CHAPTER THIRTEEN

READY FOR ACTION

Sunlight shines through the window blinds, illuminating a lone spiny chair and a passed out man on a couch. Sleeping face down, he extensively drools; his drool creates a solid fusion of man and couch. There is some color in his cheeks. The food did John well. As the light hits his eyes, it beckons him to awake. Not too many rays, but just enough. Slowly opening his eyes and rubbing them, he chokes on the drool. Violently coughing, he wakes up.

“Why is it so bright?” John asks; he notices the reflecting light on the floor.

“Light!” he adds, jumping up.

John stumbles towards the window, enthusiastically. Finally, after who knows how long, he can stand in the light. To get that juicy vitamin D.

“Mmm, vitamin D,” John adds in ecstasy.

One step at a time, a small step for man but a giant step for John. Almost there; he can feel it in his bones as they vibrate from excitement. John should probably go see a doctor to have that checked out. He can see the immaculate shine of the daylight... just a few small steps away. Why does he feel so great because of something so simple? Just like a child playing with no worries on a beautiful field; free. Why and for what reason, John asks himself. No answers come to mind. It just is. Whatever the reason is, the only thing that matters is that it is- good.

The bumbling steps slowly close the distance. Almost there! John’s emotions run rampant as he feels a tingle all across; something swells deep inside.

“So, this is what happiness feels like,” John adds.

The happiness swells some more than it creates a deep rumbling sound in the stomach.

“Wait! This isn’t happiness. What is this?” John asks, pondering about his current state of mind. His stomach growls like a proud lion on the Savanna.

“Oh no,” John adds, his expression quickly changing.

Oh no, it wasn’t happiness but sickness. An honest mistake, it even rhymes.

The constant abuse he put his body through returned with interest and vengeance. A lot. John, sadly, must go to the bathroom and he must go immediately; with no time to lose, John runs to the bathroom in superhuman speed. When you have to go, you have to go and when you really have to go, you really have to go; and in this case John really, really had to go.

Entering the bathroom, he slams the door shut. We cannot see or hear anything, for words have certain advantages. This situation stands testament to that. The sense of smell would be bad here.

The stomach growls as John accompanies with the addition of painful moans. The majestic duet continues.

“Why?” John screams in agony. The answer is easy, but one should not kick a horse when it is down or a horse in the bathroom. Don’t even think about doing that to a downed horse in the bathroom.

The interest rate is decent and taking the number of years it accumulated there is profit. It all comes back, eventually.

“This is not good,” John whimpers as the noises of struggling rage on and on.

“I’m sure this can’t last long,” John adds.

The daylight outside withers away as the Sun descents in torpor.

Through all the pains and struggles, John experienced in the John he falls asleep with the Sun. We should not take lightly such synchronization. Silence engulfs the world. Pure tranquility stands amongst the serene look of the bathroom door. A perfect calm.

“What is happening!” John yells, waking up.

He rushes outside from the bathroom with dead fish eyes. Opening the bathroom door, it meets him- darkness.

It is night again!

“Night again?” John says with vivid disappointment.

Surely this is a joke, surely this cannot be real? Surely it is, and surely it is night. He missed the day again, and he has missed it spectacularly.

“I hate my life,” John says as he throws himself face down on it. Oops, he hit the drooled part with his face. John slightly shifts his face.

He looks at the ceiling as he wonders about his life. To be honest, he thinks about wondering about his life, but what he is doing is looking at the ceiling and wondering about wondering about his life. Good enough.

“Damn you salty, delicious popcorn,” John yells thinking it has something to do with his current state. Full disclosure, it did not.

“This cannot go on. Something needs to change, I need to change and I will do it...” John says making a dramatic pause.

“I will do it tomorrow,” John says with great confidence.

“Tomorrow for sure but now I need a drink and then I have a certain heroic action to undertake,” John says, confidently.

He jumps up from his couch with great swiftness, which causes his back to cramp for a bit. He hunches down as he endures through the pain. The cramp passes but John remains in the hunched back position as it is better to make sure than to be cramped up again. This was a part of his late grandfather’s arsenal of wisdom, and John took it to heart.

“The cramp is gone, and the day is ready to be conquered,” John says, gazing outside at the night lights of the streets.

“Um... the night... the night is ready to be conquered,” John corrects himself with much less enthusiasm than moments ago.

With his low enthusiasm, he gets ready and leaves his office/home, embarking on his new but disastrous adventure.

Outside in the hall Pete the landlord is passing by with a huge grin on his face. Not the person he wanted to see now but the person he would prefer to see never. But one cannot be picky about these things; even if one would very much like to be picky about these things.

Pete approaches with his greasy wife-beater shirt and with his trademark baseball bat, but this time there is something red on it. Could it be blood, John wonders?

“Why, if it isn’t the deadbeat,” Pete says with an enormous smile.

