Ooter's Place: A Sampler Page 2

  He took a step forward. The kid pulled the trigger again.

  There was a small pinch at his chest, as if a needle had been jabbed there—but just that, just a small pinch. He took another step.

  The kid pulled the trigger again, then dropped his gun and ran. Walking over to the discarded gun, the man in the green-and-yellow costume picked it up and crushed it in his right hand, as effortlessly as he might crumple a piece of paper.

  He looked around; the pretty lady was gone. He felt a pang of anger at that. True, he had told her to flee, but she could have hidden somewhere safe and come out to thank him when the coast was clear.

  He put the thought out of his mind. Superheroes didn’t save people for thank-yous. Superheroes saved people because it was the right thing to do.

  Beneath his mask, he was smiling widely.

  So he was a superhero! He’d suspected as much when he’d woken up in the alley behind the Chinese restaurant. He couldn’t remember his name, or how he had gotten there, but there was a mirror tossed out in the dumpster and his eyes were working fine.

  And what he saw when he looked in the mirror was a golden face staring back at him. There were holes for his eyes, nose, and mouth, and two wing-like extensions to cover his ears.

  He wore a green-and-yellow costume made from the same strong-but-flexible material as the mask. His chest was huge, as if he’d been pumping weights since his days in the cradle. Whoever he was, he wasn’t someone to be messed with.

  As he stared at his impressive reflection in that greasy mirror, he suddenly heard the lady’s scream and dashed off toward the sound without a moment’s thought for his own safety. He found the young ruffian holding the screaming lady with one hand, and a gun in the other. He felt nervous, but his voice was like thunder.

  “Unhand her, ruffian!” he said, and even he was taken aback by the sound of his voice.

  Startled, the kid let her go. She fell to the ground but didn’t try to get away. If anything, she seemed paralyzed by fear.

  “Leave!” he said to her, and the loudness of his voice must have rung a bell in her head. She pushed herself away from the kid, then got to her feet and stumbled off until she disappeared in the darkness.

  The kid pointed the gun at him.

  “Big mistake, clown,” the kid said, and pulled the trigger.

  The bullet came at him and he felt a sharp jab at his chest, just above his heart. But he didn’t die.

  It was later that night that a police cruiser pulled up alongside him as he patrolled the streets. The passenger-side window was open, so the Defender of the Innocent and Helpless—he had not yet come up with a better name for himself, something that rolled off the tongue a bit better, even though he had already given it a lot of thought—said in his booming voice, “No assistance required, Officer.”

  He kept walking, but the cop car didn’t pull away.

  “What’s your name, friend?” the cop asked. He and his partner were still cruising beside him in the patrol car as he walked briskly, his head swinging side-to-side, scanning for signs of criminal activity.

  “I haven’t quite decided, Officer,” he said, boomingly. Then he stopped suddenly and turned to face them. “Say, what do you think my name should be?”

  The cops exchanged looks.

  “Okay, fella,” the partner said. The car had stopped rolling and he opened his door and stepped out. “Why don’t we take a ride downtown?” He started walking toward him, slowly.

  The Defender shook his head hesitantly and took some steps backwards. This happened a lot—superheroes were frequently frustrated in their efforts to help people by normal cops. He’d tried to be friendly with them—he’d even asked for their help in choosing a name—but obviously these guys were not about to break with the traditional cop-superhero dynamic.

  The first cop was out and walking toward him too. Both had their hands on their side-arms. He didn’t want to hurt them and he didn’t want to cause a scene. Turning around quickly, he broke into a run. They were following him—he knew that without having to look over his shoulder. But he only heard one pair of pounding footsteps in pursuit; the other cop might have gotten back in the car, to try to cut the Defender off up ahead.

  That was the case. The car pulled out of a side-alley and came to a stop, blocking his way. A look over his shoulder showed the other cop following on foot, if a little far back.

