[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.