“Why if it isn’t one of my least favorite people in the world. The one in the top ten of my list. You should feel honored by making the list,” John says.

“I’m sure you are on many top ten worst lists and if there was one such list for worst tenants you would surely be at the very top of it. Standing proud with all the other deadbeats out there,” Pete says as he pulls a big fat cigar and lights it.

“Is that blood on your bat?” John asks.

“What? Do you mean this? It is just from tomatoes,” Pete says.

“Why are there tomato stains on your bat?” John asks and immediately regretting asking this question. But it was too late now, as he raised the question.

“I have a lot of build-up frustration and my therapists advised me I should find some way to release it,” Pete says as he gently puffs his fat cigar.

“Your therapist advised you to bash tomatoes?” John asks, looking skeptically at Pete.

“No. He advised me on some pansy stuff like taking dance lessons, doing pottery, or growing plants. You know? Stuff like a hobby to release my frustrations, stuff to keep my mind occupied,” Pete explains.

“And how did you go from that to bashing tomatoes?” John asks as half regretting this question and half being very interested in the answer. A paradox of not caring and being curious.

“I tried some of it but it just got me madder so out of anger I smashed some tomatoes and, behold-behold, I felt like a new man,” Pete says with an even larger smile.

“Let me get this right. You did normal hobbies but ended up doing this very questionable and almost psychopathic, hobby. If you could call it one,” John says.

“Yep, pretty much,” Pete quickly answers as he puffs smoke in John’s face.

“Don’t you find it a bit... disturbing?” John asks.

“What works works, that is basic science,” Pete says.

“I’m sure that comparison fails at many levels,” John says.

“You just make sure you get the next rent in time. Maybe if you do, I will keep smashing tomatoes and not your knees,” Pete says as he laughs and walks away.

With the option of the small, fat, and greasy man smashing tomatoes as opposed to his knees, John would, without a doubt, take the first option.

Knees are useful, John concludes.

“Especially if they are my own knees,” John says as he walks away using his knees to support him. Good knees, indeed.

Outside of the building, Alex is waiting for him.

“You are late,” Alex says.

“Am I?” John asks as pondering. Late for what?

“Well, I guess it is good that you showed up. I was just about to head upstairs because I thought you forgot the time we agreed on,” Alex says.

What time? Was there a time? John wonders about it, but he can’t remember.

“Of course I did not, I know my times?” John says with little to no confidence.

“I can’t wait to see Mary again,” Alex says, enthusiastically.

With those words, John remembers that he has agreed on high risk but low reward plan, a plan of being a hero and he knows full well, that being a hero never pays off.

Why did I agree to it? He wonders as a flash of memory comes running through his mind. It was a flash of nothing grand and nothing special, but just a flash of a warm smile.

“Now I remember,” John says as he remembers that he is doing this for a woman and he remembers that he got the short end of the stick many times all while doing things, too similarly for comfort, like this. Is it possible that I am an idiot, John thinks?

The answer is obvious, but it was still an answer that, perhaps, was better-left unanswered.

“You remember?” Alex asks, looking at John.

“I remember that it is time to be a hero,” John says while standing and sounding heroical. Less heroic inside his mind as he screams a simple word of no in rapid succession followed by the term God splashed here and there for good measure, but he maintains a cool expression. No one will know.

If there is one thing John knows it is that heroes always end up either dead or gravely injured and as a reward, they get the immaterial reward of knowing they are heroes. This is equivalent to doing a long hard job and getting a pat on the back; though a pat on the back is, for the very least, something. Money is what he wants and knowing that he did good means nothing to him, even less than a pat on the back and that is saying something. But even with all these thoughts, with all the opinions and all reason, he still walks towards the place where he doesn’t want to be; it is like he is watching himself from far away as he cannot influence his own body. This is so stupid, John thinks as he bottles up all his thoughts and emotions and just brave on. Bottling emotions and issues inside yourself is a good way of dealing with any problems you have. It is a good way all the way until they all explode inside you leaving behind a broken crazy person but until that time you are ready and John sure goes. There he goes walking down the street singing no, no, no in his head like a majestic alcoholic time bomb just waiting to explode.

They arrive at the second address that was written on the piece of paper detailing the activities of Max Daubrey lovingly and jokingly called, without the lovingly part, Pink. This must be the place since the address is right, but looking at it one could only think this isn’t a place; unless you are looking for a place where absolutely nothing happens, in that case, this would be the place.

A large grey warehouse with windows covered by a thick layer of dust and other nastiness. The sight would be impressive if not for the disgusting appearance. If the windows are any sign of the state of this building than he fears what the inside will look like; the previous filthy places he visited and the previous filthy place in which he lives and works have nothing on this.

“I think they abandon this place,” John says, looking at it with disgust.

“Maybe, we still have to look,” Alex says, fidgeting around with impatience.

