[Urban Fantasy] Fist Full of Clay [Scene Five]

[Felt alittle short changed on this one. I'm slipping tenses again (My biggest weakness) However, here you are. In the spirit of things, I'm putting this out their as it is. Spelling mistakes and grammar aside! The most important thing is a rough draft being shown so I don't let this blog slow down!)

Golems can’t see in the dark.


A lot of times, people hear you are a supernatural being and assume you’re good to go in the areas of flying, seeing in the dark, and mesmerizing teenage girls to dry humping spells. What can I say? I blame Twilight.

So when the lights went out, I only had the light glow of the trash-can fire that someone was using to roast dinner. Shadows danced around the area, each one intermixing with the frozen bodies of civilians. I spun around as something brushed past, a fist raised.

Nothing.

Another wave of screams echoed off the walls, and I did my best to pinpoint the nearest attacker. As you can imagine, the atmosphere along with the visibility was making it nigh impossible. Add fear into the mix, and you have one confused clay-doll.

“Come out!” I bellowed using my unlimited amount of wit. Finding no one to take me up on my challenge, I added, “Pussies.”

I waded through the darkness, careful not to push aside the frozen citizens of Grid Eight. From the flickering light of the trash can, I found the majority of faces had entered that dazed expression, their mind deciding it was better to turn off until a logical explanation could be reached.

I heard another sound behind me and turned just in time to have a ball of garden hoses thrust in my nose. I felt what amounted to a dozen mini-jack hammers smashing into face, and I threw my fists upward. Whatever had attacked hadn’t counted on that. My knuckled connected to what I thought might be a chin and sent the creature launching. It flew through the air before smashing itself into the side of the flaming trash can, tipping it on its side and the burning contents to the floor.

The fact that I had an exposed flame now on a dirty floor surrounded by frozen people didn’t register immediately. What did register was the head full of snakes that hissed and struck out as far as they could towards me and the old hag with the oozing lips and extended claws who sported said snake-fro. She (And they… Or were they just all one?) hissed, jumped to her feet, and charged me.

I shook off my surprise and ran to meet her half way. However, before I could get more than a few steps into my charge, I felt something heavy come down on my back. Again, a dozen hammers slammed into me, this time on my neck. Claws gripped my shoulders, and I spun, trying to get the new witch off of me. I smashed through a cheaply improvised table holding scraps, and we both fell to the floor, the thing still on my back.

I might have been made out of clay but that didn’t stop me from feeling some pain. I was wired to feel hints of displeasure when my body was being damaged, and I assure you, I was in the process of just that. A dozen or so serpents chipped away at my skin as the thing’s claws dug into my shoulders, deep.

I look ahead, a flaming piece of timber just a few feet away, right outside the burning embers. I reached for this burning Excaliber and then felt the witch dig her claws into my shoulder blade. Something cracked and my whole limb stop functioning. She had cut my ‘strings’.

I slumped forward as I hollered in pain. The witch seemed to take this as a sign of victory, and I felt her continue her onslaught. My back felt like it had lost a few pounds at this point, and I felt tired.

I wasn’t invincible. I took a beating that would have killed a man a long time before me but I wasn’t invincible. What I was, though, was stubborn. Monuments could be made about my stubbornness.

I screamed, using the boiling rage inside my body to push all my remaining strength back into my legs. I hauled us both up, dove forward, and twisted as best I could. I landed with her pinned to the ground- Right on top of the flames. Fire and clay were never a bad combination, kids. Fire and flesh was.

The creature screeched and let go. I stumbled to my feet, away from the creature, and turned just in time to see the thing clamper to its feet before completely igniting as if she was covered with gasoline. She made it a few steps before completely exploding as if she was some monster in those cheesy 70’s monster movies.

And here I was without popcorn.

I turned to face the one I had previously engaged only to find her with a child thrown over her shoulder. The creature was frozen with shock, staring at her downed sister. The snakes responded before she could, her serpentine-hair pulling back before spitting at me. Goblets of goo splattered my chest. Could have been poison. Could have been some paralysis-brew. Whatever it was, it didn’t work. I charged forward, my programming guiding my actions more so than my brain. The witch gave out what might have been the start if an “Oh hell” before I drove my fist into her face. Cracking and popping bones greeted my fist. She fell, the kid landing painfully to the floor.

Hey, the kid was alive at least.

A choir of screeches echoed throughout the chamber, and I turned, fist held prepared. From all around me, I saw shadows that seemed to slither back and forth between warm bodies. They moved closer to me, four of five beings, each with hissing friends on top of their heads.

