A couple of days ago, I went on a small crime spree. Just me and Moai. The other villains don’t need anymore exposure right now. I do. See, I’m about to leave this town, and I’m going to leave it in pieces. I can see how you might think I’ve settled here. That maybe Memphis is my place. That Memphis ought to like me.
After all, I’ve helped put Memphis on the map. My visits are part of the reason it’s known so much for murders. I’ve supplied more alcohol to the homeless in this city than teens arranging to get beer. Let’s face it, I’m a lot more fun than those villains who just want to wipe everyone out or trash everything because that’s their version of making a name for themselves.
That doesn’t seem to be the case. Venus has been turning her fights into a big PR push. She’s determined to push this idea of cleaning up the city, as if people really know what that means. Just the supercrime? The violent crime? Corruption? Muggings, vandalism, theft, how about people cheating on their taxes and speeding a little? They just don’t think these things through, I tell you. It’s a slippery slope that I don’t think they’re prepared for.
Just like they didn’t think it through when they put up posters of my armor and my trenchcoat. Or when they started up with the commercials about seeing the light at the end of the tunnel and the darkness passing. You’d think I was fucking Sauron the way they talk. Interpret that last sentence however you prefer. Well, if they really want to make me out to be the devil, I shall oblige them.
It’s about time I paid a visit to a Memphis landmark. I left the other guys back at the base. It’s hard to keep a bunch of guys like that from blowing up a location if they’re all there, but I threw them some porn DVDs, a copy of one of those rock n’ roll band games, and a couple kegs. They’ll be fine. Just like babysitting kids.
They all deserve some time off, the way I had them running around the sewers. It felt very strange to be able to stand back and not have to get my hands dirty. It was the shit. I mean, the shit is what would have gotten my hands dirty. It was the motivation, not the feeling. I will stick my hand in shit if it means surviving, or beating up someone I don’t like, or if it seems like a good idea at the time. This fit none of those fluid categories.
I took the car this time, with the trunk open so Moai had a place to sit. I’d be worried Moai was feeling left out, but my understanding is that his particular type of statue is used to loneliness.
First stop was to pick up a very small trailer that stank very badly. That’s a really good way to keep people away from something you want to hide, by the way. It can backfire, though. Like that story about that aristocratic woman who slept next to a dead guy, or something. This, however, was not something that would appear all that dangerous to anyone on its own. Just my new chickens.
I popped a pill bottle and dumped them in. Don’t worry, nothing all that harmful. Just some antidepressants I took from someone. You see, antidepressants sometimes cause suicide. Such an odd thing that I knew I had to go see it for myself the other night.
As overused as they are I just busted down a random guy’s door and walked in with something I made from a blender, only on overdrive and with a flamethrower coming out of the middle. I chased him with it, yelling, trying to ask him if he was on antidepressants. He must have been on them right then, because he didn’t do anything but run and shoot at me and toss his wife in my way before he jumped out a window. That’s right, he jumped. He got a running start, hooked his leg on a loveseat for style points, and went right out to the pavement below. Tried to tell his wife she was better off without a guy who would throw her at me, but unfortunately she failed to respond to my charms. Too soon for her, the Hamlet wannabe. I marched my poor, poor blue balls into the bathroom to check and beheld the antidepressants the poor, suicidal bastard took.
That misfortunate son of a bitch. According to his prescription bottle, his name was Molly.
Now you know what makes a chicken feel like blowing itself up in the name of Admiral Allahu Akbar of the Rebel Alliance.
Our target was Gus’s Fried Chicken, a famous restaurant around here. Actors, former presidents, people with heart disease, all of them have tasted the amazing chicken here. Except me, of course. I got the door for Moai as he pushed the cage in. Then I gave a very theatrical bow and announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, I have in this box the ugliest creatures in the world and I say that because these chickens are revolting!” I threw open the box.
Real live chickens ran out. You expected exploding chickens? That’s the problem, you expected, and so would they. And if you have to ask who “They” are, then you’re not paranoid enough to be talking about such secrets with me!
These hen-pecked fowls of the world flooded out of the cage they’d been so tightly packed into. Fueled by Molly’s medication, they hopped onto tables and began to peck the shit out of the customers of Gus’s Fried Chicken. The clucked and pecked and latched onto and flapped wings at people. Food was flying, chairs were knocked over, a man in a business suit tried to fight off his assailant with his own toupee, and I watched from the doorway, egging the chickens on, telling them, “Fly free, my feathered minions! Take vengeance for your slaughtered family! Remember, my brethren, today is a good day to fry!”
It was awesome. I don’t know why I waited so long to try that restaurant.
I blocked one woman who attempted to flee past me. “Hey there, you’re cute, want to go for some coffee?”
