Fog Bastards 1 Intention by Bill Robinson Page A
Authors: Bill Robinson
Tags: Science-Fiction, adventure, Literature & Fiction, Fantasy, Science Fiction & Fantasy, Paranormal & Urban, Superhero, Superheroes
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early morning stroll. Two old people are standing there, kind of an odd thing for three in the morning. I wander over to them.
They confirm my fears. The old lady saw a man, about six foot six, black hair, tan swim trunks, go into the water and not come out. Old people are fucking dangerous to others. They aren't going to find me (him), but I don't need a police report with his description (even somewhat in error) out there, and I don't need a newspaper article with it either.
But the alternatives are also bad. If I change into him and show up, I have no ID. A fake name would eventually be found out as a fake name, and then there is a police report. If I give them my name, then his description and my name end up in a police report together. Fuck me. Better the known mystery than opening a door into something I can't be sure about.
I decide to go up stairs and change back into him so I don't have to worry about falling asleep. I hate this, I really hate this.
Four hours later when I check out of the hotel, I ask the desk clerk if they found anything. She makes my day by saying the police concluded that the witness most likely missed the guy coming back out either further up or down the coast, and they hadn't even bothered to send out a description to the hotels to keep a look out. I could have kissed her.
We have a few bumps on the way back, but nothing as bad as I have been through the past few days. Jen gets the biggest hug I can give her when she meets me, and a thorough full body massage when we get back to my place. No visit from the Fog Dude, most likely he's waiting to see what dumbass thing I'll do next. I wonder if he can bail me out of jail?
In the morning, she heads off to work on her own (we drove our own cars back to my place), after we agree that she needs to work late tonight, and I will be tired after my Denver run tomorrow, so a big Saturday night is in order.
Which means that this evening will be the first adventure out for him versus the bad guys. Whatever his name is.
I waste the day. Run a double loop. Go to the driving range. Think about coming back there later as him to see how far he can hit. Lunch at South Coast, and more shopping for XXL clothes. In particular, I buy a cheap pair of shoes in his size. I'm going to punch some holes in the soles as an experiment to see if they will stay on my feet. My eighth grade science teacher would be so proud.
Go home, punch holes in soles, and read newspapers until it's time to sneak out. Starbuck and I head to Anaheim, and park off Katella once more. I do need to find a new alternate spot on my next day off. Grab my bag and head into the alley.
I strip down to my underwear and say the magic word, "dumbass," becoming the mightiest dumbass in the world. Maybe the tallest too. I put on my leather outfit and cheap shoes with the holes in the soles. Grab a few wayward molecules and head for the roof. The shoes are on the ground, bouncing around when I get there. Not a bad idea, but aside from cutting the entire soles off the boots, I think that experiment has come to an end. Socks will not look as cool, but nothing I can do.
Put my bag on the cleanest spot I can find, clip the GPS and untraceable cel phone to my side, and head north. The area I want is above the 105 and east of the airport, so I can find it generally without help. Then I have to trust to karma, or to the spirit of Jack Lord, or to whoever is the god of crime fighters to help me zero in on something good (actually something bad).
It's not entirely obvious how high to fly. Too low, and someone will spot me, too high and I won't see anything useful. It's not as if I don't know how to use my powers. I'm not the clown on the old TV show who lost the instruction manual for his supersuit. I know what I can do, it's just a matter of getting enough practice so I can find the range at which it works.
There's a
They confirm my fears. The old lady saw a man, about six foot six, black hair, tan swim trunks, go into the water and not come out. Old people are fucking dangerous to others. They aren't going to find me (him), but I don't need a police report with his description (even somewhat in error) out there, and I don't need a newspaper article with it either.
But the alternatives are also bad. If I change into him and show up, I have no ID. A fake name would eventually be found out as a fake name, and then there is a police report. If I give them my name, then his description and my name end up in a police report together. Fuck me. Better the known mystery than opening a door into something I can't be sure about.
I decide to go up stairs and change back into him so I don't have to worry about falling asleep. I hate this, I really hate this.
Four hours later when I check out of the hotel, I ask the desk clerk if they found anything. She makes my day by saying the police concluded that the witness most likely missed the guy coming back out either further up or down the coast, and they hadn't even bothered to send out a description to the hotels to keep a look out. I could have kissed her.
We have a few bumps on the way back, but nothing as bad as I have been through the past few days. Jen gets the biggest hug I can give her when she meets me, and a thorough full body massage when we get back to my place. No visit from the Fog Dude, most likely he's waiting to see what dumbass thing I'll do next. I wonder if he can bail me out of jail?
In the morning, she heads off to work on her own (we drove our own cars back to my place), after we agree that she needs to work late tonight, and I will be tired after my Denver run tomorrow, so a big Saturday night is in order.
Which means that this evening will be the first adventure out for him versus the bad guys. Whatever his name is.
I waste the day. Run a double loop. Go to the driving range. Think about coming back there later as him to see how far he can hit. Lunch at South Coast, and more shopping for XXL clothes. In particular, I buy a cheap pair of shoes in his size. I'm going to punch some holes in the soles as an experiment to see if they will stay on my feet. My eighth grade science teacher would be so proud.
Go home, punch holes in soles, and read newspapers until it's time to sneak out. Starbuck and I head to Anaheim, and park off Katella once more. I do need to find a new alternate spot on my next day off. Grab my bag and head into the alley.
I strip down to my underwear and say the magic word, "dumbass," becoming the mightiest dumbass in the world. Maybe the tallest too. I put on my leather outfit and cheap shoes with the holes in the soles. Grab a few wayward molecules and head for the roof. The shoes are on the ground, bouncing around when I get there. Not a bad idea, but aside from cutting the entire soles off the boots, I think that experiment has come to an end. Socks will not look as cool, but nothing I can do.
Put my bag on the cleanest spot I can find, clip the GPS and untraceable cel phone to my side, and head north. The area I want is above the 105 and east of the airport, so I can find it generally without help. Then I have to trust to karma, or to the spirit of Jack Lord, or to whoever is the god of crime fighters to help me zero in on something good (actually something bad).
It's not entirely obvious how high to fly. Too low, and someone will spot me, too high and I won't see anything useful. It's not as if I don't know how to use my powers. I'm not the clown on the old TV show who lost the instruction manual for his supersuit. I know what I can do, it's just a matter of getting enough practice so I can find the range at which it works.
There's a
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