UPF INTELLIGENCE BRIEF

SUBJECT: Transcript of a speech delivered by The Supreme Commander during his weekly staff meeting, outlining his latest plan.

Gentlemen, once again, we have been thwarted in our attempts to conquer the world by the infernal meddling of the United Peace Force. Once again, we have been driven back into seclusion to regroup and rearm.  This I’m afraid has become part of a predictable and all too humiliating pattern: I devise an ingenious plan, we begin preparations and when the time comes, we execute, only to have our machinations crushed shortly after being set in motion.  On our more fortunate days, we come within minutes, sometimes seconds, of victory before a multi-national strike force intervenes.  For too long we have fought on the losing side of this war, but now I say enough! No more shall we suffer the all encompassing shame of defeat, for I, your Supreme Commander, have crafted a plan so foolproof, so imaginatively clever, so staggeringly brilliant, that it is sure to succeed.

This plan, gentlemen, can be summed up in one word, squirrels. Yes, you have heard me correctly, my loyal minions, squirrels. I have recently engaged the services of one Dr. Alverez, a renowned and, fortunately, avaricious expert in the field of animal behavior.  Dr. Alvarez assures me that give enough time and resources, he can deliver an army of whatever animal I choose.  And I have chosen squirrels.

Now, I imagine some of you are wondering why I would choose such a lowly and non-threatening creature.  Why not choose gorillas? Or tigers? Why not get clever and teach the gorillas to ride the tigers? Surely a cavalry made up of tiger mounted gorillas would be a truly formidable force, perhaps even invincible. I assure you that this has indeed crossed my mind, but the gorilla tiger army presents a few ultimately, unsolvable problems.  First, and most important, a proper army would require many thousands of soldiers, though with animals of abundant ferocity, this number could be reduced to mere hundreds.  Even so, I fear that finding gorillas in sufficient quantity would prove difficult, as well as exceedingly costly. Even if I were, by some fortuitous circumstance, able to acquire the animals in sufficient quantities, I would then be left with the quandary of where to house the beasts. And I would require that the animals be properly cared for, as I would need them to be in top physical condition and find animal cruelty so distasteful.  The second major problem is stealth, or rather, lack there of.  I’m sure that I don’t have to tell you that it would be rather difficult for a gorilla riding a tiger to move about a major metropolitan area inconspicuously. Within minutes of deploying such a force, both the media and the authorities would be alerted.  While I’m confident that the tigers and gorillas could dispatch any interference with ease, I fear that the delay would allow our target time to prepare for out arrival or retreat, thereby wasting thousands of hours of preparation. No, I fear that an army of gorillas and tigers is simply unfeasible.

Now squirrels, however, do not present so many difficulties.  First, they are abundant and can be acquired cheaply.  If we spread out our collection efforts around the country, we could easily build an army of formidable size and strength without arousing the suspicions of the UPF.  Given squirrels’ reputation of being a nuisance among those who have taken up bird watching or gardening, we might even turn a small profit by collecting them under the guise of a pest control company. Also, due to their compact size, it would be possible to house the entire army in one or two warehouses.   Dr. Alverez has also informed me that the cost of care and feeding of squirrels is nominal.

The true advantage of squirrels though, is in their stealth.  You see, since squirrels are ubiquitous on this continent, most people, even the ever-vigilant security personnel who have proven to be troublesome in the past, hardly notice them.  Our army could travel silently through the city, infiltrating even the most tightly secured bases.  Imagine the possibilities for our standard abduction missions.  Normally, we would spend months observing our target, arranging for one of our men to join the security detail, and preparing an assault, only to be thwarted at the last minute. With squirrels, the prep time is greatly reduced, as is the risk to our people.  I estimate that a pack of twelve highly trained squirrels could easily dispatch a security detail, as they are very quick and have extremely sharp teeth. Once the security detail has been dispatched, the squirrels could then drive the target towards a designated spot where our retrieval crews will be waiting in disguise.  I predict that our preparation times will be reduced by seventy-five percent and that our rate of success will greatly increase.

Gentlemen, our day of victory draws near. Soon your hard work, and sacrifice shall be rewarded and you shall reap the spoils of our global domination.  Until that day, keep up with your duties and watch for squirrels. We will soon be launching a bonus program for the delivery of live squirrels. H.R. is still finalizing the details. They have been overwhelmed ever since the last UPF raid destroyed our servers.  Until next time gentlemen, that is all, good day.

