Prelude: A Day's Work
I don’t normally call for back-up, but the guy never left his apartment, or at least he hadn’t since the incident with his ex’s father.
The building was a rat trap, still, it was full of people: junkies, criminals, their kids, people who screwed themselves over or were screwed. Plus, the bastard was big. That was his Super, no laser beam eyes, no phasing through the floor, no lightning from his finger tips, just big and strong in a building full of innocents, kind of innocent anyway.
The law was supposed to clear the building. That left me to beat him down or get pounded down long enough to wear him out, give the law a fighting chance.
Time to get on the suit. Rubber, leather, Kevlar, It’s a variation of what I used to wear, less armor, though. I’m tougher than I used to be. The helmet still works as a mask, even though anyone can find out who I am. I wear the costume because it’s my uniform. It tells people who I am, what I’m here to do. It also draws attention to me. When you’ve got potential bystanders, you want all attention on you. Plus it freaks the perps out.
I stand near a broken-down playground, looking up at the building. The swings are gone. There’s graffiti all over the slides, the jungle jim. I now know what Jill does behind the school. Our guy, Mac’s his name, will take the building down, or the law will.
I yell to him, to a fifth floor apartment. It’s a hot summer in Cleveland in a building without air-conditioning. The windows are open. “Hey Mac! Play nice and walk on out of there, OK? We’ll get you wrapped up and on your way. No-one’ll get hurt.”
Nothing. “Come on Mac. You knew this day was coming. You can’t tear down your ex’s house and expect no one to show up.”
Still nothing. Doesn’t the bastard know he’s supposed to respect his elders? “All that power and you’re afraid to fight an old man.”
“Don’t give me that shit.” Garbo speaks at last. “I know about you. You’re Swift Arrow. You can’t die.” Good to know I’ve got a reputation.
“I can die; no one’s been able to get it done is all. Tell you what, I bet if you come down here and kill me, all these troops, and you’ve got to know you’re surrounded, they’ll be so impressed or so scarred, they’ll let you walk right out of here.” No answer. I start pacing back and forth. If the law has done its job there won’t be anyone around. Even so, I want him looking at me, not at possible hostages. “Come on, Mac. You can take me. You walked through The New Sentinels, a whole freaking super-team. The Silver Patriot still wets himself when he hears your name. Of course, breaking Miss Victory’s nose like you did, now that wasn’t exactly chivalrous of you, but what do I expect from a guy who terrorizes his girlfriend and breaks her father’s legs.”
“He deserved it.”
“Did your son deserve to watch? Bet that messed him up. No way he’s recovering from that.”
“Leave my son out of this.”
“You’re fault there, Mac. You brought him into this. Might as well put the kid in an institution, ‘cause that’s where he’s going to wind up, unless it’s in prison like his dad.”
I hear the sound before I see anything, a combination crack and boom, and Mac is through a window and part of a wall five stories above and coming down towards me. No costume for him. No, for him it’s jeans and a flannel shirt and work boots all wrapped around 300 lbs of mad desperation, big enough that when he hits the ground he sinks in, pieces of the apartment building raining down around him. His aim is off. He‘s ten feet from me. I run over and kick him in the head. If he was normal, I would have sent his head flying into Lake Erie; as it is, it hardly fazes him, so I kick again. Blood begins to trickle from his nose, but that’s it, and he’s out of the hole he made and coming towards me.
I back up, pull the thermite from my belt, pellets, easy to throw. They explode on contact, but Mac doesn’t. He keeps coming. Most of his shirt’s gone, and I think his hair’s on fire. He takes a swing. Faster than I thought. He lands one in the gut, and I go flying. I hit the ground and roll. When I stop, I try to find the bastard before he hits again. He’s coming. I’m still on the ground. I go for his knees, my boot full on his knee cap. He screams, but nothing breaks. I’m up, but so is he. Instead of punching, he grabs my arm and swings. Suddenly I’m flying toward the apartment building. I crash hard. The building stays up, but I end up in the bathroom of a first floor apartment. I smash through a toilet. Water spays everywhere. It’s wet and loud, but Mac doesn’t follow me in. It’s not till I pull myself outside the broken walls that I hear shouts of “Daddy.”
Mac stands there looking at me, then up toward his apartment. I lose it. “You bastard! You kidnapped your own son!” Stupid. Taunting a giant. He rushes me. I fly back in the bathroom, then through it. We in a kitchen. I can take it. But the building won’t. “Are you trying to kill him?” I shout.
Mac’s not thinking. He goes for my throat. I’m on my back. I stop him with both feet. I kick him back into the bathroom. His head smashes through the sink. It’s old hard porcelain. It’s got to hurt. He shakes his head, the blow and the water confusing him.
I look around. The place is old enough to still have steel pipes. It’s cheap enough that they were never replaced. In the kitchen, under the sink, a steel waste pipe, I pull it free as Mac rushes in after me. I time it right, and he gets my full swing in the face. He stops dead. I hit him again, two, three times. Most of his teeth are out, but he’s still standing.
Just then, we hear the helicopters. You can tell from the sound that they’re big military models. “Listen to me. If I don’t drag you out of here in five minutes, they’re going to start shelling the building. I might survive - You might survive, but your boy’ll be dead. You hear me, dead.”
*
I make him crawl out on his hands and knees. Anything less and he’d probably get a mobile rocket in the stomach. The handler’s rush him; start wrapping him in plastic or whatever the hell it is. The key to keeping big guys down is dampening momentum and leverage, don’t let them push off anything. Give them room to move, swing an arm, and they tear down walls. They drug him next. That gets to him. You can see the fear in his eyes. He yells, “It’s OK, Zack.” “Dad’s OK.” And that makes me sick.
I want to go to the boy, but the social services are already on him. It’s probably better. What’s he going to say to the man who put his dad in jail? “Thanks for not killing him” ?
The kid’s gone, and Mac’s bolted into a reinforced semi-trailer by the time Richman walks over to me. He’s in his swat outfit, body armor, black helmet with “LAW” stenciled across the top.
“Thought that one would finally put you underground.”
“You told me the building was clear.”
“How were we to know someone was hiding in his closet.”
“You should have known the boy was grabbed.”
“He wasn’t grabbed. Probably took the bus here – visiting dear-old-dad.”
“Shit.”
I don’t look at him, “Have the money in my account by the end of the day. OK?”
“Mac was right, you know. They think you can’t die. It scares the shit out of them.” He smiles. “Me, I figure you just haven’t met the right purp yet.”
I look at him and smile. “Oh, I can die. I’ve been dead before.”
Hey, Check out this piece, written by my buddy and podcast guest RIchard Wagle! It’s the prelude to the superhero pulp serial novel he is working on, there is more on his page, also, so go check that out, too! It’s great stuff!