“I’ll kick all your asses,” I threatened.

Yeah, I wasn’t impressed with my words so you could image how they handled it. A sound of what might have been laughter moved around me as they descended.

That’s when the sound of the chug-chug-chug of a generator started up. The lights suddenly snapped on and I was greeted with the sight of the ugliest pair of sisters I’d ever seen. Swamp Crones sat at the popular table compared to these girls. They didn’t like the way they looked either because as soon as the lights activated, they screamed in unison, shadowing their eyes with their hands. They turned away from me, rushing for the shadows the lights couldn’t reach.

And with that, they were gone.

I stood in place, panting for breath. My body told my brain that I was hurting, twisting my programming for me to respond to what pain must feel like. My knees grew weak, and I fell to them. My arm resting limply at my side, and I just sat.

I don’t know how long it took for Max to join me. I became aware of his presence when his hand slapped the back of my head. I flinched, looked up, and squinted at the man.

“You don’t fight Medusa’s in the dark, She-Hulk,” Max scoffed before he attempted to lift me to my feet. It was either my size or his lack of upper body strength that didn’t make that happen. He gave up after a few attempts before slumping down to the ground himself.

“Medusas,” I repeated.

“People frozen, snake for heads? Ugly as sin?” Max shook his head. “Doesn’t take much to put the name to the face.”

I nodded as I reached to my coat, plucking a burned piece of skin from my jacket. It wasn’t mine.

“Medusas… From that poem?” I asked. “Didn’t they turn people to stone?”

“A poem using metaphor. Who ever thought of such a thing?” Max mumbled before standing up to attempt lifting me again. This time, I helped and made it to my feet. The people of Grid Eight weren’t exactly frozen still, but they were still in a stupor. The fire from the trash can had thankfully not caught hold of anything other than the witch so it didn’t take more than a few stomps from my boot to put out any real risks.

“How’d you shake the spell?” I asked Max.

“Laziness,” he responded. “Theirs, not mine. Must assumed everyone experienced the dazed effect from their spell already and stopped usin’ it. Since that shit don’t work on me…” He trailed off, assuming I got the picture. I did.

It took little more than a few minutes until people starting coming out of their daze. None of them the wiser- Some assuming a gas leak was the reason. Me and Max played dumb, nodding along. No sense trying to explain the truth. People never understood it anyways.

And then the first parent screamed for their child. Then the next. Then the next. And this continued.

Almost all the children were missing from Grid Eight.

And I couldn’t help but feel like it was my fault.

[Urban Fantasy] Fist Full of Clay [Scene Four]

Whatever Grid Eight used to be, it was long forgotten. Some speculate it was a service center where the early diggers slept and lived while working this deep. Some think it’s the remains of a subway station that was abandoned half way thought construction. Whatever it was, it wasn’t anymore. What it became was my domain, my piece of solace. A place where people lived with simple ignorance of their status up top.

I brush past the small bazaar, everything from food to junk being bartered, and offer a wave towards the trio of old men who sit slumped in their rocking chairs. The three of them offer nothing but a silent nod as I continue along my merry. I pass families laughing, music playing, dogs barking- Mind you, I also pass through the coughing, the pained, and the simply hungry. But what can I say? I’ve decided to wear my rose tinted glasses today. Grid Eight is a pocket of humanity in the Underneath which means you get the good and the bad.

I start my rounds. I move from huddled mass to huddled mass, my haul growing lighter as I ‘share the wealth’. Please, don’t take this as a sign that I’m a nice guy. Really, I’m not. But in Grid Eight, you don’t survive when you’re greedy.  Grid Eight is beautifully communal or beautifully socialist depending on if you watch Fox News. I get the traditional slaps on the back, a few cheers, maybe a hug or two from some rugrats before  I finish my wade through Grid Eight. I move to my little corner in the station, slip into my tent, and drop what remaining loot I have.

Max is sitting in front of television, a bowl of beans balanced on his stomach as a shoeless foot attempts to adjust the rabbit ears on top of the set in order to get a clearer picture. Max isn’t exactly what you call the peak of human perfection. In truth, he’s a rather shitty side kick. He is about forty pounds over weight, smelled like the end result of a carnival’s port-o-john, and seemed content with wearing the same torn jeans and flannel shirt. And that is just touching on his physical flaws. You know when someone says ’atleast he has a good personality’? Well, they wouldn’t say that about Max. He doesn’t. He’s an old, cranky, and some-what insane man. However, Max was one of those rare norms who could see through the Veil which means that he made for a good middle man. When  the ‘Magic-Kin’ wished to know something mortal or do something in the mortal realm, Max was their man. Plus, given the man’s age, he was an encyclopedia of knowledge when it came to the unknown.