ESTIMATED THREAT LEVEL: 0-1

SUGGESTED ACTION:  Continue to monitor development of the program in case it produces technology worth acquiring, or we need to thwart a plan to secure our budget.

Meanwhile, Our Hero strolls among the summer tourists who have come wearing bright, ill-fitting clothing and bearing expensive cameras to explore the city’s rich heritage. The fathers and mothers pose their children with actors dressed in period clothing and take pictures.  The children, for the most part, smile obediently, although some scowl and demand to know when they can go home, or to the gift shop.  Our Hero smiles as he passes the good children and frowns at those who are recalcitrant. Perhaps, if trouble should arise, he will only save the good children as a reward for their behavior.  Our hero dismisses the idea immediately. It is not his place, he tells himself, to decide who is worthy of saving. If there is a need and it is within his power, he will save all children, although he might scold the petulant ones after the danger has ended.  Our Hero, satisfied with his plan straightens his posture and puffs out his chest, before turning onto a narrow cobble stone street that leads to a civil war memorial.

When he is halfway down the street, he hears someone calling to him from behind.  “Excuse me,” a male voice says, “Sir, excuse me.” Our Hero turns around and sees a middle-aged man dressed in khaki shorts and green polo shirt. He is sweating rather heavily and his face is red.  Our Hero wonders if this man is suffering from some kind of cardiac distress, and chastises himself for not reviewing his CPR and first aid training materials before leaving the house. He tries to remember the basics as he sprints towards the man.  There was a song, he had read, that provided the perfect rhythm for chest compressions.  Our Hero remembers it was a disco song, a hit. “Dancing Queen?” No, he remembers that the title was appropriate given the circumstance in which one would be performing CPR. “I Will Survive?” Again, no, why would the one performing CPR worry about his own survival? Our Hero furrows his brow. He must remember the song soon.  He will reach the man in a few short steps at which time he will be too busy assessing the situation to sort through the greatest hits of the disco era.

As Our Hero comes to a stop, the man inhales deeply and holds it for a couple of seconds before exhaling through slightly pursed lips, as if he were extinguishing the candles on a birthday cake. The vast majority of air hits Our Hero in the face.  He can tell that the man has recently consumed a hot dog, or possibly a bologna sandwich and topped with onions.  Our Hero takes a step back and is momentarily disoriented.

“So you noticed me?” The man says, his breathing now stable.  “I’ve been chasing you two blocks!”

“I see,” Our Hero says calmly though he finds the discovery of a gap in his constant, all encompassing vigilance disturbing. Had this distressed citizen not been ambulatory, he might not have ever come into Our Hero’s awareness. For the second time in as many minutes Our Hero has found a lapse in his preparedness. He makes a note to undertake vigorous training as soon as he returns to his apartment.  In the meantime, he has a citizen to assist.

“How may I be of assistance?” Our Hero asks.

“Assistance!” The man laughs as he shakes his head, “God, you’re in character and everything. I knew this place had period actors, but I haven’t heard anything about heroes. So, which one are you?”

“Which what?”

“Which Hero?” The man shouts with a level of excitement that makes Our Hero smile. “You must be one of the new ones.  I’d recognize you if you were one of the classics.”

“I’m Mr. Justice,” Our Hero says as he places his fists on his hips and raises his chin.  While he holds the pose, he thinks, this man knows of other heroes?

“Fantastic,” says the man, mimicking Our Hero’s stance momentarily, still laughing a little. “Hey, if it’s not too much trouble, could you take a picture with my family?”

Our Hero ponders this request. It would throw off the timing of his rounds, and would be a breach of protocol, but this man had run for two blocks, potentially risking his life for a snapshot. Providing one was the least that Our Hero could do.  Also, it would give Our Hero an opportunity to learn more of these other heroes.  “I would be honored sir,” he says while bowing slightly.

“Great,” the man says, “They’re over by the statue of Washington.” He turns and begins walking back towards his family.  Our Hero follows after him for a few strides before catching up.  “My name is George, by the way,” says the man, while offering a sweaty hand to Our Hero.

“A pleasure meeting you,” Our Hero says shaking the man’s hand, thankful that he chose to wear the Gauntlets of Justice despite the warm weather.  Then, thinking of no other way to broach the subject, says, “You know of other heroes?”

