Odds n ends

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literacysuks1

on Dec. 4, 2010

THE QUESTION AND THE CASE OF THE PERILOUS PUNDITS



It was quiet again. The dawn was always like this in Hub City. The pollution created these deceptively serene orange and purple mornings. If you didn't KNOW any better you'd be lulled into a false sense of security.

And then you'd hear a gunshot.

Or a siren.

The cacophony that is city life dominoes from that little crackle every morning, and into a nonstop buzz that's comforting when you're desensitized enough to bob your head to the beat. For now? For now it's silent. Some poor fool without a care in the world for personal safety is on a park bench watching the sun rise. I, on the other hand, am hunched with my knees to my chin in a small blue truck, parked between grimy high rises and trying to separate the static from the words coming in on my e-bay purchased PFL-something radio.

"SKRTCH– heh! –SHRK–heating on his BITCH–SKRTCH–standard, right?–uper stars to–"

Garbled. What kind of world are we living in today where a man can't properly spy on another? It's practically american tradition. I adjust the frequency on the listening device, and instinctively try to nudge the mask immovably affixed to my face.

"Hahaha—!"

More of this. Laughing and awkward silences are mostly what you pick up in these kind of jobs. Conversation is something very smooth, flowing and graceful in films, but in reality people only say something worth saying every few hours or so. Reason me and this truck are nestled a couple blocks away from the ever popular HUB949 AM building; esteemed broadcaster of Wacky Wilco's sports hour in the morning, for so damn long. It's been like this for a couple days. I sleep when they sleep. Mostly. And then I listen. I'm probably tired, but I've stopped being able to tell the difference.

"krrk"

A smoother signal.

"How much did you get out of him, anyway?"

"Few thousand a week for the rest of my LIFE"

"Probably what he spends on SHAMPOO every week!"

"Hahahaha*KRRRK*"

Typical extortion job. Steve Wilco, Wacky Wilco himself, apparently got some dirt on the Hub City Rover's all star running back, John Haynes. Wilco got his HUB949 buddies in on it, and they've been bleeding Haynes dry for months. Something has him scared enough to give them a good half of his paycheck per month, and I can't figure out WHAT. They're clearly enjoying the pull, if the laughing is any indication. The only problem has been getting something truly incriminating during their pre-show bs sessions. Charging in on them all trenchcoat, bravado, and swinging fists sans evidence, while immensely pleasuring for my urge to beat people up, won't keep them locked up very long.

"KRK*Hehhaha!"

I'm beginning to wish I could hear what the hell was so hilarious. Rubber scratches against pavement outside my truck, interrupting the parade of static and hyena cackling. I almost poke my head out of the van to see who decided on a Sunday drive before I remember my appearance, and the fact that I wanted to remain inconspicuous.

Best to remain unseen. It's probably nothing, besides. A few minutes pass without incident. I remember I need to stop by home for a shower at some point, and then self consciously touch the mask again. How long have I been at this…a year now? A year since I came to the city where I was born, searching for my identity. A year since I found Tot and a sense of purpose. A year asking QUESTIONS and forcing the answers. Tot is the one who made me this mask that makes my face a blank, and I wear it while I beat up bad people on the behalf of inevitably weaker good people. Somehow, I haven't been killed yet.

"KRASH!!!"

The radio. Distortion, or–

"Hey–! What the hell–KRRSH–SECURITY!"

"YOU SONS OF BITCHES! KILL Y–KRSHH"

"KRAK!"

I should probably get out of the car.

The door of the van seems to slide away by itself and my feet hit the pavement. Light, fast, like I was trained. Tip tap tip. Through the double doors. Lock is already broken. Down the hallways past the gaudy sports memorabilia and the cardboard standees and the florescent lights. No security. The sounds from my radio enter reality. Like the first time I saw a rock show, I hear the real live Steve Wilco scream in terror. Taller than I imagined. No, wait, just being held 3 feet off the ground by his shirt collar. The shindig grinds to a halt like a nativity scene as they all stop to look at me, I don't blame them.

We already know Wilco, but the man trying to give him a closer view of the ceiling courtesy a hold on his neck is one John Haynes, in the flesh and standing in his honest to god blue and orange jersey. He's holding Wilco's bearded, bespectacled ass up with no visible strain, burly as hell and making the others look like ants. Bruised ants. They're strewn about the recording room and looking up at me with an uncomfortable amount of white in their eyes that contrasts real well with the moss shade of the walls. Scrawny, pale, and sickly. 5 guys who talk about sports for a living versus one who plays them. Christ, they were probably hoping for superman.

"SHIT!"

You're a poet, Haynes. A blur of tan and red hits me, and about four and a half seconds after I've tossed it off and gotten back to my feet I realize he'd thrown Wilco like a ragdoll. Forget taller, ol' Wild was heavier than I imagined too. The footballer comes at me like a battering ram. There was an uncomfortably inhuman look in his eyes, and to say he was out for BLOOD was an understatement.

I've gotten more used to the fighting than I have the rest of this job. Fighting was something I already knew, because it was something I'd always needed. When I stopped needing it I began putting myself into situations where I would again. I'm funny like that.

Somebody yells "The Question!".

I duck and sidestep him. His mass, while probably his greatest advantage through his life, is something I can use. I hear a dull crack and a barely audible grunt of annoyance as his shoulder hits the wall. He's missed me by a mile. I realize I have about two and a half seconds to act, and I best use it wisely. Something heavy. A frame. A recording board. no. A chair? Why not? Richard would have frowned on this. I swing and I feel it break, but I don't get the satisfaction of the force reverberating through my arms. Time stops again and the blue clad man-mountain just seems angry.