  The Defender kept running; he knew—somehow he knew—that he could jump over the car. But when he approached the car and jumped—he kept going up. He had pushed on the ground with too much force. He looked back at the ground to see the cops below. He zoomed in on their faces and saw that they were staring up at him with amazement and awe.

  He kept floating upward for a few more moments, then, with a twist of his hips, he began to fly forward, his eyes zoomed in on the moonlit city below.

  The Defender was on the prowl; criminals and ill-minded ruffians beware.

  The woman who walked through the precinct doors was astonishingly beautiful. She had rosy-red lips, blue eyes, and hair the color of a detective’s shield. She wore a smart business suit and strode purposefully to his desk.

  “Have there been any reports of a man running around in a green-and-yellow costume?” she said in a sweet but no-nonsense voice. “He may have been flying around in the air,” she added helpfully.

  Under different circumstances, Officer Petrowski would’ve written her off as a nut-job and had some fun with her. But the report from the cops on the graveyard shift had already made the rounds.

  “Someone fitting that description may have been sighted, yes,” he said cautiously.

  “Under what circumstances? Around which area?” she said, her voice full of excitement and anxiety. Petrowski wondered if the costumed guy was her boyfriend. How could he could compete with a guy who could fly?

  “How about you answer my questions first?” he said. “Who is this guy? Why’s he running around in his underwear? What exactly is the nature of the relationship between the two of you?” He snuck in the last one, hoping it sounded professional.

  “His name is Matthew Peber,” she said as if she half-expected Petrowski to recognize the name.

  But the sarge approached his desk before Petrowski could give the name any serious thought. Petrowski explained who the lady was and who she was inquiring about, even though he knew the sarge would take her away. Indeed, the sarge asked the pretty lady into his office, promising to fill her in on the situation if she’d just answer a few questions.

  Petrowski watched her go with a longing look.

  “So he can fly, so what?” he muttered to himself.

  Landing wasn’t particularly easy. The slight pain he could deal with; it was the stumbling that was embarrassing. Superheroes didn’t stumble, at least none that he could think of; he didn’t want to be the first.

  The Defender was practicing in the dark, empty parking lot of a grocery store. He’d fly to the roof of the store then run to the edge and jump off. He could land without stumbling if he paused just above the ground, but he couldn’t do it in one smooth motion.

  It was daylight by the time he gave up, too tired to go on any longer. Besides, the manager of the store had pulled into the lot and unlocked the front doors, and he probably wouldn’t appreciate anyone jumping off his roof during normal business hours.

  But where could he go to rest? He thought about other superheroes, about where they slept when they needed to rest. Spider-Man had Peter Parker’s place to crash at, Superman had Clark Kent’s and Batman had Bruce Wayne’s mansion. Did the Defender have an alter ego? He couldn’t remember. It wouldn’t do to sleep on the street like some homeless person; that wasn’t becoming of a superhero. Maybe he could go to a motel? But he didn’t have any money to pay for a room.

  Perhaps he could drop by the local police station and ask for a salary. But that wasn’t right; superheroes weren’t supposed to be on the police-force payroll. Besides, after the exchange wit
h the two officers the night before, he probably wasn’t very popular with the cops right now. No, he needed to find a place to borrow money from. He was good for it—a guy like him certainly had marketable talents. Between the flying and the invulnerability to bullets, a ring-leader would pay through the roof to have him work with his troupe. And if he couldn’t find a circus in flying distance, he could perform on the street.

  The thought of performing made him smile. People’s eyes fixed on you as you danced and sung, the very center of their attention—there was something so very appealing about that. If he took up street performing, though, he’d need a hat—a big hat.

  As he walked the downtown streets, he realized that though he needed to borrow money, realistically no one would give it to him. He could steal it by breaking into a bank, but superheroes had bad PR as it was; he didn’t want to make it worse.

  He had the sudden urge to take off and fly, but he pushed the urge aside. He had to walk, to make his presence known, to let honest citizens know that they need not walk in fear anymore and to send a message to dishonest citizens that they better straighten out.