“Oh sure,” says George, “I used to be a real comic fan.  When I was a kid, I used to spend hours in my room reading comics.”

“Ah,” Our Hero says, somewhat disappointed, though part of him remembers his own days spent in his room with comic books, “So did I.”

“I tried to get my son into them,” George says, apparently not hearing Our Hero, “but he’s only interested in video games and truly terrible music, but maybe if he meets a real super hero, he’ll change his mind. Maybe I can pick up a few of your books for the ride home to get him started. So what are you, Marvel or DC?”

“Neither, I’m a real hero.”

“Oh, I gotcha. Gotta stay in character.” George winks. “I’ll play along. I’m sure they’ll know at the comic shop anyway.”

Our Hero prepares to correct George again, but before he can speak, George suddenly runs over to a scowling woman and a boy who looks to be about twelve. Our Hero deduces, correctly, that these are the rest of George’s family.  The woman brightens up a little after George speaks to her and gestures toward Our Hero.  The boy, however, rolls his eyes and sinks into a deep slouch. George leads them both over to Our Hero. “Eileen, Peter,” He says, “This is Mr. Justice.”

“Nice to meet you,” Eileen says before smiling wide and saying, “Mr. Justice.” Peter grunts something that might have been “hey.”  George produces a camera from one of his pockets and begins giving directions.  First, he has Our Hero pose by himself, then with Eileen, then Peter, then both Eileen and Peter, then, after switching camera operators, with George, then George and Peter, then, after another Camera switch, George and Eileen.  Finally, George asks a passing stranger to take a picture of Our Hero George, Eileen and Peter all at once. After instructing the stranger to take one more for good measure, George retrieves his camera and places it back in his pocket. Our Hero relaxes his pose and rubs his cheeks, which have become sore from smiling.

“Thank you very much, “ Says George before taking Our Hero’s hand and placing a folded twenty-dollar bill in it.

Our Hero looks down at the bill and then attempts to give it back. “Sir, I cannot accept this.”

“Of course you can! It’s the least I can do,” George says as he backs away.

“But a hero does not seek financial rewards for his deeds.”

“Right, right, character, I get it.” George takes another step back before turning away. As he walks away with his family, he calls back over his shoulder, “Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone.”

Our Hero turns the folded bill over in his hand a couple of times before tucking it into one of his gauntlets.  He decides that he will donate the money to a worthy cause, something that supports public safety, once he has finished his patrol.  Perhaps he will spend some of it on a beverage of some sort.  He has walked quite far for such a warm day and proper hydration is, after all, very important. He resumes his patrol, half jogging to make up for lost time.  As he reaches the spot where George first caught his attention, he suddenly remembers the song for CPR. “Of course!” he says aloud, “Stayin’ Alive!”  A few pedestrians glance his way, but Our Hero does not notice.

I completely failed to keep up with short-story month, or the adventures of Our Hero as of late, but I had a reasonable excuse. I moved into a new apartment. It’s taken until now to get settled. I’m all settled now and plan to resume a regular posting schedule shortly.

I just finished reading Tobias Wolff’s collection of selected stories, Our Story Begins. A Couple of the new stories were a little dull, but over all I enjoyed the collection.

I discovered Wolff a year ago when I started planning my 201 course. The anthology I selected included “The Rich Brother” in it’s chapter on character. Later on, I was flipping through another anthology and found “Bullet in the Brain.” Then ending of both stories stuck with me. I’m still working out exactly what I liked about the endings so much. I think it is because with both stories, I could see the next scene. In the case of “The Rich Brother,” I could see the future relationship of the two brothers almost as clearly as I could see their brief car trip home. With “Bullet in the Brain,” I could take the brief outline of Anders’s life that Wolff provides and flush it out enough to see exactly how two words “they is” lead to the character’s death decades later.

As I read through Our Story Begins, I found stories with more powerful endings than those of the “Bullet in the Brain” and “The Rich Brother.” The last sentence of “Flyboys” made me go back through the story a second time in order to find a subtle subplot that I had missed. After I finished “Desert Breakdown, 1968,” “Soldier’s Joy,” and “The Chain,” I had to put the book down and let the ending resonate (I had the same experience the first time I read Carver’s, “What We Talk About When We Talk About Love”). The endings of these stories were so good, that I’m half tempted to read to collection over again (and I would, if my to read shelf wasn’t actually three shelves).

