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.