Before I can say something clever he lowers his head and drives me across the room, full style football drive, into the opposite wall. My ribs drive up into places they aren't supposed to and I taste white and fire. Suddenly he's standing there bearhugging my torso into dust, and it gives me a chance to finally get a good look at the guy tossing me around. This isn't plain rage. It's heartbreak and hurt. I decide I need him hurt in the physical sense if I want to stay alive. The thought of doing something graceful and technical flits through my mind. Old habits die hard. My closed fist bashes into his right temple. Once. Twice. He barely moves. Everything is fading to white. I hear a pop. Then something louder.

A gunshot.

Haynes is kind enough to drop me to the ground. One of Wilco's lackies, even smaller than he and totally hairless (his nametag reads Wily Tom) is holding the smoking pistol over his head. A bit of broken off plaster comes from the hole in the ceiling, the only damage. He says something, but I'm half deaf from the shot and I can't hear it. They all look around in a quiet panic. I try to speak up and get to my feet, and after coughing up a bit of blood into the inside of my mask I manage.

"Okay. Somebody has a GUN. Does that mean we can all stop and reassess, or is everything about to go off again?"

I look at Tom, frozen in his position. He gives me those bug eyes and shrugs. Real Wily.

"Right." I say between gasps for air.

Haynes speaks up, thick neck veins bulging. "Think I fuckin' care about a GUN!? I'll tear all you limb from limb you stupid–!"

Having pulled his balls seemingly from midair, Wilco stood up from his handy fort under the recording desk I took the chair from earlier and adjusts his incredibly thick rimmed glasses. "Like you NEEDED the money, asshole!"

"You think I have to explain to you!?" The player yelled, spittle flying.

"You live in a MANSION! What's a couple thousand, huh!?" One of the wimpier lackeys yells from his corner.

"Oh, so you friggin BLACKMAIL me?"

"What else am I supposed to do!? You see how the wealth is spread in this hellhole! We live on scraps while you–you goddamn SPORTS STARS–!" Wilco yells, taking control again. Unfortunately, his specs keep sliding down his nose as his head shakes and need to be readjusted, lowering the impact of his dramatic editorial rant slightly.

"How did you get this job, again?" I say, but am ignored.

Haynes stops and holds his head for a second before talking again. His brow furrows. "My sister!"

"What?" Those glasses again. Can't stay up.

"She…she's terminal, okay? I've been using all the money I had to help her and you–you VULTURES!" His eyes bulge again. If Haynes wasn't so he-man I think he'd be crying right about here. I pull my hat back on, it seems to have flown off when I was being killed earlier. I turn back to the others. "How very DICKENS…or at least E.R."

"The HELL with you! Where is your FACE!?" Haynes points, his thick finger an inch away from my mask. Close enough to see hair.

"I left it back at home, with my violin."

Wilco, having had a near bi polar mood swing, seemed to be trying to calm the situation "Look. How about we work something out?"

"No sale, fella." I adjust the hat brim and give the sternest look I can manage. "You're not working out ANYTHING, Wilco. Blackmail is illegal. This whole damn CITY is poor, but we don't need to resort to that."

He shouts back. "It's the only thing we have LEFT to resort to! You looked AROUND lately!?"

"No eyes, sorry."

Turning around, I let Wilco steam, Haynes looks unsure and stares the foot or two of height difference down at me, the little brain under his buzzcut struggling like a corvette ten years past it's expiration date.

"So–you're like onna them heroes, right? You'll take them in. Make them pay." He says.

My whole body tenses, ready to take another one of the footballer's blows and give one back if necessary.
"Something like that–" but I don't get to finish. I hear a hammer crack and I duck. Somebody flickers a spotlight and thunder booms. Another gun. How loaded are these people?

A nine millimeter section of John Hayne's shoulder explodes in crimson. Shouldn't have turned my back. Was there another gun in Wilco's drawer? There's a loud noise and Wilco hits the ground, his smoking pistol following suit. I must have hit him. The lackeys put their hands into the air.

—

The sirens, not content with lingering in the background, are getting closer. Somebody must have heard the shots and called it in. Good. I stumble out of the radio building, attempting to hold my ribs in from that game of patty-cake earlier. The sun is up now, enough to kill the dreamy morning twilight and replace it with a clear view of the dirt and filth in the empty road. The orange has gone blood red, and everything casts a slightly too large shadow. Wafting through, the warm breeze should be soothing, but it irritates my injuries and blows the ticker tape parade of litter around me and into the air.

"I just wanted to thank you. Those guys–they would have taken everything I had." Haynes, the lumbering idiot. He followed me out. He tries to keep the blood from leaking from his shoulder and to smile, not doing a very good job at either.

"You shouldn't be moving. You've been shot."

"I'll live." He says through his teeth.

"Besides, you assaulted those men, Haynes. You had intent to kill. I have to tell them that. You should have called the POLICE."

"That…that's not fair!"

"They'll do their time–more than you. You're RICH. You could buy them off…or you could help your sister." I barely look over my shoulder.

"Bastard–" He couldn't attack me if he wanted to. Good thing.

"What could they have had on you that was so bad? So bad you couldn't suck it up and let it go?"

He falls silent, the blue jersey goes purple in the light and I can't see his face anymore.

"You should get that wound looked after." I press the button on my belt and the smoke to unfix the mask rises around me. Haynes coughs, there's a smell like talcum powder and I'm gone.

The sirens stop. The city comes alive.