For those of you who now want to read a Wolff story, I found “Hunters in the Snow” online. I’m sure there’s more out there.

Meanwhile, Our Hero eagerly awaits the start of the Eleven o’clock news. A reporter interviewed him while he collected Junior Justice Squad, pledge cards from elementary students after a successful assembly and told Our Hero that the piece would probably run during the eleven o’clock news on Thursday. It occurs to Our Hero that he would like to share the viewing of this broadcast with his family. He contemplates calling his mother. It would be a breach in security, but she would enjoy seeing her son on television, especially since the reason for being on the news is so noble. Thinking about this makes Our Hero momentarily feel bad for the mothers whose sons only appear on television in mug shots or grainy security camera footage. Our Hero has never thought about the families of criminals before. He realizes that this is just one more crime villains commit, upsetting their mothers. Unless of course, the criminals are children of criminals, in which case the criminals have probably made their mothers proud and the real crime was the failure of the city’s child protective services. Our Hero makes a mental note to add, “protect the children of criminals from their villainous parents” to his super hero code and to send the Pager of Justice number to the head of protective services in the morning. Normally, Our Hero would take action immediately, but the eleven o’clock news has begun and Our Hero does not want to miss himself. He has completely forgotten about calling his mother.

Our Hero sits through the top stories. He is not one of them, but Our Hero understands that the building of a new stadium, and the decision to widen a major roadway into the city are both very important issues as they will both create jobs and increase the quality of life for all the city’s citizens. Still, he would have liked to have been the top story. Perhaps if he had had an opportunity to apprehend a purse-snatcher, or a bank robber before the interview, he would have made the top stories. He decides to expand his patrol route to include more banks.

The eleven o’clock anchors continue to deliver the news. From the top stories, they move on to weather, then sports, followed by a recap of the top stories, then a recap of the weather. Finally, the male anchor looks directly into the camera and says, “Did you know that this city has its own superhero? Coming up after the break, we’ll meet Mr. Justice on this week’s weird and wacky news.”
Our Hero turns off the television. He watches his reflection in the now dark screen. His stomach sinks a little before he is able to regain his heroic composure. Surely the reporter merely misunderstood Our Hero’s role in the city’s fight for justice. Why did he not wait until he had apprehended a criminal before talking to the press? He decides to forgive the station for their error, but resolves to give no further interviews, at least not until he’s been awarded some kind of medal for bravery or given the key to the city. Surely that would prevent him from being mentioned on news of the strange.

Content with his new public relations policy, Our Hero rises from his chair and prepares for bed. He has just hung his costume in the back of his closet when here hears the phone ring in his kitchen. He sprints down the hall and reaches the phone just before the end of the third ring.

“Hello,” Our Hero says.

“Donald?” The Caller says. It is Our Hero’s mother. She does not sound pleased. “Donald, why were you on the news parading around in your pajamas?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says in attempt to protect his identity.

“You don’t think I’d recognize you behind some silly mask? For the love of God, you’ve got your father’s nose. What do you think you’re doing, running around, telling people you’re a super hero? People will think you’re a crazy person.”

Our Hero remains silent. He has learned never to battle his mother. As far as he can tell, she has no weaknesses.

“It’s like you want me to die of embarrassment. Why can’t you just get go to law school like your brother?”

“It’s not my calling.”

“Just what is your calling?”

“To protect the innocent,” Our Hero says, as he instinctively places his fists on his hips and strikes his hero pose.

“Oh for the love,” Our Hero’s mother continues to berate him for sometime, leaving only space for Our Hero to say, “yes,” “no,” “I understand,” and “of course not.” Eventually, she makes Our Hero promise to give up his duties. “And throw out that ridiculous costume,” she says before hanging up.

“I will first thing in the morning,” Our Hero manages to say before he hears the click of the phone line disconnecting. He places the receiver back in its cradle and exhales. He has lied to his mother, which disturbs Our Hero. In the back of his head he can feel a pulsing knot of guilt. He sits down at the kitchen table with a dull pencil and a scrap of paper and begins sketching designs for new masks since it has become necessary for him to hide more of his face.

