Here we are. Six months. Six months you’ve been following me. I’m sure it’s been impressive. Explosions. Space marines. Talking gorillas. It’s been pretty awesome. In that time, I’ve gone from a booby-trapped apartment and a lair with equipment and amenities to an invaded home and the back of a moving van in Yabloo City, Mississippi. Also, I’m being actively hunted by some sort of super team formed by the Flight, Master Academy, and Awesome-Tonk. That’s the shorthand the newspaper has for that pair.
I suspect I’m moving down in the world.
“Well, well, look who we got here,” came the voice of Sheriff Burt. I lowered my newspaper and glanced at him for a moment. He didn’t have his hand anywhere near his gun. There were a few curious looks from the other people in diner, but no one making a fuss.
I shrugged and raised my paper back up. I heard the chair across from me scrape across the linoleum and then the air sigh of air escaping the metal chair’s cushion. I was obviously paying his movements a great deal of attention because the sounds they made interrupted my intensive research into some pork chop recipe. I’ll have to try that later. Basil and teriyaki sauce.
“You know, ever since you came to town there have been some strange things happening. I’ve got ordinary folks shooting up supermarkets now. I got- We just arrested this feller I’ve known all his life. He wore a pair of ballet slippers to his ma’s house and strangled her with a ping feather bolo. We took him in and he’s just laughing about how she deserved it.”
He paused for effect here, because that’s the kind of thing you do in cop movies. I’m not the usual suspect that gets brought in by a sheriff though. And apparently you use center cut boneless pork chops in this recipe. Says they’re so tender, you could eat them as a sandwich.
I’ll throw the dog a conversational bone, though. I spoke up, “I haven’t been keeping up with the news. North Korean ships with Cuban weapons on them, another bunch of superheroes are trying a giant team-up called Shieldwall, a third of Americans think the First Amendment goes too far, Egypt kicked out their leader again, and some guy named Black Raptor wants to be a hero in Paradise City,” I folded up the paper, with great difficulty. I know it has the lines and all, but it never fits perfectly into them like it should. “I’d say conflict is the norm for people. Little place like this, I imagine a lot of people are finally getting some things off their chests. You ought to be more worried about why so many people are doing things that deserve payback against them.” I didn’t sound as ominous as I’d have preferred because of the paper crumpling and all that. Eventually I just put the napkin holder on it. I stacked the salt and pepper on top of the napkins too.
“I don’t know about all that, but you just maybe ought to get out of town,” he said, slipping off his sunglasses. I kept mine on, naturally. He continued, “I don’t know if you have anything to do with this, but you’re one more thing that’s not normal in all this. I’m willing to turn a blind eye to you if it means everything around here goes back to normal.”
“I’ll take it under consideration,” I told him. That’s my way of saying, “I heard what you said, I won’t do it, but shut up.” If you just tell people you’re not going to do something, they’ll keep trying to convince you.
The waitress arrived then with her arms loaded down, so Sheriff Burt excused himself. Let the feast of a thousand hams begin!
I don’t need to eat as much as I do all the time, actually. It’s my lifestyle. You run through a lot of calories doing the things I do. Oh, and the nanites are also responsible. I need energy and material to fix stuff. Protein for the muscle, calcium for the bones, carbohydrates because they taste good and provide an energy rush, and fat for whenever I get shot in the ass. Luckily, the nanites give the arteries a once-over too. Otherwise they’d be doing an autopsy on me and pull an entire chicken fried steak out of a vein.
I ate as much as I could manage without jumping out of my chair. It was going to be an exciting day, but I didn’t know why yet.
First thing on the agenda, I retrieved my armor, set it to show me looking like I wasn’t wearing it, then got on the Minstrel. It was perfect for this one.
Drove my ass to the police station first. Walked in, shades on, looking like I had leather pants and a jacket on. I had a box of donuts in my hands as I stepped up to the desk. The deputies didn’t know what to make of me, but I noticed at least one of them has drawn a gun. I opened the box, revealing the donuts, and tried for my best Schwarzenegger accent, “Sorry about that time with Sarah Connor. Here, have some donuts.”
That got a relieved laugh from the deputies. The one with his gun holstered it again and they all stepped forward. I let them take a few, then take the whole box. I turned toward the man at the desk, who was laughing along with all this too. “Anyone for me to break out this time?”
“Naw, just this queer we got locked up for murdering his mom.”
I turned to the other deputies before speaking aside to the man, “Looks like we’re going to need more donuts. I’ll be back.”
That got another few chuckles as I headed out the door. The joke was on them, though. A minute later, I crashed through the doors again on my Minstrel. The pink scooter slammed the doors open hard, breaking the glass of the doors. It was as close as I could come to going through a window this time.