  Already he was making a difference. People were looking at him. Some elbowed their friends in the ribs and pointed at him. Whenever that happened, he waved in friendly greeting: he didn’t want to be one of those aloof superheroes, but a friendly neighborhood superhero. Honest citizens had to know that they had nothing to worry about when it came to him.

  Despite his fatigue, he kept walking, trying to think of a solution to his present predicament. Then it hit him—he didn’t have to sleep on the street at all! Had he forgotten that he could fly? He could camp out on the roof of some high-rise.

  But a well-timed rumbling from his stomach reminded him that sleep wasn’t the only thing he needed. He realized now that he should have spent the night earning money somehow instead of practicing his landings.

  He walked into a corner store. A bag of chips and a chocolate bar would tide him over for a while. He was thinking that he could do some favor for the storekeeper in return; mop up the floors or get something off some high shelf. But it was his lucky day: the store was being robbed!

  “Hands up, fool,” the robber said, turning his gun to point at the Defender. He wore a ski mask, but his voice was obviously that of a young man, probably still in his teens. He was swaying a little and the hand that held the gun was unsteady.

  The storekeeper was behind the cash register, on an elevation, standing with his hands straight up, almost touching the ceiling. He had a terrified expression on his face. The Defender shot him a reassuring glance, but it didn’t seem to register.

  “Hand over the gun, please,” the Defender said, his voice like thunder. He held out his right hand with the palm up, realizing too late that he probably shouldn’t have said please. “Now,” he added roughly.

  The Defender stepped forward and the kid stumbled backwards. There was a square wooden platform behind him, supporting a pyramid of cans of tomato soup. The kid tripped over the edge of the platform and fell into the pyramid. Cans bounced off of his ski-masked head; he dropped his gun and brought up his hands to protect his head.

  The Defender walked over and picked up the discarded gun. Absentmindedly, he twisted the barrel and bent it back onto itself. The would-be thief started to get up, so the Defender punched him across the face and knocked him out.

  “You saved my life,” the storekeeper said, coming around and grabbing the Defender’s hand and shaking it vigorously. “Thank you!”

  “Don’t mention it, citizen,” the Defender said, his voice so loud that it made the storekeeper flinch. Trying to speak a little more softly, he added, “But perhaps there is a slight reward in it for me?”

  A look of cynical understanding swept over the storekeeper’s face. He smiled unhappily and said, “Well, I don’t have all that much money.”

  “Actually,” the Defender said, “I was thinking more along the lines of a bag of chips and a chocolate bar, maybe?”

  The storekeeper stared at the Defender.

  “Okay,” he said finally, his voice wary. “Help yourself.”

  The Defender quickly picked out a small bag of all-dressed chips and a peanut-centered chocolate bar. Although he felt embarrassed, he tried to remember that he had earned the food.

  “Also a coke?” the Defender said, looking at the fridge at the back.

  “Yeah, okay,” the storekeeper said, still sounding wary.

  A few blocks from the store, the Defender sat down on the sidewalk and opened his bag of chips. He’d had the chocolate bar on the way over.

  As he ate, he realized that something was bothering him. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but it had to do with what had just happened at the store.

  Was it that he had taken the food? But he’d earned that food and besides, he had been hungry. In fact, he’d made a promise to himself that as soon as he had enough money, he’d return to the store and pay back the storekeeper. He was thinking that maybe he should go to the store now and give the man an IOU, when he spotted the police car coming up the street.

  There was someone in the back—perhaps the kid who had tried to rob the store.

  “Hi there,” one of the cops said, as the car pulled up beside him.

  “Hello,” the Defender said.

  “Would you come to the station with us?” the cop asked, trying to make the request sound casual. “We need you to make a statement about what happened back there at the store.”

  The Defender knew he was lying. They didn’t need his statement. He finished his drink slowly, then crumbled up the empty bag of chips.

  “Where’s the nearest recycling bin?” he asked.

  The cop opened the door and stepped out.

  “Here,” he said, reaching out his hand, “I’ll take care of that for you.”