In the spirit of National Short Story Month, I’m going to try to recomend at least one collection a week.  First up is Kevin Wilson’s collection Tunneling to the Center of the Earth. I just finished it and am currently unable to form the words required to explain just how much I enjoyed the book. Instead, I’ll just say that you should read it for yourself and provide a link to “The Museum of Whatnot” on 52 stories.

Meanwhile, Our Hero learns of a four-alarm fire downtown. He bursts out of his basement apartment and ascends the stairs two at a time to street level. Once he is outside, he sprints down the block towards the Taurus wagon that serves as his latest Justice Car. As he reaches the end of he block, he discovers with great, full throat tightening, horror that some villain has booted the Justice Car. Once again, his arch nemesis at the municipal parking authority, has attempted to keep Our Hero from his heroic duties, but this attack will fail, for Our Hero has mastered public transportation. He sprints back to his apartment and grabs a handful of change. He pauses as he realizes that his costume has no pockets and he will need to have his hands free in order to save the residents of the burning building. “Pockets!” Our Hero shouts, still clutching the change, “I must have pockets!” An idea pops into Our Hero’s head. He runs to his bedroom, drops to floor and feels around under his bed until he finds a bright green fanny pack Our Hero’s mother gave him as a birthday present. He stows the handful of change in the fanny back before he clips it around his waist.

For the second time tonight, Our Hero bursts out of his apartment and ascends the stairs to the street, but instead of dashing to the justice car, he sprints to the bus stop and waits thirty minutes for the next bus. When it arrives, Our Hero leaps on board, drops change from the fanny pack into the fare collector and tells the bus driver, “You must hurry! I’m needed at the fire!”

The bus driver rolls his eyes and says, “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Your city will be grateful.”

The other passengers do not sit near Our Hero. They glance over their shoulders, but turn away quickly when Our Hero smiles and waves to them. He assumes it is because they are bashful. A mother and her son get on he bus at the 23rd street stop. They sit down in the row in front of Our Hero. After the bus pulls away the boy turns around and asks, “Are you a real superhero?” His mother tells the boy to leave Our Hero alone.

“It’s fine mam,” Our Hero says to the mother, “he’s just curious.” To the boy he says, “Yes, I am a real superhero. I’m Mr. Justice.”

“How come I’ve never heard of you?”

“I’m sure you have. I’m the city’s most famous crime fighter.”

“No,” the boy says, “I would remember that. I remember everything. Are you sure you’re a real super hero?”

“I assure you that I am.”

“If you’re a superhero, why are you riding the bus?”

Our Hero blushes as he tries to think of a response. “That’s enough,” The boys mother says, “leave the man alone.”

The boy turned around and whispered loud enough for Our Hero to hear, “I don’t think he’s a real superhero.”

Our Hero steps off the bus three blocks from the fire and runs the remaining distance. By the time he arrives, the fire fighters have extinguished the blaze and are busy packing up their trucks. No one appears to have been hurt.

I stumbled across a short-short piece by Ron Carlson on Esquire’s Website. You can also check out “The Pirate Story” at Clackamas Literary Review. I like to think that Mr. Justice is a kindred spirit to “The Pirate’s” Regan Peterson.

If you’re interested in Ron Carlson’s longer works, I would recommend Five Skies.  It’s not as whimsical as the stories above, but it is one my favorite books and currently stands as one of my major influences.

Meanwhile, Our Hero bids good evening to a group of police officers before he lifts a length of yellow tape strung in front of a redbrick townhouse and ducks under it. One of the officers, a young man with a crew cut and shoulders Our Hero considers especially broad slips under the tape and maneuvers around Our Hero. He holds one hand up and says, “You can’t be in here.”

Our Hero smiles, this must be a new officer. “I assure you that I can.”

“Sir, you need to be on the other side of the tape.” The officer says.

Our Hero fights back the urge to laugh. The other officers must be using this officer’s inexperience to play a joke on him. Normally Our Hero would play along, but there is a crime to be solved. “It appears that your superiors have not told you about me. I’m Mr. Justice, guardian of the city. I’m here to lend my assistance in solving this mystery and it will be very difficult for me to proceed with my investigation from out there. I really do need to be on this side of the tape.”