“What the fuck!” yelled the man at the desk. I took out a large round package, about the size of a softball, that was tied together at the bottom. I also pulled out a lighter in the shape of a small M16. There were sighs of relief as I pulled the trigger and the tip lit up. It was just a lighter. They should have been more worried about the package as I lit the bottom of it and dropped it. The deputies waited for a few seconds, watching to see what would happen, before the desk sergeant said, “No fireworks inside the station.”
I pulled a shotgun out from a holster attached to the Minstrel and fired it into his chest. There was stunned silence for a moment as I took aim at other deputies, who drew their sidearms and returned fire. The bullets bounced off harmlessly. Meanwhile, smoke from the giant ball of weed that I lit was beginning to fill the air. I came prepared with the kind of smoke grenade you use on a joint task force. I heard moans from the downed cops as I turned the scooter toward the doors to the holding cells. I drove into the door and stopped as I slammed against the wood. I guess it doesn’t open that way. I grabbed the handle and turned it as I put the scooter into reverse, pulling it open for me to drive through.
There I found my client in a cell. I don’t call him my client just because this whole sequence of events would make me the most badass lawyer of all time. I’m the guy who helped him set up everything for his revenge.
“Hello Guy,” I said, maintaining the ridiculous accent. No wonder Arnold himself uses a voice coach to help maintain this sound. Anyone who wants to sound like this all the time needs professional help from somebody.
“Adenoid?” he said, standing up from the cot. Guy was a bit of campy gay guy. Not all of them are like that, but Guy is. He wanted to do something about his mother because when he was a kid, he turned out to like ballet. She overreacted, assuming he was gay just because of that even though ballet is not really an indicator of sexuality. She took him out back and spanked him with a feather duster. From that day on, she forced him to participate in what she felt were traditionally manly things based on the belief it would keep him from being gay.
He was in football, getting tackled and dogpiled by large groups of sweaty guys his age, but he stopped that after he broke his arm. He played baseball, but he quit that when a ball hit him in the leg and fractured his shin. He wanted to play soccer, but his mom said that was another homosexual activity, so she signed him up for wrestling instead. There, in the middle of traditional Greco-Roman wrestling, he realized he actually was gay and wound up dating a teammate. Said teammate moved away suddenly, leaving a breakup note.
Guy had come to me because he found out from his mom just recently that she and the other boy’s parents found out what was going on. They’d had the other boy shipped off to Escuela Caribe. It’s this school by American evangelicals in the Dominican Republic. They kidnap teenagers whose religious parents don’t like how they’re acting and force them into labor and punishment in another country, and even hold them there past the age of 18 if they want to. You’d better hope they don’t have one of those in your world. Better look it up to be sure.
Guy tried to look up his old boyfriend, wanting to reconnect after all this time, and found that he was claiming to be happily married to former lesbian. Believe it or not, I can feel sympathy for people. If you know sexuality isn’t a choice, then he’s been brainwashed into living a lie. If you think it is a choice, then he’s still been brainwashed. I took out the other guy’s parents while Guy beat his mom to death.
Anyway, back to the cell. Guy had just asked “Adenoid?”
“Come with me if you want to live,” I told him. I pulled out my laser potato peeler and cut the lock out of the cell door, then held out my hand for him. He slid onto the scooter and wrapped his arms around me. He also laid his head down on my shoulder.
“I hoped you would save me,” he sighed, then lifted his head. “You feel like metal.”
I got us turned around in time to see the door to the holding cells being locked from the outside. “You can’t kill the metal,” I told Guy, “Those who try will be beaten down to the ground.”
I flicked a switch, launching a rocket into the door. The cop who locked it peeked his head in just as we got close, so I gave him a right hook to the nose as I drove past.
The other deputies from the front desk were getting back to their feet as I drove past, their shirts littered with pot leaves and shards of crystal meth. I did a victory donut in the lobby, scattering the remains of the wrapping of the potsmoke bomb, before I gunned it and sped out of the station, Guy giving the deputies the middle finger as we disappeared into hiding. He’s on his way out of town, by the way.
There’s a very good reason why I made a shotgun into a non-lethal weapon, though. That became apparent when I walked by later that day looking normal. Sheriff Burt had gotten back, you see. He was pissed about what had happened and was trying to make heads or tales of it.
“So a terminator walked in, gave everyone donuts, crashed through the door on a pink motorcycle, filled the place with pot smoke, shot everyone with a shotgun that fires drugs, broke the prisoner out, blew up a door, punched Mick in the face, did a donut, and drove off. Is that what you’re seriously telling me happened?”
The desk sergeant was beginning to realize this story didn’t sound right. He was busy clutching his stomach. “Yes sir, now can I go? I really need to get to a bathroom.”
Sheriff Burt dismissed him, “You’re all going to be suspended and fired for this drug shenangians bullshit, you know that?” Other deputies were also running in the same direction as the sergeant. Donuts with laxative in them will do that to you. At least they’ll have plenty to keep them busy, what with the pot smoke giving them the munchies in the meantime. I just wonder if those instructions off the internet were serious about the bright blue coloring the laxative will give them.