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Sniper: Beauty and the Beast
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Sniper: Beauty and the Beast.by Alec Wire |
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I wish I was back in Colorado. Ever since me and Erika made this deal to split the time between her place in Georgetown, Washington DC, and my place in Boulder, I’ve spent half of my time waiting in traffic to get somewhere I don’t want to go. I’m riding shotgun in The Blue Whale, which is Erika’s nickname for my 1972 Cadillac El Dorado convertible, and Erika’s in the driver’s seat, and the only thing moving is the breeze over the Potomac. I wish I was back in Colorado. We’re stuck in traffic on Wisconsin Avenue, right below Dumbarton Oaks ornamental gardens, which is across the street from Erika’s house, more or less. To understand the painful irony to this, you have to know that the section of Wisconsin Avenue that we’re bumper to bumper on is A) half a mile from the Georgetown Park Mall, our destination, and B) a picturesque and easy walk, all downhill. Erika’s been after me to replace the lining to the jacket I ripped out in mild frustration getting all of her birthday presents to me out of said jacket after six of them spilled through the velcro patch that was keeping them in. I liked those presents, nonmetallic throwing knives that she made for me in her basement studio, but I liked the jacket more. I got it from my brother for Christmas six years ago, with a label in it from a store in the mall. Erika’s betting that they’ll be able to repair it, or at worst replace it. I’m not so optimistic.This coat is gone. I need a new one anyway, so I’m not really complaining that hard. "Dennis? You’re clenching the armrest again, baby," Erika says with a grin. "Traffic. Why didn’t we just walk, again?" "Because I love your car and you never use it. Besides, it’s a beautiful day, the leaves are turning." "Not true! I used it last week to get Michael!" "Picking up your brother at the airport doesn’t count. You know what we need to do? Take this thing to Colorado. You’d use it there. You like to drive out there." "Watch out, the traffic’s moving. Green light." "It’s slow, but it moves, see?" "Erika, I love you dearly, but optimism like yours is a little scary." "Kiss my ass, white boy. You just can’t appreciate a beautiful day." I laugh, and throw an arm around her. She smiles and leans her head into me. Then we both get the fright of our lives as a Harley with New York plates and a man and a woman on it cuts us off neatly and roars down the street. Erika pulls over and stops the car. She’s breathing hard and all traces of a smile are gone. I know why, too. A few years back, when we were both working on the set of a TV movie, she was driving her old Volkswagen late at night and she hit and killed a bicyclist who had snuck onto the set to get souveniers. The court found that she was completely blameless, that he really HAD come out of nowhere, but it really stuck with her. To this day she’s the most careful driver I know, and she has an incredibly tough time dealing with crazy driving. I’m pissed, and I want a piece of this jerk, but right now I need to deal with Erika. "Rik, are you ok? Come on, baby, it’s fine. No-one got hurt, I’m good, you’re good, the asshole on the bike is good. Do you want me to drive?" She’s real quiet for a minute and then she hugs me. "Yeah, I’m ok. I hate those people. Yeah, drive, please." We do a Chinese fire drill and I end up in the driver’s seat. I put the car into gear and put my right arm around Erika’s shoulders. I pull into the underground lot and look for a space. Down on the third floor, I see one—right next to the bike with the New York plates. I narrow my eyes and pull in beside the big Harley. ************************ We walk out of the elevator on the first floor, by the food court, and I’m glad to see Erika smile. This mall has a good effect on me, too, much as I hate to admit it. It’s dark, coppery green, like the statue of liberty, with tile floors, and lots of old, shiny brass and wood. It looks a little like the Escher litho of the men coming down the stairs in all directions, with lots of natural light coming from the skylight. We head towards the leather store on the third floor, walking hand in hand up the escalator. I hold the door open for her in a goofy, mock-chivalrous way, and she elbows me in the ribs. I’m still smiling as I walk into the store, and I stay that way until I see the guy who cut us off on the Harley browsing the rack of leather dusters with his girlfriend. He’s a short guy, not more than 5’5", wearing an old shearling a lot like the one Erika’s holding, the one she wants me to replace. He’s built like a very compact tank, with wild black hair, thick eyebrows, and an unlit cigar in his mouth. The girl’s a looker, though, a lot younger than him with brownish hair I can’t quite see under a red cotton "do" rag with a funny kind of logo, like three styleized eyes. She’s a bit shorter than him, with lean muscle all over her body, and she’s wearing jeans and a thick sweater. He’s saying something about "Replacing the Cajun’s jacket, the one that got shredded in Portland" when I move Erika gently to the side and approach the two of them. "Excuse me," I say, "You two really scared the shit out of my girlfriend back on Wisconsin with that stunt on your bike. I think you really need to apologize to her." The guy turns to face me. "Look, bub, I just traveled through nine hours of interstate traffic ta fetch a jacket that I can’t afford ta buy that has ta be a perfect match fer a jacket that I didn’t want ta have ta blow up so that someone who’s really starting ta get on my nerves doesn’t find out a girl who’s too young ta steal his bike, did. I don’t need the grief right now." "Listen, "bub," you also scared a woman who didn’t do you wrong half to death. Does it really hurt to say "sorry"?" He turns to Erika, lights the cigar and blows out a cloud of smoke. Erika coughs. "Sorry." I don’t get into fights for the hell of it. I don’t get into bar brawls, because people who do get arrested, and get a record, which I don’t have and I don’t want. I don’t go looking for trouble, and I sure as hell don’t see the need to stick my neck out when the payoff is to get a lot of attention drawn my way. That said, there are certain things I do not tolerate, and one of them is ANYONE doing anything to hurt Erika. That means that you do not touch her, you do not make her feel bad for no reason (such as reminding her of a traumatic event, which this shithead has already done), and you never, ever show her disrespect. That goes double when I’m standing right