“Look at this place Remi, there is nothing in it,” John says.

He takes another gander at the warehouse and is surprised again at its visage. The walls are corroding themselves and everything else, in some parts weird shapes form as it looks like something a bad conceptual artist would make or something that a very good conceptual artist would make. There are even deserted bird’s nest atop of the building as these standards are too low for birds. The roof of the disastrous building has, what looks like, three roofs and by the look of it three different roofs on top of each other; they look like people threw their roofs away, and this was the “garbage depository”.

“I...,” Alex tries to speak, but the visible disappointment is too visible as visible disappointments go.

Looking at the distraught boy, John feels something in his body, something unexplainable to him but not unexplainable to others. He feels sorry for him.

“Look, we are already here so we might as well look,” John says to calm down the boy with the mysterious, only to him, name. Is it Marco? I’m sure it is something with an M or perhaps even a Z. Zed? Zeke? What the hell is his name?

“Okay,” Alex says, whimpering as he composes himself and gets ready to head out and be disappointed.

“Don’t worry young Zerpahiel, disappointment is all part of life. Worry not for we shall, if we try hard enough, eventually find some things in life that are still disappointments but a little less disappointing. This is the law of life,” John says as he walks with Alex to the warehouse.

He feels somewhat relieved as a weight, though a weight is lifted from his shoulders. He will not have to be a hero today. To be a hero is to be zero, John thinks. This, as it sounds, has just been made up just now.

They approach a door or an object that seems more like a piece of metal put over a door-like hole, there is no doorknob but to compensate for that there are many bumps on it like the door insulted a mother of a strong and angry boxer.

“Well, here goes nothing,” John says as he pushes to door-like object open with the strength of a powerful elderly man.

The door opens, and as it opens, it reveals a decent place.

“What the hell?” John says out loud.

Loads of neatly and well-organized boxes on the sides, some furniture, and this furniture is in a decent condition. The floor has barely any dirt; it is much cleaner than his own home/office. To be fair, this is no compliment.

“What the hell?” John says again as he looks around in confusion.

“This must be the right place,” Alex says happily as he looks around.

It is more clear than the outside perceives it to be; the outside appearing to have the ability to induce gangrene just by a mere glance of it.

Amongst all the boxes and different furniture, there are two things that stand out to John. The first being a stairway down which is where, most likely, the orphans are being held and the second, the more important part to him. A beautiful spiny chair stands on the sides.

“Wow! I think I’ve found it,” John says.

“Yes, those stairs must lead to Mary and the other kids,” Alex says as he slowly walks towards them.

“Wait!” John yells but not too loudly.

Joh approaches the chair. He looks at it from the distance, marveling at its beauty. Large and heavy, looks and exudes quality all while coated with rich black leather- real leather. John takes another step as he comes face to chair face with the chair; he nuzzles it, and the chair spins around with the grace of a ballet dancer.

“This is the one chair I was looking for. This is the one true spinny chair,” John says, his eyes glued to the spiny majesty.

“Why are you playing with that stupid chair? We have to go,” Alex says as he urges John to move.

“Stupid chair?” John states as though they have insulted him.

“This here is a Brown-Byson embodied office chair. They rank it amongst to top 15 chairs of this year. Such a high-quality chair like this helps you keep relaxed and focused, all while stimulating the oxygen and blood flow perfectly. This chair, created by these two geniuses, has a human spine-like design attached to the back. We also know this as the exoskeleton of the chair,” John explains with great fervor.

“So what?” Alex asks.

“So what? It not only helps you keep relaxed, but it also moves together with your body, helping you keep your body posture in the correct position. Other chairs don’t do this and because of this many people, as they grow older, develop spine issues. Let me ask you something Ralph, does it hurt when you walk?” John asks Alex.

“Hurt when I walk? No, it doesn’t,” Alex answers.

“Well, it hurts when I walk, and do you know why?” John asks.

“Because you don’t get enough exercise?” Alex answers, unsure if this is the correct answer.

“Nonsense. It hurts because I spent most of my life sitting in bad chairs, all the way from elementary school to my time in the police. Because of this my spine is bent in all the wrong places and this causes pressure on it or my leg or something... I’m a detective, not a doctor. Because of this, I have to endure pain if I walk too much or if I stand too much. Why do you think I drink so much?” John asks yet again.

“Because you are an alcoholic?” Alex tries to answer again, being unsure of the answer.

“That is mostly 90% correct but the other, most important, percentage is because of the poor designs of chairs and the pain they have afflicted to me and my poor wrong spine. This chair is not only a friend that comforts you while you desperately need comforting but also it is like a doctor to you. It is doctor chair,” John says.

“Doctor chair?” Alex says in a confused manner.

“That is right. This is... DOCTOR CHAIR,” John says with great emphasis on the term doctor chair.

“Is it really that good?” Alex asks.

