Part 62: Prologue, Part 3
In some circles, Mike was called ‘the Deacon.’ For some it’s the haggard and knowing look in his eyes, some for his preternatural attraction to young men, but the rest are for the wise bits of knowledge he will occasionally spew like vomit from his broken lips. It was that last bit that first drew me to him. Mike was one of the few members of Lapis to survive the Superhero War.
Mike first showed me a painful underground world of running and lies, that comes with thinking on my own. The Regime didn’t care if you agreed with them or not, any thought produced through your own faculties made a danger of the utmost variety. The day may come when you think up, wholly unbidden, a though they don’t agree with.
I’ve met many people whose views are exactly the same as the Regime that are no less on the run, because they came to these conclusions on their own without reading the scripts they teach the children in schools. By that reason alone, their execution orders are given to SI’s, and they never know if they may see the next day.
I had always hoped to avoid this kind of existence. I would much rather just live out my life peacefully with no complications. Even if I couldn’t be a superhero, Metro City was a big place. I had a gig delivering pizzas, and picked up the occasional weekend shift at Old Gil’s Bookstore. As far as I knew, I was the only member of the Superhero Gang to know Old Gil’s secret identity as Stupendous Guy, founder and leader of the organization. Stupes may have been controlled by corruption, but he was incorruptible himself. He knew I’d been railroaded, and if he couldn’t give me employment in one arena, he would do what he could in the other.
“Shut up!” I order to Mike when he sees me. “Just point to the door and start thinking about something else.” He’s a man that has spent his life hiding from his past, I don’t want to embroil him in my unfolding drama. He had dreams of a wife and rugrats and a picket fence of his own, and I my misadventure doesn’t figure into that. For his sake, I hope when the microscope falls on him, he has less to hide. You end up running form the law either way.
Mike points to a crooked screen door by the stove. As I rush past, I mouth, “I’m sorry,” and hit the thing like a trailer park father on his gay son. Maybe as psychic knowledge, maybe as just luck, I parked my car next to the kitchen door and have the engine running before I even know it’s happening. I’m sure that these Secret Inspectors are still shaking down kids with mohawks.
The places I can go at this point are few and far between. I need to disguise my scent before they can break out the blood-hounds. Downtown, I can mix odors. I know where to find a few more bands playing for disillusioned youth. Another hundred kids that want to piss off their mom and dad, or maybe hook up with the girl that came with them. The punks all stink. When I arrive, they are all dancing around to a band that sounds like William S Burroughs as music.
I sneak in through the side door claiming to be in a band, which earns free beer. I only drink a little, because I don’t want to dull my wits. I need to be sure I’ve lost the SI’s first. They have noses built from the newest Titanium Brand Olfactory Systems, or TBOS, and will be able to sniff me out in no time. My house will certainly be watched.
I rub most of the first beer on my chest and jump into the crowd. The kids are ravening for blood, and I’m drenched in sweat after a few passes in the pit. The smell is nearly indistinguishable to the SI’s following me. TBOS are known for short-circuiting in the presence of teenage hormones. Anyone that needs to go into deep-cover fast knows to hook up with a group of underage punks.
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