‘How’d it go?” Max asks as his toe nudges the  rabbit’s ears just enough to allow for a woman’s moan to escape from the speaker before the static returns. He looks towards me and shovels a spoonful of beans into his mouth. I don’t give him anything verbal. I just open my jacket to show the signs of buckshot. Max eyes the damage, notes my anger, and the belches. “Well, I did warn you about shotguns.”

“No, Max. You didn‘t,” I shoot back as I move towards the television. I take hold of the rabbit ears and the screen suddenly breaks into perfect clarity. Whatever went with building me involved electricity which allowed little tricks like this possible.  “You warned against the sprinkler system but said I had nothing to worry about as long as they didn’t start a fire.”

Max turns his focus back towards the television and shrugs his shoulders. Apparently, the skin-flick on the television held more interest. “Then watch out. I hear they might have shotguns. Happy now? Sheesh, you big baby.”

“I was shot, Max.”

“And I have crabs, your point?”

I let go of rabbit ears and move to where I had thrown the bag of loot. After the run through of Grid Eight, it was lighter than it had previously been. I pull out the remain stacks of bills from the bag, pull open the loose panel from the floor, and slip it all away with the rest of my ‘horde’. Technically, this isn’t all mine. A third of it belongs to Max, but Max isn’t good with money so I helped monitor it for him. Insert Jewish stereotype here.

Afterwards,  I grab one of the many cans of spackle and a putty knife and flop down into the arm chair next to Max. I pull my shirt over my head and begin to work repairing the damage. I’m not exactly Michelangelo but I’ve down this enough to fill in the hole, even it out, and maybe attempt a redefinition of muscles.

“Any deaths?” Max asks as his foot abandons the top of the set to move to the dials below. He does some fancy foot work to turn the set off and turns his attention to me. I just shake my head. I splatter another glob  of spackle onto my chest deciding that the silent treatment was best used on Max.

He seems to get the point and focuses on his beans. He brings his beans midway to his mouth before freezing. And when I say freezing, I mean a solid freeze. Statues could take pointers from him. My brow wrinkles as a I stand, unsure if this was serious or if Max had been working on this act for awhile. If he had…too much time on his hands. A bum with time on his hands? I know, imagine the impossibilities.

Then I notice the sounds around me. There isn’t any. That music and laughter and coughing and barking? All gone. All silenced. Mute.

I walk out of the tent and look around. The entire Grid Eight stood frozen around me. The only movement involved the trio of old men swaying in their rocking chairs. The dogs are even still. It was like everybody just decided to stop and freeze for a portrait. One thing is different about them all, however. Their bodies might be frozen but their eyes sure aren’t. As I pass them, I see their eyes dart towards me in panic. Some simply look around, confused and lost. And I know that look. It’s the look I saw in the eyes of the security guard I punched out earlier. It was the brain unable to handle all this. This was Veil work. No doubt about it.

I move down the isles of tents, tables, anywhere. Every place I go, people seem stuck. I find a father holding his child over his head. I find a couple in the act of making love. I find a few rats who seem to have decided to join in the party and remain still on top of a hunk of unguarded cheese.

The lights flicker once before shutting off completely. And in the blanket of darkness, I hear what can only be describe as the sound a cat makes when you skin it alive. A horrible shrieking that would rupture my ear drums if I had any. What’s worse, the shrieking isn’t just coming from one spot. It’s coming from multiple spots all round me. I wasn’t just dealing with one thing. I was deal with -a lot- of things.

Oy vey.

[Urban Fantasy] Fist Full of Clay [Scene Three]

The Underneath.

Talk to any New Yorker out there and they’ll tell you that a majority of the stories about the abandoned tunnels under the city are nothing but a load. That in all reality, the only thing people can expect to find in the tunnels are homeless, spider webs, and maybe the sleeping body of Walt Disney. What they fail to realize, however, is that the underneath isn’t a part of their ‘reality’. Not completely.

I’m walking the tracks of the old subway, my cut of the haul slung over my shoulder. I pass graffiti, homeless, and discarded ruins that most people don’t realize still exist down here. It’s been said that if you can’t find it in the Underneath, you aren’t looking hard enough, and I would believe that. From subway cars to actual automobiles, you’ll find it down here. Some were simply abandoned when the old stations were closed. Some were brought down here when the Trolls decided to move in. Whatever the history, it was a yellow brick road of junk.