“It is even better. Normal chairs get hot when you sit on them too much, but these chairs have leather-like human skin. It helps the proper circulation of air and oxygen and with it, you can remain cool even if you sit on it for a thousand years,” John explains.

“A thousand years?” Alex says as thinking John is talking nonsense.

“A thousand years! Do you know how long the warranty lasts on the Brown-Byson chairs?” John asks.

“I don’t know,” Alex says with little interest.

“Guess,” John commandingly says.

“Ten years?” Alex guesses.

“Wrong! Guess higher,” John says.

“ Twenty?” Alex guesses again.

“Wrong again. The warranty just says yes on it,” John says.

“It says yes?” Alex asks.

“Yes. That means that if the chair breaks you will get another one, even if it breaks in 30 years,” John says with great pride.

“Wait! You mean you have this chair for as long as you live?” Alex asks.

“That is why it says yes on the warranty. Warranty time...yes,” John says.

“Wow, that is amazing,” Alex says.

“I’m glad you understand,” John says as he nods his head in recognition.

“We should probably take the chair now,” John adds.

“Wait,” Alex yells.

“What?” John asks as he has his hands around the mighty spinny chair.

“We need to save Mary first,” Alex says.

“Oh right. Let us be heroes,” John says as the sheer immense morality boost he got from a chair has almost transformed him into a new man, into something better, into something super; to Super John.

The orphan boy Alex and the previously ordinary John, now Super John, walk down the stairs.

Descending from the dimly lit place the sound of silence is overridden by many interloping sounds of clacks. The clacks clack more and more, and they slowly are louder and louder. Reaching the center of the sound, it leaves them with a picture of dozens of children working with sawing machines. A make-shift sweatshop, a place where the unfortunate abandoned children of this city find themselves.

“This is worse than the orphanage,” Alex proclaims as he looks at it from the hidden place up above.

“Is it though?” John asks, unsure.

This place seems bad, but the orphanage doesn’t seem that great; John would weigh the quality of both places against each other, but this was neither the time nor the place to do it.

As they could see from a quick glance there were about thirty to forty children there and they were all orphans; they, after all, had dirty clothes which was an almost as sure sign as a police uniform was that a policeman is in question; a dirty giveaway for sure.

“Why don’t they run? There doesn’t seem to be much security here,” John says.

“There is a person sitting there and watching them,” Alex says as he points to a middle-aged man sitting in front of the sewing machines as he reads a newspaper.

Asking about why the children have not run away, John concludes almost as fast as he asked it. The answer is simple and sad... there is nowhere to run. The orphanage sold them to these people, and it is not like they have a home to go to. This usually comes with the fact of being an orphan.

What a sad fate it is to end up like this, John thinks. With this thought he almost got a new perspective on orphan matters, he almost got something akin to a heart. This is a long time overdue, but better late than never.

“So what do we do now?” Alex asks.

“What to do indeed,” John says as he thinks.

This entire situation is much simpler than he thought it would be, and even if it proved difficult, he still had a plan. He has a good plan but, sadly, he forgot this plan. A product of a desperate man trying to desperately impress a beautiful woman, but even if forgot the plan, John still remembers that the plan was good. If only he could remember it, John says to himself.

“Well, since there is one person there... I will go forward, sneak up on him and knock him out with a brave sucker punch,” John says.

“Are you sure you can do it?” Alex asks worriedly.

“Do you doubt me?” John asks.

“Yes,” Alex answers quickly without thought.

“That was more of a rhetorical question,” John adds.

“I’m not sure what that is, but I think I gave you a rhetorical answer,” Alex says.

“Either way, watch and behold how I do my magic,” John says.

“That man looks dangerous,” Alex adds.

Soon as Alex said this John looks more carefully at the guard and as John’s eyes size up the man in question, the guard moves his newspaper to the side as he stretches, and with this action; he reveals his visage. Bold, tattooed, and an athletic build; he does kinda look dangerous, and he looks strong-ish, John thinks to himself. The truth of the matter is that the man was not anything particularly strong, but he wasn’t weak in any sense if anything he was normal with leaning on a powerful side. Comparing him to John he was strong, truth be told the man could have been Hercules compared to John; in this sense, his observation wasn’t that far-fetched.

Continuing to think about it more, the thought of attacking him wasn’t such a good idea. But is there any other option, John wonders?

The guard bites a piece of a sandwich as he returns it and continues to read the newspaper.

John grins.

“Alternative plan, young Crassus,” John says as he leans closer and whispers in Alex’s ear.

Quietly walking down the stairs where the children are ever so altruistically making clothes for the benefit of people who will buy those clothes and their employers, the people who will sell the stated clothes. They slave away without even expecting any compensation. Not even a pat on the back or perhaps a simple word like a job well; such is a life of a lonely orphan caught in the web of criminal activities and the hard works of a sweatshop. Truly these orphans are saints doing all this work for nothing, if you ignore the part where they are being massively taken advantage of and have little to no option then that would truly be saintly.

