflexive movement she makes as she turns toward the motion causes her to momentarily spray away from her plants onto the limb of a tree below the edge of her roof. There, nestled on the branch sits a female cicada who, when sprayed, as all creatures do when disturbed in some way, releases pheromones. These species-specific chemicals waft back across the street with the breeze and light upon another tree branch where a dutiful male cicada responds to the call of nature. While looking for love, this horny male flies (vague pun?) into the face of a painter atop a scaffolding, causing him to loose his balance. To the rest of the story you are already privy.

It takes an example such as this to truly begin to comprehend my superpower. Just don’t ask me to relate how the iron skillet happened to fly out the window in time to deflect the bullet. That story is a novel unto itself. However I will tell you that that particular Chain began with a strategically placed adult magazine.