A second officer has crossed the tape and now also stands between Our Hero and the crime scene. This one is older, and heavier. “What mystery?” The older officer says, “This was a suicide.” The officer makes a fake with his thumb and forefingers and points it at his temple. He imitates the sound of a bullet firing and jerks his hand back from his head. Our Hero finds this distasteful.

“Have you considered the possibility that this was meant to look like a suicide and the victim was actually murdered?” Our Hero asks.

The two officers exchange glances. The older one laughs. The younger one speaks up again, “Sir, this is the last time I’m going to ask, please exit the area.”

“I really should investigate. If this was not a suicide then we could be giving the murder time to escape, or possibly kill again.” Our Hero steps around the officers and sprints towards the house. He hears the footsteps of the officers behind him. The younger one catches him at the top step. Before Our Hero realizes what is happening, the younger officer pins are hero to the wall just to the left of the front door and twists his arm up behind his back. A second later, both of Our Hero’s wrists are cuffed together. “Officer,” he says, “you’ve made a mistake, we’re both defenders of justice.” The young Officer says nothing as he leads Our Hero down the steps.

“I’ll take him,” the older officer says once they are all on the other side of the police tape. He grips Our Hero firmly around the bicep and leads him to a patrol car. “So you’re the guy whose been writing those letters to the chief. Mr. Justice, right?” He says to Our Hero, as they walk.

“Yes, I am Mr. Justice.” Our Hero says. His wrists begin to ache in the handcuffs.

The officer laughed. “You know, we occasionally hear from guys like you. Nothing ever seems to come of it. We figure it’s just some guy playing a joke, or just a nut, you know, but you, man, I’ve never come across a guy like you before. I mean, you’ve got the get up with the mask and everything.”

“The mask is necessary,” Our Hero says, “to protect my identity.”

This makes the officer nearly double over with laughter. The officer’s laugh is high and piercing. It reminds Our Hero of hiccups. “To protect your identity,” the officer says while wiping tears from the corners of his eyes, “that’s a good one, really.” He is still chuckling when he opens the door of his patrol car. Our Hero climbs into the car and positions himself in the center. While he still believes the officers are mistaken, he knows that he must not be seen actively resisting arrest. The arrest will be sorted out once he reaches the station. There he will speak to the Chief, who will insist that Our Hero be freed. The chief will also chastise the officers for arresting Our Hero and for laughing at the offer of his assistance. Our Hero will watch this calmly. Perhaps he will fold his arms across his chest and look severe. He will let the chief lecture his men, but he will stop the lecture just before it reaches talk of disciplinary action. No, after the mention of disciplinary action. That would seem more heroic. He will stop the chief, forgive the officers and praise them for their caution.

The officer sits in the driver’s seat and starts the engine. He looks over his shoulder at Our Hero and says, “Just incase you’re wondering, I’m not taking you in. I figure, you didn’t do any harm and if I take you in, it means extra paperwork for me and to be honest, I was kind of hoping to get home before the wife gets a head ache, if you know what I mean.”

As the car pulls forward, Our Hero begins to fear that he has fallen into some kind of trap. His wrists now hurt more than before, one arm has fallen asleep, and his nose itches. This officer could be a henchman for some villain who has learned of Our Hero and wishes to dispose of him before he can establish himself as the city’s protector. “Where are you taking me?” Our Hero asks.

“I figured I’d give you a ride home, that is, if it wouldn’t be a breach of security.”

“It would if I couldn’t trust you,” Our Hero now recognizes the officer as a potential ally, a source of information inside the police force. He had assumed that this would be some one higher in rank, but a patrol officer has his benefits. He is closer to the people of the city. He might learn of crimes faster than the chief, which mean he could summon Our Hero with greater alacrity. Also, they could more easily meet outside of the police station to exchange information, which would be more convenient for both parties. Our Hero will use this ride home as a test of sorts. He directs the officer to an address near his apartment. He will monitor this location over the next few weeks. If there is no suspicious activity, he will know he has friends on the force.

On the drive over, the police officer introduces himself as Albert, Al to friends and family. He tells Our Hero about his apartment, wife, plans for retirement, and general disdain for the current generation of youth. Our Hero listens politely. He too is concerned about the city’s youth, although he does not share the officer’s bleak view of their future prospects. When he shares this opinion, the officer snorts and shakes his head.

At their destination, the officer helps the Our Hero out of the car and removes the handcuffs. Our Hero shakes out his shoulders, rubs his wrists and finally scratches his nose.