Standing bravely hidden in the shadows, John wonders about their fate as the young orphan boy Alex is sneaking down amongst the children.

As Alex sneaks around the working children notice him but they remain quiet as anything else then remaining quiet would cause bad things to happen to them and everyone else around them. This is an unspoken rule. Some think about speaking or doing anything else other than continuing their forced labor, but such thought quickly escapes their thoughts as they are too strung out to even think of anything other than just to continue what they are doing. Passing through this rather depressing scene, Alex comes close to the guard. Still hidden. He patiently waits for the right moment as the guard takes another bite of his sandwich and lifts his newspaper after quickly throwing a glance at the working children. Armed with nothing more than his composure and a plan. The time is perfect and with such a valid opportunity he quickly puts something in the sandwich, just in the middle of the two loaves of bread. It is John’s mysterious mushroom.

After planting it, he quietly hides behind the machinery in the sweatshop and waits. The guard, unaware that his food has seriously been tampered with, takes another bite of his sandwich and with this the plan is successful. Alex looks at John who is upstairs and asks him what now with his body language; John smiles and lifts his finger, signaling that they should wait for a bit, but only for a bit. The effects of the mushroom take effect even faster than they had taken effect on John but John’s organism has a strong resistance to all sort of substance abuse as he has trained long, hard, and diligently to make it so; even if his training was a desperate attempt to escape from the reality that is his life it still did not matter as it still counted towards the building of his mighty resistance. If he didn’t have the resistance he had he would have long ended up... well, he wouldn’t be here to witness whatever he would witness.

The guard quickly stands, noticing something is not right. Something is not right indeed.

His eyes turn red and his pupils enlarge like he saw something incredible or like someone drugged him, of course, it was the latter.... unfortunately for him. The guard struggles with even the simplest task of standing up as he looks with crazy eyes around; he knows something is wrong, but he cannot quite understand what is wrong. This happens when people ingest questionable things.

Seeing the state of the guard, John slowly and heroically walks down as he is sure that the guard is little to no threat.

“Who is there?” the guard asks as he struggles with forming words.

“No one important, just a hero who is here to stop your evil ways,” John says with a brilliant smile.

“What the... hell?” the guard says as the mushroom takes its toll.

The guard barely stands, holding on to his table as gazing at the man who appeared out of nowhere and the man or men who stand in front of him. Are there two of them, the guard thinks as his vision plays tricks?

“If you don’t get the hell out of here...” the guard says as he stops mid-sentence.

“What will happen?” John asks with great confidence.

“I... I’m.... break,” the guard says as the words he is looking for keep eluding him.

This was, John thinks, as well as time as any to be the hero he was trying remarkably hard to avoid. Perhaps it wasn’t such a bad thing considering the situation as it was.

Without an additional thought John swings his fist like one would see in movies and without an additional thought again as one would expect in movies, he thinks one punch is enough to knock out a person. As his clumsy fist hits the drugged man the guard, to John’s surprise, remains standing even though visibly struggling to remain to stand, the punch is not the reason for his struggles.

“That is it!” the guard says as he puts up his hands to prepare for a fight.

“What?” John says out loud, shocked that he hasn’t knocked out the man.

The guard swings his fist at John, slowly and clumsily. Still not slow or clumsy enough to not hit him right in the nose,

“Ouch,” John says, not so heroically.

He grabs his nose as blood pours from it.

“This is going to leave a mark,” John adds as he slowly removes the hand that held his nose and looks at it with worry.

“I’m going to take you...out... to downtown,” the guard barely says as the mysterious mushroom parties in his brain.

“Get the kids out of here,” John yells to Alex who immediately signals to them to run; with little thinking, they just go with the flow and run out of the sweatshop.

“Don’t think... you are getting out of here in...,” the guard says.

“In?” John asks as both physically impaired men stand across each other in fighting poses. One being drugged and the other being John; both of them are impaired indeed.

“In... what was I going to say?” the guard asks.

“In one piece?” John adds helping the poor man.

“That is right. I appreciate your help,” the guard says sincerely.

“Don’t mention it,” John adds.

Perhaps this situation need not escalate into a situation that would only befit savages but this can be resolved civilized, John thinks, and as soon as he thinks another clumsy fist flies and hits him in the broken nose, yet again.

Perhaps not, John adds as he fiercely counter-attacks. He flings his fists in a flurry of attacks, once, twice and a third time as the third punch is the only one that hits. It connects like an excellent whiskey after a hard day’s night. The incredible flurry of three blows leaves John gasping for air as the guard remains standing and wobbling left and right.

Is it possible that I will lose to a drugged man? Is it possible, John asks himself as the thought of these plummets his morale even further down than it already was and it was pretty down.