there. She may be able to take care of herself, and I have no problem with that (you won’t see me knee the jerk in the crowded elevator who cops a cheap feel in the balls—you will, however, see her do that) but I do believe that a man stands up for his woman. I cock back my right and hit him in the nose as hard as I can. He goes backward, but doesn’t fall. In an instant, his girlfriend is beside him in a cat stance. A few words about how hard I hit. I’m a mutant. I have what I call a "kinetic field" around me that gives me total understanding of all forms of motion, from the most efficient way to throw a punch to how to land a throwing knife five inches into a concrete wall within a nanometer of where I want it. I also can use this field to "see" in any direction and to predict movement to an uncanny degree. I was a Navy S.E.A.L. , a sniper by trade. I keep in shape to an extent that most people just don’t understand. So when I say that this mook didn’t fall down when I hit him, that is a very, very, very big deal. He should be unconscious with many many broken bones. Instead, he and his lady, who both move like they know what they’re doing, are moving in and the guy behind the counter is reaching for a phone. Erica’s been on a few dates like this with me before, though. She reaches into her purse, smiles sweetly, and maces the clerk, then shoves his screaming ass into the nearest fitting room. Then she hops up on the counter, sits down, and pops a mint into her mouth. The short guy stands up straight and growls. The woman laughs coolly. I look at his face, smile, and hammer three fast jabs into his nose, where I hit him with the first shot. As I land the third, my kinetic field "sees" the woman’s leg come low for the backs of my knees. I hop up over the sweep and slam down onto her shin and knee. I feel the cartilage start to separate and hear her grunt in pain at the same second. The mook with the cigar (somehow still in his mouth) moves for me with a right cross, which I lean to the left to avoid. He misses with the cross, but hooks back with a lock on the back of my neck that lets me know he’s a professional. I respond by falling into a push-up position, breaking the lock before he can get a grip and watch in horror as the woman below me resets her leg with a "pop" (that is not possible) and smirks at me as she knees me in the ribs. I think I may throw up, that hurt so bad. I roll off and kick up into a drop stance. Cigar grins wickedly as his girl stands up to face me. He isn’t bleeding from the nose anymore, and four of my best didn’t even seem to faze him, much less break his face apart. He lifts his fists up like an Irish welterweight and.... solid bone claws the size of carving knives slide out of his hands. This was not part of the plan. I don’t like costumes. They cause massive ammounts of property damage and draw a lot of attention to themselves. Worse still these days, the ones who call themselves heroes tend to do as much or more of the random killing and breaking things as the bad guys. Ergo, whichever ones these two are, they heal fast, carry weapons, and are quite likely to hurt me or Erika. Thus, as I toss her out the door yelling for her to get home, I’m working out a way to get out of this. Ok, got it. I smirk right back as I assess the situation. Never let them see you sweat. I hop up, push down hard on the woman’s shoulders to vault up four feet and kick her in the face. She staggers back into her man, and spits blood. He reaches around her with a speed and grace I didn’t think possible and almost gently tags my side with his claws. They hurt like branding irons, but I’m already running. They lope after me like wolves, not even breathing hard. However, they stop short when they realize what I’ve done. You see, in the time it takes them to reach me and get their bearings, I’m over the counter of the Chesapeake Knife and Tool shop with a double handful of throwing knives on the counter. The aproach to it from the escalator they just ran down is a fifty foot open space. Knives are good for distance work at that range. They whirl through the air like titanium hummingbirds as I start tossing them left and right, with my kinetic field landing them just where I want them. Two seconds in the man is shielding the woman with twenty-six blades of varying sizes protruding from his body. Several are placed neatly in vital organs (alphabetical order, I like a challenge) and the rest are layered into his joints to keep him from moving too fast. These two heal fast, though, so I’m only buying time. A word about my attitude towards fights where death is a possibility: I am a realist. If I see two people with healing factors and one with foot-long claws, I think, "costumes." If I think costumes, I think death toll. If I think death toll, I do NOT think about innocent bystanders, I think first about getting my loved one out, second about not dying, and third about solving the problem. That last usually means killing someone, which I don’t have a problem with; don’t forget, I AM a sniper. My powers allow me to be precise, if my opponent can’t—well, that isn’t my problem. However, these two don’t know that I can’t miss. The man is catching blades and the woman is moving people out. Heroes. I’m hurt, I realize, as I unconsciously peel back a bloody layer of jacket. This, plus the fact that the woman is moving for me, and she looks pissed makes for a bad combination. That combination gives me the impetus to grab the clerk’s coat, throw it on over mine for cover, and slip out the back. I’ve hotwired a Saab and booked on up the street before do-rag and the human pin cushion can reach me. Lucky me, Erika’s got first aid training. This is going to be a mess. Back at the house, Erika lets me in and gives me a hug. "You didn’t have to do that, and you know it." "Yes I did. YOU know it." She sighs. "I know." I peel off the jacket and her hands are on my side and back, probing gently. "You know, with this and what happened at the airport in May, you’re making a career out of this." "Never happen. Can we put some peroxide on me? I don’t think he cut too deep." She sighs again. Then she stands on tiptoes and kisses me quickly on the lips. "It WAS gallant. Stupid, but gallant. Come on, we’ll get you fixed up downstairs." *********************** A red Harley peels off down route 95. "We need to come down here more often, darlin. Best scrap I’ve had in a month." "You probably shouldn’t have cut that girl off, Logan. It was rude. Still, your mood’s improved." "Yours, too. Next time we do this, we better bring the Cajun. He still needs a new duster." "Fine, but I’m driving." |
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