“You seem like a good egg,” the officer says, “that’s why I’m doing this, but you can’t go running into crime scenes. You want to help us out, keep an eye out for trouble. Give us a call if you see anything. You can keep the costume if you like, but leave the police work to us.”

“You will find that I can be of much more use to you,” Our Hero grasps for evidence to support this claim, “I am not bound by the need for warrants. I can gather evidence that you cannot.”

“We’re not interested in that kind of law enforcement. I’ll admit that there have been times I figured it would have been easier just to drag a perp behind a dumpster and beat him senseless, and I know a few detectives who couldn’t get a warrant even though they knew they’d find something, but we got these rules, you know. We gotta follow them, and we can’t just let you break them.”

“I understand,” Our Hero says, thinking he and the officer have reached some kind of agreement. Of course the chief would not contact the hero openly. How could he? Even though fights for justice, he works outside the law. The police must not be seen condoning this kind of behavior.

You have a goodnight then,” the officer says before he drives away.

Our Hero returns to the crime scene several hours later to conduct his investigation. The police have gone, but the front door and first floor windows are all locked and he has no means of ascending to the second floor.

Meanwhile, Our Hero adjusts his tie as he waits to meet with a recruiter in the city’s third largest temp placement firm. He has discovered that crime fighting is a truly thankless job, monetarily speaking. Being on patrol means he must work shorter shifts at the restaurant where he is a waiter and the expenses add up. In the past month alone he has needed to purchase a new car, two dozen cans of matte black spray paint, rope, a tazer, handcuffs (Our Hero still wonders why he could only find handcuffs covered in pink and white fur), boots, and spandex. He saved some money by sewing the costume himself. At the time, he chose to take on the tailoring as a security precaution. After all, what tailor could he trust with his secret identity? Now, he congratulates himself for having keen, costume related financial foresight, but he cannot hide from his ever mounting debt.

Our Hero knows this all to well. A new villain, Jeff the Collector has surfaced to confound Our Hero. During dinner, early in the morning, in the middle of training, no time seems off-limits to the Collector. He hounds are hero day and night, and worse, he can connect the Justice Car to Our Hero’s secret identity. He threatens the retirement of Our Hero’s mother during nearly every call. Our Hero of course warns the collector to leave his family alone, but the collector is unmoved. Just last week the collector’s intransigence forced Our Hero to scream into the phone, “How do I defeat you?” Even this failed to disturb the collector. He replied calmly, “Just pay what you owe.” Our Hero slammed down the phone before booting up the laptop of justice and prepared his resume.

The recruiter calls Our Hero into her office. She wears a bright red blouse and glasses that remind Our Hero of his grandmother. She is younger than Our Hero expected, much younger. Our Hero estimates that she is his age, if not a little younger. Instantly, Our Hero’s pulse quickens and his skin begins to itch under his suit and costume. Sweat begins to emerge at the top of his brow and under his arms, he tries to keep composure. Hero’s should not sweat and when they do, it must be ignored.

“So,” says the recruiter, “what kind of work are you looking for.”

“I’d like to do good work,” Our Hero replies, “something that helps my fellow man.”

“Non-profit work then,” She says while gazing at Our Hero over the rims of her glasses. The look makes Our Hero nervous; he makes a mental note to learn the technique for interrogations.

“Oh, no,” he says, “I’d like to be paid for my work. I was thinking of something at a newspaper, maybe for the crime section.”

“I’m afraid that we don’t handle positions in journalism.”

“I see. Well how about at a laboratory? Preferably one that specializes in non-lethal weapons development.”

The recruiter picks up Our Hero’s resume and scans it, shaking her head as she reads. “You don’t have a background in science.”

“I took chemistry and biology in college.”

“Yes, I can see that, but you majored in interdisciplinary studies.”
Our Hero nods, he is proud of his degree. The recruiter apparently has failed to see the value of a well-rounded education. “Why don’t we talk about your skills. What would make you a valuable addition to a company you might work for?”

Our Hero straightens his back and leans forward a little. He has prepared a response to this question. He practiced it in the mirror before leaving the house. “I have an acute sense of perception.” The recruiter lifts one eyebrow, but says nothing. “You see, I never miss the finest detail. Nothing gets past me. This could be especially helpful in a business where the smallest mistake could cost millions, if not billions of dollars.”
“Anything else?”