“You punch like a hundred-year-old vegetarian,” the guard says, slowly closing in on John.

“A hundred-year-old boxer,” John says as he thinks, he has just turned the insult upside down and cleverly converted it into a compliment.

“That is still not a good thing for...” the guard says as he stops mid-sentence and throws another punch.

This time, already used to the incredible slow punches, John evades one and then the second punch, moving slightly faster than the slow punches.

Like a hundred-year-old ninja, but a ninja nevertheless.

“You can’t touch this,” John quickly says as he moves closer for a finishing attack.

“Ta-nana-nah,” The guard says and at this moment John smacks him with a large right hook.

Before the punch can connect the guard loses consciousness and falls down and as he falls down John’s punch misses making him stumble and fall alongside the guard; falling on top of him.

Lying on the unconscious man, he rolls over to the side and takes two deep breaths.

“I finally beat him,” John says as he laughs, completely ignoring that the most obvious victor here was the mushroom but a victory is a victory.

Outside the building, Alex is standing with the rest of the orphans. He worriedly looks around as he searches for Mary; she is not here.

Alex goes to one orphan.

“Have you seen Mary?” Alex asks him while looking left and right and all around.

“She left,” the orphan responds.

“Left? When I didn’t see her here,” Alex says.

“No. She left this place a day ago,” the orphan says.

“She ran away?” Alex asks.

“A pretty lady took her,” the orphan responds.

“What pretty lady?” Alex asks.

“I don’t know she had long blonde hair, and she looked rich,” the orphan says.

“What are we supposed to do now?” another orphan asks as the rest of them look with sad and worn out faces.

“The detective has a friend. Her name is Rebecca. Go to the Seahorse bar and ask for her,” Alex says.

“What are you going to do?” an orphan girl comes and asks from the side.

“I have to wait for John, but before you go, I need you to do me a favor,” Alex says as he whispers.

Back in the building, John regains some of his lost stamina from the anti-fight of the century. He gets up and dusts himself proceeding to walk towards the exit. Passing through the run-down building he finally reaches the exit and outside a dim light of the streets awaits him but something else, something much less soothing. Two men are standing, one with quite a dissatisfied look on his face and the other with an expressionless and emotionless stare. One in the back is tall, very tall, he looks menacing and his emotionless expression does justice to his menacing look, one could say that it adds rather nicely to the cocktail of intimidation he posses; his black lean suit nicely covers his tall body and atop of it a black fedora hat. Menacing, but also quite stylish. The other man has a normal build and, most importantly, he is wearing a checkered suit. It is, without a doubt, the mysterious Max Daubrey known as Pink; the yin and yang of the two expressions complement each other as the giant’s emotionless face is accompanied by a face that looks like it will explode from the sheer pent up frustration. This is not a good situation, John thinks to himself, but when has it ever been a good situation for him he wonders? When indeed.

The looks continue, and they are not getting any better. Maybe by some chance, the checkered man will explode from all these emotions and that will be the end.

“Do you know what you have done?” Pink asks.

But most likely he won’t and this will end in a couple of broken bones before being thrown in the garbage, but maybe the garbage won’t be so sticky or smell as bad. Maybe he will just be offed without broken bones, John thinks as the worst-case scenarios flash before his eyes... no good case scenarios though. What is a good case scenario in a situation such as this?

Well, if I’m going to go I might as well go in style, or as much style as I can muster, John says to himself.

“Well, if it isn’t the mysterious Pink,” John says.

“Pink? I hate that nickname. I hate it so much that I want to murder anyone who uses it,” Pink says.

“By the looks of things your anger can’t get any higher so I believe calling you Pink will do nothing to change the current situation,” John says, and he has a point. Not a point he wants to have.

“You are right about that. Nothing is going to help you now,” Pink says as he nods at his giant friend who remains as motionless and expressionless as a scary statue.

“There isn’t a chance we can talk this over, isn’t there?” John asks, already knowing the answer.

“I find it hilarious you would even ask this, but then again you haven’t changed your stupidity even from when you were a kid,” Pink says.

“From when I was a kid? Do we know each other?” John asks.

“You seriously don’t remember me?” Pink asks.

“Um...,” John murmurs as he thinks, but thinks for only a short amount.

“We went to the same school you inbred,” Pink says.

“Ah... you are little Joseph,” John says.

“Joseph? There wasn’t a Joseph in our class. What are you talking about? My name is Max Daubrey,” Pink says.

“I don’t remember anyone by that name,” John adds.

“You don’t remember? This is incredible, after all that crap you and the other kids gave me about reading philosophy,” Pink adds as he shakes his head in disbelief.

“The only kid who talked about philosophy is Aristol,” John says.

“The same,” Pink says as he makes a mock bow.

“But I thought your name was Aristol?” John asks with confusion.

“Do you know anyone who has the name Aristol?” Pink asks as though the answer is self-evident.