  “That’s very kind,” the Defender said, trying to keep his voice neutral. Was it a trick? Would the cop try to grab his arm? He didn’t want to take the chance—he wasn’t concerned for himself, but for the cop. If the police wanted to hate and ostracize him, that was fine. But he wasn’t about to give them any reasons—like a cop with a broken arm—to do so.

  He took off before the cop had a chance to make a move. He felt a stab in his leg and almost fell out of the sky. They had shot at him. Non-vitally, but still—they had shot at him. Cops were definitely something to avoid in the future.

  But he couldn’t stay mad for long. Flying had that effect on him. Effortlessly, he rolled in the air, turning one way and then the other. Turning over once more, he put his hands on the back of his head and allowed himself to glide, watching some strangely shaped snow-white clouds for a while. He closed his eyes, drifted off, and was asleep before another minute had passed.

  So he’s an actor?” the Mayor asked.

  They were in a large boardroom on the fifth floor of city hall. The large wooden table seated twenty comfortably, but extra chairs had been brought in and, Ann estimated, at least forty people were seated around the table. There were at least that many more standing up or leaning against the walls of the room. Sam Miertman sat to her right; to her direct left was the wheezing and coughing Chief of Police. She felt herself leaning away from him, toward Sam. The Chief wore a short-sleeved shirt, and his fat, hairy arm, practically dripping with sweat, brushed up against her every time he shifted in his seat. She repressed a shudder.

  “He’s not an actor,” Sam said. “He’s Tom Cruise before Risky Business, Mel Gibson before Mad Max, Brad Pitt before Thelma and Louise.”

  There were blank stares all around.

  “He’s the next big thing!” Sam said, exasperation in his voice. These people didn’t seem to get out to the movies. It was depressing on a professional level if nothing else.

  From beside Ann, the Chief of Police said, “And you were shooting this movie when this Peber escaped?”

  “He didn’t escape,” Ann said, making no effort to hide the irritation in her voice. “There w
as an explosion—an accident—and Matt was flung off set.”

  The Chief of Police ignored her and pointed a fat, accusing finger at Sam, “This Peber is running around like some lunatic vigilante. This city won’t tolerate this kind of behavior, star or no star.”

  He threw his weight against the back of the chair, which looked like it might give in, and smiled with satisfaction.

  The Mayor interrupted Sam’s response. Probably for the best, Ann thought.

  “What I can’t understand,” he said, “is how he can run like a cheetah and fly like an eagle, if all this was for a movie?”

  Sam looked at Ann. How did one explain the movie business to a politician? How could they explain that they had been given a huge budget to shoot I, Superhero but that they ended up using most of the CG effects from Sam’s unfinished and unreleased movie, Hero By Day?

  “We got a lot of money to make this movie,” Sam began. “We poured most of it into designing and building the suit. This team of inventors that we hired—DreamMachines, they come with my full and unreserved recommendation—are a bunch of overachieving geniuses. You give them enough money, they can build anything.”

  He paused, then looked around the table.

  “You see,” he continued, a little embarrassed, “we needed to get rid of that money, because…because—”

  “Because you had to use up the entire budget,” the Mayor finished for him, off-handedly, as if he had just provided someone with a word that was on the tip of their tongue. “Or next time around you’d be screwed.”

  “Yeah,” Sam said, sudden relief flooding his face. “Exactly.”

  The Mayor shrugged. “I’ve worked in government for a long time,” he said, by way of explanation. “So what can we do?”

  “The blast from the explosion,” Ann began. Eighty eyes turned to look at her. She took a drink from her glass of water and continued, “The blast from the explosion must have caused Matt some sort of temporary insanity. He doesn’t mean any harm at all.”

  Beside her, the Chief of Police made a hmph sound.

  “I say we take him down,” he said, his intertwined hands resting on his belly. “He doesn’t want to play nice, fine. But we won’t sit around while he flies in our skies and makes a menace of himself. We have a duty to protect the citizens of this city. We won’t sit around and tolerate his mob-like extortionist schemes.”