“Yes, I am a very fast learner. I completed Master Al’s DVD Six Week Kung-Fu Boot Camp in four weeks. A full two weeks ahead of the program’s advertised schedule.”

The recruiter turns Our Hero’s resume over and places it on the desk. She interlaces her fingers and sets her hands on top of the resume, “I’m sorry Mr. Kemp, but I do not believe we will be able to find you suitable employment.”

“I see,” Our Hero rises to leave, “Thank you for your time.” He walks to the door and is about to open it when a thought occurs to Our Hero. He turns back to the recruiter and says, “Since we are no longer engaged in a business relationship, would you like to join me for coffee some time?”

The recruiter smiles at out hero and holds up her left hand. Our Hero notices the diamond ring decorating her rind finger.

“Oh,” Our Hero says, “my apologies.”

“Acute perceptions?” The recruiter smirks, which makes Our Hero feel as if he has been suddenly deflated.

He forces himself to straighten his posture and hold up his chin. “Yes, even the smallest detail. Congratulations.”

After leaving the temporary placement firm, Our Hero walks down the street in search of a coffee shop. He has two more interviews in the afternoon.

Meanwhile Our Hero composes another letter to the Chief of Police. “Dear Chief Rexler,” he writes, “I am writing once again to ask that you inform your officers of the proper use of the Pager of Justice number. Twice last month I was summoned late at night only to find that I was paged by an inebriated rookie officer at the request of an equally inebriated superior. In both instances, the officers requested I drive them to their homes. On the second occasion, one officer soiled himself, and consequently the backseat of the Justice Car.”

Our Hero stretches and rereads the paragraph. It is satisfactory. Our Hero decides to reward himself for producing and excellent paragraph with a snack. He rises to seek nourishment. In his kitchen he finds a few spoonfuls of peanut butter at the bottom of the jar and the heals of a loaf of white bread. Our Hero chastises himself for not having more heroically nutritious foods on hand. He makes a note on the shopping list he has stuck to the fridge with a limited edition, Mr. Justice Official, Magnet of Justice to buy carrots and apples. He crosses off snack cakes and fish sticks before returning his attention to preparing his sandwich only to discover that he has no clean knives. He finds a dirty knife, still partially encrusted with the leftover peanut butter of a previously consumed sandwich. Our Hero coats the blade with lemon scented anti-bacterial soap and scrapes away the dried food with the scruffy side of his sponge. When the blade is cleaned to Our Hero’s standards, he wipes it dry on his pants leg and makes the sandwich.

The sandwich pleases Our Hero, but soon he realizes that the mass of bread and peanut butter in his mouth is resisting his efforts to swallow. It threatens to choke him. “Not this time, peanut butter,” Our Hero mumbles through the remains of the sandwich. He leaps to the refrigerator and rips open the door. He reaches for the almost empty two litter cola bottle on the bottom shelf and drinks it. The cola has gone flat, but it manages to wash the peanut butter away with it. Our Hero tosses the now empty bottle in the trash, closes the refrigerator door and ads milk to the shopping list.

With his hunger now defeated, Our Hero returns to his computer and continues the letter. “While this behavior is not becoming of an officer in any circumstance, its turpitude is exacerbated by the fact that the officers tied up a valuable resource of the city. Please inform the officers that while I am happy to assist them occasionally in non-emergency situations, the justice car is not a taxi service. I think it is best that all officers have access to the pager of justice’s number as this would allow them to inform me of potentially life threatening situations faster, but if the abuse continues, then I will have no choice but to get a new number for the Pager of Justice which I would only share with you and your second in command. This measure would be unfortunate since it would invariably cost extra time and possibly lives. Sincerely, Mr. Justice.”

Our Hero reads over his the letter. It pleases him, but he realizes that it might be too harshly worded. He adds a post script, “It occurs to me that you might interpret this letter as a desire to be less involved with the maintenance of peace and order in this fair city. I assure you that this is not the case. In fact I wish to be more involved. This letter is meant only to ensure that my services will be put to the best use.” He reads over the letter one more time and prints it and places it in the envelope he has already addressed to the Chief of Police. He sticks it to the refrigerator under the shopping list so he will remember to send it in the morning. On the shopping list below milk, he writes, “Stamps.”