“Well, I thought I knew one person,” John says.

“You called me Aristol to mock me for my love of philosophy and because you and the other kids are dumb asses, you called me Aristol instead of Aristotle,” Pink says.

“When you explain it like that, it does make much more sense,” John says.

“Well, I am glad that I could have solved this immense dilemma,” Pink says sarcastically.

“Well, look at you... what happened to you?” John asks as though he was talking to an old friend who didn’t want to murder him.

“A lot of things happened here and there. I wanted to become a teacher, but the scars of my youth and the circumstances of my life took my career to a different path,” Pink says.

“That is very interesting. What path did life take you on?” John asks.

“To one where I have a small criminal empire and I kill everyone who gets in my way,” Pink says as closing his eyes and taking a deep breath elevating his build up rage. The deep breath did not help.

“I see, maybe less of a noble calling but a calling nevertheless. Perhaps not a good calling for the ones that get in your way,” John says.

“Not in one any sense,” Pink says as he stares at John who stares back with an awkward smile designed to diffuse the situation but diffuse the situation it does not.

“So...,” John adds.

“So...,” Pink repeats.

“What were your exact plans?” John adds, still holding that awkward smile.

“Now you will come with us either freely or by force and we shall beat the last drop of your dumb drunken life before we throw you in the river,” Pink says.

“But I can’t swim,” John adds.

“You won’t be needing to swim,” Pink says as a wicked smile appears on his face.

“But if I can’t swim and you throw me in the river I will drown,” John adds never letting go of the awkward smile that says don’t hurt me I am your friend.

“That won’t be a problem,” Pink adds adding a large wicked smile on his already wicked smile.

“How so?” John asks as he already guesses the answer but hopes the answer will somehow be something else than the expected one.

“Because you will be dead,” Pink says.

“Dead?” John says.

“Dead,” Pink responds.

“Like dead-dead?” John asks.

“Deader than the deadest dead of the dead,” Pink says.

“That is pretty dead,” John adds.

“Dead right,” Pink says.

The perfect moment for one life to flash before a person’s eyes and like the moment dictates John’s life flashes before his eyes yet again and yet again the flash of the entirety of his life is sadly and overwhelmingly disappointing. I need to do something about these flashes; they are enough to even depress me, John thinks to himself. But is there any other option? Is there something to do? A gun? I have a gun and can use it; he puts his hands in his pockets as he searches for the gun but there is nothing there; he continues his search, but there is still nothing there except an empty flask. I can’t believe I forgot my gun if only there was a situation where someone reminded me of that. Maybe I can bluff it, John thinks.

“Don’t move or I’ll shoot,” John says as he bluffs that he has a gun. Thinking he is pointing a finger within his coat; early, similar to something a cartoon character would do.

“Shoot us with a flask?” Pink asks.

“What flask? I have a gun,” John adds.

“You complete and utter circus monkey, we can see the flask in your hand,” Pink says as he face slaps himself with more intensity that he wanted to.

John looks down and sees that the flask is visibly showing if there was time for the shame he would surely feel it right now but this is not the time and the shame of this moment will have to wait for another day. If there is another day and as things are looking there won’t be another day.

“I should have probably concealed this within my coat,” John says as he laughs awkwardly.

Ha-ha-ha with great and uncomfortable pauses between each ha.

“You think?” Pink says.

“Enough talk. Now is the time to tie you up to a chair and do what you had coming for a long, long time,” Pink says as he walks towards him with his giant friend.

Strapped down to a chair and beaten again? Haven’t I already done this once or maybe even twice in the past few days. I know good things happen in three but there is an exception to the rule even in comedy. Repeating the same things can get repetitive. No! I won’t have it, I won’t allow myself to become a joke; John looks at the two men and his approaching doom as something simple pops in his mind. If you are ever feeling down lick some salt and talk to a cat but the age-old wisdom of his grandfather was useless here so he shakes off this idea. John gets angry, he gets frustrated, annoyed and everything bad he could ever get all rolled into one bad package. Pretty bad.

This is my life? Living in a rundown apartment, having a rundown job, working all the time, running around, and running to where? Running to nowhere is where I tell you; now my life is going to get rundown in this run-down building by... run? Why don’t I just run? John has the stamina of an out of shape corpse, he has the athleticism of an elderly elephant and he has the coordination of a headless chicken but he has nothing left to lose.

“I have nothing!” John yells out loud.

The two men briefly stop for the confusion of his outburst, but that brief second is enough as John runs away. He runs like there is no tomorrow and he might as well because as the situation is looking there might as well be no tomorrow; tomorrow is a thing of the past, tomorrow is yesterday, and for yesterday he cares very little, very little indeed.