You have questions- Understandable.

First, the Veil. Not many people  can hear about the Veil and fully grasp it. Truth be told, those who can see through it and use it don’t fully fathom it. The Veil is that layer of understanding that people can’t fully understand without something in their heads snapping.

You see, somewhere down the line of evolution, humans sort of developed a nice ‘switch’ in their heads that caused their brains to block out those things that were beyond their precious logic.  Way it’s been described to me is that a normal human looking at the Veil is like having a fish watch a television. It’s seeing the images but it isn’t exactly understanding it. So, its mind messes around until it brings enough understanding to the surface to make it fit in to the fish’s reality. A troll becomes a slob, a nymph becomes Miss America, and a talking donkey could become a president.

A little political humor in there for you.

And you are probably wondering who I am. First, yes, I’m not human. I suppose the shotgun blast proved that.  I might look the part, talk the part, but I’m not the part. Not fully. You see, I’m what you call a golem. Or perhaps I’m -the- golem. I‘m the only one I know. Jewish myth? Man made from clay? Protector of his people and all that noble stuff? Well, fine, maybe I don’t match that description to the letter but it’s the closest thing I’ve read up on that describes me .

Oh- Right. No, I don’t have the jewish word for life written on my body. I’ve checked. Secondly, you can’t kill me by writing the jewish word for death on my body- I’ve tried. A better solution would  be water or shotgun shells- lots of either. I don’t really know how I was created, I’ve never met any of my kind, and the only memories I do have prior to the 1950’s are enough to make me realize I have daddy issues. There- Now we know each other. Mozel Tov.

I move deeper into the Underneath. At first, the tunnels grows darker as I go further from the surface. An occasional flicker from a dying light occasionally activates to scare the shadows away, but this was darkness domain. Around me, I feel eyes on me. Some are human, some are not. Neither are bothering with me though.

It only takes about ten minutes until the lights start appearing. A subtle glow of flames. Soon, I’m moving past the tired, the sick, the huddled masses. They stay near their trashcan-fires, warming themselves. They toss a glance my way and I meet them with a subtle nod of my head. I continue along my way, leaving them to their hopelessness.

I pass the homeless as I continue down the tracks. Each step takes me further away from the cluster of humanity that has survived down here. I duck under a fallen beam, enter another tunnel, and I’m crouching as I head home. I hear a hiss through the tunnels, either steam or goblins, and do my best to ignore it. Occasionally, I spot a darting shadow, a set of glowing eyes, but I’ve proved myself in the Underneath. No one is really looking to start anything anytime soon.

I wonder through the tunnel, past some pipes, hobble up a stair case or two before finding my way back to my domain: Grid Eight. I’m greeted first with music as I pull myself through the grating, the sound of laughter and families following. For a place like the Underneath, these things are uncommon. Not for Grid Eight, though.

[Urban Fantasy] Fist Full of Clay [Scene Two]

Lets get one thing clear: I’m really not that bad of a guy.

I assume that’s what every bad guy says when questioned. Most people don’t see themselves as baddies or monsters. They see themselves as a survivor- a much cleaner word; they make television series on it. So every time I’m told I need to rob a bank or bust into a vault, I can deal with myself because I’m doing things in order to survive.

You read Ayn Rand? Love the bitch, and trust me, she’s a big one. I recall a passage she wrote in one of her essays on morality. She stated “ Since the proper moral code is based on man’s nature and his survival, and since joy is the expression of his survival, this form of happiness can have no contradiction in it”. Pretty heavy stuff, huh?

I figure what the Randster is trying to get a crossed is that morality is created by survivability. If you live then you did the right thing to get out of the wrong situation. Now, naturally, you get a few bored Lit Majors into a room and toss that quote out, you’ll get more than a few monkey wrenches thrown into the logic circle, but forget that for now. I need to survive. I like surviving.

See? I can’t be a bad guy. I know philosophy.

I’m thinking that to myself as a bullet slams into the back of the windshield, shattering it.  The goblin behind the wheel is doing his best to swerve us through Manhattan’s traffic as his ’homeys’ hang out the windows firing behind us. I just keep my head down, my eyes staring straight ahead as the driver decides that stop lights were optional. Sadly, some of the other ‘elitest’ cars don’t see it that way. Call it magic or just blind luck, but the driver is able to turn the wheel in time to avoid getting us an up-close-and-personal chat with a dump truck.

