The Continuing Adventures: Pros at Prose

[Ed Wood]

This thread is for an old friend who wandered off somewhere and hasn’t found his way back yet. Never quite understood what made the man tick but I figure it’s as good a bet as any that if he knows, and my God he will know whether he reads it or not in the back of his mind he will read it all, that I’m sullying the memory of one of his great works with a pale imitation it might aid his navigation. Stop me if you can, East Coast Vigilante.


ONE

The winding length of the alley lies before me, twisting crazily as my eyes struggle to interpret the contours of garbage cans and fire hydrants in the onrushing darkness. As good as blind I stagger forward, trusting in the providence of style, of cool to save me from toes broken kicking an unseen curb or steps staggered by an abandoned beer bottle rolling under foot. I am entirely at the mercy of my environment, and I am in my element, at the height of my powers. At this moment, lost, confused and deprived of my senses I am as a god.

I go, my footfalls arrhythmic and graceless, blending into the underlying nonsense that fills the night in any city so perfectly that they are better than silent. I do not hurry; while the meeting was arranged for exactly midnight (naturally) for me allowances are made. After all, I don’t need to be there for the key details, if I were I would have to be sure to forget them, as it is I will make some up so as to be a team player. Not that much planning should be required for this evening, or my involvement at all most likely. Occasionally membership in the East Coast Secret Vigilante Society means a great deal, but mostly we all prefer to work alone and these monthly exercises in team work exist so that we all have someone to talk to. Someone in our line of work, you don’t run into many.

Generally our group activities involve a great deal of forethought, of planning; a number of our more active members are very fond of planning. I myself do very little, and do what I can to avoid any and every detail of those drawn up by my fellows. I am, so far as I know, the only holistic superhero in the world, and being the only one of your kind means you are forgiven a great deal. For example, I am sure I will be forgiven for being completely and utterly lost, a state I attain whenever I can. Naturally I am found whenever and wherever it suits fortune to find me, and naturally I find crime the same way.

My feet have guided me to an intersection, utterly unfamiliar. One of my fellows has often bragged to me that he has memorized every twist and turn in this city. No doubt he would be entirely at home in this place. I pity him. My feet take me left, I had pizza for dinner and a few slices are left to await my return, as good a reason as any. A stop sign ambles out of the darkness ahead, I oblige; it never hurts to be polite.

A minute passes, possibly two. The low timber of a voice intrudes from behind, and I regret the intrusion of its familiarity.

“You have got to be **** kidding me, beaten to the spot by nature boy, again.”

I turn to see two shapes, both cruelly familiar, approach, each is presumably masked, one rummages in its bulk, rustling a costume decorated with a silver star that is, I can attest, completely ridiculous looking in more normal light. The hand is removed from its depths and something is passed to its companion, more sensibly dressed in a dark green that happens to be very elaborately reptile themed, but the details are lost in the dark.

“Never learn do you? Always bet on his dumb luck, that’s why he’s taking point tonight, and why you’re down a twenty, again."

Figure two turns, he tries to go by Lizardo but I've met his wife and she calls him James and if he can't keep it going in front of the missus he's not fooling anybody.

Don’t figure you want the details of the op do you? Winging it again?”

It’s a question he’s asked a dozen times before and he expects the answer long before I give it:

“Naturally.”

[doclinkin]

“Naturally.”

Aw shucks: I blush, I blush. Nice to know the old legacy been gene-spliced and vat-grown to keep a copy running frantic and panicky desperate for a little ass to kick in the streets what surely has some asses as needs a serious kicking. You got me checking my log books, the Nocturnal Journals, to see if I got some stories to tell for the anals.

[or however you spell that -- the Grammar Granny would take it out my hide if she actually had to read my screeds. One reason why I can't work with the old biddy: she's too 'nattery' -- which don't matter if you're working up a good combat banter, to keep your opponents off balance and such, but when you're on a stakeout, laying doggo, you need time to let your thoughts wander and double check the details to make sure you ain't missed something. Like you know me: can't stand ninjas, the shifty bastids, but one thing you got to admire is they 'noise discipline', a ninja knows how to keep his yap shut because: good gawd lady can you for once an a while just stick a bagel in it?].

So the anals: yeah, see I keep a stack of wirebound notebooks with meticulous information since, after this many concussions the old cliche is a true tale: I've forgotten more about crimefighting than most folks will ever know. Granted, them notes is somewhat blood freckled and unsanitary like, and the bic pen I stick in the coils don't work so good since it's had to be used more than once in an emergency tracheotomy situation -- mostly on myself since you know I've had to battle the Saran Rapper a couple times and he's big on 'sphyxiation.

So anyway, you tell your little story for a minute Mr Natural my homeopathic homey, and your old pal docta nocturnal will check to see if I got something PG-13 I can talk about for the kiddies. I just got to find that dang key for the Mini-U-Storage and quite possibly borrow a credit card to pay my backdated bills on it. Unless they sold it all at auction because that mess would suck. You know: Crime doesn't pay, but full-time Vigilanting don't have a great 401k plan neither.

[doclinkin]

Oh and I forgot:

-d.

See that's how the old code of this here secret East Coast Vigilante Forum works. You got to send up a little smoke signal, while distracting 'em with a fake-me-out Morse code, and encrypt your real message written on a home-baked fortune cookie you deliver with they wontons, even if they didn't order wontons. Notice, thE secret color code is named in the honor of your own moniker. I had the coders work that one so even the heavily concussed could figger that one out

[doclinkin]

Uh, the link, yeah that's what I forgot, sorry for the double post wink wink.

True Story Swear to Gawd.

Also, nice write-up and I'm innerested to hear the rest.

[doclinkin]

Bump for merge. As long as we have no basketball, might as well waste brain cells creatively.