“What the?” Pink yells puzzled by the occurring situation, not by the event that someone would start running in such a dire situation as it was, obviously, the normal thing to do but because it was John who ran. This was something that had not crossed his mind and it is a good thing that it hadn’t because the small window of confusion is just enough to give John the start he needs to stand any chance.

Pink, the former Aristol who should have been Aristotle, and his not so gentle giant give chase as John gives his all to run away. Usually, his all would be far less than needed but now his all seem to be much, much better, almost reasonable one would say. The fear, the anger, and all other pent-up frustrations and emotions surface as though they are gasoline and John is the car; somehow losing the usual feelings in his body but having them replaced by a never-before felt sensation of raw power. It feels like he can run for ages and it feels like he is as light as a feather, but most importantly- it feels good. There are quite a few humans who can run like this, a professional athlete perhaps, or maybe someone who frequents running marathons, maybe even a well-trained soldier, but the question is like who does John feel.

I am running as I have never run before; it is as almost as I am a... ninja?

Perhaps after all his attempts, this was the first time that no one else could comment on his state of mind. Go run, go run as far as the wind takes you, go run you rundown and desperate ninja.

Running through the streets the two men are gain upon him even with his mysterious boost of power but what John falls short in his abilities he more than makes up in other areas.

As the two stand a hair length away from grabbing him, John passes through some trash cans as he immediately knocks them over and thus slowing the pursuers. That is right, what he falls short in his abilities he more than makes up in his ability to play as dirty as dirt; perhaps not the best quality, but even the less renowned of qualities are still qualities. They have their uses. The passing citizens on the street show expressions of what the hell is going on as the two men are chasing one who keeps knocking over anything in his way to slow them. They run through the streets; they run through dark corridors; they run everywhere, but even though it looks like John may succeed, even though it looks like he may successfully run away, the limitations of his body are getting the better of him. Years of drinking, years of having no physical workouts, and most harshly of all, years of being himself show as his breathing becomes slightly heavier and his speed becomes slightly slower. The downhill process continues as he runs uphill in the streets. What now, he asks himself, what can I do in this situation? Looking up, he sees the Lucky casino, and this scene is more than enough to give him an idea. He musters what little strength he has and even that which he doesn’t have as he keeps going.

“Just... a little... further,” John says, gasping for air.

“Just... a little... further,” John repeats, trying so hard to motivate himself.

The two men chasing him are close and they are getting closer but he has to go, he has to go just a little further. Finally, the giant grabs him by the neck as he smashes him to the ground.

“Nice run you gave... us,” Pink says as he catches his breath.

“It is over,” the giant says in a deep voice as he holds him pinned to the ground.

“Too bad, for a minute I thought you would make it,” Pink says as he laughs, but to his surprise John laughs with him, laughing like an exhausted man that he is.

One short ha and one deep breath followed by another short ha and yet another deep breath.

“What the hell are you laughing for? Have you finally lost your mind?” Pink asks.

“I...,” John says as he takes a couple of deep breaths.

“I?” Pink repeats as he looks at him.

“I’ve... made it,” John barely says.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Pink asks.

“Look there,” John says as he points his finger.

Pink and his giant look where John’s finger is pointing and in that direction they see the Lucky Casino and standing in front of it two big men, two bruisers, one a gentleman bruiser and the other a stupid bruiser but bruises they still are. It is Roderick and Harry! If someone told him that the day would come when he would be happy to see this pair of bone breakers, John would have immediately called the sanitarium as only a crazy person could spew such nonsense but never would John want to have been proven wrong.

The two brothers approach them.

“Well, if it isn’t Mr. Pink. We have been looking for you,” Roderick says as Pink shows a quick expression of disgust to that nickname.

“This has got nothing to do with you. It is my business,” Pink adds.

“Every business in this city is the business of Mr. Malone,” Roderick says.

“I’m sure Mr. Malone would like to know what you have been doing in his city,” John says while still being pinned to the ground.

“Why don’t we all go to him and discuss this like gentlemen,” Roderick says.

Panic comes across Pink’s face as he, without thinking, orders his giant with a simple word.

“Get them,” he yells in panic.

The giant lets go of John as he moves towards the two brothers.

“Harry,” Roderick says.

“Ye?” Harry asks as wasn’t paying any attention to this entire situation but more focusing on staring at nothing. Quite impressive that a person can be so carefree to not even take note.

“It is time to teach them some manners,” Roderick says.

“Uh?” Harry asks as he does not understand.

“For the love of... it is time to rock’n’roll,” John adds.

A big smile appears on Harry’s face. If the fight before was the anti-fight of the century than this would be the fight of the century as finally, powerful fighters come together to test their mettle. Every good story, every good movie or book needs a good fight. It is almost essential to have a pivotal scene of action to get the blood boiling and if there was an ever opportunity for this story to have such a scene, it was now; as the three powerhouses come closer to each they stare with death and war glimmering in their eyes. They move. John passes out as the world goes dark again.