I’m not going to admit that I scream. Truthfully? I like to think of it as me boldly stating my displeasure. The driver probably isn’t going to admit it either because he boldly states his displeasure as well as the car squeezes past the truck. The Chevy takes the curb, finds itself on the sidewalk, and continues going.

Remember that part about my program? Well, I can feel it kicking in as the vehicle sends a herd of nuns diving out of the way.  Flock of nuns? Gaggle of nuns? It really doesn’t matter. What does matter is that the driver’s luck isn’t going to remain stretched for long and their were plenty of folks still on the side walk. Add to the fact that bullets were flying and folks were screaming and I can’t sit back. I pull myself from my spot and reach over the seat. My grips’ a lot stronger than the goblin and he doesn’t have much of a choice when I yank the wheel to the right, down a flight of stairs, and straight into Central Park.

Call me a faux-New Yorker but I’m not a fan of Central Park. The hot dogs are over priced and I got kicked off the carousel once for cursing out a five year old who took my ‘ride’. The car crashes down on some hedges and heads into one of the many picnic areas. By this time, the goblins in the back pull me back and the driver has regained control.

The car is shaking, bouncing us all about as the sirens grow into the distance. It’s not that we got away by any stretch of the imagination- This wasn’t Grand Theft Auto. However, the NYPD are a noble bunch who get a bad rap. They don’t have many “John McClanes” who are willing to dive bomb their vehicles into a loaded park in the middle of baseball season. Most likely, they were getting the rangers to secure the area while they got the support of the whirly-birds in the sky.

In a few seconds, though, they won’t be seeing us.

“Cops are stallin’, Burv,” the goblin I’ve dubbed Frodo calls out towards the driver. Burv looks over his shoulder, peels back his cracked lips, and I’m greeted with the razor sharp smile. A hiss breaks out in the car and all I can assume that their having a good old laugh. The only thing goblins enjoy more than  breaking and bruising is getting away with it.

The car isn’t really speeding along anymore but it isn’t exactly slowing down as the goblin does his best to “Keep off the grass” as a sign reminds us to do. Entering one of the tunnels a speeding, bullet-ridden Chevy, I am pleasantly surprised to see us depart the tunnel in a horse drawn carriage. Burv is a black guy now, top hat and all the get up. I find myself in a suit. The ‘home boys’ around me are now a mother with a decent rack with four rug rats that could pass as her kids. Mother Goose looks towards me, offers me a dazzling smile before she raises her  parasol  and opens it.

“Honey, I love it when you take me and the children to the park,” she exclaims very Victorian. I flicker my eyes from her and stare at the rug rats, all of them watching me as they lick at their old fashion lollipops. Of course, I was seeing the other vision- Goblins dressed in rags, hissing in amusement- but I decide to keep with the charade.

“Children and I,” I correct.

“Blow me,” my ’wife’ responds.

I can’t help but laugh at that as I lean back in my seat. I know it’s not made of fine leather that seems to mold to my every curve. I know it’s really torn fabric with stuffing come from it. I know that this carriage is really the Chevy being cloaked by the Veil, and that my ‘wife’ and ‘kids’ were a ruse. However, do you know how much a ride in one of these costs for real? In Central Park? It’s grave yard robbery and I’m going to enjoy it as much as I can.

“Shotguns?” I ask, my hands pulling open the suit jacket to feel the cracked dent in my chest.  Frodo just gives off a pleasant laughter as the horse and carriage pulls off the side walk and onto the typical carriage trail. I see cops are beginning to crowd the area and judging by the looks on their face, they’re rather confused. A smoking Chevy shooting bullets don’t typically disappear. I look back towards Frodo and he simply shrugs.

“We were lucky it was you being shot than one of us. We can only grow back so much damage, Emmet.” Frodo says as Burv slows the vehicle, the police officer directing him to follow the rest of the crowd. Apparently, their were bank robbers on the loose.

“Lucky? I guess this rabbit’s foot is working,” I mumble as I look down at the brief case and book bags at my feet. In reality, their the cash, and it’s taking every fiber of my being to not take my cut, hop off the carriage, and go home. My chest was still burning, my joints are sore, and I swear a pen at the checking counter got lodged in my ass. Home was a pleasant thought.