Her answer consisted of some panicked grunting. She actually tried to squeeze out between me and the cinderblock wall. I tell you, I have the worst luck with women. They actually try to run away when I ask them out. I don’t know if it’s my breath, or if I’m just not rich enough, or maybe I need to start stuffing the codpiece of my armor. Hard to believe I’d even need to. She has to know I have enough cock to fill a restaurant.
As the old PSA campaign tells us, “Just say ‘No’.” I said no to her refusing me and threw her over my shoulder. Predictably, she hit and kicked at me. You know, this is how a broken home starts. Reminded me of what this world calls the good old days, when men beat women over the head, leaving them brain damaged and unable to consent or refuse while they dragged them back to the cave for child-rearing. Then everything got all PC and people started considering that perhaps women were of the same species as men and deserved basic human rights to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. Bizarre, isn’t it?
It’d be just like if a guy wanted the right to say “No” when a bigger, meaner drunk guy came up, beat them over the head, tore their skimpy, seductive pants off, and just cornholed the fuck out of them with the news later saying the smaller guy deserved it and was a total manwhore. And really, we can’t have people making the ultimate determination of who possibly impregnates them, whether said impregnation is in the ass or the bajingo.
I couldn’t just toss her in the trunk with that being Moai’s seat, so I had to tie her up in the passenger seat’s seatbelt. I don’t really drink coffee, though. Crack is cheaper. But I had a tied up woman in the car with me and most people could see she didn’t want to go anywhere with me, so that restricted my choice of dates to anywhere college fraternity guys would go.
Naturally enough, that led me to a nearby Starbucks. Starbucks, home of the $13 cup of caffeine. Equivalent amounts available in better tasting form for cheaper at your nearest soda machine, with less support for South American drug kingpins just looking to important their product. Why does no one think of Pablo the Machete and all the hungry murderers he has to feed?
For whats-her-name’s own good, I had to leave her tied up in the car. Seriously, I didn’t get her name. I think she had curly black or dark brown hair, and she was Caucasian, but I honestly couldn’t tell you what she looked like. Dishonestly, I could say I was going to have coffee with Angelina Jolie.
I projected myself in civilian clothes as I walked in purposefully to find the line was incredibly long. Damn. It was going to take forever. Then I remembered I’m a bad motherfucker. I cut right to the front. Well, the people behind me didn’t take too kindly to that. This big guy in a Polo shirt put his hand on my shoulder and asked me in his deep voice to get to the back of the line. I turned around and grabbed him in the sensitive parts. You know what I did then? I SQUEEZED! Suddenly, the Barry White look- and soundalike’s screams were threatening to break glass.
Vocal correction made, I threw him onto a table. I had no idea who the next person in line was. Suit, tie, cellphone in head, suitcase. I uppercutted him under the chin. He was lifted up briefly, toothchips flying, then went limp and dropped to the ground. Third guy, dark skinned, balding, overweight fellow in a striped orange and green shirt. I honked his nose. “Honk honk!”
That was when Moai threw itself through the window and smashed a table where a man with shaggy blonde hair and untrimmed brown eyebrows had been typing something on his laptop.
At this point, people are getting the idea that they should leave. I can’t really blame them. I will anyway. It was all your fault, random people on laptops! Especially that asshole with the ponytail. That 13 year old girl scout had no business being in a Starbucks and the cookies she was selling…were actually pretty good. I liked the peanut butter ones the best.
I hopped the counter that was abandoned by fleeing baristas. The manager approached with a damp crotch, hands open, trying to say something about not hurting anyone.
“Trust me,” I told him, “I’m just here to really get these people moving fast.’
I couldn’t give it very long, with cops on their way, so I let my date loose using the easy seatbelt ejector. I installed it in case I ever had someone riding along with me that I wanted to see bash their face on the dashboard.
She stumbled through the door, confused, not paying attention to me. She was looking down, trying to get the knotted mess of a strap off her leg. “Help, I was kidnapped by a crazy person!” she cried out, then looked up to see Moai and I, both of us in aprons, working on a jumbled mass of coffeemakers and espresso machines.
I reached back to Moai, “I need a wrench.” He placed something with the consistency of a coffee stirrer in my hand and started using the jury-rigged tool to turn a nut. “Hey there beautiful. Care for a taste of my cappuccino?” I tweaked my work-in-progress, causing it to spray foam onto the woman, who looked down at her outfit. “Sorry, baby, I swear it never goes off that quick.”
She screamed and ran for it.
Like I said, terrible luck with women.
Ah well. I remote guided the car around to the next street behind the shop where Moai and I would make our escape. I didn’t want to risk running into Venus before it was the proper time. Besides, I had all I needed from this little outing, as disappointing as it was for my love life.
Yep, all I needed. The coffee blaster was just a bonus.
This is the part where you imagine me grinning in the shadows and folding my fingers while cryptically saying, “Yes, all part of the plan.”