We ride it out, Burv clearly enjoying himself as he plays up on every stereotype he can draw from, calling me “Mastah‘” every chance he gets. Frodo seems to be enjoying his newly budded breast because every chance he gets, he flashes the folks on the road. The car-carriage, as I have decided to describe it as, continues to trot away from the scene until the distant sounds of sirens silence as we wonder into an alleyway.

The carriage goes back to Chevy, family back to home boys, and book bags back to money bags. Burv pulls open a man hole and we begins making are way back down to the Underneath. It was a long day and I had earned my cut.

Not to sound like an asshole making a pun but the day was just a stroll in the park.

[Urban Fantasy Novel] Fist Full of Clay Scene One

[Like the title? I don't! But I was stuck so I just threw something there! Okay! This is my first draft to the story of Emett. Remember, first drafts are supposed to have spelling errors and 'fat' to trim from the story. So, toss me a suggestion if you wish]

Max never said there would be shotguns.

If I had known that taking a shell to the chest was going to be part of this little bank heist, I would have asked for maybe a benefits package or at least a boost in pay. Pistols? I can handle pistols. They aren’t a pleasure to be shot with but they’re a pin prick compared to shotguns. Shotguns ‘buck’. Shotguns don’t spit peas but are a torrent of pain. Shotguns leave big holes and cause people like me to be cranky.

Max really never said there’d be shotguns.

I’m not sure how long I’m in the air. Truth be told, I don’t really remember how I got here in the first place. However, I do vividly recall my body crashing into the wooden frame of the checking counter, the screams from the bank customers drowning out the shotgun’s shell hitting the floor. Me? I don’t scream. Shows weakness and hell, I need to make up ground after being brought down by a slug to the chest.

I hear the world around me explode into action. The sound of some security guard who developed a sudden stutter is screaming for my colleagues to freeze, and I just know that the guy has just signed his death warrant. You don’t yell at goblins- They’re a cranky lot and when push comes to shove, they tend to take it a step further and remove your head.

I can’t really blame the guy, though. Like most humans, he can’t see past the ‘Veil’. Like, right now? Johny Justice is thinking he’s staring at a motley crew of gang banger thugs who are out to ‘cap and tap’ this and that. In truth, they are a motley crew of gang banger goblins.

Trust me, there is a difference.

For one, goblins speak in a pitch that only dogs pick up. And right now, while the Justice League is thinking he’s got his bank robbers pinned down and silent, they were most likely crafting a plan. Me? I’ve resigned myself to just laying here, a crater still sizzling in my chest. Like I said, shotguns weren’t mentioned in the planning of this thing.

I roll my head to the side, a subtle gesture that most observers might hold up to gravity, and I take a glance at the scene. Seeing through a Veil is hard to describe, however, the simplest way of doing it is state you sort of see two things. For one, I see the assortment of my ‘home boys’ as the world sees them. Scrawny white boys wearing baggy jeans, wife beaters, and ski masks, silently holding up their arms in surrender . On the other side of the coin, I see the cracked reptilian features of the goblins. I’m not hearing a sound from them, but the way their lips are moving, I can sure the hell bet that they’re plotting.

And then the security guard comes into view and I feel my insides churn. He was an old guy- probably a few years from retirement. Call me observant too or just call me lucky, but I note the wedding ring on his finger, and I know I can’t just lay here. I know I can’t just let this guy walk into a trap. Why? Well, simple answer, it’s in my ‘programming’.

So I sit up Terminator style. I figure if I’m going to get shot again, why not do it as bad ass as possible. I get the effect I want because some blonde teller named “Ruth” screams her head off. The guard spins around just in time to get a face full of thrown checks- Not enough to hurt him but hell, who expects to be attack with checks? Loan Sharks? His shot goes wide and I’m on my feet within seconds. Two seconds flat, the shotgun is sailing out of his grasp. Three seconds, the old man is being pinned against a granite pillar, my hand wrapped firmly around his throat.

He pisses himself and I remind myself to throw away these shoes later. I see his eyes dart down to the smoking crater in my chest and then back to my eyes. He can tell I’m the angry sort and that his shell sure the hell didn’t hit my ticklish spot.

“What are you?” he asks, and I can see that switch in his mind flickering vigorously to make sense of this madness. He won’t be remembering much of this part of the heist, that’s for sure. That tends to happen when norms meet up with folks like me.

“Ain’t it obvious, Captain America?” I ask as I pull back my fist. “I’m Jewish.” And with that, I give the guy a night cap a crossed the chops. He was out of the count for now and safe from the goblins. I drop him to the ground, step around him, and toss a glance back towards the confused customers and tellers. “Sholom.”